Page 23 of Bride Takes a Charmer
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Youarealone! We want to help. Are you hungry?”
Luthor nodded. “Aye.”
“Then come along and we shall get you food to fill that stomach of yours.” She held out her hand and Luthor stepped forward. Sorsha clasped the lad’s hand and led him to the lane.
Shaw remained quiet lest he scare the lad. He followed Sorsha as she walked back to the inn. Aye, his instincts had been right. She was a good mother. He could tell by her soft, comforting chatter. Now, the lad seemed in awe of his wife, probably as much as he was.
Once at the tavern, she entered and approached the table where Walen sat. She motioned for the lad to sit on the opposite side of the table. Without hesitation, his big eyes on Walen’s half-finished meal, he slid onto the bench. Sorsha took the space beside him and Shaw sat across from them, next to Walen.
“Luthor, how old are ye, lad?”
He didn’t look away from the food as he held up five fingers. “Mama said I was born in a great summer storm.”
“You will soon be six years, then,” Sorsha told him. “You are far too young to be out here alone.”
The lad nodded and swiped at his lips with his forearm. The poor boy was so hungry, he was drooling. And Shaw wasn’t theonly one to notice it. Walen pushed the trencher of food toward the lad and nodded to him. “Eat your fill, lad, help yourself.”
Luthor pulled the trencher closer, took the largest piece of bread, and eyed the chicken as if unable to believe that, too, was included in the invitation.
Walen gestured to the chicken with his eating knife. “Laird Mackintosh helps lads by providing them with a home on his clan’s land. Would you be amiable to coming home with us? You will have a roof over your head and food and will not have to beg or scrounge for a meal. That sounds good, does it not?”
Luthor fell onto the chicken, cramming it into his mouth with both his dirty hands. Finally, with grease on his chin, he answered, nodding vigorously but still eyeing them warily. “Aye, och I will not be here when Mama and Papa return.”
“You expect them to come back?” Shaw asked.
The lad lowered his head, and then after a pause shook it. “Nay, they been gone long,” he said softly and sorrowfully. Then he lifted his face to stare directly at Shaw. “Will ye make me a slave? I heard some lads are slaves for—”
“Of course not,” Shaw spoke up. His heart was full of sorrow for the lad. He’d often heard similar tales. It was one reason why he’d decided to help orphaned or abandoned boys. “When a lad comes to stay with us, he is given a choice of labor. Some opt to take arms training. Some find farming more suitable. Others work with the smith or in the kitchens, or in the stables, or with other servicemen within the clan. The choice is yours, lad.”
A smile widened over his small, but dirty face. “Do ye mean that I could wield a sword?”
Shaw chuckled because Luthor was akin to most lads, aspiring to be a warrior. “Not right off, lad, but aye, when ye are strong enough to do so. Is that what ye wish, to be part of the regiment of soldiers?”
“My papa fought for the king, he did. The sheriff took my mama and papa away.” Luthor lowered his face, sniffled, took a handful of chicken, and shoved it into his mouth.
“I am sorry to hear that, lad. Maybe in time we can find out what happened to them and help you reunite. Until then, we can offer a safe place to live.”
Luthor snatched another piece of bread and ate it. “I will work hard at arms training, Laird.”
Shaw reached across the table and patted the lad’s shoulder. “I know ye will.”
Chapter Nine
It took overa sennight to reach the outskirts of Mackintosh land. Days had passed since they found Luthor in the village of Fassiefern. Along the way home, they found a stream of water where Luthor was able to bathe. Shaw produced some boys’ clothes he’d found somewhere in the village—or perhaps he’d kept them in his pack—and he insisted the lad take a bath. Since Luthor was to ride with her, Sorcha was grateful. After his life on the lanes in the village, he was understandably filthy.
As he led the boy away from their camp, carrying a pot of heated water, she held back a giggle when she heard Shaw tell Luthor that he wouldn’t let Sorsha treat him like a bairn.
“After all, lad, ye are nearly a man och, soon to be a warrior, so ye can wash yourself. But ye have things living in your hair. The wee pesties must go.”
For the rest of their journey, the men stopped their mounts each night to rest before continuing. Not only did they travel slowly but had to make frequent stops because the lad insisted he needed to seek nature’s call. Sorsha felt for him when he squirmed and moaned until they agreed to halt but unlike most lads his age, Luthor was a quiet lad and rarely spoke except for moments when he needed to seek a tree.
Sorsha held Luthor between her thighs atop her horse and wrapped her cloak around him. As they rode, he frequently held out one leg and then the other, admiring the shiny new bootsShaw had given him. She knew they were probably the nicest—and newest—things Luthor had ever been given, at least that he could remember, and he was obviously proud of them. It made Sorsha laugh to see him pointing his toes, and sometimes spitting on his fingers to rub away a mud-mark on the toes or heels.
The air cooled considerably the more northerly they rode. She prayed they would reach Shaw’s home soon because she was exhausted and ready to end the journey. Shifting her body sideways, she peered at Shaw and gave him a questioning gaze as if to ask,How much longer?
He chuckled low. “I know what ye are thinking, lass, and aye… Our home is yonder beyond those trees. We will reach the bridge to the island in a short time.”
“Praise God,” she mumbled.