Page 169 of The Daughters of Avalon
Once, when Seren was fifteen, Llanthony suffered the loss of one of their aviaries. The structure ignited sometime after Matins, and by Lauds, there was naught left, but wisps of smoke and piles of ash. It took hours and hours for that edifice to burn, and she and her sisters had carried bucket after bucket of water from their hatchery to douse those flames—all night long, until their arms and legs ached from the effort. Back in those days, theaviary had been no more than a tiny structure far from the main buildings, and even so, the flames had lit the night till morn.
In contrast, the Whitshed vanished behind a veil of blue so intensely hot that Seren could still feel a fever burning in her cheeks.
“I’m tired,” Jack complained, sliding a hand to his middle in a gesture of hunger, peering up at Seren, looking more like a small child than a man. They had been traveling so long now. It was no wonder the boy was hungry and tired.
She peered back instinctively, spying only trees and a long dusty road behind them. Dover was long in their wake and dawn was breaking. They’d ridden all night long without stopping, and if no one complained until now, it wasn’t because they weren’t bone weary.
Certainly, she understood why they’d set such a grueling pace—all for her sake, but seeing the strain on Jack’s face, she realized it was only a matter of time before he tumbled from his saddle. Meanwhile, twenty paces ahead, Wilhelm’s horse let loose a pile of dung without so much as bothering to pause for the duty, swishing its tail in annoyance, sour-tempered as its master.
Deciding they’d had quite enough, she spurred her mount forward to trot beside the bastard son of Richard de Vere.
It was a long, long moment before she worked up the nerve to speak. But then she said, “We’ve been traveling overlong. I understand why, but Jack is tired and by now the horses must be fatigued as well. We must rest, if only for a few hours.”
His dark gaze swiveled to meet hers, cutting in its intensity. “We’ll stop soon,” he said, averting his gaze, looking into the sunrise, so that his face was lit by a golden hue that made the strands of silver in his beard glitter fiercely.
No “thank yous,”no praise for his efforts, no warmth from this rare, beauteous flower of Blackwood—and there it was, he supposed: She was as distant and unapproachable as he’d surmised she would be, with that lovely golden-red hair, those flawlessly arched brows and pale, luminous skin.
Her cheeks were bright pink, either from exertion or from exposure to the Whitshed’s flames. She looked sad to her soul, and Wilhelm longed to comfort her, but something in her expression left him cold.
For all that she appeared so delicate, she reminded him of a ghost orchid he once encountered, with its leafless spine pointed high and straight and its milky blossoms with soft blushing spots. He’d been so afraid to pluck it in the presence of his brother, and he’d resolved to do so upon returning so he could gift it to Lady Ayleth. Regretfully, that flower was gone when they returned, and it didn’t reappear for another four years—in an entirely different location. By then, Giles was long gone to the seminary, and Ayleth’s heart was well and duly broken. She’d scarcely looked at his gift, much less thanked him for it, and he’d found himself wholly embarrassed for the effort.
Seren Pendragon gave him that same pause.
She was far too lovely for the likes of a beast like him, and even so, who in the hell longed to curl up with an icicle?
More than aught else, she seemed angry over the turn of events, and he had yet to see her weep a single tear. She was an ice princess, to be sure.
“Jack is hungry,” she persisted, as though her first complaint hadn’t moved him well enough. “So am I. And?—”
“And what?” he snapped, forcing himself to meet her gaze, loathing the way his heart struck a discordant beat over the haunted look in her eyes.
She peered down at the reins in her hand, her impossibly dark lashes fanning her toasted cheeks and God help his rottensoul, some foolish part of him longed to reach out and caress her fire-roasted skin. In his mind’s eye, he allowed himself to kiss it ever-so sweetly, and to his utter dismay, his cock hardened over the imagery, straining against his well-worn leathers. He growled audibly in disgust.
“Are you always so pettish, my lord?”
Wilhelm ignored her use of a title, weary of correcting her. “Pettish?”
“Aye, pettish.”
He frowned. “Pettish is what ladies should be. Pettish is for wayward children. Alas, if my mood does not strike you as genial, Lady Seren, you may call me bad-tempered to your heart’s content, but you should at least thank me within the same breath, because I have come a long way only to help you.” He sat quietly a moment, and when she did not respond, he added, “That I did not do so before your sister’s death is not my fault any more than it is yours.”
Seren’s heart squeezed painfully.
Well and duly chastised, she cast her gaze into the passing trees, swallowing the painful lump that rose to choke her.
She daren’t weep now, because if she began, her tears might never end. She would sob puddles and puddles, and perhaps addwitchwaterto thewitchwind, because she sensed that same bewildering intensity rising in the aether, leaving her to wonder if her serenity was but a matter of self-defense. Deep down she must have sensed everything she was capable of.
Witchwater.
Surveilling the woodlands, she sensed more than saw the glittering dew drops shivering on the leaves of trees, and like a lodestone, she drew them, feeling small droplets splash against her cheeks.
But, nay, she was not weeping.
It was witchwater… she was certain.
But how is that possible?
“We have a long way to go,” he said. “Please do me the inestimable favor of at least appreciating that I, too, have gone the whole night without resting, as I have done so for you.”
