On the morning following Burke’s arrival, Guillaume paced the breadth and width of his own hall anxiously. He knew he did not have sufficient charm to win a lady’s affections, but Lady Brigid’s attention the night before encouraged him. He kept one eye on the stairs and deliberately ignored his mother’s humming as she spread honey on her bread.
Indeed, he scowled at the floor, telling himself he was a fool even to hope for shy Brigid’s favor. She had simply been polite, nodding at her host’s tales and smiling at his jests. It had been so easy to talk with her, the wine loosening his tongue, but this morn he half feared it had been a dream.
Aye, ’twas all too readily in the morn’s harsh light that Guillaume recalled how many times he had presented a suit, his heart in his hand, and been m
