Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Read Online Free PDF

casket. "A
suggestion, rujho—let the game decide. I win: Corin gives me the money. You
win: Corin gives you the money." He grinned, blue eyes bright. "Surely
a fair way to decide."
                Brennan sighed and leaned his face
into one hand. "One day," he muttered, mostly against his palm,
"one day, Hart, you will regret ever learning how to play these
games,"
                Hart rattled the casket. "Care
to wager on that?"
                "Care to wager on that?"
Corin looked past them both to a table just beyond their own.
                Accordingly, Hart and Brennan turned
to see what had caught Corin's attention. It was Rhiannon, Rhiannon and a young
aristocrat who obviously wanted more from her than wine.
                As he grabbed her, pulling her onto
his lap, Rhiannon cried out and tried to lurch away. The wine jug she carried
slammed against the edge of the table and shattered, spilling gouts of
blood-red liquor across the table and onto the young nobleman's fine clothes.
                He shoved her away, swearing as he
leaped to his feet.
                Rhiannon stumbled against the table
and thrust out both hands to keep herself from falling. As she clutched at the
wine-soaked wood, a shard of broken crockery cut her hand.
                Even as Rhiannon, trembling, backed
away from the furious lord, he followed her. He seemed not to notice that the
hand she clutched against her breasts left blood smears on her apron, nor that
she was plainly mortified by what had happened and terrified of him. He spoke
to her angrily in a foreign tongue, then slapped her across the face so hard he
sent her staggering into another table.
                But his move had been anticipated.
                Brennan caught her, steadied her,
held her.
                Rhiannon sucked in a frightened
breath as she saw who had rescued her. And then she saw how she had smeared
blood on his black velvet doublet. "Oh, my lord—I'm sorry—"
                "You should not be. Not
you." Gently he set her aside and rose to tower over her. She had not
thought he was so tall, but then she was quite petite. "It is his place to
apologize."
                Rhiannon shot a startled glance at
the foreign lord, No, she thought, it was her place to say the words. "My
lord—"
                "No." The shapechanger
shook his head and stirred black hair against his shoulders, against the nap of
his matching doublet. His hands fell away from her waist and Rhiannon saw the
black leather belt at his, weighted with plates of hammered gold. On his left
hip a knife was sheathed. The gold hilt was smooth, shining and lovely; its
shape was of a mountain cat. But even as she opened her mouth to protest yet
again, he looked at the foreign lord. "Apologize to her."
                The young man's hair was curly and
dark, oiled with a scented pomade that turned it glossy black. His nose was
slightly prominent, with a crooked set that made his brown eyes appear set too
far apart. His fine silk-and-velvet clothes, once pale cream and jonquil, were
now variegated a sickly purple-red.
                Rhiannon nearly giggled.
                The bent nose made it difficult for
the foreigner to look down it in a straight line, but his attitude was made
plain nonetheless. In accented Homanan, he said, "I apologize to no
tavern-drab."
                "Apologize," Brennan
repeated. "You frightened her, struck her, hurt her. It is the least you
should do."
                "By Obram, I will not!"
the other cried. "Do you think I am required to do such a thing? I am the
nephew of the King of Caledon!"
                "Prince Einar's cousin?"
Brennan nodded as the other stared. "It means you are Reynald, then; I
thought you looked familiar." His smile was neither friendly nor amused.
"My lord, I suggest