She glided forward and gave him a curtsy. “Welcome, Conor. It’s my honor to meet you.”
She held out her hand, and he bowed over it. A bolt of energy shot up his arm, making his breath seize in his throat. It was not so different from his reaction the first time he had seen Aine, but this sensation was not altogether pleasant.
He dropped her hand and took a step back while he tried to find his voice. “And you, my lady.”
Talfryn smiled at them. “Food. After a month of Norin cooking, I’m anxious for some Gwynn delicacies.”
“Your own fault,” Hyledd muttered as she walked with her daughter to the table.
Conor followed Talfryn and took the seat beside him. Within moments, servants placed trenchers of hot porridge—far superior to the thin gruel they had been served at the Sofarende camp—along with roasted partridge, blood sausages, and pots of steaming tea. He tried to make himself eat slowly, knowing his body would not likely tolerate the food, but he couldn’t prevent himself from shoveling in the porridge like a starving man. His stomach cramped immediately, and he set the spoon aside with a wince. Instead, he surveyed the rest of the table, only to have his gaze collide with the piercing green eyes of Lady Briallu. She didn’t bother to veil her interest.
Conor looked away. He would have to make it clear he was married. Talfryn knew as much, though it was hardly his host’s fault that Conor had been taken off guard by the presence of his beautiful daughter. He’d just never felt any sort of connection with a woman other than Aine.
Until now.
That thought drove him to his feet, garnering surprised looks from his Companions. “Forgive me. Apparently my exhaustion is greater than my hunger. Might someone direct me to my quarters?”
Talfryn raised his hand, and a male servant stepped forward. “Follow me, sir. Your quarters are on the other side of the fortress.”
Conor bowed slightly to the table. “Thank you again for your hospitality. It is greatly appreciated.” He caught Talfryn’s eye, and the man nodded. There would be time to talk after they rested.
The corridors that led away from the hall, unlike the one that delivered them to it, were plain, unadorned stone without any sign of the scrollwork carving that decorated the rest of the fortress. Conor barely managed to duck through a low doorway without cracking his forehead.
“This is the old Ciraen section,” the servant explained.
“You’re not leading me to the dungeons, are you?”
The servant looked back at him with a thin smile. “If you think our prince would risk his life for you just to throw you in the dungeons, I question his decision to retrieve you in the first place.”
Conor took the reprimand evenly. So everyone knew the prince’s business, and no matter how polite or well-trained the servants might be, they would look at Conor as the man who had put their prince at risk. Briallu, however, didn’t seem to have any such prejudice. That was odd, wasn’t it? Unless she had so little regard for her father that she didn’t care about the threat to his life.
But that didn’t make sense either. Clearly Talfryn doted on her. If he recalled, the prince had several grown sons. Briallu was probably the only girl child, favored, protected, and spoiled—the type who had never experienced any hardship and so could not imagine that tragedy could strike her personally.
Aye, it was easier to write her off as a petulant, spoiled noblewoman, even though his instincts told him she was nothing of the sort. Those same instincts just gave him little else by which to judge her.
“Sir, your chamber.” The servant opened a door on the left and stepped aside for Conor.
The chamber was comfortably appointed, much like his chamber back at Lisdara—not overly lavish, but with every requirement a guest could need. Conor took a single glance around the space, yanked off his boots, and fell asleep facedown on the bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Conor awoke to yellow light sifting through the small, high window. A few hours past midday, perhaps. He pushed himself off the bed and made a face at the wrinkled mess he’d made of his borrowed silk tunic. He should have at least had the grace to take it off before he collapsed.
Not that sleep had righted anything. His body ached from the luxury of a soft bed after nearly a month sleeping on hard ground, his mouth felt dry, and his stomach seemed shriveled