Most northern inns were decorated with such flowers. It helped mask the obnoxious scents of the market, while herbs grown in these gardens could be used for teas and spices.

Gaborn stepped back into the sunlight, away from the heavy perfume of the flowers. His nose was too keen to let him stay.

Borenson returned in a few moments with his big right hand resting gently on Myrrima’s elbow, as if to catch her should she trip on a cobblestone. It was an endearing sight.

When the two stood before him, Myrrima bowed slightly. “Milord wished to speak to me?”

“Yes,” Gaborn said. “Actually, I was more interested in having you meet Borenson, my body.” He left off the word guard, as was the custom in Mystarria. “He has been my body for six years now, and is captain of my personal guard. He is a good man. In my estimation, one of the finest in Mystarria. Certainly the finest soldier.”

Borenson’s cheeks reddened, and Myrrima glanced up at the big guard, smiling discreetly, gauging him. She could not have failed to notice by now that Borenson had an endowment of metabolism to his credit. The hastiness of his speeded reactions, the apparent inability to rest, were sure sign of it.

“Recently, Borenson was promoted to the rank of Baron of the Realm, and given title to a land and manor in . . . the Drewverry March.” Immediately Gaborn recognized his mistake. To give such a large holding was impetuous. Yet now that the words had been spoken. . . .

“Milord, I’ve never heard—” Borenson began to say, but Gaborn waved him to silence.

“As I say, it was a recent promotion.” The Drewverry estate was a major holding, more land than Gaborn would normally give to a distinguished soldier for a life of service, if he’d had time to consider. But now, Gaborn reasoned, this sudden act of generosity would only make Borenson that much more loyal—as if Borenson’s loyalty would ever waver. “In any event, Myrrima, as you can see, Borenson spends a great deal of time in my service. He needs a wife to help him manage his holdings.”

The look of surprise on Borenson’s face was a joy to behold. The big man was obviously taken by this northern beauty, and Gaborn had all but ordered them to marry.

Myrrima studied the guard’s face without reserve, as if noticing for the first time the strength of his jaw, the imposing bulge of muscle beneath his jerkin. She did not love him, not yet. Perhaps she never would. This was an arranged marriage, and marrying a man who lived his life twice as fast as you, one who would grow old and die while you floundered toward middle age, could not be an overwhelmingly attractive proposition. Thoughtfully, she considered the virtues of the match.