”That woman,” he hissed, “is my grandchild. You tried to kill her-after she was wounded trying to save a child from that damned French warhorse! I was not laughing at you! I wasn’t even thinking about you! I .was smiling in sheer relief because she would not lose the use of her leg.”
Kynan Rhys Gower looked suddenly doubtful, which was small consolation considering how close he’d come to killing Kit.
Kit tapped Kynan’s chest with the mallet. “Is it not bad enough you attacked a lady? Now you take offense where none was given and try to murder a man who has been wronged in his own kin by you!”
”Shut up and listen! I didn’t `permit’ anyone to humiliate you, much less Margo. I wasn’t even there when you attacked her. You had better get used to a few new ideas, Kynan Rhys Gower. And the first one is this: women here are perfectly capable of protecting themselves when knaves rush at them with war hammers.”
Kynan compressed his lips. “Knave, is it?”
Kit swore under his breath. “What would you call a man who attacked a girl barely eighteen. a girl already cut so badly her leg had to be sewn together-then tried to break a man’s skull rather than call him out fairly to ask satisfaction-or at least an explanation?”
Kynan didn’t answer. Not that Kit actually expected him to, but Kit always tried reasoning with people whenever circumstances permitted. Unfortunately, some people simply wouldn’t be reasoned with. Kit was abruptly disgusted with the whole situation, including his own anger. If he’d dared trust the Welshman, he’d have left Kynan sitting on his backside in the middle of the Commons.