“Hugh dabbed your brows when you were brought to the castle,” Honoria clarified, settling back in her chair.
“Never speak of it again,” Hugh groused, eyes flashing. He turned to Lash. “So, Ruthven, I do not recognize your accent. European, I take?”
Honoria groaned.
Every nerve ending went on alert. The question was framed innocently enough, but Lash knew better. Hugh MacCallan wanted answers. And he wanted them with Honoria present.
Damn the Highlander.
She might not approve of her brother’s interrogation, but she was staring at him, the corners of her mouth quirked up, eyes gleaming with curiosity. He thought of her lips, her honey-sweet taste. She was tying him up in knots, knots he wasn’t sure he could ever untangle.
Perhaps the best thing he could do for her, for him, was to show her how different their lives were from each other. There could never be a repeat of the kiss they shared.
“I was born in Spain,” he finally answered, noting the slight widening of her eyes.
“Really?” she breathed. “How grand!”
Lash drew his brows together at the dreamy expression that flashed in her gaze. It wasn’t as grand as what she might be thinking, and he loathed to be the one to steal that look from her eyes—he liked it there—but it had to go.
“You don’t sound Spanish.” Hugh’s eyes were narrowed on him.
“And how do Spaniards sound?” Honoria asked her brother. “Have you ever been to Spain?” She turned back to Lash. “I have never met a Spaniard, but do I detect a touch of. . .” she paused thoughtfully. “Irish?”
Lash’s gaze lowered to her puckering lips. He doubted that was the accent she heard. It was hard to explain. Still, he tried. “As Rom, we tend to pick up different forms of dialect and their pronunciation from various regions of the countries we travel through. My accent is predominately Spanish.”
“What was Spain like?” Honoria asked wistfully.
Hugh groaned. “Do not start with your daydreaming again, lass.” He turned to Lash. “Next she’ll want to travel to Spain.”
“Oh, hush, I think Spain sounds marvelous.”
“It’s poor. Dirty,” Lash remarked. “Smells rotten.”
Honoria blinked. “Surely not all of Spain?”
Lash shrugged. “The heat is sweltering.” He filled his mouth with a spoonful of eggs. Truthfully he never cared for Spain. Too many painful memories encrusted on the walls of his mind.
“There must be something good about the country. One thing?” Honoria insisted.
Lash thought for a moment, sifting through the wretched to draw out one good thing he recalled. “The sunsets. I recall them particularly breathtaking.”
“What of Spanish bullfights?” Honoria asked. “Do they exist?”
“Christ man, stop before she launches herself across the seas,” Hugh muttered, refilling his cup with tea.
“They exist,” Lash confirmed. “Though I do not condone them.”
“Is that why you left?”
Her question brought more painful memories to mind. The life of a Rom might be freeing, but difficult. Lash had lost many friends over the years. He shook his head. “They keep Romany as slaves.”
“Why, that’s dreadful!” Honoria exclaimed. “I certainly do not wish to visit Spain now.”
“Thank Christ,” Hugh muttered.
Lash felt her eyes burn into him like the scorching heat of the Spanish sun and lowered his gaze to his food. He did not want her pity. The irony chaffed. He had avoided capture his entire life only to become hunted by his own kin.
“What about your family?” Honoria inquired. “Must we send word of your whereabouts?”
