Code of Thieves, Elaine Brown [if you liked this book .txt] 📗

face. Brighid was, of course, another tutor; she was assigned the task of teaching me the proper manners and visage of the higher class.
Airmid cowered, pleading with me with her teary eyes. My heart went out to her, an overwhelming pity nearly overpowering me, but I knew what would happen if I broke countenance in front of my tutors; I would be repeating correct conduct lessons for weeks. Instead I spoke, “Calm yourself, Brighid, and do not leave us in the dark; how has this girl of no consequence offended your pride?”
Brighid turned her narrow glare to me, pride no doubt offended by my comment about her pride; she was a... complex woman. However, she set her issue with me aside and pointed a furious, shaking finger at the terrified servant girl; “This incompetent child has neglected her duties in the Grand Hall. Because of her insolence there is a very discontented lord waiting to be attended to with provisions, and now a surgeon!”
Airmid squeaked pathetically in the background as Brighid's hand lashed out toward her and Ogma began to order Brighid to cool her temper. Before he had even completed his command, his face flushed and he turned a very green sort of pale; “You could not possibly mean Miach?”
Abandoning her attempts on Airmid's life for the moment, Brighid turned back to Ogma with a sharp nod. “That is exactly whom I am referring to.”
“Idiot!” Ogma shouted at Airmid, before spinning to face me with heavy brows. “I suppose now my news is laced with displeasure. Your father has welcomed into his home a great lord from far off lands in hopes of a smart... alliance. Hopefully this little incident does not put him off such subjects; quickly now, dress! We must introduce the two of you, see if you might salvage what is left of happy negotiations.”

As it turned out, the dress that I was supposed to have been forced into was quite elaborate and seemed to be twenty gowns in one. However, with the surprise shortage of time, I was helped into a much simpler selection. Thankful that the servants had not been given time to lace my corsets nearly as tight as they most likely wished to, I rushed from the room and silently trotted down the corridor. I was just in sight of the Grand Hall when the bickering began to sharpen from a low murmur to actual words.
“No, no, no! Out of the way, fool, he needs a bandage!”
“He needs water!”
“Forgive us, sir, we'll have you right as rain in no time.”
“What are you doing, girl? Not the fine linens!”
“Please sir, don't be angry!”
I heard several other comments as I turned between one of the columned archways and took in the comical scene before my eyes; the lord, I assumed, surrounded by a cluster of doting servants, all trying to smooth away his wrath. The comical part was that he had no wrath to speak of. His sandy blonde hair was cropped short in a fashionable style, slightly ruffled by a speedy journey. The muscles along his shoulders and neck were easily distinguishable through his thin white tunic, and his eyes were a pale, sea-glass green. No anger or discontent blemished his handsome face, but the beginning of irritation was hidden in his gaze as he saw me.

The only incident here,

I thought

, is the foolishness of these servants.

