Page 57 of The Queen's Huntsman
Alas,so mindfully guarding her heart against Bryn, and despite having kept her wits about her so many years, Gwendolyn somehow lost her heart to a damnable fae. And, as certainly as it was for Bryn, Málik’s heart was already promised to another.
Esme.
Even though, clearly, she didn’t feel the same for him.
Gwendolyn had consoled herself that she’d not encouraged Bryn’s affections, but neither had Málik encouraged hers. From the start, he’d worn that same mask of insouciance Esme now wore, and if Gwendolyn could be honest with herself, it was she who’d first coveted Málik. She’d thought him utterly magnificent, and she’d loathed the fact that he’d judged her—loathed it so much that she’d set about to prove herself to him, at first, needling him every chance she got.
All those months whilst he’d practiced in the Mester’s Pavilion with Bryn… Gwendolyn had spied on them from the ramparts… jealous, though not of Málik for stealing Bryn’s attention, as she’d once told herself. She was envious of Bryn… for the friendship those two so easily engendered.
And meanwhile, Málik seemed to have had nothing but contempt for Gwendolyn. It had sorely vexed her. She’d marched by in a pique nearly every day, dragging Bryn away when she dared.
But, if anyone was to blame, it should be her father for pushing them together because, until he’d made him her Shadow, Gwendolyn had kept him at bay with the flimsiest of excuses. It was only thereafter that she’d succumbed, and though she’d raged over that turn of events, she’d also secretly rejoiced in it as well—that she would have a perfect excuse to face him every day.
As for that stupid investigation after the death of Alderman Bryok—the need to find and speak with his wife, Ia, to satisfy her own curiosity about unanswered questions—Gwendolyn sighed. She would like to believe she’d had some great intuition where that was concerned, and perhaps she had, but the true reason she’d dragged Málik away from Trevena was to have him alone, to herself… away from all her mother’s spies….
Away from Ely as well.
And yet, for all that, even knowing where it would lead and how she would feel, Gwendolyn had no regrets. For a while, she and Málik had enjoyed one another’s company, and she had selfishly wanted to create a few memories, needing something of her own to keep for all time… something not contrived by her mother or mandated by duty.
Conversely, she had not liked Locrinus from the very first day she’d spent in his company—self-aggrandizing, mean-tempered, brute—and her loathing for him had somehow opened the door for… something else. Something she daren’t confess even now.
Málik peered over his shoulder, wheeling his horse about, his wintry eyes impaling Gwendolyn and her heart leapt into her throat as he paused, waiting for her to catch up, his eyes fixed upon her. He was looking straight at her, though Esme and Lir also rode ahead of Gwendolyn, both still bandying words. When they passed Málik by, Esme gave him a finger—a crude gesture in a manner she’d witnessed with Locrinus’ guards. It embodied the phallus, with the fingers beside the middle finger marking the testicles. Esme laughed when he rolled his eyes and shook his head at her.
“What was that about?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Esme being Esme. She needs no reason,” he said.
Gwendolyn did not know whether to laugh or weep because, whatever else it might be, the gesture was immensely intimate. She wished she could ask him directly what he felt for Esme, but she couldn’t. The words rose as far as her throat and then stuck there.
“At this pace, we’ll be in Catuvellauni territory by morning,” he said, once again sidling up beside her. “There’s no surety of what we may encounter there. I warrant the Catuvellauni are licking their wounds after their recent losses, but they might have gone south, or they could well have retreated into these northern woods. I would advise we should stop early to regroup… and perhaps spar?”
“You and I?”
He tilted her a questioning glance. “Unless you are afraid you’ve forgotten how to fight?”
Gwendolyn laughed. “Hardly,” she said, and didn’t bother revealing how hard she’d practiced with her whittled stick. He didn’t need to know that. She arched a brow. “Must we practice for my sake?” she asked. “Or yours?”
“For his sake,” he said, pointing to Lir. “He might well be a skilled healer, but what good will that do us if he is dead?”
Gwendolyn laughed again. “True,” she said, flicking a glance at the sword at Málik’s back, remembering all that Esme had told her about it. Only now she understood why he’d chosen that sword over the Sword of Light. It was arguably more precious.
“A little more practice will do us all good,” he suggested. “Even Esme, no matter that she would never admit to it. Once we are faced with battle, it will be too late.”
It had been months since Gwendolyn had practiced with an actual sword, and longer since she’d practiced with Málik. “I’d like that,” she said, and meant it.
And then he went and spoiled everything by saying the worst thing he could have said to her. “I warrant yourhusbandwill stop at little to find you. I do hope you realize it’s only a matter of time before we face him, Gwendolyn. We are not prepared—none of us.”
She might have agreed, but her tone was icy. “Please, do not refer to him that way.” It was perhaps a testament to how much she loathed Locrinus that she was far more upset with Málik’s reference of him as her husband than she was over the prospect of facing Loc and all his armies in battle.
“I would say I warned you against that wedding, but I realize that would be unkind.”
She lifted a brow. “And yet you just have.”
“Have I?” he said, offhand, his silver eyes glinting with a measure of good humor, although Gwendolyn was hardly amused.
“Must you always be so churlish? Is this why Esme rebuffed you?”
Both his brows lifted now. “Did she tell you that?”
