It did not help matters that her thoughts had turned as warmly intimate and disconcerting as Hugh Fitz Henry’s must have. But then, how could a woman’s thoughts remain pure when a man insisted of speaking about the shape of her…er…legs?
“Forgive me for my lapse of judgment, sir,” she said finally, only half meaning it. She’d hardly flaunted her body in front of him, but if she was going to humble herself enough to ask her father to let her raise Conn, she would need practice in swallowing her pride.
The task had never come easily to her.
“No, it is I who should ask your forgiveness. It is not your fault that a man’s thoughts are wayward and inappropriate.” He poured the other flagon full of mead. “Here. Come and join me, my lady, and I pray you do not hold my ill-tempered outburst against me. Your mead would soothe the ragged beast in any man.”
He lifted the second cup, holding it out to her. Entreating.
Saints protect her, she felt as frightened as the tiny kitten must have, perched on a high branch and teetering against a fall only to be given an alternative that appeared every bit as scary. But she, too, found herself moving inexplicably toward Hugh Fitz Henry.
She came to him.
Hugh thanked all that was holy that he had not scared off the woman who might be his only link to his past. For that matter, even if Sorcha could provide him with no hints of his identity, at least he had been admitted into her father’s service. Where else would a man with no past and no true name obtain such a chance? There was a certain safety in that acceptance that he would not risk for the sake of the heat Sorcha stirred within him.
“Thank you.” She gripped the cup he offered and brought it to her lips with a hand more steady than her breathing.
He turned his attention back to his own drink lest he lose himself in watching the way her lips cradled the smooth silver vessel.
He knew in that moment she was not like most women. But how did he know that? As soon as he formed the thought, he attempted to chase down the root of it. What other women in his past had helped him form the basis for comparison? He possessed a sense that females did not appreciate being reminded of a man’s baser nature. Many a noblewoman would have fled his presence at the mere suggestion of what the shape of her legs did to him.
Yet all his struggle for an image of any other woman yielded nothing. No face of a mother or sister, wife or betrothed.
The only woman he could see was the one who sank slowly to the bench beside him, her cup clutched in a tense grip. Had her father been correct in his assessment that she would permit any man to court her—even one as coarse as he—if it meant she might gain freedom from her exile?
“Your gardens are a sight to behold,” he observed lightly, needing to divert their attention.
And yet even that topic weighed awkwardly on his tongue. How could he comment on the lushness of her budding fruit or the heavy blossoms on the vine without sounding like he meant something else entirely?
“I have far too much time to tend them,” Lady Sorcha returned mildly. “I do not know what you have heard about my situation, but as an exile, I am not allowed in my father’s presence and I have no duty to his house. That leaves me with substantial time to tend the flowers.”
Settling her empty cup on the tray beside his, she refilled them both from the heavy pitcher before proceeding to slice a squat loaf of sweet bread.
“He gave me the impression you were free to leave your home with a guardian.” He extended his palm to receive the bread, but she was careful not to touch him as she handed it to him.
Instantly, he regretted putting her on guard to such an extent.
“Did he suggest I might be endlessly grateful for the chance to escape?” She arched a brow and studied him assessingly, her earlier discomfort fled in the face of her irritation.
He debated the wisdom of a lie and decided such a course would be unwise with this woman. Clearly she knew her father well and, perhaps, was as well versed in manipulative games as her sire.
“Are you so content with your banishment?” he asked instead, tearing into the honey bread with the enthusiasm of a man still recovering from a long journey.
His food on the road had been sparse and dependent upon his hunting, something he indulged only upon dire need with his focus so keen to discover his name. His home. He savored the rich texture and delicate scent of the honeyed bread, so different than any scantly cooked beast on his travels.
“No one would seek such isolation as this, and yet I have discovered small delights in the silence of a summer night where there are no servants to sneak about the courtyard stealing embraces or reveling knights to sing and jest till sunrise.” Sorcha broke off a bit of her repast and nibbled the morsel. “Here, I am not subject to my father’s tempers or marched in front of his guests like an exotic animal on display.”
“So you do not wish to hasten your release?” He helped himself to more bread, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he had eaten well.
Or perhaps he merely ate to quiet another hunger. His gaze strayed entirely too often to the princess’s mouth as she licked a crumb from her lips or tasted her mead.
“On the contrary, I cannot wait for my release.” Her green eyes took on a new fierceness. “But I will never be so desperate that I will accept any man my father places in my path in order to secure freedom.”
“I would like to think I have placed myself in your path.” He studied her with new respect, appreciating her shrewd assessment of the situation. “I was not summoned to Connacht by the king. I arrived at his gate under my own accord.”
“If you do not see my father’s larger designs, you are not as clever as I suspected.” She returned her cup to the tray between them with a thump, startling the wee kitten that had fallen asleep in her lap.
The furry beast lifted its head and blinked bright blue eyes before dropping back into slumber amid Sorcha’s skirts.
“I suspect your father wishes you to wed so he does not have to send a cherished daughter to the convent.” Hugh stretched his legs and tipped his head back to the warmth of the spring sun, not daring to gaze upon the fiery Irish princess for long lest his thoughts stray again into uncomfortable terrain.
And while Sorcha might not be desperate to accept his suit, he needed her acquiescence with every fiber of his being. If she refused, he would be dismissed from Connacht and separated from the only clue he had to his past.
“I hardly think my position on the far outreaches of his lands makes me cherished, but you have seen his purpose well enough.” She shifted on the bench beside him and he straightened to see her rise, the kitten now in her arms.
Her feet followed a stone path through the hedges and flowers, a small nod to order in a garden overflowing with pleasant disarray.
“And you know my purpose as well,” she continued, halting to meet his gaze from where she stood. “That leaves me at a disadvantage because I do not comprehend your motives at all.”
Her searing gaze told him she would not tolerate lies lightly.
Nor could he tell her the truth.
That left him in uncharted terrain, just like the whole rest of his anonymous life. He settled for shades of the truth instead.
His eyes raked over her, taking in her proud spirit and womanly form. From her straight shoulders and proud tilt to her chin to the way she cradled the young kitten in her arms, Sorcha was a study in contrasts. And underneath his need to know why she recognized him, Hugh simply wanted to know her.
“I couldn’t forget you after I saw you in the forest yesterday.”