Lasrua is scorched

Lasrua slammed the doors of the tall chest and turned away, panting with a rising fury. One more annoyance, however trivial, would overtop her self-​control.

She waited until she heard another knock.

“Lena!” she shouted. “Get the door!”

The feminine giggling in the kitchen below her stopped, but the splashing continued.

“I can’t, Lady!” Lena called apologetically. “I have Penedict in his bath!”

That did it. “Benedict!” Lasrua shrieked. “Be-​ne-​dict!”

“I’m sorry, Lady…”

Lasrua kicked the woven basket as being the softest target in sight, but she stubbed her toe all the same, for the basket was heavy with her folded gowns.

If that girl hadn’t come, she wouldn’t have hurt her foot. Her gowns would be in the chest, and not on their way to the smaller, unheated room where she would henceforth be sleeping.

The housekeeper would be at home to answer the door, instead of out with the maids spreading the delicious gossip of elopement and abandonment. Her father and her brother would be home to deal with visitors, instead of away at Lady Maire’s house with Sir Egelric.

And someone would have found the time to braid her hair, instead of fawning over someone’s new sister-​in-​law, or of cuddling Flann in someone’s lap, depending on who the someone might be.

Now she would have to answer the door like any common maid—with her hair down!

Or not. She would look before deciding whether it was even worth going down.

Below there stood a boy and a man, both Scots—she knew the dark kilt and the naked knees from the Princess’s wedding.

Hair or not, she would have to go down: it might be Eithne’s husband after all. Lasrua wanted nothing more than for him to take his bride away. Then she could keep her room. Perhaps Flann would even go live with them. Then she could keep her father, too.

But while she stared, the man stepped back and looked straight up at her window, as if he had sensed her presence behind the glass.

Lasrua had not truly sensed his until that moment, but then the little panes seemed like lenses and his gaze the sun. At once the skin of her face was scorching hot, and the heat soaked into her cheeks and lips and bare neck before trickling down to fill her body even where her dress and the window left her in shadow.

Then he winked at her—insolent man!—quite boldly so he could be certain she would see.

Lasrua fled for the stairs.

She would teach him not to wink at the likes of her. And if he was Eithne’s husband she would remind him he was not to wink at anyone at all. Now she hoped he was not—for Eithne’s sake.