Free Blood Moon by Goldie McBride Page A

put in the awkward position of entertaining a guest
when she hadn’t the means for it. She dismissed it with the
reflection that Kale had come for a reason. For her safety as well
as her peace of mind, she needed to know what that reason
was.
    If his intention truly was to court
her, then she would simply have to find a way to fob him off until
she had the chance to move on. If, as she suspected, it was
something more, then forewarned was forearmed.
    Pulling the old quilt from the bed, she
spread it near the hearth, placing the cheese, her knife, the
cracked earthen mugs and plates that seemed the least damaged and a
bottle of wine near the center. Lastly, she found a dish to hold
one of the candles Algar had sent to her, lit it, and set it next
to the bottle of wine. She was just finishing the last when Kale
returned, knocked briefly, and entered carrying a load of wood
before she could respond.
    His dark brows rose as he surveyed the
‘picnic’ cloth before the hearth. Until that very moment, Aslyn had
not considered the ‘table’ she’d set might be construed as
seductively intimate. She was appalled when she realized that that
was exactly what it looked like … a blanket before the fire,
candles--wine.
    She glared at him, lest he conceive the
notion that that was her intention. “I apologize, but I’m afraid I
have little to offer visitors. Rather than suggest we take turns at
the table, I thought we might share the blanket.” She could have
bitten her tongue off the moment the words were out of her mouth.
It took no imagination at all to twist those words into a far more
intimate invitation than she’d intended. One look at Kale’s face
was enough to assure her that he’d not missed the, seeming, double
entendre.
    A faint smile curled his lips. “I
should be delighted to share the blanket with you,” he responded
and continued to the hearth, dropping the pile of wood he carried
beside the hearth, and then carefully placing a few branches on the
fire.
    Aslyn blushed. At least a part of it
was irritation. If he had openly acknowledged the inadvertently
suggestive nature of her comment, she could have set him back on
his heels. As it was, he had merely turned it back upon her so that
she could not even take exception to his response.
    But she knew very well that he had not
missed the connotations.
    It was even more irritating that he had
only to give her that piercing look of his and she began to feel
exceedingly warm all over and as breathless as a giddy young
maiden. She was more than a little inclined to think it was his
fault that she could not open her mouth without uttering something
witless.
    He left again when he’d turned the spit
over the fire. This time when he returned, he was carrying a lute
and it was Aslyn’s brows that rose. “Do you play?” she asked in
surprise.
    A slow, infinitely appealing smile
curled his lips. It did something drastically disturbing to her
heart. “I’ve a modest skill with it. Mostly I carry it to charm the
ladies at court and convince them that I’m a man of breeding and
sensitivity.”
    Caught off guard, Aslyn chuckled. “I
had not pegged you for a rogue.”
    His dark brows rose at the comment. He
took her hand, assisting her to take a seat on the edge of the
blanket. “Do not let this boyish countenance disarm you. I’m
considered one of the blackest rogues unhung.”
    Aslyn eyed him skeptically
as he settled himself opposite her with his back to the wall and
began to tune the instrument. There was nothing the least boyish
about his face. It was all man--harsh, angular, and dangerously
appealing. Nor could she imagine him as a seducer of innocents—he
seemed far too controlled for that, far too honorable a man--though
she had no difficulty at all imagining any number of young
‘innocents’ casting lures in his direction, hopeful of being seduced.
    If her own life had not changed … but
there was no point in allowing her thoughts to take that