He reached up and winced at the rat’s nest of hair on his head. “What the hell?”
Bronwen grinned as she extended a hand toward Sorcha. “Please allow me to welcome you to Drudaelen Castle. We’re delighted you’re here.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Sorcha took her hand. “And I must thank you for taking care of my friend, too. We are greatly in your debt.”
“I’m the one who rescued you,” the Woodsman mumbled.
“It must have been terrifying when the army captured you.” Bronwen wrapped an arm around Sorcha’s shoulders. “But don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.”
“You’re very kind.” Sorcha’s eyes glimmered with tears. “You remind me of my adopted sister, Gwennore.”
“You must miss her.”
Sorcha nodded. “I’d never spent the night away from all my sisters before.”
“We’ll take good care of you.” Bronwen led her toward the castle keep. “I have a hot bath and meal ready for you, Your Highness.”
“Oh, thank you. And please call me Sorcha.”
The Woodsman watched as the two women headed up the stairs, arm in arm, as if they were old friends. “Where’s my thank-you?” He shoved back a lock of hair that had been hanging in his face ever since Sorcha’s strange attack. Why was she ignoring him if she thought he was handsome?
Aiden sauntered up to him, giving him a curious look, while his daughter pranced about. “Is there something going on between you and the princess?”
“No!” With a scoff, he shook his head. “No, no, of course not.”
Aiden’s mouth curled up. “One no would have sufficed.”
Helen yanked on her father’s breeches. “Daddy, who’s a princess?”
“You are. And I believe it’s time for your lunch.” Aiden picked her up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He turned back to the Woodsman. “Lord Daelen wants to see you. He would have come down to greet you, but his leg is hurting again.”
The Woodsman nodded as a twinge of guilt needled him. “He’s in his bedchamber?”
“Aye.” Aiden carried his daughter toward the keep. “See you later.”
The Woodsman watched as Sorcha disappeared inside the keep with his cousin. She definitely spoke more than a little Elfish. He thought back over all the time he’d spent with her, trying to recall if anything had been said that she shouldn’t have heard.
Why had she pretended not to understand Elfish? She was definitely a sneaky one. Unpredictable. Surprising. A challenge.
His mouth tilted up. He’d always enjoyed a challenge.
* * *
“My lord.” The guard greeted the Woodsman with a small bow, then opened the door to Lord Daelen’s bedchamber.
As the Woodsman strode inside, he spotted the man who had been like a father to him for the past fourteen years. Lord Bowen Daelen was sitting in front of a dwindling fire in the hearth, his leg propped up on a cushioned footstool, a goblet of wine in his hand.
He was growing old, the Woodsman thought, as he noted the abundance of gray in his uncle’s formerly reddish-brown hair. His cousin Bronwen was concerned that her father was drinking too much, but the Woodsman suspected it was his uncle’s way of dealing with too much pain. The wound from fourteen years ago had never healed properly, leaving him barely able to walk. But on horseback, Lord Bowen Daelen was still a formidable warrior.
“You wanted to see me, Uncle?”
Lord Daelen glanced up. “Oh, there you are. We were worried about you.” He set his goblet on the nearby table and lifted his stiff leg off the footstool.
“There’s no need to get up.” The Woodsman rushed forward.
“And there’s no need to treat me like an invalid.” Lord Daelen struggled to stand. “I get enough of that from Bronnie.” His eyes narrowed as the Woodsman stopped in front of him. “What happened? Did you get into a skirmish with the army?”
“No, I handled everything from a distance.” The Woodsman refilled his uncle’s goblet with wine. “They never saw me.”
“Then why is your hair sticking up like that?”
With a wince, the Woodsman smoothed down his hair. “That’s a long story.” He filled a second goblet and took a gulp of wine.
“Humph.” Lord Daelen resettled in his chair. “Well, we were worried when you didn’t arrive with the others. Your men said you’d gone off to stop an ambush. A noble act, I’m sure, but I wish you wouldn’t take risks like that. All our plans will come to naught if you’re captured as a thief.”
“I understand.” The Woodsman sat in the chair across from his uncle and watched as the older man hefted his injured leg back onto the footstool.
Once again, the Woodsman felt a twinge of guilt. His uncle had been wounded while trying to save him, his father, and his father’s squire. The Woodsman had survived. His father and the young squire hadn’t. “Maybe Morghen could give you a tonic for the pain.”
“She did.” Lord Daelen motioned to a glass flask on the nearby table. “It makes me drowsy, though, and I didn’t want to sleep until I knew you were all right.”
“I’m always careful. You trained me well.”
With a small smile, Lord Daelen turned his gaze to the fire in the hearth. “Your father would be proud of you.”
The Woodsman’s grip tightened around his goblet. It was hard to think of his father without recalling the last day he’d seen him. The day he’d witnessed his father and squire being murdered. He shoved that memory aside. “I take it all the foodstuffs arrived safely?”
Lord Daelen nodded. “We hid most of the goods in the catacombs. The rest I told your men to take to Haven.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you. My people would have gone hungry if you hadn’t returned our supplies.” Lord Daelen sat forward. “Is it true what Morghen told me? You rescued a dragon shifter and the Norveshki princess?”
“I would have rescued them regardless of their—”
“I know that, but is it true?” When the Woodsman nodded, Lord Daelen sat back with a grin. “That was a brilliant move on your part! Imagine how much stronger our forces will be once we have a dragon on our side.”
“He’s wounded.”
“But he’ll get better, right? And the Norveshki princess—after we return her, her brother will be indebted to us. He might loan us more dragons.”
The Woodsman winced. “I don’t intend to use her or the dragon’s present misfortune for my own personal gain.”
“Why not?” Lord Daelen gave him an incredulous look. “We need all the help we can get.”
“We have many followers, all across the country. And we have the weapons I designed. Besides, if our plan goes well, there will be no need for violence. We certainly wouldn’t need any fire-breathing dragons.”
“Yes, but if we can get King Silas’s support—”
“No.” The Woodsman shook his head. “The people of Woodwyn have hated the Norveshki and their dragons for centuries. If they learn that I have allied myself with them, they could lose their trust in me.”