Bride For A Knight Page 0,73

her far more than a certain adventure-seeking red fox was troubled by an empty belly.

"You, mo ghaoil , ate your fill of herrings this e'en," Devorgilla reminded her as she pulled on her boots. "So, my dear one, surely you will not begrudge Somerled a wee bowl of gannet stew?"

Another of Mab's superior stares said that she did. The seabird stew was one of Mab's favorite dishes. And definitely tasty enough to please Somerled. Even so, Devorgilla hobbled to the door and opened it wide. Her little friend sat silhouetted in moonglow in the middle of her charmed glade, the grassy clearing that shielded her from unwanted, prying eyes.

Somerled's eyes watched her now.

The little red fox had magical eyes.

Beautiful, expressive, and wise, his eyes could tell whole tales with one carefully aimed stare and as he stretched to his feet and came forward, Devorgilla knew that his mission had been a success.

A tremendous success.

"Ah, my precious," she crooned, stepping aside to allow him into the cottage, "I see everything went as planned."

Somerled strolled around the cottage, then chose to sit in the warmth cast by Devorgilla's charcoal brazier, his expression assuring her that he'd succeeded indeed.

But his task hadn't been without difficulty and as she filled a wooden bowl with the fine-smelling gannet stew, he let her know that he suspected she'd soon have reason to send him back to Baldreagan.

Truth tell, he was so sure of it, he would have stayed and not yet bothered himself with the long journey to Doon did he not know the crone would be fretting about him.

That, of course, he would keep to himself.

Devorgilla had her pride, he knew.

And while she also had a surprisingly tender and sentimental heart, he knew she secretly enjoyed knowing how fearsome some folk considered her.

"We shall not think about that this night," she said, setting down the stew and a small platter of bannocks smeared with honey and bramble jam. "If there is a need for you to return, the Old Ones will let us know."

A large bowl of fresh spring water followed, and a smaller bowl filled to the brim with her very own specially brewed heather ale.

But Somerled deserved a special treat, so she waited until he began eating the gannet stew, then she shuffled to a hanging partition of woven straw that hid a small larder off the cottage's main room.

Shoving aside the straw mat, she stepped into the cool dimness of the larder, quickly gathering choice portions of her best cheeses and dried meats, a generous handful of sugared sweetmeats.

These treats she arrayed on not one but two good-sized platters, carrying them over to the handsome little fox with all the glory-making ado a woman of her years could muster.

"So-o-o, my fine wee warrior," she crooned, her face wreathing in a smile, "in honor of your triumph, two platters of delicacies for you."

Raising his paw in acknowledgment, Somerled thanked her, then made haste to avail himself of his reward.

His just reward, if he did say so himself.

Much pleased, he deigned to ignore Mab's hostile stare and finished off the gannet stew. He'd enjoy his remaining victory victuals - both platters of them - at a slower, more leisurely pace.

As befitted a great hero.

And he had no doubt that he was one.

Indeed, if he had two long legs rather than four short ones, he was quite sure someone would've knighted him for his most recent knight-like accomplishment. Sir Somerled.

He could almost hear the accolades. The trumpet blasts and horn blowing, the cheers from maidens fair.

Instead, he realized with a start, his horn tooting was only old Devorgilla's fluting snores.

Poor soul, she'd fallen asleep on her three-legged stool beside her cook fire. Not wanting her to waken any more stiff than could be avoided, Somerled fixed his golden stare on her, working his magic until she stirred herself and, still sleeping soundly, returned to her plaid-covered pallet.

A penetrating look at her thin-soled black boots saw them slide easily from her feet. And one last stare tucked the plaid gently around her, draping her clear to the tip of her grizzled chin.

Satisfied, he decided he really should begin to think of himself as Sir Somerled. He was, after all, the wisest, boldest, and most magical fox in all the Highlands. He was the most successful, too.

A true champion, as his two platters of reward delicacies proved. He just hoped he'd be as triumphant the next time.

Back at Baldreagan, darkest night curled around a certain stout-walled tower