Page 8 of The Scot

He didn’t seem inclined to finish, so Terric did it for him. “Unfortunate.”

Lance shot him a look of surprise, but it was Idalia who spoke. “Terric?”

Her tone was so like his mother’s—the rebuke implicit—it nearly made him smile.

But not quite.

“For my lady,” he recovered. “To be forced to travel in such conditions.”

The look Lady Roysa gave him was not one he’d ever seen from her sister. She leaned forward over the trencher that had been placed in front of her.

“I am sorry for nearly being trampled at your main gate, my lord.”

Her emphasis on that last word made him cringe. Aye, haughty indeed.

“It did seem to be a spirited”—he paused apurpose—“animal.”

When Lady Roysa gasped, Terric forced his expression to remain neutral.

“Are you referring to me?” she asked.

He could admire her forthrightness, if nothing else.

Liar. There may be at least one, or two, other things to appreciate.

“Lady Roysa, my apologies if I appeared to disparage you in any way.”

He waited for her to offer him the use of her given name, as she had with Lance, but she merely lifted her chin higher, if such a thing were possible, and turned away.

Lance was openly glaring at him now, but Terric would not back down. He did not care for the woman, and although he should temper his response for Idalia’s sake, he simply could not do it.

Would not do it.

This was no court where every glance or whisper was studied as closely as Aristotelian philosophy. Dromsley Castle had become a stronghold, one of the seats of the order’s incipient rebellion against the king. The castle’s fortifications would likely be tested for the first time since his mother’s grandfather had built this structure.

It was his duty to protect the men and women of Dromsley, and all else who took shelter here. His duty to ensure both his mother and sister remained safe. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not her.

He looked down at his men as he ate, trying not to listen to their new arrival conversing with Lance and Idalia. Her voice penetrated even from three seats away, however, despite the continual hum of voices and occasional shouts for more ale.Lance finally turned back to him.“You’re thinking of your sister,” he said softly.

“I thought Guy was the one with premonitions?”

His reply had clearly surprised the smith. Guy, another member of their order, rarely spoke of his premonitions—and the rest of them usually honored his forbearance. It struck him that Lance was, of course, no longer a smith. He was a knight, a lord in his own right, but to Terric, he’d always be the young smith he’d met at that tournament so many years ago.

A brother in all the ways that mattered.

“I know more than you think, my friend,” he said.

Lance leaned toward him. “Though not, it seems, how to charm a woman.”

Terric laughed.

“Charm?” he whispered back. “I can assure you, I have no interest in charming that woman. A married woman,” he added, more than a bit confused by Lance’s comment.

“You haven’t been listening, my friend. Roysa is a widow.”

The tankard froze before it touched his lips. Immediately his body responded, forcing him to readjust in his seat. Recovering quickly, he took a long sip. Long enough to regain his composure.

A widow.

Lady Roysa had been married just the year before. Maybe not so much a surprise she’d made haste to her sister. Such a loss must have come as a surprise.

It made her attitude more understandable. Slightly. But she was still a woman very much like Isobel.

Terric leaned forward, prepared to offer his condolences, when the woman in question glared at him. The jewel on her forehead flashed nearly as brightly as her eyes as she stared at him directly, her gaze unwavering.

“No, you may not use my given name,” she snapped.

“I hadn’t planned to ask,” he offered back, realizing he’d had the right of it after all.

Widow or no, Lady Roysa was not a woman he wished to charm. This night or any after it.

In fact, just the opposite.

Terric stood to leave.