Hunter's Woman (9 page)

More than a little dazed by the turn of events—for despite Kale’s earlier threat/promise, she truly had not expected him to show up—Aslyn surveyed her cottage when he’d gone outside.  She was fortunate to have the little that she did since she had ‘inherited’ what Gershin had left.  However, Gershin had lived alone and had not enjoyed a great deal of prosperity.  The cottage contained one small table, one rickety chair, and a narrow bed. 

Aslyn ignored the bed.  There was no sense in stimulating the man’s imagination by inviting him to sit on it.  There was far more dirt floor in the room than anything else … and, to be sure, little enough of that considering the size of the cottage.  She would never before have even considered such a thing for a moment, but a very little thought told that, unless she was willing to use the bed as a seat—which she most certainly wasn’t—she really had no choice but to entertain her guest on the floor.

Irritation surged through her briefly, that she’d been put in the awkward position of entertaining a guest when she hadn’t the means for it.  She dismissed it with the reflection that Kale had come for a reason.  For her safety as well as her peace of mind, she needed to know what that reason was.

If his intention truly was to court her, then she would simply have to find a way to fob him off until she had the chance to move on.  If, as she suspected, it was something more, then forewarned was forearmed. 

Pulling the old quilt from the bed, she spread it near the hearth, placing the cheese, her knife, the cracked earthen mugs and plates that seemed the least damaged and a bottle of wine near the center.  Lastly, she found a dish to hold one of the candles Algar had sent to her, lit it, and set it next to the bottle of wine.  She was just finishing the last when Kale returned, knocked briefly, and entered carrying a load of wood before she could respond. 

His dark brows rose as he surveyed the ‘picnic’ cloth before the hearth.  Until that very moment, Aslyn had not considered the ‘table’ she’d set might be construed as seductively intimate.  She was appalled when she realized that that was exactly what it looked like … a blanket before the fire, candles—wine. 

She glared at him, lest he conceive the notion that that was her intention.  “I apologize, but I’m afraid I have little to offer visitors.  Rather than suggest we take turns at the table, I thought we might share the blanket.”  She could have bitten her tongue off the moment the words were out of her mouth.  It took no imagination at all to twist those words into a far more intimate invitation than she’d intended.  One look at Kale’s face was enough to assure her that he’d not missed the, seeming, double entendre. 

A faint smile curled his lips.  “I should be delighted to share the blanket with you,” he responded and continued to the hearth, dropping the pile of wood he carried beside the hearth, and then carefully placing a few branches on the fire.

Aslyn blushed.  At least a part of it was irritation.  If he had openly acknowledged the inadvertently suggestive nature of her comment, she could have set him back on his heels.  As it was, he had merely turned it back upon her so that she could not even take exception to his response. 

But she knew very well that he had not missed the connotations. 

It was even more irritating that he had only to give her that piercing look of his and she began to feel exceedingly warm all over and as breathless as a giddy young maiden.  She was more than a little inclined to think it was his fault that she could not open her mouth without uttering something witless.

He left again when he’d turned the spit over the fire.  This time when he returned, he was carrying a lute and it was Aslyn’s brows that rose.  “Do you play?” she asked in surprise.

A slow, infinitely appealing smile curled his lips.  It did something drastically disturbing to her heart.  “I’ve a modest skill with it.  Mostly I carry it to charm the ladies at court and convince them that I’m a man of breeding and sensitivity.”

Caught off guard, Aslyn chuckled.  “I had not pegged you for a rogue.”

His dark brows rose at the comment.  He took her hand, assisting her to take a seat on the edge of the blanket.  “Do not let this boyish countenance disarm you.  I’m considered one of the blackest rogues unhung.”

Aslyn eyed him skeptically as he settled himself opposite her with his back to the wall and began to tune the instrument.  There was nothing the least boyish about his face.  It was all man—harsh, angular, and dangerously appealing.  Nor could she imagine him as a seducer of innocents—he seemed far too controlled for that, far too honorable a man—though she had no difficulty at all imagining any number of young ‘innocents’ casting lures in his direction, hopeful of
being
seduced. 

If her own life had not changed … but there was no point in allowing her thoughts to take that direction.  Her life had changed.  It would never be the same.  And if it had not, then she would have been wed long since and very likely have a babe at her breast by now. 

In any case, she was very doubtful that his intentions toward her were of a seductive nature … however treacherously her body interpreted every word, look, and gesture he bestowed upon her.  Possibly, he viewed that as a potential bonus to his efforts, but it was not the ultimate goal.  Of that she was fairly certain.  His behavior toward her had been that of a gentleman from the very first.  Unlike Lord Algar, he had made no attempt to take advantage of her situation.

“A breaker of hearts, perhaps,” she responded finally, teasingly.  “But I cannot see you as a seducer of innocents.”

The comment was rewarded by one of his rare grins.  “I never said it was true, only that it was rumored … and, in any case, I don’t recall that I suggested it had to do with the seduction of innocents at all.”

Aslyn’s jaw went slack.  “But … uh….”

He chuckled at the look on her face.  Instead of commenting, however, he began to pluck a tune and sang a ballad.  Regardless of his claims, his skill was far more than merely modest.  He played well, and he sang even better, his voice deep and rich, reaching down into her soul, curling a tight fist around her heart that made her yearn for all those things she’d missed in her life … husband, hearth, and children … the passion of a man she could love who loved her in return.  She was so enthralled she forgot her guard, clapping enthusiastically when he’d finished, smiling at him warmly.  “That was beautiful!”

He bowed his head slightly.  After a moment’s thought, he played another tune.  The ballad he sang, however, was completely unfamiliar to her.  It was hauntingly sad, and spoke of a people hunted, misunderstood, despised.

