Page 27 of Never the Roses

He stepped through the gate and into the rain-drenched garden, looking about in wonder, the first human besides herself to see the place. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She was remarkably pleased by the praise, wanting to tell him she’d made it herself, though, naturally, she couldn’t.

“Is there a place to stable my horse?”

Kicking herself for forgetting such a basic aspect of mundane life, Oneira gestured vaguely toward the back of the house. “I can take care of your horse,” realizing as she said the words that she had no earthly idea what that entailed, and that a lady of her apparent status wouldn’t make that offer.

He shook his head and smiled. It was a sweet smile, almostboyish. “I couldn’t possibly stand by and allow a lady to do such work in my stead. I’m not so injured that I can’t care for my steed.”

While he was talking, Oneira hastily found a small stable in the Dream and pulled it onto the back of the house, hoping it would be more or less right. She hadn’t actually ever been inside of one, but how complex could they be? It should have hay, probably. Also horse brushes. Did she have any books on equine care in her collection? No doubt Stearanos did, and probably shelved under something absurd like grooming long hair or vegetarian diets. “Mine is quite simple,” she told him, “and has never been used, so please let me know if it lacks anything.”

He cocked his head, curious, raindrops beading from his soaked hair and running down the soft skin of his handsome face. “You don’t keep a horse?”

“I never go anywhere,” she answered.

His gaze roved over the house, taking everything in, then he bowed, all grace and courtesy. “I am Tristan. Well met, Lady…?”

Ach.She needed a name, and not the infamous one of a dread sorceress. “Lira,” she answered, figuring it close enough in sound that she’d answer to it.

He extended a hand and she stared at it, bemused, then recognized it as a courtly gesture. People had not ever used it with her, always superstitious of touching her, as if she could send them into the Dream in a moment. She could, of course, but she didn’t need to touch them to do it. Extracting a hand from her cloak, she laid it in Tristan’s, momentarily taken aback by the feel of his skin, as soft as it looked. How long had it been since she touched someone? Forever. Since long before she retired.

He bent over her hand, kissing the back of it, a velvet caress even more stirring. “I am your servant, Lady Lira.”

She found herself flushing. Had anyone ever touched or spoken to her so? Never. She both wanted more and shied away from thestirrings deep inside. Withdrawing her hand from his, she said, “Stable your horse and come inside.”

She turned and went into the house, feeling his gaze on her back and suspecting that she hadn’t carried off being ordinary very well. Alas for that, and alas for the normal woman she’d somehow never managed to be, in any lifetime.

17

Oneira hung up her sodden cloak, grateful to be out of the storm, and oddly flustered by the interaction with Tristan. She smoothed her hair, wondering how she looked, and turned to find Moriah observing her with a canny expression. “I have offered the man, Tristan, hospitality,” she informed the big cat. “Please do not make a liar of me.”

If a cat could raise her brows, Moriah did. Then she ambled off, no promises made. Oneira checked the fire, then remembered to make it real and not magical, and added wood for it to burn. She put some towels and a robe in the vestibule, leaving them for Tristan. Satisfied she’d fulfilled human-hostessing expectations, she went to the kitchen to heat soup. She’d baked bread that morning, so it was warm and fresh, filling the kitchen with homey, yeasty scents. Tristan should like that—and then she wondered why she cared about pleasing Tristan.

He’s a handsome, vigorous young man who thinks you’re but an ordinary, lonely woman. And you’ve been alone too long.

She’d had lovers, here and there in her life, but those sessions had never gone well. The men had always been either frightened of her and irritatingly subservient, or determined not to be frightened of her and obnoxiously overpowering. Neither type had provided much pleasure and she’d given up the entire business as more of a waste of time and energy than it was worth. Perhaps it would be different with a man of her same status, but sorcerous types didn’t consort with one another, for obvious reasons.

With Tristan, however, with his knowing nothing about her,perhaps it would be different. Again she found herself blushing and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, hung with dried herbs from her garden. The handsome poet was likely half her age, or even a third, considering how long she’d lived. She might not look it, but she felt every year inside. In truth, she’d thought that part of her had died, but apparently it had only been slumbering, awakening at the brush of Tristan’s kiss and soft skin.Desire.Something she’d never imagined feeling again or wanting.

Would it be wrong to have him? He would be gone again soon enough and it wasn’t as if men flocked to her gate—entirely her fault, what with the wards, but still—and Tristan was so harmless. Charming. Sweet. And those full lips that—

“Smells good.”

She jumped, so preoccupied with her prurient thoughts that she hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen, nor had she sensed his presence. Harmless he might be, but that was no excuse to have her guard so utterly lowered. She’d grown lazy and comfortable, being alone so long, so that her once-reflexive and constant scanning of her surroundings had faded away over time.Bad sorceress, she scolded herself, before turning with a warm smile to greet her guest.

He’d toweled his hair dry and it stood in disarrayed waves, not dark at all, but a lovely silver-blond shade, paler than his skin and setting off his dark eyes with seductive contrast. Smiling crookedly at her, he plucked at the robe, then gestured toward the front door. “I left my clothes in the vestibule. They’re soaked and filthy, so I didn’t want to bring them any farther inside. My packs are there, too, as I wasn’t sure where to…?” He trailed off, smile abashed and hopeful. She wanted to kiss those tempting lips and comb her fingers through that thick hair. This man, she could touch without fear.

“Leave the clothes,” she replied, finding herself smiling back,a giddy stretch of her warm cheeks. “I’ll show you to the guest room so you can stow your bags. I imagine you’d like a hot bath?”

“I want to say I’d kill for a hot bath,” he replied, grin widening so his dimples showed, “but I don’t want to frighten my beautiful hostess.” He paused, gaze traveling over her. “I couldn’t see you before, in that enveloping cloak, but you are astoundingly lovely. That crimson hair…”

Oh, how she blushed, ducking her head to hide it. This was really too much for her to handle. She felt like an awkward girl again, singularly unequipped to handle a man’s attentions. Had it really been so long since anyone flirted with her? Yes. Yes, it had. Which was likely why she’d read flirting into the notes Stearanos had left her. And why she’d behaved so recklessly.

“I apologize,” Tristan said ruefully into her extended silence. “I am clearly off my head from all that’s happened. I usually have better manners than this.”

“No,” she replied hastily, prodding herself to have some composure. “I should apologize, keeping you standing here when you’re exhausted, cold, and injured. Come this way.” She led him through the house, none of the animals in evidence. He limped a little as they went. “Once you wash, I can bandage your wounds, if you like. I have a salve that heals and numbs the pain.”

“I would be eternally grateful for that, my lady.” He paused as they passed her bier, giving the wilted spring blossoms from the day before—she hadn’t gathered new ones due to the rain—a curious look. “Is this an altar?”

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