At the appearance of a man’s head silhouetted against a brilliant sky, Caden’s hand was already closed about the hilt of the sword hidden under the pile of cloaks. “What do you want?” he demanded, coming up so sudden that the man backed away. Robbed of his arm for a pillow, Sorcha’s head struck the bottom boards. “Hey!” she protested. But Caden’s eye was on the stranger. “Nothing, sir,” the man averred, calm despite fierce blue eyes fixed on the glint of Caden’s blade emerging from the bedding. “I swear it.” A fisherman by the look of his patched tunic and cowled cloak. A big one at that. At least Caden’s height. “I came to check my traps, saw the boat, and decided to have a look, that’s all,” he said in flawless Cymric. “’Twas a terrible storm last night to weather.” The boat wobbled as Caden came to his feet. Sorcha moaned, covering her eyes with her arm. “S’cold!” Indeed frost made the scrub of the heathland spread beyond them glitter like a fairy world.
