Page 52 of Falling for the Knight

That day . . . the one where Kenton had granted him Saxford in exchange for his protection of one of the most contentious regions along the border. She supposed it was a good deal, but after what she’d seen in the forge, maybe Tristan would have been just as happy as an armorer.

He would certainly have been safer.

As the men discussed Tristan’s preparation for the expiration of the truce, Hannah’s thoughts drifted far away. The talk of Sutherland had reminded her of a weekend trip she’d taken in college. She and three of her friends had visited West Virginia, the home state of one of the girls. They’d gone to a festival celebrating the end of the rivalry between the Hatfields and McCoys. One of the famous families’ surviving relatives—Hannah couldn’t remember from which side—spoke just before the lead band played in the evening. He said that the reconciliation of their two families was proof that anyone could reach an accord.

Or something like that.

Was a lasting peace truly out of the question? She would have to tell the story to Tristan.

He looked worried. A week ago she would have missed the signs—the way he bit the inside of his cheeks and ground his teeth so subtly it was hardly noticeable. How safe were they here at Saxford? Would she be in danger if she remained here much longer? Could she truly leave never knowing Tristan’s fate? Or having to look it up as a part of distant history?

“Lady Hannah,” Kenton said, breaking her out of her reverie. “How long do you plan to stay in England?”

Did the man read minds?

As Tristan watched her, waiting for an answer, Hannah struggled with what to say. She’d planned to say “not long,” but the intensity of Tristan’s gaze changed her mind.

“I’m still not sure,” she said, keenly aware her modern-sounding language made her stick out like a sore thumb. Kenton gave her a strange look, but there was nothing she could do to take back what she’d already said. All she could do was put forth her most proper manners.

For Tristan’s sake.

“I will say, the circumstances by which I find myself here are second only to the tale of how Lord Saxford came to be here himself.”

Kenton set down his soup spoon, glancing at Tristan with fatherly pride.

“He told you of the battle, I presume? He was too modest, I am sure.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and directed his attention toward his meal.

“In all my days I’d never seen a man fight like that. I was only glad the king recognized his bravery and service.”

“Enough talk of battle and bravery,” Tristan said. “Lady Hannah has heard of nothing else since she arrived.”

Though it was true, Hannah did not tire of it. She liked to hear of Tristan’s successes. Certainly, his stories were a far cry from life in Boston or Mayport Bay.

“Aye,” Kenton said. “Let us discuss something more appropriate for your guest.” He raised his mug to her, drank deeply, and planted it back on the table. “My niece is staying with us for a time,” he said. “Her needlework is quite fine. I trust you enjoy embroidery, Lady Hannah?”

She stared at the man in horror. Though her grandmother had made her mother’s wedding gown by hand, Grandma’s talent with a needle had not passed down through the generations. Not to Hannah, at least.

“An instrument, then?”

Hannah shot a look at Tristan, who appeared to catch on to her dismay.

“Lady Hannah finds . . . out-of-door pursuits more to her liking,” Tristan said.

This ought to be good.

“Indeed?” Kenton was trying his best to feign polite interest. “Hawking, then?”

Uh, not exactly. She shot Tristan another, more desperate, look.

“Walks in the woods,” he blurted. “And riding.”

When Kenton looked back at her, Hannah was the epitome of good grace. She smiled and nodded, trying hard not to laugh.

Their conversation shifted back to the conflict with Sutherland, thankfully, and she allowed herself to drift again.

Embroidery? Music? Hawking?