Bonded to the Rakian Berserker (Rakian Warrior Mates #3) - Elin Wyn Page 0,42
am a little tired, actually,” Esme admitted, hoping her wide-eyed expression was trusting, confiding rather than the look of someone who’s been hit over the head with an axe handle.
She glanced down, letting the veil cover her cheeks since she didn’t know how anyone made themselves blush on command.
Maybe she should just think about Gavin...
“My husband and Master Declan will be going into business. He’s kindly offered to let us stay with him while we look for our own lodgings”
Mistress Beaton stepped back to examine Gavin more closely.
The two men had stepped into a side room, speaking in low voices about something.
Esme crossed her fingers it was something that at least sounded like business. And that Gavin wasn’t threatening to do anything terrible to Declan.
Either option would work, really.
“Well, that could take some time, dearie, but there’s plenty of room in this house. Are your children coming with you?”
Esme didn’t need to fake the blush now. “Oh no!” she said hurriedly.” No children.” She caught herself, tried to make her voice sound unsure. “We’ve only been married a month.”
The older woman patted her shoulder. “There will be lots of time for that then. Well, let’s see to your room.”
Esme followed Mistress Beaton up the narrow stairs to a large bedroom at the back of the house.
“I always keep the second-best bedroom ready for company,” Mistress Beaton nodded to herself. “You never know.”
“Very wise, I’m sure,” Esme said looking around the chamber.
Windows looked out over the stable yard, filling the room with the last of the day’s soft light.
In the glow of a pair of candles, the well-polished wooden furniture gleamed.
However, she wasn’t entirely certain Gavin would fit on the bed without his feet hanging off the bottom.
“Will you be helping your husband in the business?” the housekeeper asked as one of the boys, Artin or Spence, Esme couldn’t tell which, carried in the trunk containing all their newly created clothing.
“Possibly,” Esme said. “While we’re settling in. I’d like to become more familiar with the city, be able to help him find a good location for our home.” She glanced up at Mistress Beaton and then busied herself shaking out the tunics that had been folded tightly into the chest, moving some into the wooden chest of drawers. “We certainly couldn’t impose--”
A faint tune filled the air, and Esme froze.
That almost sounded like...
She dropped the tunic she’d been straightening back into the chest and hurried to the window overlooking the stable yard.
Flinging to open, she searched the space wildly, but saw no one below.
It hadn’t been anything, probably.
Just a few notes of music from somewhere, that her desperate mind had rearranged into the sounds of an old familiar melody.
Mistress Beaton hurried to her side, face grave.
“Are you well? You look so pale, sit down in the fresh air, and I’ll get you something to drink.”
She bustled away, muttering under her breath about how careless men were.
But she didn’t return with the water. Instead, Gavin appeared, the delicate glass dwarfed in his hand as he knelt by Esme’s chair.
“That lady said you’d been sick,” he said bluntly. “What’s wrong?”
Esme took the glass but didn’t drink. “I’m fine,” she said. “Apparently our hostess is of the belief that young women and new brides are more fragile than this glass. It’s just I thought I heard something.”
“Heard what?” he frowned.
“It wasn’t anything, but a moment I thought someone was whistling Tancred’s Lament”
“Whistling what?” Gavin’s frown shifted to a scowl of confusion and Esme had to resist the urge to smooth out the line that marked his forehead.
“It’s an old song from the caravans, it goes on forever and ever about Tancred’s terrible misfortunes.” Memory pulled a half-smile from deep within her chest. “Everybody knows it. At a wedding, or any celebration, or especially if two clans meet up, there’s a long night of dancing and singing. And somebody always demands that it be sung. If I’m lucky, I can sneak off before the twelfth verse.”
“And that’s why you felt sick?” He circled back to what was obviously the primary concern.
“I didn’t feel sick,” she insisted, and this time gave in to the urge to run her fingers through his hair, just a little.
They were supposed to be newlyweds after all.
“I thought it was a clue. I’ve never heard any townsman sing that song.” His eyes half closed as she smoothed out a small section of his hair, fingers automatically working it into a tiny braid. “So, either there’s another caravan somewhere inside Raccelton, in