Page 72 of The Cornish Princess
Once again, he did not comment on her bare throat, though his pale blue eyes found the torc about Borlewen’s neck and filled with questions—questions that Gwendolyn hadn’t any answers for, so she let it pass without explanation. Yet truly, her heart had grown heavier than that bloody torc, and she could simply not tolerate the weight of both. In due time, she would wear it again, and she would meet Prince Locrinus beneath the Sacred Yew, because that is what she was born to do. But that didn’t mean she must enjoy it, nor should she feel guilt-ridden for taking a few more days to enjoy this liberty—free from reminders like that glowering torc.
Let Borlewen wear it awhile. Her cousin certainly seemed to like it well enough, petting it like a precious lover, all the while her Kitto drooled over her shoulder.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn sat cross-legged on the grass beside Málik, covering her hosen with the flaps of her tunic, whilst two of her cousins sat flirting with visiting neighbors—Jenefer with the father, Borlewen with the son.
Prickles of grass poked through Gwendolyn’s hosen, but she didn’t care. She was far too contented at the instant.
“This should be fun to watch,” she said tartly, eyeing Borlewen with her Kitto. “If both should succeed here tonight, one will find herself a mother and sister, the other a sister and daughter by law.”
Málik chuckled low, a sound that never failed to stir Gwendolyn’s blood. At the instant, she was feeling a little melancholy, knowing they must soon leave… for everyone’s sakes—and, in part because she still needed to determine how and why Bryok was murdered. Alas, the longer she remained here, supping with Málik, sparring with Málik, laughing with Málik, the more she wanted to stay… the more she dreaded her wedding to Prince Loc—coming closer every day.
Already the moon above was a waning crescent, smiling down on them in this place where, mostly, no lady wore gems or silk.
No doubt her mother was up in arms over her continued absence. And doubtless she was furious that Gwendolyn wasn’t around to take instruction to prepare for the nuptials to come.
But more and more, Gwendolyn dreaded her wedding night, and all the while she fretted. Everyone except Málik seemed oblivious to her travails.
Gods, she was a mess.
Across the courtyard, Borlewen cozied with the farmer’s son, the two of them hiding in the darkest corner, behind a wall of ale casks, completely unconcerned that anyone might spy them—her father, if she wasn’t too careful. And yet would he care? Gwendolyn thought mayhap not, because he himself was out in the dark field, perhaps fondling his wife. In the meantime, her cousins seemed free enough to love as they would, though she knew her uncle—as any father would—must have limits to his indulgence.
Even as they watched, the farmer’s son took a generous helping of her cousin’s ample bosom in his hand, squeezing as his lips found Borlewen’s mouth. Only, to see this stirred Gwendolyn in ways she daren’t confess, but whom would she tell?
Málik?
The night was peaceful. The stars above winking, and with the moon spilling down over his silvery hair, the effect of it was like a halo. He was too beauteous for words—almost surreal. “What of you?” she dared to ask. “Do you ever intend to wed, Málik?”
“Who? Me?” he asked with a chuckle, as he chewed on a long blade of grass. “Nay, Princess, I was not made for that.” He winked at her then, but Gwendolyn knit her brows.
“How do you mean?”
He gave her the barest hint of a smile that sent her pulses skittering, even as it left her with more questions than answers. Gwendolyn heard tell that in some faraway lands, the queen’s Shadows were emasculated, and made into eunuchs. Perhaps Málik didn’t have the parts, and this would explain so much, although it would be such a waste, because his body seemed made for touching. By the light of a silvery moon, his wondrous skin shimmered like a pearl, and Gwendolyn found her mouth ever so parched—as it always was in his presence, only thinking, thanks to her dearest Borlewen, of his “bald-pated druid.”
A pox on you, Borlewen!
Málik’s ever-present smile turned lazy now.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “And nay, I’m no less a man than that silly fool over there, tripping over his tongue to impress your cousin.”
Not for the first time, Gwendolyn wondered if he could read her thoughts. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to always glean what she was thinking.
“In fact, I wonder if you will wish to wear your beautiful torc again, with Kitto’s drool all over it.” It was Gwendolyn’s turn to laugh, but at the instant, she didn’t care about that torc—not at all. “I never see you tripping over anything to impress anyone,” she said, to which he replied, “Don’t you, Princess?”
Disarmed by the question, Gwendolyn averted her gaze, somehow embarrassed.
Gods.
“Gwendolyn,” he whispered, watching her intently.
His gaze lingered on her lips as he once again removed the reed from his mouth and lapped his own lips, ever so slowly. “Have you never… wondered…”
Her heart beat madly.
“… what’s inside your father’s Treasury?”
Gwendolyn sat back, her eyes going wide.
His question was a surprising diversion from their conversation. And though she was perhaps relieved, she hadn’t expected it. “Well, of course,” she said. “Naturally. And yet, the secrets it holds are for my father’s eyes alone. I shall know in due time.”
