The edge of Alia’s lips quirked slightly higher, still not an outright smile though. “He’s in high dudgeons.”
“Whilst others return from the hunt realising what is most important… like our Master Kinnith.” Talac surmised.
“We have a saying here, that the hunt reveals the true man. A pretty visage, even skills - though they help - none of that matters out there in the wild woods. Master Kinnith has the spine of a hero, and the heart of a gentleman. And he’s made a wise choice in Gretani. She’s gentle, but can be fierce if someone she loves is threatened. She doesn’t crave opulence, and is a hard worker… not that the two of them will be wanting for money now… thanks to you, it seems.”
Twirling Alia gave Talac a brief moment to school his features. He needed to squash this rumour now, before it got out of control.
“Oh, don’t worry. We’re very good at keeping secrets at the Lair. Only a few are aware of the role you played out there today. Poulth. Several of the hunt team assigned to your group. And of course, our master butcher.”
“Your master butcher?”
“She was the one to withdraw the spear from the boar’s heart. One of our apprentice blacksmiths adds discreet numbers to the spears you see. We note them down when we distribute the weapons.”
“Smart.”
“Very. We started doing it three years ago after the Clintock twins attempted to use the chaos of the hunt to kill their first cousin, and cast blame upon another suitor.”
“Clintock twins? Darvey and Himrah? Nasty pieces of work. I heard they were dead.”
“No, they just don’t go out much anymore.”
“I’m betting there’s a story to tell as to why.”
“Lair justice.”
He couldn’t allow Alia to leave it there. “The Beast, I presume?” Talac glanced out over the jigging couples, who were swirling and twirling. Searching for the legend. “Not much of a dancer, this Beast of yours?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Alia spun away and then back, smiling for the first time, a spike of yearning firing in Talac’s gut. The song ending, Alia breaking Talac’s hold on her, stepping away. “I’ve never had any complaints before.”
Chapter Six
Brandth wanted to throw up. Groaning, he struggled to move, groaning again as his head spun, his stomach protesting vigorously. Good Gods, how much mead had he drunk? He couldn’t open his eyes. He must have gotten beyond plastered.
“Keep still.” The voice was soft, lyrical, but with a terse no nonsense edge. A hand pushing him back down upon the bed. A very welcome cool cloth applied to his forehead.
For a moment Brandth felt fractionally better, his hand drifting off the bed to cup the derriere of his bed partner turned nursemaid. Um, nice, soft, rounded. He wish he could recall what she looked like. But knowing his taste, drunk or sober, she would be stunning, worldly, and enthusiastic. He gave said bottom a grateful squeeze. Only to have his hand slapped away. Ouch.
Another female laughed, the sound coming from the opposite side of the bed. How many women had he entertained last evening? And seriously, Deities above, he needed that memory back right now.
“He’s pretty and handsy.” The voice that belonged to that laugh was ragged with age. “Reminds me of my third… no, my fourth husband.”
“What….?” Finally, Brandth managed to speak. Was he ill? He thought perhaps he might be. And just where was he? His leg ached something fierce, his head hurt and his stomach still rumbled in rebellion. Ugh.
“Get him to drink this.”
“I’m a little busy, perhaps you could…” That voice again, sweet and pure of tone.
“You chose to stay and help instead of attending the wedding, this would be you helping. I have a dressing to change and a poultice to mix. I’m putting you in charge of pretty boy.”
“Oorfff.” The hissing sound in reply was equal parts frustration and exasperation. With eyelids still welded shut for some unknown reason, Brandth was aware of the lyrically voiced woman bending low over him. Her scent filling his nostrils; honey, vanilla and jasmine. She lifted his head, thankfully very gently, placing a pillow under it before resting a cup against his lips. “Drink this.”
By the nine circles of hell, that stuff smelt vile. Whatever was in that cup, Brandth wanted nothing to do with it. Smashing his lips together in a rebellious firm tight line. No liquid would be getting past as long as he was capable of drawing breath.
“Honestly?”
Hah, take that purveyor of stinky cups of swamp juice. You shall not find Lord Brandth De’Luca a helpless target. He’d only just completed that thought when fingers clasped his nose, closing his nostrils… what the… ah, hell, the liquid that was hastily poured down his throat tasted of dead things that had been brought back to life, only to die again three days later.
“Argh.” He gulped the contents of a new cup pressed against his lips, clean cool water doing its best to drive away the taste of the first cupful of swamp liquid.