Page 197 of The Daughters of Avalon
How could she be? One sister was dead, the other imprisoned in Wales. Elspeth was wed to a stranger, and now she’d learned—not from Wilhelm, mind you, but from strangers—that Rosalynde was married as well, and to none other than a huntsman for the Church.
“You don’t seem well,” he said.
“Oh, but I am,” she snapped. But, truly, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “Why did you not advise me my sister was Lady of Warkworth? I had to hear it from strangers.”
Never mind the fact that for all intents and purposes, Wilhelm was a stranger, too. It was only that, after traveling so long in his company, Seren feared he must know enough about her now to never want her for himself. Whatever beauty she possessed could never vie with all her many faults. Ever since leaving Dover, he’d seen her at her worst—hair disheveled, sleep-dust forming in the corners of her eyes. And, to make matters worse, to her utter mortification, he’d listened to her relieve herself on occasion, and then whilst they were still at Neasham, he’d accidentally walked into her bath, only to fly away the instant he saw her.
He did not stand there, gawking at her with a flame of longing burning in his eyes, nor did he linger in the doorway. He’d turned andfled—as though she were a viper he’d discovered coiled amidst the dust beneath his bed.
It was mortifying. Seren only wanted to be clean so she could wear one of the lovely dresses he’d procured for her. She longed desperately for him to look at her again as he had that night before arriving at Neasham, despite that, considering the circumstances, appealing to a lowborn bastard was the last thing that should be on her mind.
For Creirwy’s sake, her sister was dead—or had she forgotten so easily?
But nay, she had not.
It was just that… Wilhelm made her feel… what?
Not so lonely? Admired? Cherished?
All these things and more.
And nevertheless, he wasnotcourting her, she had to remind herself much too frequently. He was only escorting her to her sister—not even to Giles.
And still, though she longed desperately to take offense over his motives, not once during the long hours they’d spent together had he once behaved inappropriately. Unlike most of the lords she’d encountered at court, Wilhelm Fitz Richard had treated her with utmost respect—and, no, it wasn’t as though she wanted him to kiss her. She only wanted him to want to. It was all so confusing.
Winding the excess length of reins in her hand, she gave him another narrow-eyed glance.
Wilhelm had the good graces to look away, and she watched as his aura shifted from red to brown—good, then, let him be discomfited. For certes, she herself had never felt more a fool, and she could not say it was all his fault, because she was the one who’d tormented herself with thoughts of a man she could never have.
And, lo, now that she realized it was perfectly possible all along—that he wasn’t betrothed to her sister—mayhap she shouldn’t want him, but she did. But clearly, he didn’t want her, and it was becoming quite apparent that the red in his aura was not desire at all; it was something else.
Finally, he turned to look at her, his lips twisted ruefully. “Take it as you will, Lady Seren; I did not believe you would agree to accompany me if I did not say it was to return you to your betrothed.”
Fie!So now he would return to formalities?Lady Seren, Lady Seren, Lady Seren!For the love of night, she was no more a lady than he was a lord. “And yet you might have told me it was my sister who’d commanded you to find me—she’s your mistress, after all.”
He lifted a shoulder. “So to speak.”
“So to speak,” Seren railed, feeling herwitchwindrising yet again with her anger. “So to speak!”
The tops of the trees shimmied with fright, and the poplar leaves tinkled like warning bells.
“You speak in riddles, Wilhelm de Vere. If Rosalynde is not your mistress, then say so. If she is, speak true.”
His voice was taut. “I am not de Vere,” he corrected. “I am Fitz?—”
“Richard, yay, I know. What does it matter? Amidst my owndewinefolk, we are kindred no matter whether we are conceived in the rushes or in a fine-feathered bed.”
He said naught.
“I do not understand your English sensibilities.”
His cheeks were flushed. “I am sorry,” he said, and then he hung his head, looking too much like a sweet young boy, save that there was nothing so small about him, nor could she mistake him for a boy.
Furiously, Seren coiled the reins tighter, trying desperately to master her emotions.
This was all too much.
For months now she’d been fleeing her mother’s wrath—all to no avail, because her sweet sister was dead. She had allowed herself to trust this man. And that was not all. Yay, it was true; she must confess it all: Her heart fluttered each and every time Wilhelm came near enough for her to smell his male scent. All it ever took to make her nipples taut was to hear him speak her name so intimately. For Creirwy’s bloody sake, she was like a lute to be played at his whim—an instrument of desire that remained finely in tune to his every sigh. It was disgusting. Maddening. Embarrassing.
