Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
She began to neatly arrange the folded woolen blankets and the finely woven plaids, her hands smoothing each one with care. The colors—deep crimsons, smoky grays, forest greens—stood out against the rough-planked table, she paid a coin to the village elder to use.
As she worked, Raff watched her with a thoughtful frown. It wasn’t just the goods she was trying to present—it was herself, her village, her resilience, her pride in her craft. And he was there to protect her.
His eyes scanned the crowd. “Do you think Laird Chafton’s men might show?”
“Not today. Word reached the village that there was a festive night of drinking for Laird Chafton’s men,” Ingrid replied, not looking up from her task. “Which means the warriors are recovering from a night of heavy drinking. They won’t be going anywhere today.”
“That’s good to know,” Raff said but intended to keep a keen eye anyway.
Raff watched Ingrid finish arranging the wool blankets and plaids. She rolled a plaid just so, then adjusted a fold of a cream-colored blanket until it draped in what Raff could only assume was a perfect fall.
Villagers strolled by casting admiring glances at the stall. Several called out greetings.
“Ingrid! That red plaid’s finer than anything my wife ever wove but don’t tell her I said that.” The voice came from an elderly, gray-bearded man with a cane and a pleasant smile.
Ingrid returned his smile. “I’ll say nothing if you buy it, Henry.”
“I just might,” he nodded.
A group of younger men lingered just a bit longer than necessary, two of them nudging each other. One, broad in the shoulders and bold in his grin, stepped closer to Ingrid.
“Tell me, lass, are these plaids as soft as your voice? Might I test one against my skin?”
Raff walked around the table slowly and deliberately and produced a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you fancy your skin bruised.”
The lad blinked. “No offense meant—just having a jest.”
“Then take your jest elsewhere. I’ve a sharp tongue and a sharper dagger, and both are quicker than your wit.”
The young men laughed—nervous ones this time—and drifted off.
Ingrid kept her eyes on her work, but her lips twitched. “You do enjoy scaring folk.”
“I enjoy watching you not have to,” Raff said, an overwhelming need to protect her, keep her safe, rising in him.
A woman with a basket of eggs paused beside them. “Good day, Ingrid. I’m glad to see you here again. Your blankets not only keep my bairns warm, but they comfort them as well. Not a cry do I hear once they are wrapped in them. Will you be weaving more before the frost returns?”
“One more batch and that’s it,” Ingrid said.
The woman beamed. “Then I’ll have coins in hand next time. And you,” —she turned to Raff— “should mind your glare. You’ll frighten off all her buyers.”
Raff smiled. “Only the ones with sticky fingers or wandering eyes.”
Again, he thought how he was noticed when he was with Ingrid, and he continued to ponder on it.
The morning passed with a steady trickle of customers, familiar faces mingling with strangers. Raff didn’t wander far from Ingrid’s side. He watched her light up with every warm exchange, saw the village through her eyes, each face part of a larger, woven whole.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might just belong to something again.
The market was in full rhythm, voices rising, coin clinking, children darting through legs with sticky hands and smeared faces. The scent of honey cakes and roasted chestnuts drifted through the square. Ingrid had nearly sold through their blankets and plaids, and her spirits were high.
Raff stepped away briefly to fetch them something to drink, returning with two wooden cups of cider. He handed her one with a look that said, Don’t argue, you’ve earned it.
She barely had time to thank him when a familiar voice drawled behind her.
“Well now, if it isn’t Ingrid, bonnie as a summer’s day,” said a man with a thick, dark beard and a self-satisfied grin.
She recognized him. Sweeny, a tanner’s son who always made a point of stopping at her table and making rude remarks.
“Sweeny,” she said politely, though she stepped slightly back away from the table.
He reached out and lifted a fold of one plaid. “Nice work. But I’ll wager your hands are better suited to—”
Raff’s hand clamped down on his wrist before the man could finish.
“Put it down,” Raff said, having noticed the way Ingrid had distanced herself from him. “And mind your tongue.”
Sweeny scoffed. “I was only complimenting her.”
“And the rude remark that was about to follow?”
Sweeny pulled his hand back, but not before trying to shove Raff’s shoulder as he turned. That was his mistake.
In a blink, Raff grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shoved him back a step. “Apologize,” he said in a tone that clearly threatened an or else.