The Distant Tide - Heather Day Gilbert Page 0,1

grabbed a beveled corner, ignoring their black looks. They didn’t want the princess to sully her hands with menial labor. But she was the princess, wasn’t she? Even though Ronan had been left in charge, she could still do as she pleased.

After considerable effort, they successfully maneuvered the tabletop into position. Cringing to think of repeating the task before each meal, Britta declared, “We will leave the tabletop where it is for the duration of my father’s absence.”

Florie murmured her approval of this plan then scurried off to the kitchen to retrieve the food.

Ronan, too, nodded in agreement. He removed his mace from his belt and propped it against the wall, near his shield and sword.

As always, Britta felt a wave of thanks that her father had left his best warrior behind to protect her. Ronan’s family had lived near the castle all her life, and he had battled alongside her father many times. His loyalty was unquestionable.

Glancing at his mace, a shudder passed from head to toe as she imagined the damage the heavy spiked weapon could inflict. A nervous giggle escaped as she tried to picture such a gentle-spirited man wielding such a deadly weapon, although his build was undeniably powerful and she knew he would not hesitate to protect her life with his own.

He glanced up, his dark eyes softening. “Is something amusing?”

Before she could explain, Florie emerged with a large pot of onion soup. She served it up, accompanied by a hunk of white cheese and slightly scorched oatcakes. Finally, she took her seat, waiting for a look from Britta.

Nodding, Britta sipped her soup, the cue that others could eat. She took an oatcake from the pewter dish then cast a furtive look down the table.

Florie started to wipe her mouth on her sleeve then instead used her linen napkin. “Pray tell, what d’you need, Princess?”

“Have you any of the bog butter? I find it gives my oatcakes incomparable flavor.”

“I surely do, and I don’t know how I forgot to set it out.” Florie hastened into the larder, returning with a greeny-black butter ball.

“Thank you. I know Father says it’s uncouth, but I’ve found nothing matches its taste.”

As she finished slathering a thick layer of butter on the oatcake, Ronan spoke. “I shall be riding over to Brennan’s castle to trade horses in the morning. Would you care to accompany me?”

It seemed a careless question, a discussion to pass the time, until Britta raised her eyes and met Ronan’s dark ones. His completely unguarded gaze struck her like the lightning that had finally loosed outside.

She took in his intense look, his half-quirked smile. He was so expectant, so…fixed on what she would answer. Realization dawned. Ronan found her desirable. Had her giggling led him to think she was admiring him?

Or had he felt this ardor for some time? If so, how had she missed it?

An embarrassed flush covered her cheeks. She tried to invent an excuse. “My stomach…perhaps I need to…” Unable to continue, she stood and rushed from the great hall. She heard Ronan shove his chair back to stand, and Florie’s anxious voice trailed after her, but she could not stop.

Bolting into her room, she threw herself on her bed, thoughts fluttering about like doves’ wings.

How long had Ronan found her attractive? For so many years, they had they wandered the land together, discussing everything from hawks to laws to books. Had the storm-charged air, coupled with her father’s absence, released his hidden feelings?

A sudden thought wormed its way to the forefront. What if this unexpected option was the simple solution to her future, a way to ensure that she could stay in her castle for life? Surely her father would be pleased if she married his right-hand man—the one he would doubtless leave his castle to, since he had no male heirs.

This time, no books could assuage the pounding of her heart. Outside, thunder pounded and rain swept across the moors, spraying mist into her open windows. She jumped from her bed, slamming the shutters together and drawing the iron bar across them for good measure. She wished she could lock her thoughts away so easily, but it was impossible now that Ronan’s face had betrayed his true feelings. Was this an answer to her prayers?

This would be a surprise attack. Ari Thorvaldsson cast a lingering glance at his family’s chain-mail shirt, which he would leave behind to enable more stealth. His closest friend, Sigfrid, gave him a meaningful stare with his one