Meredith had been lanky and thin through her teens, overlooked by all, growing into her appearance only in recent years, her figure filling out with the curves of womanhood, her face sharpening into something that turned heads. But those stares were often leery, laced with lustful intent that made her grip her sword tighter and quicken her step. Men who stared at her did so with a hunger that felt lecherous, not gratifying.
Now, though, as she met Lloyd's gaze, she noticed him staring. Not in that predatory way, but with a thoughtful intensity that lacked the usual edge. His eyes, calm yet probing, held no leer, only a quiet fascination that puzzled her. The tavern's bustle faded to a hum in her ears: the Bard's lute picking up a lively reel, feet stamping in rhythm on the floorboards; the low murmur of a storyteller captivating a cluster of wide-eyed drinkers with tales of lost treasures. Why did he look at her so? The question burned, compelling her to voice it.
