The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

“We are returning to the inn for the time being, Larkin. I am glad to see you are on your feet again.”

“’Twas the strangest thing,” the woman said, joining them. “I had this rather sudden headache, and then it was gone.”

Aidan knew that she knew he was skeptical of her. Better to show some of it than to make her think that he suddenly trusted her, which would raise her own suspicions. Difficult game, this, he thought. He allowed himself to frown. “A headache?”

“Milord, you would do well to trust someone in this world.” Good. She had perhaps taken some of the bait.

“Trust,” he replied, “is not something to be doled out like a common good.”

Larkin snorted. “True. But if you keep it all to yourself whilst you live, why, that isn’t living so much as existing.”

That chaffed at Aidan, and he opened his mouth to form a sharp retort. Slaíne, however, seemed to scent trouble in the wind, and cut him off.

“You want help carrying them strawberries, sir?”

He hid a smirk to the side. “No, but I thank you, Slaíne, for the offer. I would be no gentleman if I allowed you to carry them.”

“I ain’t no lady, so there’s no worryin’ there.” She laughed, but he would not.

The seer cleared her throat. “You think too meanly of yourself, miss. You fail to take in account your family tree. I wonder….”

That dampened the mood. Aidan could feel spirits sink almost as surely as he could feel Slaíne’s Pull tug at him as he got a little too far ahead. Uncomfortable, he stopped and waited for her to catch up.

“What you know of my family? They’re dead.”

They were in sight of the inn now, and a few men shot Aidan dark looks before slithering away to drink in alleys, or worse. He paid them little mind, leading the ladies, to their obvious surprise, to the servants’ entrance at the back of the establishment. They were greeted there by a merry woman with a great ruddy complexion.

“Are you the fine cook whose wares I’ve had the honor of enjoying?” Aidan asked, setting the baskets at his feet.

The woman batted her lashes. “Oh, stop it. You’re makin’ me blush, good sir.”

Aidan grinned. “I hope this is not too forward, but I saw these delicious strawberries and thought you might have use for them.”

The blush deepened. “For the inn? What are you chargin’?”

His smile deepened, and he ignored the incredulous stares the women behind him were surely directing at him. “It’s a gift. One for you, one for your good lady. A Mrs. Bostworth, I believe?”

Cook let out a hearty laugh. “You know the way straight to a fat woman’s heart: food. Mrs. Bostworth will be right pleased to see these.” She leaned in, her flesh stinking of onions and spice. “Don’t tell her me said so, but she’d be eyeing the lot of berries since they was wheeled into town.”

“I give you my pledge that I shall say not a word of it. Shall I just carry these in for you?” He hoisted the baskets and was prepared to be led into the kitchen, but the cook stopped him in his tracks.

“Nay, Mr. Powell. Ain’t proper and you know it.” She laughed and took the baskets from him. “I’ll send your compliments to the missus.”

“Very good of you, ma’am.” The deed done, he bowed, Slaíne and the cook curtsied, and they went on their way.

“What was that about?” Slaíne asked, her expression significantly smoothed over since the distressing words from the seer.

“Genius or stupidity,” Larkin said with a laugh.

“Sir, you coulda kept them berries in – well, in that place.” She’d lowered her voice and gestured around vaguely.

He raised his eyebrows. “Sometimes, Slaíne, allies are more valuable than produce.”

They walked on together in silence, re-entering the inn and inquiring after second breakfast, as the seer had a hankering for something more. The kitchen was busy preparing the evening meal and tea, and didn’t serve anything hot for the noontide meal, but they were more than welcome to cuts of cold pork and cheese and some fruit. The three agreed to this easily and retired again to the back drawing room, which turned out to be occupied by five men playing whist.

Upon seeing Aidan, two of them looked away, but one outright called Aidan a coward. Aidan shrugged, letting the words roll off him. And he would have been more than happy to ask for the food to be taken to their rooms, as his shoulder had begun prickling again, but Slaíne made a move for the offending man.

“Take that back, you tub o’ lard.”

“Oi, whatchoo callin’ me that for, you vampire?” His companions nickered with laughter at this.

“Slaíne,” Aidan warned, taking the girl by the arm. To his surprise, she shrugged him off. “This isn’t worth it.”

“Yes, Slawn, it ain’t worth it,” said the “tub o’ lard.”

“Look ’ere, you toothless ear snout, you bludgeting, blue-faced nit.”

The man rose and got back in Slaíne’s face, his own growing redder than a plum. “You control your missus, man. Worthless slut.”

Before Aidan knew what he was doing, he’d released Slaíne and had taken a fistful of the man’s shirt front. “Would you like to say that again?”

The seer tutted. “Men and their quarrels. Worse than old women. Makes one think they’ve nothing better to do.”

“Tell your mother to be quiet,” said the dealer in the game. None of the men had risen in defense of their friend, but continued to play their game.

The man Aidan had by the collar was squirming like a worm on a hook. “Gerroff! Gerroff. I meant no harm.”

Aidan felt a hand on his arm, and he knew from its Pull that it belonged to Slaíne. Without hesitation, he released the man, who crumpled to the floor, wheezing. “Go back to your game, which I see that you are losing quite successfully at.” What was wrong with him? How quickly he had been provoked, and at such