The Pillars Of The World by Anne Bishop Page B

sooner. I am . . . Lucian.”
    A tremor went through her at the sound of his name, and she knew how a trout must feel when it fights the hook but gets reeled in anyway.
    “I am Ari,” she said reluctantly. Names had power, and she hadn’t wanted to give him hers, but his offering his own hadn’t given her much choice.
    Fool , she thought as she set the glasses down and took her place at the table. He doesn’t know you.
    You could have given him any name but your own. For that matter, how can you be sure that he didn’t do exactly that ?
    Now that she thought of it, there had been a moment’s hesitation before he’d given his name—as if it wasn’t the way he usually introduced himself.
    She glanced at him. His fingers rested lightly on the spoon, and he looked at her expectantly. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for her to begin so that he could eat. Suppressing a sigh, Ari picked up her spoon. More gentry manners she didn’t know about. Although . . . old Ahern wasn’t gentry, and the few times she’d had so much as a cup of tea with him, he’d waited in the same way.
    The stew was too hot for her, so she broke off a piece of cheese to nibble. As soon as she bit into the cheese, he dug into his meal. There wasn’t time to warn him that the stew was hot before he had his mouth full. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t grab the wine to cool off his burning mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at her. “This is delicious.” It was the only thing he said for several minutes.
    He wolfed down half the bowl of stew, most of the cheese, and a couple slices of buttered bread before she took her first spoonful of stew.

    She bit into a piece of potato, then sucked in little puffs of air to cool off the hot center of it. She thought she was being fairly quiet about it, but he lifted his head instantly to observe her. When she managed to swallow, she said, “How did you eat that without burning yourself?”
    “I like fire,” he said.
    Grabbing her glass, she took a large swallow of wine, then looked at the glass to make sure she hadn’t mistakenly grabbed the glass of water. “I like fire, too, but I’m not fond of burning my tongue.”
    “But that is the nature of fire. It burns.”
    “It warms,” she replied sharply. She hadn’t intended to sound challenging, but something about the way he’d said “it burns” chilled her.
    “You don’t think fire can destroy?” he asked softly.
    She could tell by the way his fingers curled around his wineglass that he wasn’t used to being contradicted and certainly didn’t like it. Still, she took her time answering. Fire was a branch of the Mother that was a part of her. She knew its nature, its dark side and its light. But how to explain to a stranger something she’d never needed to put into words before?
    “Yes, fire can destroy,” she said carefully, “but it’s also the heat that bakes the bread, the comfort that warms a cold winter’s night, the light that guides you home in the dark.” She fiddled with her spoon. “
    That must sound very simple to you.”
    “It sounds . . . gentler,” Lucian replied, looking away. “And far more thoughtful than my own remark.”
    Sipping the wine, he frowned. “My apologies, mistress. The wine doesn’t do justice to the meal.”
    “It has a delicate flavor,” Ari said. In truth, despite the deep-red color of the wine, it was almost tasteless, as if it contained nothing more than a memory of flavor. Spreading a bit of creamed cheese on a biscuit, she took a bite and tried not to sigh. The cheese and biscuits weren’t any better than the wine.
    She hadn’t known gentry preferred food that tasted so ... pale.
    They finished the meal in a silence thickened by tension.
    Ari looked at her half-full bowl of stew and gave up. Her appetite had fled, her stomach too full of the growing conviction that her guest was waiting for something.
    “What was your destination, Lord?” she asked,