Anne Bishop - The Pillars of the World

Noticing the saddlebags he carried in one hand, she said, “What about your horse?”

Surprise—and a hint of amusement—filled his gray eyes. “My horse?”

“Did you put it in the cow shed?” Ari bit her lower lip worriedly. “There’s straw for bedding, but I don’t keep hay or any feed.”

“The horse is fine where he is,” the man said, something a little odd in his voice.

Ari nodded. The man seemed filled with a waiting tension she didn’t understand. His quick glance at the table was explanation enough.

He’s hungry . The thought made her shiver. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be in the same room with him—at least for a few minutes. Which brought to mind other problems.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” she said, then pressed her lips tightly shut. She had nothing to offer him, and she didn’t think it would be wise to have a man sitting around wearing nothing but a blanket and his small clothes—assuming those weren’t wet, too.

“I have a change of clothes,” he said, raising the saddlebags slightly. He looked at her expectantly.

There wasn’t much choice. Squaring her shoulders, she gestured toward the half-open door of her bedroom. “You can change in there.”

Inclining his head slightly, he went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Pressing her hands against her nervous stomach, Ari glanced down. She groaned quietly, then shrugged in resignation. The ankle-length nightgown was heavy enough to cover her, and the shrug came down to her thighs. There was nothing immodest about her dress, and if a gentry male assumed that barging in on a woman dressed for bed was the same as an invitation, then he could just go back out into the rain and be welcome to it.

Grabbing her dish of stew, she hurried into the kitchen. Moving the teakettle to the back of the stove, she put the stew pot back on the heat, dumped the contents of her bowl into it, and gave it a stir. She sliced more bread and buttered it, cut more cheese from the wheel. Then she braced her hands against the worktable and closed her eyes.

Where was she supposed to put him tonight? The upstairs rooms hadn’t been cleaned since last summer. Not even a quick dust and sweep. She didn’t use those rooms, and there were always too many other chores that needed to be done. Even if she made up one of the beds, a fire would be needed to take the chill out of the room, and she didn’t have enough firewood chopped to feed another fire until morning. So she’d have to give him her bed and make up a pallet of blankets by the fire in the main room for herself.

Dishing out two generous bowls of stew made her hesitate again. She hoped he wasn’t too hungry. She’d counted on that stew providing her with meals for a few days, and the coppers she’d gotten from Granny Gwynn for the simples wouldn’t go very far if she had to buy supplies in Ridgeley. She eyed the sweet bread sitting on the worktable, carefully wrapped in a towel. She’d made it as a “thank you” to Ahern for fixing her door, but maybe she could also get a few eggs in exchange for it?

She shook her head as she ferried dishes from the kitchen to the table.

Whatever you do comes back to you threefold . That was part of the witch’s creed. Bounty was given, bounty was received, and the Mother was the most bountiful giver of all.

She would give the food and shelter she could give tonight with an easy heart, and let tomorrow take care of itself.

She was putting the dishes of stew on the table when he came out of the bedroom, dressed in nothing more than dark trousers and a white shirt. He carried a bottle in one hand and a small sack in the other.

“I can offer a little something for the table,” he said, handing her the sack.

Setting the sack on the table, she took out a small, covered pot and a woven box. Opening both, she studied the contents for a long moment before deciding that they must be some kind of biscuits and a creamed cheese.

When she looked up to thank him, she noticed the way he frowned at what he’d brought, as if he’d just realized that it was the kind of thing someone might pack if he was taking a leisurely afternoon ride . . . or if he knew he didn’t have to travel far. He could have bought it at an inn where he’d stopped for a midday meal . . . but she didn’t think so. Which made her wonder exactly where he had come from. He could be one of the gentry from another part of Sylvalan who came to Ahern’s to look at the horses he was willing to sell. But Ahern’s farm wasn’t that far from her cottage, so why hadn’t he gone back there?

“Shall I open the wine?” he asked, watching her with a touch of wariness.

Nodding, Ari retreated to the kitchen to find some glasses.

Anyone crossing the road and climbing the first rise beyond it would be able to see Ahern’s place. And anyone caught in a storm could reach it easily enough. Unless he’d lost his direction in the dark and the storm, or was just looking for shelter until the storm passed and he could return to the farm. Or continue on to Ridgeley. Perhaps he was one of Baron Felston’s guests—or a friend of Royce’s.

Ari shivered.

She knew quite well what the people in Ridgeley would say if they found out a strange man had stayed the night. As far as they were concerned, witch was just another word for whore . If the stranger mentioned where he’d spent the night, she could well imagine men in Ridgeley, married or not, who would come knocking on the door expecting the same kind of “hospitality.”

After rummaging in the cupboard for a bit, she found the two remaining crystal wineglasses that had belonged to her great-grandmother. The last time they’d been used was when she and her mother had sat before the fire, drinking a bottle of wine Ahern had given them as a gift for the Winter Solstice. Meredith had died not long after that.

Ari wiped the dust off the wineglasses and returned to the main room.

The wine was on the table, open. He was standing next to one of the chairs.

“I ask your pardon, mistress,” he said, sounding as if he’d been mentally rehearsing the phrasing. “I should have introduced myself sooner. I am . . . Lucian.”

A tremor went through her at the sound of his name, and she knew how a trout must feel when it fights the hook but gets reeled in anyway.

“I am Ari,” she said reluctantly. Names had power, and she hadn’t wanted to give him hers, but his offering his own hadn’t given her much choice.

Fool , she thought as she set the glasses down and took her place at the table. He doesn’t know you. You could have given him any name but your own. For that matter, how can you be sure that he didn’t do exactly that ?

Now that she thought of it, there had been a moment’s hesitation before he’d given his name—as if it wasn’t the way he usually introduced himself.

She glanced at him. His fingers rested lightly on the spoon, and he looked at her expectantly. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for her to begin so that he could eat. Suppressing a sigh, Ari picked up her spoon. More gentry manners she didn’t know about. Although . . . old Ahern wasn’t gentry, and the few times she’d had so much as a cup of tea with him, he’d waited in the same way.

The stew was too hot for her, so she broke off a piece of cheese to nibble. As soon as she bit into the cheese, he dug into his meal. There wasn’t time to warn him that the stew was hot before he had his mouth full. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t grab the wine to cool off his burning mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at her. “This is delicious.” It was the only thing he said for several minutes.