Spirit of the Mist Read Free Page B

snugly wrapped in her own good wool cloaks and softest sealskins. His fair skin looked normal now, warm and alive, with just a touch of redness at the cheek. His golden brown hair, cut short to the level of his chin, lay smooth and soft on the feather-stuffed linen pillow. And his breathing was light and steady, she noted as she watched the slight rise and fall of the black-flecked furs that covered him.  
    It was an odd feeling to see a strange man lying in her bed. Muriel reminded herself she should be glad he was alive and think no more about him—but now that she knew he would recover, her curiosity grew stronger as to exactly who and what he really was. She had told Alvy that this man was not a slave and she was surer than ever of it now.  
    A slave was the very lowest of men—far lower than any honest servant. A servant was simply a person not of the highborn class, a man or woman of the land willing to trade labor for the good food and dry bed and measure of protection that living in the king’s fortress would provide. But being a slave was not a matter of birth.  
    Only hated enemies captured in battle, or those paying for the worst of crimes, were forced to become the property of others and serve without a choice. Servants were not property—but a slave was no better than any cow or dog, to be used or traded as his master saw fit.  
    Looking down at Brendan’s strong and gentle face, and remembering his well-spoken words from the night before, Muriel was certain that this man was no criminal. She did not dare to hope that he might be a prince, as he had said, but he surely seemed to be an educated man of the warrior class.  
    Perhaps he had indeed been captured in battle, stripped of his gold and weapons and fine clothes before managing to escape…and then the sea had brought him here, to her.  
    Her mouth tightened. She closed her eyes. Why had the sea brought this beautiful young man to her doorstep? Already she was drawn to his handsome form and kind manner, already she felt care and concern for him after pulling him from death…and already she was forcing herself to pull away, knowing there was almost no chance that he could be one of the very few men with whom she might dare to fall in love.  
    Muriel found that she had started to reach out for him with one hand. She could almost feel the smooth, fair skin of his neck and the gentle pulse beneath it, warm and strong and reassuring—but she quickly clenched her fist and pulled her hand back.  
    Brendan must remain nothing more than a guest in need who had briefly stayed beneath her roof. If he should try to be something more than that to her, she must immediately put him in his place and keep him from her.  
    He could not know what she risked by allowing herself to love any man, or even by coming close to it. He could not know what had happened to the women of her family, of the curse they had endured for so many years, of the care they must take not to fall in love with any man except—  
    He began to stir, turning over onto his side, and Muriel quickly went over to the hearth to build up the fire once again.  
    Brendan, he had told her. His name was Brendan. She found the fire already glowing nicely. On the stone ledge surrounding it were two wooden plates, well filled with hot, flat oatbread and chunks of boiled eel with a little green-black carrageen stirred in. The seaweed was not Muriel’s favorite, but Alvy insisted that it gave a person strength. Beside the plates were two wooden cups filled with fresh water hauled in from the stream outside the gates.  
    In a third wooden cup was a steaming hot brew whose scent she recognized. Alvy had been quite busy this morning. Muriel picked up the hot drink and moved to the bed.  
    Her guest now lay sprawled on his side, facing the dwelling’s white wall, his arms stretched out in utter relaxation as if this were his house and his bed. Muriel sat down on the edge of the wooden frame.