A Sorceress of His Own by Dianne Duvall

Author:Dianne Duvall [Duvall, Dianne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Romance
Publisher: Dianne Duvall
Published: 2015-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

The great hall was rife with delicious aromas as servants brought forth platter after platter heaped with steaming foods that would make any mouth water.

Any mouth, that is, save Dillon’s.

He did not want to be there. He would prefer to be up in the solar, dining with Alyssa, whom he had sent back to bed—his bed—upon their return.

Right now he could be laughing with her, teasing her, tempting her as he had the previous night. Offering her the choicest morsels. Stealing kisses in between. Enjoying her company.

But a feast had been prepared to celebrate his return to health, so he had sent Robert up to her with food enough to keep her busy for at least an hour and orders to consume every crumb.

Thunder rumbled overhead, almost drowned out by the laughter and boisterous conversation that flowed around him. Moisture blew in with the wind as the large, heavy doors opened and two knights stumbled inside, their cloaks and hair dripping wet. A storm had indeed rolled in, its wrath reflective of Dillon’s mood.

Face frozen in a perpetual scowl, he leaned back in his chair, food untouched, and glared at the people who packed the trestle tables and crowded the hall. Even the wives who usually stayed away, ever leery of him, had joined them for this joyous occasion.

One hand absently toyed with his goblet, rotating it this way and that, before he raised it to his lips for a brief, distracted taste. Behind him, he heard Gideon shift his stance. Alerted to his lord’s foul disposition, the boy no doubt worried over its cause. Baldwin and the other knights whom he had invited to join him at the high table restricted their comments to murmurs and darted wary sidelong glances at him.

Eventually notice that something was amiss filtered down through the lower tables to the other occupants of the hall.

The noise level decreased.

Conversation switched to whispered speculation.

All kept one eye on the glowering Earl of Westcott whilst they dined.

William appeared at Dillon’s elbow and motioned to his full trencher. “You are displeased, my lord?”

“Aye,” Dillon growled, “but ’tis my people who displease me, not the fare.”

With the exception of Ann Marie’s baby, who grunted as he attempted to stuff as much of her kirtle as possible into his little mouth, everyone in the great hall froze. Tankards halted halfway from table to lips. Mouths ceased their chewing. Tongues stopped wagging. All eyes widened with trepidation and focused on Dillon, who altered neither his position—lounging in his chair like a lion awaiting the chance to pounce upon its prey—nor his expression.

Thunder roared through the hall, startlingly loud now that all else was quiet. One of the dogs beneath the trestle tables whined.

Nearby a throat cleared, drawing his attention to Baldwin. Rising, the older man bowed respectfully and said, “If it pleases you, my lord, I ask that you inform us how we have wronged you so that we may make amends.” Retaking his seat, he waited with the others for Dillon’s response.

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