Not only had he coaxed more wine from the serving wench, but she had consented to sit by his side. She was a comely creature, all curves and dimples, more than enough to keep a man’s hands full. She perched beside him, filled his chalice at regular intervals, and was not concerned about the roving of his hand. Talbot was quite certain she was the perfect woman for him. At least for tonight. Even better, his crusty uncle deigned to ignore what he did. There was naught worse, to Talbot’s mind, than to be the focus of his uncle’s attention, for that man was demanding beyond all. If only Millard would show the good grace to die soon. ’Twas a mark of his uncle’s disregard for Talbot that he not only lived but continued to amass yet more wealth and keep it greedily to himself. ’Twas as if Millard tempted Talbot with what that man could not have, at least not yet. The minstrel sang a triumphant closing stanza about the cursed maid of Kiltorren, and the serving wench sighed into Talbot’s ear.
