Page 117 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
She was distracted and glassy-eyed, and almost collided with the Leyfarer as she returned to the table.
“Aurienne, good to see you again,” said the Leyfarer—as though he had been permitted use of Fairhrim’s first name. Where was her title? Where was the respect?
An outrage.
The Leyfarer’s deep voice was accented by the melancholy, un-English cadence of Irland.
So he was handsomeandhe had a charming accent. Wonderful. Perfect. Osric wasn’t sure if he was attracted to the Leyfarer or jealous that he might be attractive to Fairhrim, and pouted in confusion.
He paid particular attention to Fairhrim’s expression as she took in the man before her, but she was impassive. Perhaps Amagris still engrossed her.
Good.
“Ruain,” said Fairhrim. “Hello again.”
Ruain (idiotic name) shook Fairhrim’s hand and gave her a gorgeous grin, and Osric did not suplex him into the table, but he wanted to.
“This is—” Fairhrim began to introduce Osric, but Osric interrupted her:
“Mr. Hungwell.”
Ruain’s eyes flicked to Osric’s crotch to verify the accuracy of the nomenclature.
“Pleasure, Mr. Hungwell. Sorry I’m late,” Ruain said, addressing Fairhrim again. “The best things take time, they say.”
Notwithstanding the fact that this was exactly the sort of remark he himself would make, Osric decided that Ruain was an oily twat. Where was Amagris, and could she return and regain possession of Fairhrim’s heart?
“May I sit?” asked Ruain.
He availed himself of the permission before it had been granted and sat between Fairhrim and Osric faster than either of them could say yes. Or, as was Osric’s inclination, no.
“Would you care for a drink?” asked Fairhrim, who, unfortunately, was minding her manners.
“I’m all right,” said Ruain with a doubtful look at the mushrooms sprouting from Osric’s beverage. “Need to keep a clear head to go leyfaring.”
“Thank you for agreeing to help us,” said Fairhrim.
Ruain held up his right palm. The bronze compass tacn glittered with seith. “This works thanks to you—it’s the least I could do. So you want to go to the Isle of Stígr? Bit of a slog. What for?”
“Research purposes,” said Fairhrim. “I can’t give you more details than that; it’s confidential.”
“Well, I’d recommend pushing off early tomorrow. I’m not liking the forecast tonight. Stormy.”
“The research is time sensitive,” said Fairhrim, remaining polite butverging on austere. “Unless you’re telling me there’s the chance of a potentially fatal crash, it’s got to be tonight.”
“There’ll be no crashing with me leyfaring,” said Ruain, arrogant yet offended. “But we’re going to have the storm right in our teeth. You’re sure you want that?”
Fairhrim’s reply was the authoritative snap of a scissor. “Yes.”
Osric was pleased that someone other than him was on the receiving end of Fairhrim’s cuts.
“No opinions from Mr. Hungwell?” asked Ruain, turning to Osric.
“I’ve learned to do as the lady says,” said Osric. “Subside into orthodoxy. You’ll fare better.”
Ruain put his cigar in his mouth and sucked on it. Even unlit, it smelled as though it had been dipped in whiskey and anise. “Then we should leave sooner rather than later.”
“That’s fine,” said Fairhrim.
