Grier trudged through the castle yard later that same day, returning from a mid-day call to a fevered sickbed. It was a constant worry that the Death might reappear, but this was only a childhood illness. She crossed herself, this time in gratitude. Her wood clogs scuffed the shell path and her basket of healing supplies bumped against her tired calf with every step.

The front door to the keep was open. Was aught amiss? She forced her exhausted limbs to stretch a bit farther with each step, hurrying until Rydar appeared in the door’s frame. His countenance brightened when their eyes met, and he waved her forward.

“Come, Grier! Good you here now.”

“Is everything well?” she called to him.

“Good, all is good,” he answered. He waited at the doorway, vibrating with impatience. When she reached the steps, he disappeared inside the dusky hallway leaving Grier to follow, unenlightened.

Lady Margoh Henriksen was in the dining room. Grier’s hand went to her battered cheek in a self-conscious reflex. It was bad enough that she felt short and overly rounded beside the tall, slim blond. Worse, Margoh was always perfectly groomed while Grier wore gowns suitable for her work. If the ‘old aunt’ was invited to Durness to help out, why didn’t she ever seem to do so?

Rydar laid his crutch aside and lowered himself, wincing, into a chair.

“Are ye hurt?” Grier inquired. She set her basket on the floor and circled the table to kneel at his side.

“No.” He waved dismissively. “I no’ ride long time. Yesterday I ride.” His lopsided grin appeared. “Long time.”

“Oh! Are ye sore?” Grier rested her palm lightly on Rydar’s firmly muscled thigh. “Here?”

Rydar’s cheek twitched. “Aye.” His eyes flicked to hers. Their pale intensity surprised her.

“I—I have a balm,” she stuttered. The heat of his thigh burned past her hand and flowed throughout her frame. Startled, she pulled away, stood and turned aside. “I have it with me. In my basket.”

“Are you going to rub it on him here?” Margoh’s voice intruded.

“Of course not!” Grier welcomed the older woman’s taunt; it cut a path through the confusion that Rydar’s heat generated in her. She dug out a pot of salve and set it on the table.

Rydar reached for it, uncorked it, and sniffed. His nose wrinkled and after two swift inhalations, he loosed a thunderous sneeze.

Grier smiled a bit. “It’s strong.” She flexed her arms to help him understand.

“Aye!” Rydar re-corked the little jug. He set it on the table and rubbed his fingers under his nose. Then he pushed the noxious ointment further away, toward the table’s center.

Margoh leaned forward and frowned at Grier. “What happened to you?”

Grier’s hand went to her temple. “A man tried to take my poppy medicine.”

“How much did he get?”

Grier was fiercely irritated by Margoh’s assumption. “None!” she spat.

Margoh leaned back. “So you… fought him off?” she asked, her obvious disbelief a banner flying through the room’s already tense atmosphere.

“I knifed him off!” Grier declaimed, indignant at the slur.

Rydar snorted. Grier turned to glare at him. His face was bright red and he bit his lips together in an unsuccessful attempt to dam his mirth. Regarding his amusement, Grier’s irritation slowly dissipated. She grinned at him then, taking the wind out of Margoh’s flag of superiority.

After a deliberate pause, Grier considered the older woman. “What was so important that I be here for?”

“He has questions.” Margoh gripped her hands together on the table and sighed her blatant irritation.

“Questions?” Grier sank into a chair and glanced between the two. Her stomach clenched; this could be a very awkward session. “What about?”

“I’ll ask.” Margoh turned to Rydar. After a brief exchange in Norse, she faced Grier again. “He wants to know why you were so wroth when Logan stayed away for a night.”

“Oh!” Grier felt her cheeks grow hot. She prayed Margoh would not realize what that absence meant for her. She needed to deflect the conversation and quickly. “I was wirrit, is all. After what happened to me, especially. Too many ruffians about.”

Margoh spoke with Rydar again. Then, “Explain about the ruffians.”

Grier shifted her gaze to Rydar. He stared at her, intent and focused. She spoke slowly so Margoh might translate.

“Since the Death, bands of reivers lived off what goods they could scavenge from abandoned crofts. Many died of the plague themselves, sickened by the booty they pilfered. But some survived and grew accustomed to that way of life. The pickings grew slim, though, once the deaths stopped. And the reivers are no’ willing to live honorably. They’ve become bauld, attacking travelers at times.”

While Grier talked about the bands of robbers, Rydar’s brow lowered. He listened to Margoh’s translations, but watched Grier with a hard emerald gaze.

“You go today alone,” he accused.

“It was no’ far. And it was daylight,” Grier defended.

“After,” Rydar pointed at her cheek, his gesture finishing the statement. “Why you go alone?”

Margoh raised one brow. “I certainly wouldn’t have. You invited disaster by doing so, didn’t you? Was that intentional?” She tilted her head the tiniest bit toward Rydar.

“No!” Grier bristled at the silent insinuation that she was vying for the Norseman’s particular attention. “My skills have always been available to my tenants.”

“Your tenants?” Margoh scoffed. “More rightly stated they’re Logan’s tenants.”

Her barb landed true, piercing Grier’s façade of confidence. But before she could shoot back, Rydar stood and looked around the room, drawing both women’s slack-jawed attention.

“Hvor er din våpen?”

Margoh translated: “He wants to know where your weapons are.”

The shift confused Grier for the moment. “Why?” she asked him.

It was Rydar’s turn to startle. He smacked one palm against his chest. “I here, now. I—help Logan. I help you!” His deep accented words bounced through the stone-walled room. “You, woman. I, man. I…” He paused, then a connection was made. His eyes lit with understanding. “I strong. Aye?” He flexed his arms in imitation of Grier.

He looked strong, Grier realized. Eight days of regular meals and ample rest had already changed him. What might the next weeks bring?

“Aye, you’re healing quite well,” she ventured.

Rydar spoke to Margoh.

“Weapons,” she replied.

Rydar fixed Grier with his intent stare, glowing green embers in the afternoon dusk. “Weapons, Grier. Your weapons. I help you safe. You help me and now I help you.”

She had no reason to deny him. Truth be told, his declamation warmed and soothed her. For a moment, she allowed herself to rest in his promise. For a moment she didn’t have to be the one in control. For a brief moment, her way of life was secured.

“Aye. I’ll show you the armory before supper, then,” she replied.

Rydar relaxed some and sat back down in his chair. “You show me—ar-moh-ree—before supper. Aye. Good.” Punctuating the statement with a quick nod, he turned to Margoh. “I learn more speak now.”