He looked at her steadily. “I told you in Uachdaran’s lists how I feel.”
“Oh,” she said, though she was fairly certain there had been no sound behind the word. “I thought that was the last gasp of a man who thought he wasn’t going to see dawn.”
He shrugged. “The truth comes out at odd times.”
If there was color creeping up her cheeks, she thought she might manage to blame it on the brandy. She watched him reach over and cover her hands with his. She looked at her arm that he had healed with a magic so beautiful she was still a bit blinded by it, then at his hands that had wielded that same magic.
“So,” she said slowly, “you don’t want me as a stable hand?”
He pulled away. She thought she might have said too much, then she realized he had gotten to his feet and come around the corner of the table. She found herself pulled to her feet and into his arms. He smiled briefly, then bent his head and kissed her.
Well, she would have been the first to admit she was not the best judge of the same, but in her opinion he was very good at several things, the business of romance included. She wasn’t quite sure if she should feel faint or indulge in completely inappropriate laughter, but what she did know was that she was definitely out of her depth at present.
She managed to catch her breath eventually, though she wasn’t unhappy to have help staying on her feet.
“Was that a proposal?” she managed. “Or just a substitute for a maudlin sentiment?”
“Perhaps a bit of both,” he said.
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I’ll leave you to decide and go make supper.”
“Must you?”
She pulled away and glared at him, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I am not so terrible a cook.”
“Darling, you…” He shook his head. “You look over maps and I’ll go forage for something edible.” He started to walk away, then turned back around and caught her hand. He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her softly. “Don’t bolt on me.”
She shook her head. “I won’t.”
He looked at her for a moment or two, then nodded and walked out of the library.
She took a deep breath, then looked for a distraction before she found herself thinking about…things.
Doghail would have looked at her, laughed, then walked off, shaking his head. She thought she might rather have a bit of a lie-down, but if Acair caught her in a faint over a simple kiss, he would likely never let her forget it. Better to busy herself doing something more productive than swooning over a man.
Never mind that she thought she just might love that man in truth—
She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and wander through his library. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know where he had come by all the books there—he was who he was, as he said. She was somehow not at all surprised to find things shelved in an organized fashion.
She stopped at one point and put her hands on a shelf, then decided that perhaps resting her forehead there might be an even better idea. She closed her eyes and let the silence of Acair’s fire soothe her. Given that the flames in his mother’s house had sung a song that had nagged at her almost unpleasantly for days, she appreciated the fact that Acair’s fire was simply that. Perhaps he had built it that way to give her some peace.
She wouldn’t have been surprised.
She opened her eyes and straightened, then had to look a second time at the books sitting on the shelf in front of her face. Her memories of her childhood were distressingly few and unfortunately faint, but there was something about the book in front of her nose that seemed familiar. The color of the spine perhaps. She imagined Acair wouldn’t care if she had a look at it, so she reached up—
“Léirsinn, supper!”
She hesitated, her curiosity warring with her belly. She supposed books weren’t going anywhere and supper might be, so she left the book where it was—half pulled out from its fellows—and imagined it would be there when she returned.
She wandered back to the kitchens, ridiculously comfortable slippers on her feet, and found Acair busily stirring something in a stew pot. He was frowning at it thoughtfully.
“Won’t be long now,” he said. “I hope we can choke it down.”
It smelled better than anything she’d ever cooked, so she imagined she wouldn’t be complaining. She collected things she thought might be useful, then arranged them on the table. She thought it looked complete, though admittedly her experience was limited to rare glimpses of her uncle’s fancy dining chamber set for guests and even rarer trips to the pub.
Supper was, she found, very good indeed, though the company would have been worth much worse fare. She finished, then simply rested her chin on her fists and watched Acair sit back and swirl his wine in a beautifully cut glass goblet. The firelight sparkled against the facets in a way that reminded her she was definitely not having supper in a barn.
What was familiar, however, was the collection on the table that looked as if it had come from some pocket or other. She hadn’t known a stable lad who hadn’t continually maintained a collection of useful bits and bobs, so perhaps Acair wasn’t all that different in that respect. She pushed aside her bowl and gathered his pile toward her. It sparkled right along with his wine glass, though she supposed that was the rune sporting his spell of death to reflect the firelight most beautifully. She reached out and began to idly sort everything.
“If you tell me you’re deciding between nicked and earned, I will shout at you.”
She smiled. “Of course you won’t. I just find it interesting what lads consider valuable.”
“You never know when a bit of string will turn the tide,” he agreed.
She doubted that. His bounty consisted of several loose gems, a folded doily—
She looked at him in astonishment.
He shrugged. “There was one under a crock of butter in Uachdaran’s kitchen. I flattered the most susceptible-looking kitchen maid for it.”
“You’re absolutely incorrigible.”
“And my grandmother is absolutely terrifying. Facing Uachdaran’s fury seemed a much more pleasant prospect than showing up to tea at her table without something to appease her.”
She shook her head and turned back to the pile. The remaining items consisted of that golden wafer slathered with a self-casting spell of death and a stub of a pencil. He was his mother’s son, certainly. She nudged the gems into piles by color, ignoring the fact that she’d done the same thing on the floor in front of his mother’s fire very late one evening. If she hadn’t, if he hadn’t grumbled over the fact that Soilléir of Cothromaiche’s aid seemed to be limited to doling out runes, she wouldn’t have known to use that same rune to call for Soilléir’s aid, and they certainly wouldn’t be enjoying a hot fire and full stomachs at the moment.