Esme half reclined in a large brass tub afore a roaring fire in her small guest bedchamber at Ravenshire. The air was sweet-scented, as would be her body, from the dried rose petals which covered the surface of the hot water. The perfect cure for her aching bones and cramped muscles.
Why then was Esme bawling her eyes out, with loud, hiccoughing sobs? For twenty and four years—almost twenty-five—she had learned to control her emotions. Even when beaten by her father… even when threatened with death… even when faced with the prospect of a dotty old husband… Esme had held her tears in check. Now she could not stem the flood.
It was relief, pure and simple. For the first time in many, many years, she felt safe. Oh, the danger still existed. Her father could petition the king, who would undoubtedly hand her over, if he could find her. But for now, for this short period, she basked in the luxury of tranquillity.
A short rap on the closed door interrupted her tears.
“Come in,” she called out to Eadyth, who was no doubt returning with the maid and more pails of hot water. What a gracious hostess Eadyth had been so far, treating her as a welcome guest and not the intruder she was.
The door closed softly.
Still half reclining with her neck resting on the curled edge of the tub, she said, “Just put the pails next to the tub. I’ll ladle the water in myself as needed. And thank you once again, Eadyth.”
She heard a stool being pulled close to the tub and a male voice say, “I may wear a gown on occasion, but I’m not Eadyth.”
It was Toste, of course. The arrogant, crude, presumptuous Viking rogue.
“Go away, you odious oaf,” she said, her eyes flying open as she sank lower in the tub.
“You’ve been crying.” The tone of his voice was so doleful you would think her tears hurt him.
“I got soap in my eyes,” she lied.
“I have to talk to you,” he said, bracing both elbows on his knees and his chin in his two hands.
“You can talk to me later. And stop looking like that.”
“How?”
“Like you are trying to see through the water.”
“Well, I am. What kind of Viking would I be if I did not enjoy the sight of a naked woman?”
“Aaarrgh!”
“You are not to worry, Esme. I can’t see anything… yet. Mayhap in a while, when the petals start to droop, your hidden assets will no longer be hidden.”
She closed her eyes and counted to ten silently. When she opened them, he continued to stare at her. “Are you still here?”
“I am.”
“Speak your mind and begone,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I have been speaking with Eirik and Tykir about your situation. They agree with our plan, as far as it goes, but there is one happenstance we had not counted on.”
Esme immediately grew alert and sat up as straight as she could without uncovering any “hidden assets.”
“The Witan is meeting next week. The king’s council of close advisers, of which Eirik is a member, is holding a regular session in Winchester.”
All the fine hairs on her body, wet as they were, stood at attention. “My father is a member of the Witan, too.”
“I know,” Toste said, his usually teasing expression somber now… somber in a way that frightened her. “It is my belief and that of Eirik and Tykir, as well, that your father will bring up your situation at that time. Whether he knows of your whereabouts by then or not, he will petition the king for either your guardianship or your marriage to Lord Rotting-Cock.” Esme had made the mistake of telling Toste of her father’s latest marriage plans for her.
She should have cringed at his vulgarity, but she was becoming accustomed to his earthy language. “Either way spells doom for me and any future I might have at Evergreen,” she mused dolefully.
“Not necessarily. Eirik will be our ears and when the moment is right, mayhap our advocate. For now, you must bide your time, and know that you are safe here at Ravenshire.”