Read Online Taming the Barbarian by Lois Greiman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lois Greiman
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head, trying to sort fact from impossibility. It seemed almost as if… But he did not let himself finish the thought. Instead, he strode into the stable and set his musings firmly aside.
There, the scents of hay and horses greeted him like age-old friends. Killian drew the fragrances slowly into his lungs just as a squire stepped out of a roomy stall.
“
Fille
!” he said, and rushed to the mare before stabbing Killian with his gaze. “Who are you?” he demanded, and snatched up the reins. “What are you doing with my lady’s mount?”
Killian watched the boy run a quick hand down the mare’s graceful limbs before straightening with brusque irritation. His skin was fair, his eyes brown, and his hair as red as sunset. He was not unlike Killian’s own countrymen, but for the fact that by the ripe age of ten-and-five, most of Killian’s companions had already been to battle, had earned their scars, or been long since buried. ‘Twas doubtful the same could be said of the boy.
“I asked you a question, sir,” the brash lad demanded. Killian watched him, fascinated by the boy’s demeanor. Perhaps he was not a servant as he had first believed.
“How are ye called, lad?” Killian asked.
The boy shuffled his feet and narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Twas most probably true that he had not plied a sword on the field of battle, but he was wary now and belligerent. The expression reminded Killian of the baffling lady. Perhaps the information he had so carefully garnered regarding Briarburn’s mistress was incorrect. Mayhap she yet had kinsman. Mayhap this lad was a cherished nephew or a coddled cousin. Or perhaps she was older than she appeared and had birthed the lad herself. If the English could erect the kind of awe-inspiring structures he had witnessed in the past few days, it was impossible to guess what other miracles they could have achieved. “Might ye be her bairn?”
The boy’s brows nearly met when he scowled. The bay gave him an impatient nudge with her muzzle. “If you’ve hurt either the lady or the mare, you shall surely come to regret it.”
“Ye’ve her infuriating attitude,” Killian said. “Did ye share her womb?”
The boy blinked, then reddened dramatically. The shocking color reminded Killian of the wild poppies of the French countryside, though, if truth be told, he could not quite remember when he had seen them.
“How dare you!” gasped the lad. “How dare you speak of her ladyship as if she were…” He paused, looking winded.
Killian watched, more confused than irritated. More fascinated than confused. “So ye are not her progeny?”
“Her…” The blush seemed to deepen if such was possible. “Do you mean to ask if I am her son?”
” ‘Tis what I said,” Killian told him, then realizing the misunderstanding, almost laughed out loud. The boy had not been thinking of such an innocent relationship. Indeed, he was considering something far more lascivious, and not for the first time if Killian guessed rightly. “What else might I have meant?” he asked, and gave the lad a stern-faced stare from beneath lowered brows. It was the same expression that had quelled a score of battle-scarred soldiers near the low-lying marshes of Aigues-Mortes.
The lad turned jerkily away, throwing up the mare’s near iron and fiddling with the girth. “I see you know little of my lady,” he said.
“Aye,” agreed Killian, “thus me question.”
“She is not yet five-and-twenty, hardly old enough to wed, much less to bear… to have…
to…” He turned to glare over his shoulder. ” ‘Tis not a suitable subject.”
Killian shrugged, watching the lad’s progress. His hands were quick on the leathers but gentle when he touched the burnished mare. “In me own country a maid might have borne a half dozen bairns before reaching such a ripened age.”
The boy gaped, his face still flushed. “Where the devil are you from?”
Where indeed? Killian wondered and watched the lad
There, the scents of hay and horses greeted him like age-old friends. Killian drew the fragrances slowly into his lungs just as a squire stepped out of a roomy stall.
“
Fille
!” he said, and rushed to the mare before stabbing Killian with his gaze. “Who are you?” he demanded, and snatched up the reins. “What are you doing with my lady’s mount?”
Killian watched the boy run a quick hand down the mare’s graceful limbs before straightening with brusque irritation. His skin was fair, his eyes brown, and his hair as red as sunset. He was not unlike Killian’s own countrymen, but for the fact that by the ripe age of ten-and-five, most of Killian’s companions had already been to battle, had earned their scars, or been long since buried. ‘Twas doubtful the same could be said of the boy.
“I asked you a question, sir,” the brash lad demanded. Killian watched him, fascinated by the boy’s demeanor. Perhaps he was not a servant as he had first believed.
“How are ye called, lad?” Killian asked.
The boy shuffled his feet and narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Twas most probably true that he had not plied a sword on the field of battle, but he was wary now and belligerent. The expression reminded Killian of the baffling lady. Perhaps the information he had so carefully garnered regarding Briarburn’s mistress was incorrect. Mayhap she yet had kinsman. Mayhap this lad was a cherished nephew or a coddled cousin. Or perhaps she was older than she appeared and had birthed the lad herself. If the English could erect the kind of awe-inspiring structures he had witnessed in the past few days, it was impossible to guess what other miracles they could have achieved. “Might ye be her bairn?”
The boy’s brows nearly met when he scowled. The bay gave him an impatient nudge with her muzzle. “If you’ve hurt either the lady or the mare, you shall surely come to regret it.”
“Ye’ve her infuriating attitude,” Killian said. “Did ye share her womb?”
The boy blinked, then reddened dramatically. The shocking color reminded Killian of the wild poppies of the French countryside, though, if truth be told, he could not quite remember when he had seen them.
“How dare you!” gasped the lad. “How dare you speak of her ladyship as if she were…” He paused, looking winded.
Killian watched, more confused than irritated. More fascinated than confused. “So ye are not her progeny?”
“Her…” The blush seemed to deepen if such was possible. “Do you mean to ask if I am her son?”
” ‘Tis what I said,” Killian told him, then realizing the misunderstanding, almost laughed out loud. The boy had not been thinking of such an innocent relationship. Indeed, he was considering something far more lascivious, and not for the first time if Killian guessed rightly. “What else might I have meant?” he asked, and gave the lad a stern-faced stare from beneath lowered brows. It was the same expression that had quelled a score of battle-scarred soldiers near the low-lying marshes of Aigues-Mortes.
The lad turned jerkily away, throwing up the mare’s near iron and fiddling with the girth. “I see you know little of my lady,” he said.
“Aye,” agreed Killian, “thus me question.”
“She is not yet five-and-twenty, hardly old enough to wed, much less to bear… to have…
to…” He turned to glare over his shoulder. ” ‘Tis not a suitable subject.”
Killian shrugged, watching the lad’s progress. His hands were quick on the leathers but gentle when he touched the burnished mare. “In me own country a maid might have borne a half dozen bairns before reaching such a ripened age.”
The boy gaped, his face still flushed. “Where the devil are you from?”
Where indeed? Killian wondered and watched the lad
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