King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

She was silent a moment. “Yes, of course. But for him. And the mayor. And….” She decided to stop mentioning all the ways corruption forced its way into her life.

“You could become a criminal,” he suggested.

She burst out laughing. “I had not considered that.”

“Do,” he urged. “You’d make an excellent one. It’s in the eyes.” He pointed with two fingers, first to his eyes, then to hers.

She laughed again as warmth flowed through her. He smiled back, a lazy, knowing smile, the smile of a man to a woman, an easy, playful, sensual look. It was then, perhaps, she had the first inkling that this may be more than just a passing thing for her heart.

“So,” he said, kicking his boots out in a companionable way, “you go into the countryside to gather flowers, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“That is hardly safe,” he scolded.

“So I am told.”

That earned a faint smile. “Do you oft not do as you are told?”

She sighed. “I fear it is one of my besetting sins.”

“Ah, a besetting sin,” he said happily. “Everyone needs a few. Or at least one fine, large one.”

Again, laughter flowed through her. “You are alone in your assessment, sir. In any event, age has tempered my wayward nature.”

“Ah.” His gaze trailed over her face, lingering on her mouth. “What a shame.”

Her body became a single, hot flush. For a moment, she envied the laundresses of Acre.

“I know well the trials of going your own way, mistress,” he said quietly. “’Tisn’t an easy path.”

Against her better judgment—another besetting sin—she smiled at him. “I go for the lilies and violets.”

Dark and gleaming, his eyes smiled back at her. “I’ve never heard a better reason to do a thing in all the world.” He paused. “You would fit well in Ireland.”

“Would I?”

“Aye. You’ve a love for the land, as the Irish do. It’s a powerful love we have.”

“Tell me of it,” she urged.

He set one boot atop the other and folded his hands on his lap. She glanced at his long, muscular legs, then dragged her gaze away as he began to speak.

“The hills and mountains are made of green and gold. Hospitable things, my mountains are, not like the Alps. They invite you right up, with rivers of fish and meadows of deer, full of grass and trees and birds and game. And the rivers, Maggie, och, they run everywhere.”

She was shocked by the affectionate name. No one called her affectionate names.

“…deep and blue, they are, and all around the isle is the hard blue sea. When you’re near it, you can hear its ripping surf and smell the salt of it. The grasses grow rich there; ’tis good for fattening up the ponies. And if you walk right up to the edge of my lands, and point your toes toward the cliffs, the winds blow back your hair, and then you can see the Na Scealaga, islands rampant and reckless with birds and sea spray. Only the hardiest of men sail there, in their little curraghs, miniature warriors battling the sea and endless waves, and when you arrive, if you do, you must climb up and up the wet steps to the old monastery, left over from Viking times, and then you might think you’ve finally found the end of the world, but the sea is not done with you yet, Maggie. For out further, across the undying sea, lies Tir na Nog, the everlasting lands, where warriors go when they die in battle, a golden hall with life everlasting.”

Her lips were parted, lost in the conjuring of his home; it was as if Ireland were here in her shop. He looked over, his eyes dark orbs in the dark room.

“Tell me more,” she breathed.

She didn’t know how long she listened, or how long he spoke, in his low, lilting voice, drawing pictures so vivid she could almost feel the Irish sun on her skin, smell the grass under her feet.