Hearts Made of Thorns by Jodie Seibert

Author:Jodie Seibert [Seibert, Jodie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781947104099
Publisher: Criss Cross Press
Published: 2019-09-11T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9—Gerard

The storm lashed at the castle with all its ferocity, but the lord was now secure within the stone walls, and he was brooding.

Not that he felt secure. Or even safe. Indeed, all of his thoughts seemed to be of the lovely face of Roisin.

She obsessed him.

Drinking down a long draught of wine, he paced the floor of his private chamber, one hand clenched behind his back, the other tight around the stem of the goblet. He doubted he would be able to sleep tonight, with the noise of the wind and rain, and the blasts of thunder and lightning. It did not matter. He was used to sleepless nights, even if he hated them. Sleepless nights were when he thought of things he no longer wanted to think of. Then again, it was better than the nights in which his dreams were full of nothing but death, in which all his demons came back to haunt him.

If she was in his arms, his dreams would only be of her.

Throwing his head back, he sighed. She could not—would not—be won that way.

Resuming his pacing, he stared into nothingness as he thought of her, of her face, and of her soothing voice when she told tales of far off lands and long ago times.

Stopping dead in his tracks, a smile split his face. He should have thought of it before. This was something he could ask of her. He knew that she loved telling stories, not only to him, but to the orphan children as well. Perhaps her voice would be enough to ease his weary spirit. The night she had entertained his guests he had slept deeply afterward. It was a bit selfish of him to want to ask something like that of her, especially this late at night, but maybe if he asked her to do something she loved doing, he could win her heart that way.

His hands relaxed, and he released his stiff hold on the goblet, setting it down upon a table.

Once in the Great Hall, he looked around for his steward. The torches and fireplaces were lit, and men were setting out the cots on the floor. He frowned. Favian was usually there.

Shrugging, he went to the kitchens. Muriel would be there, at least, helping the maids clean up after the dinner. Surely they had finished by now.

They were both there, speaking in low tones by the fire. The lord cleared his throat, loudly.

“My lord?” said Favian, when he had at last noticed him. “Do you need something?”

“Is something wrong?” Lord Falcon asked. Distress was clearly written on his steward’s face.

The man glanced nervously at his wife, who was wringing her hands.

“Roisin has not returned,” he said.

The lord’s head whipped around, as if he could look through the wall outside, as if his eyes could see her somehow. Looking back at the woman, he shook his head.

“What do you mean? Is she not here?”

Muriel’s shoulders sunk inward. “No. She went to her cottage today. The boy, the one apprenticed to the jester, was there, getting his strength back.

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