In Which Arydath's Scarf Gets Away

August 31, 1170

Arydath drummed the tips of her fingers against her temple. What was taking Cord so long? It had been a lightning strike of luck that they had both been summoned to the keep on the same day, but for the life of her Arydath couldn't fathom how she'd finished with her business first. Hell, she'd been called to deliver a baby; based on the duchess's prior labors, she'd guessed she'd be there all afternoon. Instead, the infant had taken little more than an hour and Arydath had resigned herself to the front room, waiting for her son to finish sorting out a slight tax miscalculation.

The late summer breeze on her face heralded the opening of the front door. Arydath sighed; it was probably Aldhein, whom she found insufferable on the best of days. "Master Denvus."

"Sorry to disappoint you, missy," a man chuckled from the doorway--a man who sounded little like sarcastic, muttering Aldhein, "but I am not he. Might I be of service?"

She heaved herself to her feet and looked the stranger over. He tall, fair, and rather scruffy-looking, though his garb was enough to distinguish him from a peasant such as herself; whoever he was, it wasn't as if he was out of place here. "Who the hell are you?"

His teal eyes bulged, as she could have expected--she was, after all, a small woman with a voice far too large for her frame. "Well, aren't you a saucy little thing! I like that in a woman."

Annoyed, Arydath's eyelids sank, casting a dark glaze over her vision. "You didn't answer my question."

"Indeed, I did not; how rude of me!" He winked, a wide grin emerging on his face. His teeth were so white and shiny she thought she could make out her reflection in their surface. "Sir Tarien, at your service--Sir Ovrean's brother, if you were wondering. And yourself, love?"

"Arydath Diarn. I'm the midwife."

"The midwife, you say?" That stupid smile still firm, he glanced upwards as if to offer a silent prayer; then, with the gall of a fifteen-year-old boy, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "My God! The way the steward was going on about you, I was expecting an old hag, but--damn! You can't be any older than... seventeen, eighteen?"

What an idiot. Her eyebrow arched, she lifted his wrist from the neckline of her gown and cast it aside. "Not even close."

"Ah, the feisty, blunt type!" he exclaimed, an unwanted note of approval in his tone. "I like! Anyway, if you're here, I take it that--?"

Arydath nodded; thank God for the excuse to talk about something other than 'types'. "Yes, sir--you have a new nephew."

"A nephew!" He clapped his hands together in delight, then reached for hers; she backed away, but the gesture seemed to fly over his head. "A strong, strapping lad like his uncle, no doubt--and named for me too, I presume?"

"Not unless you have the same name as her grace's grandfather--which you don't."

"Alas, skipped over yet again!" Sir Tarien smacked himself on the forehead in mock-outrage--dear Lord, did the man ever stop grinning? "Perhaps I ought to just start having my own sons. I'll have a dozen of them--and by God, they'll all be named Tarien!"

What an arrogant son of a bitch; at this point, she almost would have preferred a conversation with the king. "Well, good luck finding a woman mad enough to agree to that."

Tarien laughed again. It must not have occured to him that she wasn't trying to be funny. "I don't know, love, you seem a little mad yourself--while we both have a few minutes, perhaps we ought to start on the first?"

Arydath rolled her eyes. "In your dreams."

"I'll be sure to take you up on that offer tonight," he assured her with yet another of his infernal winks, "but you're really something, you know? You just ought to lighten up a little more."

"Sir Tarien, I am a thirty-five-year-old widow and mother of six." Her scarf had loosened over the course of the day; she quickly tightened it, then met his twinkling eyes once more. "Surely in a castle this large, there must be any number of giggly young maids that would be infinitely more fun to harass than frumpy old me."

"Oh, you're not frumpy, love." He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, a devious sort of energy looming in his features. "You just need to let your hair down a little."

She frowned. "Let my hair down? What do you--hey!"

Whistling casually, he folded the swiped scarf in half and began to wrap it around his oafish hand. "I knew it! My--damn! You're really beautiful, you know?"

Beautiful or not, he was out of line--pig! "You bastard! Give that back!"

"Relax, love, I'll hand it over in a second." That wasn't good enough. Furious, she dove for it, but his hand was too quick for her. "Just let me look at you for a minute, all right?"

Arydath balled her fingers into a tight fist. It didn't matter that it was just a simple scarf; this asshole had just removed a piece of her clothing and had the gall to grin about it! "Dear Lord, love, I don't think I've ever seen such hair! What a color! The green scarf made it seem more brown than it actually is, you know. Not that it didn't look nice then, of course... but that copper! Cinnamon, even! Really, love--"

"I am not your love!" Arydath shrieked, lunging toward him and shoving him backward. Yet again, she had caused his eyes to widen in shock--and she'd finally wiped that stupid smile off his face. "Give me my scarf back, you cunt-faced, motherfucking pile of shit! Lord help me, I'll strangle you with it!"

She readied herself for some cheeky retort about how that didn't give him much incentive to return it; instead, he outstretched his hand and offered it freely. Arydath snatched it up and secured it beneath her belt. "Pig!"

Sir Tarien sighed. "I was just teasing, you know. Sorry if I upset you, darling--"

"Don't call me 'darling'!"

She pushed past him and charged through the front door, its heavy form reduced to nothingness by the fury in her veins. Cord could get home on his own.

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