Border Bride. Deborah Hale

from now on.

      Around the mistress of the place most warily of all.

      He heaved an unbidden sigh, part rueful…part wistful. For one sweet fleeting moment, when Enid had stepped into his embrace and fit there with a sense of perfect rightness, nothing else had mattered to him. Not ambition, not wanderlust, not even his own life.

      Fie! Con shuddered to think of another person having such power over him.

      Before he could ponder the threat, Enid’s children barrelled past him—young Davy hotfoot in pursuit of his sister, both of them squealing with infectious laughter.

      “Where are the pair of you bound?” he called after them.

      Myfanwy skidded to a halt. “Auntie Gaynor sent us to gather kindling.”

      “Want to come?” Davy collided with his sister, who gave him a playful shove. The boy entreated Con with a wide smile no less bright for the loss of one or two milk teeth.

      “Why not?” He might do worse than keep out of their mother’s sight until supper.

      The girl grabbed one of Con’s hands and the boy the other. Together they towed him toward the maenol gate. Their eager grip on him and their unfeigned relish of his company provoked a curious warmth in Con, as though someone had wrapped a snug but invisible brychan around his shoulders.

      “Auntie has plenty of kindling.” Myfanwy glanced up at Con, her blue eyes twinkling. “She only wanted to get Davy out of the kitchen before he scalded his hand trying to fish a scrap of meat from the stew pot.”

      Con laughed as he squeezed the boy’s hand. “Hungry, are you?”

      Master Davy gave a vigorous nod. “Big folks can go without eating till nightfall, but my belly won’t hold as much as theirs to last me.”

      “And you still have your growth to make.” Con hoisted the little fellow off the ground as the three of them ambled through the gate. “Tell that to your Auntie Gaynor the next time smells from her stew pot set your mouth watering. Or offer to test a spoonful to make sure it’s properly seasoned.”

      He remembered all his own wiles for coaxing an early bite during his hungry boyhood years. Having no position in the household, he’d learned young how to get what he wanted by making himself agreeable. The skill had stood him in good stead as he’d matured and his appetites had…changed.

      “Properly seasoned!” crowed Davy. “That’s a good one. I’ll try it tomorrow.”

      “Only don’t let your mother catch you.” Con pulled a face for Myfanwy’s benefit. “Or she may guess where you picked up the trick. Then she won’t be any too pleased with either of us.”

      “I don’t think she was any too pleased with you from the minute you came, Master Con,” teased the girl. “What spite has she got against you? When you were young, did you used to tag along and pester her the way Davy does me?”

      The question tripped Con up. “I reckon I might have caused her a spot of bother in my time.” Was that how Enid had remembered him—as a troublesome tag-along?

      They reached a copse of beech trees that bordered a large field within sight of the maenol. Though both children knew the chore was only an excuse to get them out from underfoot, Davy and Myfanwy quickly set to work, competing to see who could collect the biggest load of twigs. Con joined in their game, scrambling to assist whoever fell behind.

      Would he ever know this kind of simple fun with children of his own? Con wondered as he dropped a fistful of twigs onto Davy’s pile. Fatherhood was a matter he’d never spared much thought before.

      With good reason, he reminded himself. A child would tie him to one woman, possibly even to one place. That prospect held little appeal for a wanderer of his ilk. It wasn’t all selfishness that made him shrink from the notion of having a family, either. Con knew his own shortcomings too well to fool himself into thinking he’d make a good father.

      It was one thing to gambol about with Enid’s youngsters, more like a fellow playmate than anything. He wouldn’t want to bear the ongoing responsibility for keeping them fed, clothed, sheltered and protected from harm. Yet, for the first time in his life, Con acknowledged the possibility that his solitary existence might be lacking something important.

      They had amassed two fine piles of kindling when their uncle called from the gate, “Time to…eat.”

      “Coming, Idwal,” chorused the children.

      Davy lifted his heap of twigs only to have half of them fall to the ground again. His lower lip thrust out.

      “Here.” Con unfastened his cloak and spread it on the ground. “Make a great bundle and I’ll carry it back for you.”

      Pleased with the idea, the children shifted both piles onto Con’s cloak, than ran off ahead as he hoisted the light but bulky burden over his shoulder. He got halfway to the open gate when some ponderous movement out in the field caught his eye. A stocky youth manoeuvred a plow, pulled by two yoke of oxen. The beasts strained fitfully as the lad now and then poked the rumps of the hindmost pair with a stick.

      “Boy!” Con shouted. “Did you not hear Idwal? It’s time to eat.”

      The lad shook his head. “I want to finish this furrow before night falls, if I can only make these shiftless brutes pull as they ought. At the rate they’ve been going, this field won’t be fit to sow until midsummer.”

      Con had forborne to criticize. He recalled all too well what it was like to have everyone picking on him and finding fault. But hearing something like a plea in this plowboy’s gruff young voice, he set down his load of sticks and vaulted over a low stile into the half-tilled field.

      “Let’s see if between the two of us we can’t get this furrow plowed before supper’s all eaten.” Con rubbed the oxen’s brows between their long horns and crooned a few words of nonsense to them.

      He held out his hand to the boy. “Give over that stick of yours, will you? Let me see if I can’t put it to better use.”

      Beckoning with the slender rod until he drew the beasts eyes, Con began to walk backward, calling them to follow in the singsong litany he’d learned as a boy. “Hai, you oxen! Come, then, come. Plow you this last furrow, there’s the fine brawny fellows. Then we’ll set you free to drink and graze and rest.”

      Straining into their yolks, the oxen followed him, as the astonished plowboy clung to the heavy share they pulled. A foolish flame of satisfaction flickered in Con’s heart that he hadn’t lost this homely skill he’d once despised.

      When they reached the end of the furrow, he patted the beasts on their sweaty hindquarters and accepted the boy’s profuse thanks. Then he carried the children’s kindling into the maenol and deposited the great load of twigs in the bin beside the kitchen door. Finally he made his way to the hall, and tried to join the company unnoticed.

      It didn’t work.

      He had barely set foot over the threshold when Enid left her place at the high table and bore down on him. Con braced himself for a scolding at best, eviction at worst.

      “Conwy ap Ifan, where have you been skulking?” She slipped one slender but capable hand into the crook of his elbow, drawing him toward the table. “Idwal and I have been waiting on you. Though I’m not so hungry, he has a sharp appetite from all the hunting and fishing the pair of you did today.”

      Struck as dumb as any ox, Con let himself be led to the slightly raised platform. To his further amazement, Enid slid onto the bench beside her brother-in-law and pulled Con down next to her. Con peered the length of the table, surprised to see that Father Thomas had been relegated to the company of Gaynor and Helydd at the far end.

      “Will you play and sing for us again, tonight?” Enid passed Con his round of lagana while Idwal heaped his own with meat. “Everyone enjoyed it so, last eve.”

      “I…suppose.”