In Which Tarien Does Not Mishear

February 6, 1172

Tarien rubbed his hands together as he held them to the fire. Naroni, he'd learned, had a very mild climate, but it was early February and the nights did get cold. His fingers still numb from his prior ride home, he considered turning in early; at least in bed he could be kept warm by a willing servant girl.

Or maybe he could just pile on some extra blankets. Who was he kidding, after all? Flirting with women had never lost its appeal, and while he still enjoyed the follow-through... well, it was getting rather tiresome, meaningless little flings with the maids and the kitchen girls. It was getting rather old. He was getting rather old--too old for mindless skirt-chasing, no doubt. His father had warned him and his brothers about such a feeling long ago, but he'd been a younger man then and hadn't believed him; it hurt to admit that the geezer had been right.

His sisters had all married before twenty, but the brothers had not been so hasty. Koradril, the heir, hadn't married his first wife until he was past thirty; Ovrean had been all of forty when he'd married Celina. Frustrated with his three remaining, aging bachelor sons, the old man had finally put his foot down and nabbed two of the women Severin had turned down--a frigid, overly-pious bitch and a very young girl. Since Vulcran had always been the worst of them, their father had forced him into a soulless marriage with the former; because of her age, the latter would be marrying the youngest son, Marsden, come December.

And so Tarien remained. Not that he'd wanted either of his brothers' brides, but... hell. He was forty-two years old. He'd enjoyed his bachelorhood, and Lord knew he'd had a good run, but he was getting up in years; even if he didn't want to admit it, his needs had changed.

"Sir?" It was his steward, just outside the door.

Tarien sighed; it was nice to see that Lole was devoted to his job, but what could he have possibly needed at this hour? "Yes?"

"Widow Diarn is here--and her family too?"

Arydath? That was strange; she'd never called at the castle before. And why start now, so late in the evening, in the wintertime? And with the children in tow? "Does she want a word?"

"I would assume so, yes--she won't say what about, though."

"No matter." He turned away from the fire and sighed. With everything on his mind at the moment, Arydath showed up--how ironic. "If Lasha's still awake, ask her to whip up some treats for the children, and maybe something for their grandmother as well. Send their mother in."

"Yes, sir."

Lole's footsteps faded down the corridor, only to be replaced by Arydath's lighter, quicker tread. She opened the door a bare sliver and, tiny little dab of a thing that she was, slipped through without difficulty. "Good evening."

She closed the door and stepped forward. She was a sight to behold in that silk robe he'd insisted on buying her, her hair loose and her eyes glistening in the firelight, but there was a grimness in her face that he did not know. She was not here to call him names or shove him around; she was not here for shameless flirtation and the pleasure of dismissing it with a sneer. "Good evening, Arydath. Care to sit?" He gestured toward the couch. She looked as if she had been on her feet all day.

"Thank you, but I'd rather stand."

"If you insist." He clasped his hands together and squinted. It was rarely that he saw her smile, but even a scowl might have been a welcome relief--anything but this lifeless gravity so unlike her in every way. "Is there something you need?"

"Is there something I don't need, more like." She sighed. It was not a sigh of misery or self-pity or even exasperation. It was just a sigh. "My idiot son accidentally burned our house down."

Tarien blinked, the thought taking a couple of seconds to fully register in his mind. No... no, he must have misheard that. The only problem was that he hadn't. "What?"

"Do I really need to say it again?" He shook his head, feeling almost nauseous--not that she mustn't have felt a thousand times worse. Arydath fiddled with the skirt of her robe and swallowed; it occured to him now that the glistening in her eye might have been a tear she was too proud to let fall. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

Tarien bit his lip and exhaled sharply. "I didn't think you were being rude."

"Well, thank you, for that." Her eyes wide, brows arched, she tilted her head to one side and began to fidget with her wedding band. "Anyway, I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but... well, you were the only person around I could think of who might have room, and Cord's talking to your stablehands about housing the pigs--"

"Say no more." He reached for her restless hands and stilled them with a touch. "You and your family are welcome to stay for as long as necessary."

Arydath's lips twitched upward, but whatever her mouth had formed, it certainly wasn't a smile. "Thank you. Just some beds in the servants' quarters will be fine. We could even work for you if--"

"Don't even think about it." What sort of man did she take him for? A family in need and he was about to make them slave away in exchange for a roof--and a family he'd grown so close to, at that? "I don't need so many servants for just my humble old self--Lord knows the ones I have already must be bored out of their skulls half the time as it is. You are my guests, and you'll stay in my guest rooms, eat at my table, and make yourselves at home. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask."

Against his palms, he felt the tension in her hands ease somewhat; she was still in shock, still stressed, but at least she had a bed for the night. It was the least he could offer. "Thank you."

Nodding, he drew closer and looped his arms beneath her own, pulling her into an embrace. Her shaking fingers rose to his shoulders as she buried her face in his neck. Her lashes swept across his skin with a butterfly-like finesse; the second time, they were just the slightest bit moist.

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