John glanced at the men seated around him, silently begging for help. Tate took pity on him. “He is not yet, mistress.”
Ailsa fixed her attention on Tate. “Are you Sir Tate?”
“Ailsa,” Balin hissed at her, shaking his head.
Tate responded. “A natural question to a strange man sitting at her table. Yes, mistress, I am.”
“Why do they call you Dragonblade?”
Toby nearly choked; in fact, only a large gulp of wine helped the clot of mutton slide down her throat. “Ailsa, behave yourself.”
“But I just want to know.”
“Now isnotthe time.” Toby turned to Tate. “Forgive her, my lord. She is young and without tact.”
“That seems to be a family trait.”
Her cheeks burned at his dig as she remembered her vow to behave. “As you say, my lord.”
From what he had seen that afternoon, it was not like her to submit so easily. He found himself alternately pleased and strangely disappointed that she had not reacted. He cast both sisters a final look before returning to his food. “Bad manners aside, I will also say that beauty must be a family trait. It is too bad that one characteristic negates the other.”
Ailsa’s attention had returned to the squire by this time and Toby merely continued to eat. Balin, fearful that Tate wouldpush his daughter to forget her promise to behave, poured himself more wine and changed the focus altogether with talk of the pear orchard he had planted two years ago on the southern edge of town.
Tate listened to the old man talk, largely saying nothing in return. The more Balin drank, the more he talked. Tate eventually discovered that Balin had nothing more vital to say other than discussing agriculture and that his political knowledge was limited to very basic elements. His argumentative daughter seemed far more intelligent, at least enough to keep Tate’s interest. All the while as Balin spoke and drank, Tate was acutely aware of Toby seated next to him, silently eating her pudding. In fact, he was hardly aware of what Balin was saying at all. He kept hearing the soft music of Toby’s voice instead, echoes from their earlier conversation.
Dinner was over, but not before Tate was nearly bored out of his mind by Balin’s drunken chatter. The knights had eaten their fill and were given a room in thegarçonnaire, a small two-room house next to the main house. Its sole purpose was to house traveling guests, usually male. With Tate’s approval, they retired for the eve and took the stuffed, dozing squire with them. The men-at-arms, who had remained by the door for the duration of the meal, were given some food and moved into the warm kitchens.
Balin, sensing that perhaps their liege wished some time to himself in front of the fire, excused himself and the girls. A word from Tate stopped him.
“I would have a word with Mistress Elizabetha, if I may.”
Balin wasn’t sure if he should allow his daughter to be alone with him. She had restrained herself admirably throughout the meal, but there was no knowing how long the restraint would last. Balin would hate to wake up in the morning and discover that his liege had confiscated his lands in a fit of anger. Takingthe jug of wine still left upon the table and convincing himself he needed it to sustain his courage, he left Toby alone with the great Lord of Harbottle.
Tate was still seated, watching Toby as her gaze moved to everything else in the room but him. He studied her profile, the way her cheeks curved, the soft pout of her lips. He thought perhaps that he should gouge his eyes out because he was growing more enchanted with the woman by the moment. It was purely based on her appearance and he had no time to waste with such foolishness. Thank God they would be leaving on the morrow and he would be done with this stupidity.
“I will only take a moment of your time, mistress,” his voice was quiet. “Will you please sit?”
Toby sat down on the bench opposite him. There was something in her manner that suggested she had something better to do than sit with him. He eyed her, sensing her displeasure. An entirely different subject suddenly came to mind. “How old are you?” he asked.
She looked at him, surprised. “I have seen twenty-one years, my lord.”
His dark eyebrows lifted. “And you are not yet married?”
She gave him such a look that he nearly burst out laughing. “My father needs me.”
“One has nothing to do with the other.”
“You will forgive me, but I do not see how that is any of your affair.”
“It is not. It was simply a question.”
“Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?”
Tate scratched his chin; the more agitated she became, the more humorous he found it. “Not really, but now you have piqued my interest. You are a beautiful woman and your father is wealthy. I cannot imagine that you have not had men falling over themselves to vie for your hand.”
She sighed harshly. “I suspect you will not stop asking these questions until you have had a satisfactory answer.”
“That is possibly correct.”