The Knight's Scarred Maiden. Nicole Locke
door and the sunlight had hit her. He only had a profile of her, but it was enough to stun him and his men had slammed into him before they’d stumbled around him. She was absolutely exquisite. The pale perfection of her skin, the thick eyelashes. The room’s light wasn’t bright enough to see the exact color of her hair, but it was close to chestnut and waved luxuriously down her back. Then she lifted the tray and he could see the curves of her body, the graceful way she moved. In this hovel of a tavern was someone who belonged in a king’s bed.
And he should know, having grown with wealth and privilege, knowing the King himself, he knew the quality of the woman. But that wasn’t all that surprised him.
It was the wide berth of patrons around her. The inn was crowded at that time of day and a beautiful woman should have been pressed against, or been fighting, some of the more inebriated customers. If nothing else, if she was some wife, or sister, there would have been some camaraderie, some familiarity with her. Instead, she was ignored...
No, in a crowded inn, she was ostracized, the berth continued though she was done arranging the goblets, had lifted the tray and was turning to serve them. Everyone’s back was to her. As the door behind him closed, she hoisted the tray and then he saw what he had not from the profile of her left side.
As she turned to feed the customers behind her, he saw her right profile. Then he understood why, while in a crowded bar, she was left alone. Scarred beyond any repair. Old and healed burns from what he could tell. She had suffered some time in her past and suffered greatly.
He watched her. It was as if that moment had locked something inside him. She made him...curious. He didn’t know what side of her compelled him more. It wasn’t just her physical differences, it was her personality. Wary with the innkeeper, friendly with regulars. Defiant as if she insisted on showing her scars to travelers like him.
So he watched her while he sat in the back of the inn and drank poor ale, but waited for food that should never have been produced in such a hovel.
The innkeeper was a giant oaf of a man, whose unctuous manner grated on Rhain. Though he’d seen enough cruelty in the world, the innkeeper taunting the woman angered him. More than once he found himself reaching for his dagger to throw. A disquieting impulse, since he’d been able to shrug off such behavior before.
Yet he came back since he and his men enjoyed food he’d never expected to taste here. The cuts of meat in the stew were poor and often the vegetables were not fresh. But instead of grease and gristle, herbs and flavors had been added. Fine, arduous sifting of flour had been done to the rolls, which also had a sprinkling of herbs, making them both light and delicious.
It was a tiny village with no information. Completely useless to him for his business. No one would expect for him to be here and his men could be dry and fed well. More to the point, none of them protested when he said they would stay a few days.
And that was before he ate the cake which was light, but dense with honey that dripped and glossed over the top. He might be a giant oaf of an innkeeper, but the man’s cooking was unmatched.
Two sacks set on the table in front of him. It was the woman who delivered them, one hand perfect, the other gnarled with scars. Ravaged from fire like the entire right side of her face, neck and no doubt, by the way she moved, her body as well. One side exquisite, the other disfigured.
Slowly, he tilted his head up so as not to dislodge his hood, but enough to meet her eyes, which were a color he could not guess—green, grey or brown. He couldn’t determine their exact color, but they were clear, straightforward with intelligence, wariness and just a bit of pride. The fire had tilted down the corner of her right eye, and marred just a hair of her full lips. Her nose was left perfect, but her cheek and ear were deeply grooved.
This was the first time he had dared look at her fully. He of all people knew what it was like to be stared at. Compelling though she was, he tried not to keep watching this woman. Still...
Her voice was melodious, and cultured, with a hint of French, her teeth white and even. It was just as conflicting as the rest of her and this inn. A hovel of an inn, sumptuous fare, a woman both beautiful and disfigured. A voice that should be filled with laughter instead of sorrow.
It was the sorrow he heard. His hands almost shook as he grabbed silver coins from his pouch and set them on the table. Too many, perhaps, but he didn’t dare check or she’d noticed his momentary weakness. He didn’t let anyone see his weakness.
‘I’ll require fifty by tomorrow morning.’
A slight flutter of those hands like he surprised her. ‘Twenty-five can be done by morning, another twenty-five by afternoon. The ovens are too small for fifty.’
‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and I require fifty. I’ll pay you double.’
She darted a glance before she slid the money off the table with her perfect hand. Her movements were graceful, but more importantly, they were silent. She acted like she didn’t want anyone to know she was pocketing such money.
He dared to look at her again, although it gave her an opportunity to see his own features. No one could see him now. It wasn’t for his safety, but for his men’s. For that he wouldn’t appease her curiosity though he recognized it since he felt the same about her.
Her expression was unreadable, almost as silent as the scraping of the coins on the table. On closer inspection, her face wasn’t badly scarred, the scars were softer, white and a light pink. But the deep gnarled grooves on her hand spoke of another story. She hadn’t been subjected to fire for a short time. Only prolonged exposure could cause that kind of damage.
Another coin hit into her hand, then to her pocket, and she left the rest. ‘It’s too much. This is more than double.’
Ah, she’d been counting as she took. Cultured voice and educated. Contrasts, and his curiosity was more than piqued. It was good he would be gone tomorrow. He hadn’t been curious about anything or anyone for many years. He didn’t have time to be curious now.
‘I just want the cakes done on time,’ he said.
She didn’t take the coins on the table. An honest tavern keep, too.
‘Take the rest for you.’ He wouldn’t raise his head, but he saw her shake her head.
‘Double will be enough,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to the innkeeper, but I have no doubt you’ll get your cakes.’
Pleasure coursed through him. Another emotion he didn’t have time for. But if a few coins would give him such delicious pleasure, albeit briefly, he’d take it. He hated coin at the same time he used it to his advantage. He’d use anything to his advantage. It was his nature and even more so now.
‘Thank you,’ he said as she walked away. He untied one of the sacks in front of him and released a cake. It was warm and the smell of butter and honey were extravagant in the musty, almost putrid smells of the tavern. It fit perfectly in his hand and he reveled in the color, and the springy texture of his first bite.
He knew the taste would be better out of the darkness of the tavern. For a man of his wealth and status, a man who made his money on his mercenary skills and diplomacy, he knew the art of patience. He could wait until he reached the lodging and his men, but he didn’t want to.
Cakes. Such a little pleasure to most, but to him all the more precious since a price went on his head.
‘It’s late. I’ll take first watch.’ Nicholas, Rhain’s second in command and oldest friend, finished his loaf of bread and brushed his hands against his legs.
‘No, it’s mine,’ Rhain said, finishing the last of the cakes. Two of his men didn’t want them. Fools, he thought them, but he already knew they would refuse, which was why he’d bought them. ‘You trained the men hard today, you’ll have no watch tonight.’
‘Any