Chapter Eight
Charlotte meandered her way through the castle gardens, which were now drearily brown from the stark turns of winter. With the season receding, the thought of spring might come to mind if one had a very good imagination. The air was fresh, if not a bit chilly and she wrapped her woolen shawl about her shoulders for comfort. Fingering what had been the roses, she pricked her thumb so that a tiny speck of blood appeared on the finger.
“The day’s not fit for such things, milady—for a stroll in gardens and such brooding.”
“I say it is,” she disagreed turning around to face Sir Tristan.
“I trust you’ve survived the tower?”
“Mountbane set me free yesterday.”
“Then three days was hardly much to endure.”
“I still say you’re a villain.”
“And I’d suggest you hold your tongue, o
