Three French Hens by Lynsay Sands

Author:Lynsay Sands [Sands, Lynsay]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780062106780
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2012-04-10T04:00:00+00:00

“Good Lord!”

Brinna turned from closing the bedroom door to spy Joan pushing herself from the seat by the fireplace and rushing toward her. She was wearing Brinna’s own dress. The fact that Joan was there took Brinna a bit by surprise. The other girl had usually been absent until late at night, when she’d crept in like a thief and slid silently into bed to awake the next morning and act as if nothing were amiss. But then, Sabrina wasn’t usually around this room either, and that was the cause. Brinna supposed it was possible Joan had stuck around to keep an eye on the ailing girl. On the other hand, it was equally possible that she had stuck around to avoid having the fact discovered that she usually slipped out as soon as they were gone. The lady was up to something.

“Look at you!” Joan cried now, clasping her hands and taking in her sodden clothes with a frown. “You are soaked through. What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Brinna assured her quickly. “I fell off your horse and—”

“Fell off my horse!” Joan screeched, interrupting her. “You don’t ride. Do you?” she asked uncertainly.

“Nay. That is why I fell off,” Brinna said dryly, and pulled away to move to the chest at the end of the bed.

Joan took a moment to digest that, then her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t go out with him alone, did you?”

“Nay. Of course not. His man accompanied us,” Brinna assured her as she sifted through the gowns in the chest. Picking one, she straightened and turned to face Joan unhappily. “Mayhap you should play you from now on.”

Joan blinked at that. “Whatever for?”

“Well …” Brinna turned away and began to remove the gown she wore. “You are to be married. You really should get to know him.”

Joan grimaced at that. “Not bloody likely. I’ll not marry him. I shall join a convent before consenting to marry an oaf like that.”

“He’s not an oaf,” Brinna got out from between gritted teeth as she flung the dress on the bed. She turned to face Joan grimly. “He’s a very nice man. You could do worse than marry him.”

Joan’s eyes widened at her ferocious expression and attitude, then rounded in amazement. “Why, you are sweet on him.”

“I am not,” Brinna snapped stiffly.

“Aye, you are,” she insisted with amusement, then tilted her head to the side and eyed Brinna consideringly. “Your color seems a bit high and you had a dreamy expression on your face when you came into the room. Are you falling in love with him?”

Brinna turned away, her mind running rife with memories of his body pressed close to hers, his lips soft on her own. Aye, she had most likely looked dreamy-eyed when she had entered. She had certainly felt dreamy-eyed until Joan had started screeching. And she would even admit to herself that she might very well be falling in love with him. It was hard not to. He was as handsome as sin, with a voice like Scottish whisky, and kisses just as intoxicating.

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