Chapter Eleven
Cadoc leaned his shoulders against the sun-warmed wall and looked across the courtyard to where Maythorn stood with her daughters. If he didn’t know for a fact that two months ago Maythorn had been the crippled, graying Widow Miller, he would never have believed it. She was young and ripe and golden, glowing with happiness.
Seen together, the four women astounded the eye. Each of them was lovely in her own right, but all four of them . . . Dazzling.
None of them looked alike, though. Larkspur was palely luminous, her hair like spun moonbeams, whereas Hazel’s coloring was more vivid: the lustrous brown hair, the bright, merry eyes. Ivy’s beauty was the quietest, but by no means the least. She drew one’s gaze, with that fall of midnight-dark hair and the solemn green eyes.
