Wintertide by Linnea Sinclair Read Free Book Online

grasped her wrist lightly and took the brightpinks from her fingers. He draped the short chain around her wrist and wove the end stems into place. Then he raised her fingers to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a light kiss. “I offer you my blessing, then. Will you accept that, in place of your worries?”
    His unexpected kindness touched a deep, lonely place inside Khamsin. Something warm sparkled inside her and for a moment, it was if all the Land stood still, waiting for her answer.
    “Thank you kindly. And your blessing is welcome, and accepted.”
    The breeze ruffled through the trees again and the Land settled back within itself with a sigh.
     
    *
     
    Khamsin spotted her husband standing in the wide door of the smithy, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He seemed not the least bit surprised to find her in the company of the traveling Tinker. He grunted a short greeting to both of them, then turned his attention immediately to the lame mare.
    Khamsin stroked the animal’s soft nose as Tavis inspected the damaged hoof. “Nothing to worry overmuch about,” he said, and set about repairing the broken shoe.
    Only later when the Tinker agreed with much gratitude to join them for dinner, did Khamsin notice Tavis showing more than a polite interest in the stranger. And only, it seemed, because of the news he brought about the troubles in the South.
    “That explains much.” He wiped the crust of Rina’s freshly baked bread around the inside of his dinner bowl. “Seems we’ve been luckier than most, right here.”
    “Legends often say that the village of a Healer is a village of luck,” the Tinker replied and in the waning evening light, his gaze caught Khamsin’s. She again saw the gentle acceptance he’d shown her earlier. And felt his smile before it appeared.
    “Won’t catch the Covemen or the villagers here saying that.” Tavis let his ale mug slip to the table with a bang.
    Khamsin jumped, not sure if she were more startled by the noise or the bitterness she heard for the first time in her husband’s words. It was such a sharp contrast to the Tinker’s.
    “People often don’t say what they feel,” the Tinker replied smoothly as Khamsin stood quickly to mop up the splattered ale with her napkin.
    She chanced a look at Tavis, but his mug was raised, hiding his face. His broad fingers grasped the handle tightly. Puzzled, she glanced at the Tinker. He, too, wore a strange expression. His earlier nonchalance was gone, his brow furrowed in irritation. She felt a stab of anxiety and then he brought his gaze to hers, and his expression changed.
    A warm breeze touched her cheek, the fragrance of the moonpetals sweet in the evening air.
    She stepped to the window and pulled back the curtains, needing to put some space between herself and the emotions misting across the table. She breathed deeply of the flowers’ scent. A wave of calmness passed over her.
    When she turned, the tension at the table was gone.
    Tavis raised his empty mug. “More of this ale, Khamsin?”
    “Of course.” She hurried to the kitchen.
    The deep rumbling of the men’s voices followed her. Talk was of horses and trade. She returned with a full pitcher, which Tavis took from her. He filled the Tinker’s mug and his own, once again the affable lord of his own manor.
    Khamsin sat and, while the men debated the bloodlines of various horses, peeled an apple she brought from the kitchen. She listened halfheartedly but watched with more interest.
    The Tinker was so different from any of the Covemen she knew. And it was not just the fluidity of his conversations, the timbre of his voice or his acceptance of her as a Healer.
    Yet he was also familiar. He, or one of his trade, had always been in the village, bearing trinkets from far-off lands. Or equally as interesting stories. Perhaps that’s what it was that she found so curious about the man. The Covemen were so much like the Cove but the Tinker was a little bit of every place he