Page 205 of The Daughters of Avalon
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Wilhelm returned from the bushes to find Seren perched atop her mount, waiting patiently, though with her hands splayed in front of her as though she were examining something resting in her palms. For an instant, he hadn’t any clue what she could be doing, but then, to his amazement, it appeared as though it were raining sideways—but only on her. Every drop of dew from the surrounding trees converged upon her hand, twinkling as they flew, catching sunlight like tiny gems.
A wondrous smile turned her lips. Clearly, she was pleased with the effort. “Did you see that?” she asked excitedly.
“I did,” he confessed, adjusting his trews.
She turned her palm, spilling some of the liquid down the pad of her palm, into the bracken. She grinned. “Art thirsty?”
“It’s all yours,” Wilhelm said, because—God’s teeth—as much as he would love to lap the salt from her flesh, if he dared any such thing, he might never stop. He would lick every inch of her beautiful body and more… and besides, the flagons were still full.
“I’ve been practicing,” she said happily. “I can’t wait to show Rosalynde. She can do better, but I have never quite accomplished this task so easily.”
“I saw her do it once,” Wilhelm confessed, as he hoisted himself into the saddle.
“Rhiannon taught us when we were young, but I was always too afraid to try.”
“Of Ersinius?”
“Aye,” she said. “Though, I don’t know why. That man was more frightened of my mother than we were of him.” She leaned forward to sip the remaining liquid from her palm, then shook her hand free. “I suppose I can thank Elspeth for putting the fear of the Goddess in me.”
“Art certain you don’t need to?” Wilhelm said, inclining his head toward the thicket from whence he’d come.
Seren shook her head, blushing. “Nay, I am fine.”
Wilhelm didn’t press. At any rate, he had no qualms at all over slowing the pace. So far as he was concerned, they could stop a thousand times or linger for days. At this point, every field they crossed, every burn, brought them one marker closer to Warkworth, and while Seren’s mood grew more buoyant still with every mile they traversed, his grew more somber, and he needn’t reflect overlong to know why…
He had waking dreams of taking Seren into his arms, kissing her soundly, then falling to his knees and professing his love. Regrettably, he was no wealthy lord to take such a beautiful bride. His only recompense would only ever be a pat on the shoulder for a job well done, and perhaps a thank you from Rosalynde and Seren. But his true reward—his only true reward—would be the memories he’d made along the journey north, most of them bittersweet:
He liked the way she laughed. He loved the way she smiled. He admired the allegiance she gave Jack. He loved how fearless she could be, and the courage she displayed.
Even now, he couldn’t stop looking into her beautiful silver eyes. Forcing himself to tear his gaze away, he gave his mare a boot, and Seren followed without so much as touching her heel to the animal’s flank, as though she’d compelled the beast, with no physical cues—if this be witchery, he supposed everyone should be that fortunate. There was nothing at all wicked about the skills this woman possessed, and, in fact, it seemed as natural as rain.
All the while they kept pace, she “practiced” again, and again, and Wilhelm fell back to observe. The sight of her was magical, and every time she summoned dew, she was encircled by a halo and rainbow. He didn’t know how she was doing that—attracting water as a lodestone drew metal—but the sight was nevertheless breathtaking—never so much so as the sparkle in her eyes when she turned to find him watching and realized he wasn’t judging.
Actually, Wilhelm might have liked to know how she was performing that trick; it would come in handy. But, for now, he was content enough to wonder, and he thought perhaps that if he lived to be a thousand, Seren would still be a mystery as well.
Over these past few days, they’d grown closer and closer, and the more he learned about her, the more questions he had. In truth, this was the first time in all Wilhelm’s life that he’d found himself thinking of a woman as his friend—not merely the object of his desire. He liked conspiring with her, and he liked sharing meals. He loved their late-night discourse, whispering like youths over a flame with her eyes sparkling with gold.
Bored with the water trick, she turned and awarded Wilhelm with the most enthralling smile, and he moved forward again to ride like a puppy at her side—no doubt gazing at her like a besotted fool, but he didn’t care. He longed for her to knowwhat he felt in his heart, but was terrified to speak the words lest he break this wondrous spell. The very instant he confessed himself, it would become something less than innocent—a thing to be accepted or rebuked, and it was the latter possibility that roiled his gut.
Feeling like an old man before his time, he cast Seren another glance to find her inspecting the woodlands with all the enthusiasm of a child. He wished to God he could share her joy. Even more than her sister was, she was enchanted by fauna and flora, no matter how unremarkable, and even with all her troubles, she took joy in the smallest of things.
“Look,” she said, pointing at the rich carpet of blue that grew along the path.
From April to May, the northern woods were filled with bellflowers, but not so thick as they grew near the Widow’s Tower. “’Tis late in the year for those,” he said, but when she lifted her gaze from the rich, blue mantle, her own silver eyes twinkled, and he found himself wishing those flowers could grace these woods all year long.
“I could fill my purse with the bounty of these woods,” she exclaimed, pointing again, “There,” she said. “Yarrow!” And again. “Wild carrots—but that is hemlock.” She thrust a finger toward a tall, lacy flower as they trotted by. “You must take care with that one. ’Tis poisonous. It can very easily be mistaken. But,” she expounded, “a proper herbalist may know how to use it, and it can be a very good sedative.”
He would do anything to keep her talking… even inquire about things he mightn’t normally care about. “I take it you must be a proper herbalist?”
She blushed again, the deep plum stain on her cheeks complimenting the wintry shade of her eyes. “Not so much as Elspeth, but I try.”
God’s truth, this woman was not at all what he’d supposed, and, if he could be honest with himself, after coming to know her sister, he’d suffered much trepidation over meeting Seren—why? Because, after meeting Rosalynde, he’d sorely envied Giles, and he’d realized even then that if Seren was half the woman her sister was, he might be lost.
And she was more.
