Legend of the Storm Hawks

Blackrock Pond

Blackrock Pond~

Sethlyan Callan

Glenayre, Aleron

Seth sat on a bench in the practice yard, polishing a sword that didn’t need polishing, disgruntled with himself, and soured on the world in general. Weeks had passed much the same as the first. He and Isobel continued the awkward dance of coming to know one another. Step in. Step back. When the music stopped, they were no closer than when it began.

Guilt gnawed at him. Since spending those first few nights apart, finding that other bed had become a habit he’d yet to break. The thought of Isobel meekly enduring his touch, or worse, struggling against his attempt, doused any yearning he had for his wife.

As if that weren’t sour enough fare, he was going to have to swallow his pride and tell his Iverach bride she needed to learn to be frugal. Dooly’s wasn’t the only unpaid debt to surface. Seth had spent many long, frustrating hours recalculating the tallies himself until the ledgers finally admitted the disagreeable truth. Glenayre was barely scraping by.

Rogart had never been good at sums.

“The stable, m’lord.” Derry came running for him, huffing from the effort. “Ye best make haste.”

Seth was on his feet in an instant, the new foal foremost in his mind. He sprinted for the stable and skidded to a stop when he cleared the door.

“Lord Sethlyan expects me to practice riding.” Isobel was frowning at a stableboy. “Gambit is familiar to me.”

Sweet Mother of Aurel, she meant to take Gambit out on her own. She’d break her neck if he broke into a gallop.

“I had a different horse in mind for you,” Seth said on impulse. “It was to be a surprise.”

Isobel turned, startled but not cowed. He counted it an improvement, so he headed for the paddock and beckoned her to follow. Outside, an exquisite dapple-grey mare Adan Tavish had already offered a handsome price to own pranced and tossed her silver mane.

“Her name is Jonquil,” he said, picking a less thoroughbred moniker on the spot. “She’s quite gentle.” Compared to Gambit, it was true enough.

Derry was leaning on the paddock rail and looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. Seth had planned to use the extra income from the sale to repair an aging malting kiln.

“Jonquil’s a pretty girl, aren’t you?” Isobel held out her hand, and the mare nuzzled her palm. He wondered again why every living being at Glenayre seemed able to win her trust, but for him.

“Saddle her,” he told the gawking stableboy.

A few minutes later, Seth was leading Jonquil around the paddock with Isobel holding tight to the pommel.

“My lady should see more of Glenayre.” Milo ambled up to the rail beside Derry. “Blackrock Pond is a pleasant ride. I pack a basket. You go for an outing, yes?”

Blackrock Pond. Seth took a liking to the idea. The serenity of the place often drew him when his craving for solitude sent him wandering. If he had to tell his new wife she’d married a pauper, at least he’d have privacy when he humiliated himself.

Seth gave the orders. When Gambit was saddled and Milo’s basket strapped to Jonquil’s flank, he and Isobel left Glenayre’s gates together.

On the ride down the mountain, he showed her how heels and knees could alter a gait. Her questions came quickly and eagerly. It was the most they’d had to say to one another yet.

After a while, they fell to quiet again, but a more comfortable quiet. The path through the foothills flattened to greener and more even terrain. The soft swish of the horses’ tails kept time with the tinkle of stirrups and bridles, and the warmth of the day made even the cricket chirps muzzy.

“Is your unpacking all done?” he asked, not particularly interested in the answer. He simply wanted to hear her talk some more.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “The dowry is recorded in detail in the household ledger. I checked the sums twice to make sure it met the betrothal terms.”

“I’m not concerned about the damned—”

Isobel had been in the ledgers. The household ledgers, at least. Those probably didn’t show the worst of the shortfall. Renny was frugal and better at sums.

“Perhaps you are not,” she said, “but Lord Symon will want to see Calum honored the contract.”

It galled him to consider it, but she was right. Marrying him off was one of Symon’s more lucrative business dealings. Seth got crates of goblets and plates, but his father got Iverach silver.

“Lord Symon will check for your mark beside my tallies,” she said. “Perhaps he should find it there, my lord.”

That last bit finally teetered him over the edge.

“Isobel, I am not your lord,” he said. “Seth. My name is Seth. Sethlyan if you must. And I don’t count spoons.”

“Yes, I noticed,” she said impatiently. “That is why I counted them for you.”

Isobel dug in her heels and took Jonquil to a brisk canter. Seth gave Gambit rein to catch up to them, his apprehension increasing with the cadence of hooves.

“Slow up,” he called to her.

Isobel leaned over Jonquil’s neck, and the mare responded with speed. With the next stride, they were galloping across the meadow. He took off after them, racing to close the gap. Isobel took an unbalanced bounce and shifted off her saddle. Her hat flew back and whipped across Jonquil’s flank.

Whoa, there. Whoa. Easy now, girl.

Jonquil slowed and fell back abreast with Gambit. Isobel clawed for the pommel and righted herself. Seth snatched the reins from her hands.

“Sweet Mother! What was that about? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Isobel cowered. Damnation. He hadn’t meant to shout. He could do naught right with the woman.

“We turn back here.” A curl of his wrist secured Jonquil’s reins in his fist. Isobel would not get another chance to take off like that.

“Wait, we can’t go back,” she said. “Not yet.”

Seth stopped, annoyed. She was chewing that lip again.

“Renny will ask what I thought of Blackrock Pond,” she said.

“So?”

“I’d rather not invent an impression,” she said. “My lord,” she amended, likely out of spite.

Go and be done with it. You’re almost there anyway.

“Hold on.” Seth gritted his teeth.

He headed back for the pond, gripping both sets of reins. When he reached the shaded bank, he stopped where a spill of water cascaded off the flat black rock that gave the pond its name. His boots hit the ground, and a scowl wrinkled his brow.

“There, you’ve seen it,” he said.

The clink of a bridle turned him around. Isobel slid off the mare without help, a notable feat considering the relative height of the two of them. She stood there, holding a blanket under her arm.

“They say it’s pleasant on the bank.” Her cheeks flushed. “They thought we might…sit…” She thrust the blanket at him. “And…talk.”

“They?” He took a cautious step closer.

“They worry…some worry.” She puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. “Some are concerned we aren’t getting on as we should.”

“Are they?” He reached for her. She didn’t flinch. “What about you? Are you concerned about how we’re getting on?”

“It matters to me that you are content,” she offered him back his own words.

She’d planned this. Hard as it was to believe, she wanted to make a go of this marriage, too. Tentatively, he brushed his lips over hers. She met him with an unpracticed kiss. It was enough to get all his gears turning.

“We go slow and easy,” he said. “Can you trust me?”

Isobel answered with another tender kiss. His hands ventured at her invitation. She caught her breath at his touch. He stilled and waited. When she met his eyes, he saw the willingness he’d been waiting for.

They lay down on a blanket beside Blackrock Pond, and the summer sun melted the awkwardness away. Willing and ready to take hold of a chance, two strangers finally figured out the dance.

Chapter 28