Page 20 of Bound

“She is sweet,” Wren insisted. When she chose to be, at least. Other times, their play became a little too real, and her fingers bore the consequences of Merryweather’s hunt. “But if you have any objections, then you can certainly—”

He held up his hand, and she stopped, her manners overtaking her.

Merryweather tired of her inspection, trotting off toward the barn. She would look over every nook in search of pests that might make a fine meal. But more than likely Wren would find her curled in a pile of fresh straw, napping the afternoon away.

“What would be most helpful to you?” he asked.

And something lurched. Something that twisted and wriggled deep inside. At the strangers beyond the sea that did not care about bonds and illegitimate daughters, who were kindly and talked easily with her mother. Or would have, if they had shared the same tongue and not been afraid of the translator she’d shoved near enough to work. But who still smiled and welcomed them into their stalls to share something hot to drink.

It was delightful and lovely and...

Rare.

He wanted to help. For whatever reason.

She should pay him. Or... feed him? Something. But she did not know the protocols for this sort of thing. Of favours rather than contracts. Of clearly written rules and veiled threats of what might occur if trouble followed.

“Don’t you have work of your own?” she asked, a little breathless as she worked at mastering her own emotions. “I’m sure there is plenty to occupy your time rather than tending to my responsibilities.”

He sighed, and she quieted.

“Allow me this. Please. I realise I am the one in your debt, but...” he trailed off, his eyes flickering briefly back to hers.

It was all so strange. And she swallowed back her objections, her suspicion bred of a history of regrets.

Of falling for honeyed words and customs she was incapable of fully understanding.

She rubbed at her forehead, giving a helpless look toward the pastures. “The fences need mending. Some posts are rotten.”

He nodded, turning toward the rightmost—the one where she’d stood with her father. She took a step closer, her hand outstretched, already imagining Thorn’s reaction. “Wait,” she urged. “I...”

He turned, his brow raised in question.

“The other one is safer. Only two hesper to contend with.”

He gave a dubious glance toward the other. “More of your wild beasts?”

She shrugged. Thorn was from good stock—her father had traded for him, brought over on one of the ships. They were used often from... wherever he originated, but she could not attest to precisely how long his kind had been of use. “Grimbles, mostly. It’s their protector you have to worry about.”

He gave her a hard look, and she did not bother suppressing yet another shrug.

She took him to the worst of the posts, struggling to push down the embarrassment as he grabbed hold and gave it a shove. He showed no sign of strain as the entire structure bowed under the simple action, Calliope looking on from across the field. Wren could well imagine she was already plotting her escape, although she would wait until the stranger had gone away.

Temperance did not share her sister’s reticence, and she lumbered over, her head coming over the top of the fence to push at the woodcutter’s shoulder.

He grunted, holding his hand out for her to smell, and she nuzzled at it for a moment and Wren opened her mouth to warn him, but she was too slow. His hand jerked back as her teeth made contact with his palm.

“Sorry,” she murmured, glancing down at his hand to ensure that no actual harm had been done. “Temperance is... well, she likes things how she likes them.” Mainly, she liked only to have people near her pasture when they had offerings of grain to bestow.

“I should rethink her name, then.”

Wren tugged at her braid. Her mother had named them. Temperance precisely because she preferred to be ornery and headstrong. Calliope because she’d suffered an injury to her throat as a calf and her voice was the most pathetic rasp. Her mother had loved her little ironies. Blessings, she called them. That Calliope’s voice would mend. That Temperance would gentle as she grew older.

Neither came to fruition.

But she loved them both. And while they would bellow and rage at her for interrupting their time in the field, she would not allow them to harass the only one offering to help her.

She tugged harder at her braid.