Quietly I approached the crowd, shooing the women and waving their protests aside with the back of my hand. The man, Miach I once again assumed, gave me a small smile and thanked me kindly for saving him. I offered a smile of my own before realizing what the commotion had been about. There was a long, shallow slice down the back of his hand, creating a slow stream of red blood. With widened eyes, I gently took his hand to inspect the damage; he watched me with a masked expression, remaining silent. Finally I met his eyes; “If you would excuse me a moment, I am quite certain I might patch this up for you.”
Guarded, I decided, is the look in his eyes. He gave nothing away; “Of course, as you wish. I shall be here when you return.”
With a quick bow of my head, acknowledging his status, I disappeared quickly through a door to the kitchen. Summoning a young servant–she had been the least busy, being too young to do more than fetch supplies for the main cook–I bid her fetch a pitcher of warm water, soap, and a clean rag. As she hurried away, intimidated no doubt by her first encounter with anyone of higher status than noble's chef, I went myself to fetch a basket of bandages. The long strips of cloth were rather rough, but soon I found a basket of fine, soft linen that I quickly tore to replace them. Father would no doubt be angry at first, or at least the stewardess would be discontent for him, however they were for a purpose that would stay his hand. The servant returned with the materials I had asked of her, and I gave her a kind smile as I led her back to the Grand Hall.
Miach stood nearly exactly as I had left him only minutes before, though his eyes were roaming the walls absentmindedly. As the door swung shut behind the girl and I, announcing our entrance, his attention fell back on me. I placed the basket on the table beside him, eyes glancing quickly over a broken glass goblet and a poorly cleaned spill of wine, and the girl did the same with her charge. She stood uncertainly until I thanked her and bid her return to her chores. With a relieved, quick curtsy, she trotted back into the kitchen. The Hall was quiet once more, an awkward silence filling the chamber to the high ceilings. My eyes met his gaze as he gently cleared his throat; his eyes held an amused expression, expectant. I felt a small blush begin to creep its way into my cheeks, and I motioned for him to take a seat. I pulled out a chair for myself, next to his, attempting to make this process as painless as possible for the both of us.
When he had settled himself I held my hand palm up to him, silently demanding his wounded hand. Seizing his hand carefully in my own, I set to work cleaning the wound; he flinched slightly at the sting of the soap, but his muscles relaxed as the warm water soothed his inflamed flesh. Assuming that the cause of his injury was the broken glass, I kneaded the skin to either side of the laceration to loosen any shards still lodged within. Intently I tended to his wound, so intently that I hadn't noticed the amused smile playing on his lips until he chuckled. Blushing again, I lifted my eyes to his face; he was resting his chin on the heel of his free hand, leaning nonchalantly against the table. This gesture seemed odd to me, considering he was a noble; “Forgive me, kind healer; please continue.”
I awarded him with a small smile, wrapping his hand in the soft linen. “If I am not too bold, I would inquire as to why you laugh at me, sir. What, pray tell, could you find so humorous, that I might join with you in its hilarity?”
Focusing on properly dressing his injury, I only knew his grin had grown through the smile in his voice; “My intent is not to offend you, I meant only to observe privately the attention and care you seem to deal your patients. And if I myself am not too bold, I would admit to you that I am partially struck by how well mannered and spoken you are; such well-informed qualities, obvious in scholars and others who study the world, are quite rare in such a young beauty as you. But I forget myself; it would seem that I owe you and must offer you my deepest gratitude once more.”
He had a pretty sort of speech, strangely poetic in quality. It struck me that he was being much more open with me than was sociably necessary, and slightly more than many proper men would dare be with a young heiress. Little time is allowed one to sit silently when addressed with such compliments, however, and I was obligated to make my reply. “I dare say you are quite bold, sir, but I am grateful for such compliments to my manner and flattery's to my form,” we stood, abandoning the table for the moment, and I continued politely, “It would seem that we have not yet been properly introduced; I am pleased to make your acquaintance and to welcome you into my home. I am Iris of Aviena, daughter and heir to the Duke.” I gave a slight curtsy and bowed my head.
Gently he took hold of my hand and lightly kissed my knuckle; “Yes, it would seem we have skipped such pleasantries and frivolities. I am Miach of Ganior, Lord of Ganior Manor.” He tilted his head to me as one might tip a hat in greeting. The silly gesture was charming.
He held my hand for a second or two longer than was properly necessary. When my hand and eyes were finally released, as if from a spell, I turned my flustered thoughts back to the broken goblet. Guiltily I thought of Airmid, left to endure the wrath of Brighid and Ogma alone, wondering at how such a simple accident could fall to her to shoulder the blame. Worrying my bottom lip lightly, I strode away from him to investigate. Wherever the white, crystalline glass was mostly whole, it's surface was still riddled with thin cracks. Miach followed me with eyes guarded once more. Softly, voice strangely tight, I asked him, “This happened soon after you arrived, did it not? Might I inquire as to what caused this accident?”
Miach avoided my eyes, making my unexplained suspicions grow. “My sincerest apologies for causing such turmoil, has this incident truly caused such chaos?”
Resisting the urge to place my hands on my hips, I allowed my eyes to narrow fractionally; I am told that I take after my father in this gesture; “Truthfully it has, my lord; with no intent for rudeness I must inform you that if I do not know the cause of all of this, an innocent girl may be severely punished.” There was an odd biting edge in my voice that I had not intended.
His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. I could see him searching for words, but he was saved by my father's summons.
Hastily a young page boy hurried into the room looking desperate; with a relieved sigh he rushed to Miach's side and breathlessly announced that his presence was politely demanded in the Duke's study, so that they might hold the intended council that had brought the Lord of Ganior to this place, with apologies as to giving him no time to rest after his long journey. The lord smiled kindly, visibly relieved, and bid the page go with his best wishes to the Duke and his reply that he would join him momentarily. The page, having delivered his news, bowed deeply and hurried off to convey his new message. Miach turned back to me with a regretful expression; “I beg pardon from you, dear lady, but it would seem that your father is quite distressed and in need of my service by the demeanor of his messenger. I bid thee farewell, in hopes that I may see you again before I depart for home.”
“My pardon is freely given, seeing as you ask so politely. I can assure you that you will