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Birger let out his breath in a whoosh, relieved he would not have to face the suddenly ominous woods alone. And yes he might have liked one of the men to come along, but he thought the woman looked able enough. More able than me! he thought in a passing moment of grim humor. Wouldn’t be more’n a mouthful for them creatures they were talking ‘bout.
‘You’ll do fine, m’am,’ he answered in a voice more bold than he felt. His fair cheeks reddened, hoping she did not take his acceptance of her offer as being too rude. Who was he to know her merits as a protector? His only skirmishes had been with crows he’d chased from the garden or the pup who’d got hold of Cook’s leg of lamb roast; his only weapons a little knife he used for whittling and perhaps the stick he used to move the goats out to a different patch of grass in summer.
Elf-trained, the man had called her. Strong as a bear. He sneaked a quick look at her. ‘Begging your pardon, m’am, but mayhap you want to . . . well . . . that, is . . . your dress, will it be warm enough for tramping about in the snow and such?’ He blushed again, this time a deep red, as red as her dress. It crept up from the collar of his tunic. He looked down hurriedly, examining the scuffed toes of his boots. Her hair had shone auburn where the firelight touched the curls and her green eyes were bright with amusement
‘I’ll just fetch my cloak and the saw and meet you at the gate in a little while with the hand cart,’ he stammered.
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