When he’d finished, he set the lute aside and moved to check the meat.

“What is this ballad?  I’ve never heard it before.”

He shrugged, intent upon his task.  “It’s from a legend as old as the Petrac people … as old as Uthreana, the Earth Mother.”

“This is about a people that lived long ago?”

He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable.  “Many believe they still live among us.”

Aslyn frowned, thinking back to what she remembered of childhood lessons, but she could not recall ever having heard a tale anything like it.  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard about them.”

He returned his attention to the meat, cutting into it experimentally to check it for doneness.  “It’s the legend of the mogi—the beast people—or, as they prefer to call themselves, the brethren, who appear as ‘normal’ as you and I much of the time, but who are virtually immortal, and change themselves into beasts and roam the night.  According to legend, there are those born into the clan, and those fortunate enough to be … chosen as mates.  Those are … made mogi.”

A dizzying rush of fright washed through Aslyn as she studied his back, realizing this was no idle conversation.  He knew, or he suspected.  In either event, her situation was far more dire than she’d supposed.  The realization threw her mind into such turmoil that it took a supreme effort of will to force herself to consider how one not guilty, as she was, would react to the story.  Should she dismiss it?  Or would it be best to express some interest in the subject?  Would it be dangerous to show any interest at all?

In truth, despite her fear, the tale held more promise of her possible salvation than anything she’d learned in all her years of travel.  If there was any truth at all to it, and surely there must be, she wanted—needed to know whatever he might know about it.

She decided it wouldn’t be safe to appear too intrigued and forced a scoffing chuckle that sounded hollow even to her own ears.  “Mogi?  But these are just stories simple folk frighten themselves with.  In any case, I wouldn’t think being ‘chosen’ a very desirable thing.  Who would willingly give up their people to become some savage beast like the tolk?”

Coming onto her knees, she focused her attention on cutting slices of cheese and bread as she sensed him turning toward her once more since she had no confidence that he would not read everything in her face—her fears and her hope.

“Do you prefer your meat red?  Or brown?”

Aslyn glanced up at him and then looked at the half cooked slice of meat he had skewered on his knife.  A wave of nausea washed through her.  “Brown,” she said with an effort, wondering if he thought he was testing her by offering the meat virtually raw.

He dropped the chunk of meat onto the nearest plate and returned his attention to his task.  “A pity.  It’s far more succulent when not overcooked.”

Aslyn stared at the piece of meat and repressed a shudder. 

“But I was referring to mogi—not specifically tolkens,” he continued the previous discussion. 

Aslyn met his gaze.  This time, however, she truly was confused and had no need to pretend.  “Tolkens?”

“They—the clans of the Mogi—are not limited to taking the form of tolks.  There are many clans.”

Intriguing as that was Aslyn realized it was far too dangerous to pursue any further.  His piercing stare unnerved her to such an extent that she was certain she would give herself away somehow, if she hadn’t already.  To her relief, he dropped it and focused upon the meal once he’d placed a slice of meat on her plate. 

Uncorking the wine bottle, he poured a measure into each of the earthen mugs she’d set out.  “You seem … surprisingly well educated,” he commented, just as Aslyn had begun to relax and enjoy the meal. 

She almost choked on the bite of bread she’d just taken and had to take a gulp of the wine before she was able to speak.  “I had the good fortune to be reared by a lady of good breeding but no fortune.”

He cocked an inquisitive brow.  [“I thought your father was a sea captain?”]

Aslyn did choke that time.  When she’d recovered from her coughing fit, she glanced up at him through watery eyes.  “Yes.  He was.  But, naturally, I did not sail with him.  I was referring to the woman who kept house for us.”

He nodded.  Before he could think of another question, Aslyn asked, “And what of you?”

“A younger son of an impoverished gentleman—no prospects,” he responded coolly.

Aslyn colored, felt irritation surface.  It took an effort to curb the urge to slap him.  She had not been fishing for information of that type, or for that reason, and he damned well knew it.  “Which is of no interest to me as I’ve no interest in attaching a husband,” she said tartly.  She’d been sorely tempted to say ‘you’ rather than ‘a’, but decided he was not so thick skinned as to need anything more pointed.

His eyes gleamed.  “No?”

“I plan to enter the church when I finish my pilgrimage and return to Mersea,” she said tightly.  Let him stew on that!

He frowned.  “You must have loved him very much.”

The comment threw her for a curve, particularly since she could tell from his expression that the thought displeased him far more than he liked, or than he was willing to allow her to see.  Unfortunately, she wasn’t altogether certain what it was that she’d told him before that had provoked the comment.  She stared at him, trying to remember exactly what she’d told him about herself.  It was the pitfall of deceit.  One must lie to suit the occasion, which meant if one stayed in one place too long, one could begin to hang oneself with lies. 

She must have mentioned her betrothal, she finally decided, either to him or to someone he’d questioned.  She had never been inclined to elaborate, however—she was at least wise enough to realize her limitations and she couldn’t help but wonder what her exact words had been to lead him to this conclusion.  Regardless, there could be only one answer.  She’d already told him she would enter a convent.  She had to have
some
excuse for choosing to do so.  She looked down at her food to keep from giving herself away by her expression.  “Yes,” she lied.

He refilled her cup.  “You are far too young … and far too beautiful to hide yourself from the world in a convent.  Your destiny lies elsewhere.”

Aslyn wasn’t about to allow herself to be sucked in by his flattery.  With his probing questions and comments, he’d made it clear enough that his only interest in her was in discovering if she had anything to do with the attacks.  How could he imagine her as some sort of hideous beast capable of such ferocity and yet so simple as to fall for the grains of flattery he sprinkled out between his probing questions?  Or, perhaps, believing her to be of the beast folk, a mogi, he thought her mind could only be simple?