Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
“I want Morra Mist safe, Fay. I want those two to grow up here without wondering if someone is going to take their home from them. I want them to have a future.”
Fay followed his gaze.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then she turned to him. “You listen to me, Creagan. You go do whatever it is you think you need to do, but you better not let anything happen to you.”
“I rarely do,” he said, touched by how concerned she sounded for him.
“I mean it. I would never forgive you,” she warned.
Creagan's expression softened. “Then I'll make certain I give you nothing to forgive.”
“And I better see you again soon, or I'll come looking for you myself.”
He laughed. “Now that frightens me more than whatever trouble awaits.”
“It should.”
Fay stepped closer and rested her hand against his cheek. “You're a good man, Creagan.”
His smile disappeared. There was something about the way she looked at him that held him still for a moment.
“You deserve a good woman. And since you've obviously failed miserably at finding one yourself, I've decided I'll find one for you.”
His smile returned. “Make certain she's buxom.”
Fay slapped his arm. “And beautiful,” he added.
“Anything else?”
Creagan considered it seriously. “Wealthy would be helpful.”
“Get out of my house.”
He laughed as he headed for the door.
Two days later, Creagan was beginning to wonder if he'd been wrong.
He had traveled steadily toward Dunsire, the prosperous town that surrounded the queen's castle, choosing roads that took him through villages where he could listen to what people were saying.
There had been more mumblings, though nothing he could put a name to. Nothing anyone could prove. But enough to convince him that what Tate had heard wasn't confined to one corner of Morra Mist.
What Creagan hadn't heard was the summons.
He'd expected it by now, but he had heard not a word.
As evening approached, he turned off the road toward a manor house where he knew he'd find a warm meal, a comfortable bed, and good company. The stone house sat upon a gentle rise overlooking acres of grazing land, its size and well-kept grounds reflecting the prosperity of the man who owned it.
Chieftain Alastair greeted him before he'd gotten halfway to the door.
“Creagan! Where the devil did you come from?”
Creagan gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “Your road.”
Alastair laughed and clasped his forearm. “Still wandering wherever your feet take you?”
“They've served me well so far.”
“Come inside. You look hungry.”
“I always look hungry when there's a free meal involved.”
“You haven't changed,” Alastair chuckled.
Creagan grinned. “Why tamper with perfection?”
Alastair's laugh followed him into the house.
It was well after supper before the conversation took a turn Creagan hadn't expected.
They sat with tankards of ale before the hearth, Alastair's wife having retired for the evening. Creagan had been listening to his friend complain about a neighboring chieftain allowing cattle to wander where they shouldn't when Alastair suddenly grew thoughtful.
“You're heading toward Dunsire?”
“Aye.”
“Any particular reason?”
Creagan shrugged. “It's as good a direction as any.”
Alastair took a drink, then studied him for a moment. “You've heard the talk, then.”
“What talk?” Creagan asked, though knew what the man meant.
“About the queen.”
Creagan kept his expression indifferent. “People always talk about whoever sits on the throne.”
“This is different.”
“So, I've been hearing.”
Alastair leaned back in his chair. “There are questions about whether Queen Eudora has any right to wear it.”
Creagan's fingers tightened slightly around his tankard. “Questions asked by whom?”
“More people every day.”
“That doesn't make them true.”
“Nay. But it doesn't make them false either.”
Creagan looked at him.
Alastair was no fool. He wasn't a man who spent his evenings in taverns listening eagerly to gossip, nor was he easily swayed by the opinions of others. That made his words more troubling than anything Creagan had heard on the road.
“You believe them?” Creagan asked.
“I didn't say that.”
“You're considering that they might be true. That's close enough.”
Alastair frowned. “What do we truly know about Eudora's claim other than what we've been told? Queen Eleanor, her grandmother, raised her. Eleanor named her heir. We accepted it.”
“With good reason. She was next in line for the crown.”
“Perhaps.”
Creagan set his tankard down. “That's a dangerous word.”
“It's also an honest one.”
“What proof has anyone offered that she isn't the rightful queen?”
Alastair scratched his chin for a moment. “None that I've seen.”
“Yet you're willing to question her right to the throne.”
“I'm willing to listen,” Alastair corrected.
Creagan shook his head. “Then whoever started these rumors has already accomplished more than you realize.”
Alastair's brow creased.
“They don't need to prove Eudora has no right to the crown,” Creagan continued. “They only need enough men like you wondering if she does.”
Silence settled between them.
Alastair finally took another drink. “You sound as though you've given this thought.”
“More than I intended.”
And more than he cared to admit.
Later that night, Creagan lay awake in the chamber Alastair always gave him when he visited. Small, unpretentious, and it had the most comfortable bed Creagan had ever slept in.