William raised a bushy brow and started to preach about the path of life and dreams and how one looked back when one got older. Lora, her mood pacified by Gareth’s smile, perched her elbow on the table, cradled her chin in her hand, and gave William her full attention.
“Remember who you are, Lora,” he finished. “The earl is not without his limits. It wouldn’t be wise to test them.”
William’s advice may have had merit, but his weather prediction did not. The rain eased in the afternoon, but didn’t stop its merry dance on Rothwyn’s black cobbles for a single moment. Lora stood in the castle doorway, eyes raised to the clouds, surprised to see a swallow darting across the dreary skies.
“Do you think they only fly when the sun is on their wings, Lora FitzGilbert? If you had a pair of wings, would you not use them every day?”
His warm breath, close to her ear, lifted the hair on her neck.
“Gareth.” His name came out as a whisper. Lora turned to him, trying to gather her scattered wits.
“My lady.”
“My lady?” She cocked her head, aware of the violent thud of her heart. “Whatever happened to lass?”
He smiled, and it went straight to her toes.
“I’ll save that for when we’re alone,” he murmured. “When we’re sitting in the dark, sharing stories.”
And kisses? Desire pooled in her belly. She glanced around, making certain of their privacy. “Will I see you tonight?”
His eyes twinkled as they raked over her. “You’re utterly without shame.”
“I know. Will I?”
He laughed. “Nay, not tonight. I’m going into the village to see a friend. I likely won’t be back until very late.”
“Ah, I see.” Lora looked up at the sky again, trying to hide a painful stab of disappointment. A friend? Of course. Gareth was a very handsome man. She should have known.
“Iorwerth is someone I’ve known since childhood. It was he who suggested I apply for the job here.” Gareth stepped past her into the rain. “So, you can pick your smile up off the ground, Lora FitzGilbert, and put it back on your pretty face. My stories will still be here tomorrow.”
A blue and orange shape streaked by, dipping and weaving through the air.
“Gareth?
He turned back to her, raindrops already shining like crystals on his dark hair.
“Aye?”
“The answer is yes. If I had a pair of wings, I would use them every day.”
*
That night, Lora waited until all at Rothwyn slept before sneaking out through a side door to creep along the wall of the keep, staying in the shadows. Driven by curiosity, she intended to retrieve the strange golden object from the well. And what of the laughter she’d heard?
Perhaps a mere wisp of wind, trapped beneath the earth, or maybe even the soft hoot of an owl carrying across the forest.
The rain had stopped. The overcast sky, which hid the moon, both aided and hindered her. It kept her in welcome shadow, but she knew it would also obscure the treasure she sought. In her mind, she visualized where she’d seen it, certain it was within arm’s reach. She’d simply lie on her belly at the edge of the well, reach in, and feel around for whatever it was.
The outline of the pale stones guided her to the dark entrance. How ominous it looked, like an open mouth, eager to swallow anything that drew near.
Lora knelt at its side, cringing when water from the saturated earth soaked through her dress. It hadn’t occurred to her to bring something to lie on. Too bad. She’d come this far. A wet dress wasn’t about to stop her. She fell on all fours and lowered herself to the ground, sucking in a sharp breath.
The sound of rushing water emanated from the belly of the well and, for a brief moment, Lora fought with a sense of dizziness, imagining the terrible drop below. She slowed her breathing, pulled herself to the rim and, steadying herself with one hand on the edge, began to feel her way along the inside with the other.
The interior wall of the well was wet and thick with growth. She tried not to think about what might be hiding inside the rocky crevices, how big they were or how many legs they had. Still, her fingers jerked whenever she touched anything sticky or slimy.
And then she felt it. It brushed against her fingers–something fine yet definitely metallic.
A chain?
She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled, feeling the slight weight of whatever swung from its smooth links. When it met with resistance she paused, not wanting to break it, but she didn’t want to let it go, either.
So, she pointed her toes, dug them into the ground to serve as anchors, and reached into the void with her other hand. There! A root of some kind, protruding from the wall of the well, had snagged the chain.
Just a little manipulation, a gentle tug.
Got it!
Lora released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and smiled to herself.
Eager to see what she’d found, she braced the heel of her hand against the rim of the well and pushed herself up. The sodden ground gave way right at the moment when Lora’s elbow locked. Her hand slipped off the muddy edge and her elbow slammed into the rock with a sickening crunch.
The pain was unlike anything she’d ever felt.
It tore the breath from her lungs and sent her head reeling into a nauseating spin. The saturated ground gave no foothold and her hands grabbed at wet earth that merely oozed through her fingers. She struggled in vain, her sense of direction blurred by panic and pain. In a single moment of abject horror, Lora realized she was about to slide over the edge.
“No, please.” She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. God help me. They’ll never find my body.
Someone cursed, grabbed the back of her dress, and wrenched her from the mud with a violent jerk. A moment later, she found herself in Gareth’s arms, gulping for air, her face buried in his warmth, her tears wet on his shirt.
“Jesus Christ, Lora,” he hissed. “Have you lost your Godforsaken mind? What the hell are you doing?”
She tried to say his name, but could only whimper. Nausea crippled her guts and she shuddered, still dizzy, her arm throbbing with pain. His muttered curses surrounded her as she felt herself being carried away from the well, away from that terrible darkness, up the stairs, into the quiet mustiness of the loft. He sat down and held her close, rocking, cursing, hushing her moans.
“It’s all right, lass. Oh, thank Christ I was there. It’s all right now. Hush.”
“Gareth,” she gasped, her teeth chattering. “I thought…I thought….”
“I know, I know, but I have you. You’re safe. Hush, now. It’s all right. Slow your breathing, cariad. Slow it down.”
He feathered kisses across her forehead and stroked her back, muttering soft words in a language she didn’t understand.
She hiccupped into his shirt, breathing in his familiar smell, relishing the feel of his arms around her. From Hell to Heaven, all in one night.
“I owe you my life,” she whispered.
“You owe me an explanation.” He looked down at her, his face pale in the night, eyes alight with emotion. “And once I’ve heard it, I’m going to kill you for being so incredibly stupid.”
Lora knew his threat was an impassioned response, born of the anger and fear she heard in his voice. The vehemence of his reaction carried an unexpected touch of comfort, for it implied that he truly cared for her. He continued to rock her like a child, although his hand had stopped its gentle massage of her spine and rested warm against her ribs. She took a slow breath, trying to steady her racing heart.
“How did you come to be here?”
His chest rose with a harsh lungful of air. “How? A fine question, my lady. One to be pondered. I can only think it was at the behest of a guardian angel who has the sad misfortune to be charged with your safekeeping, for had I not stopped to share words with the guards when I returned from the village, I wouldn’t have seen you stealing through the shadows l
ike a ghost. Had I not lingered in idle conversation for those few moments, you would not be lying here, pale and trembling in my arms. You’d be…ah, Christ.” He muttered a few more words in Welsh through gritted teeth. “Enough. ’Tis your explanation that needs voicing, not mine. What the hell were you doing?”
Lora allowed herself to relax against his chest, soothed by the steady thud of his heart.
“When I made my wish last night, I saw something shining partway down the wall of the well. I couldn’t tell what it was and didn’t have time to fish for it, because my father’s steward interrupted me. So, I came back tonight.” She opened her fist. “And I found this. It was caught on a root.”
Even in the gloom, the coils of the chain shimmered in her palm. Nestled in the center lay a golden disc, engraved with an intricate pattern, barely visible in the darkness.
Gareth stopped his rocking, lifted the medallion from her hand, and rubbed his thumb over the strange markings.
Lora wriggled in his lap. “Is it gold?”
He let out a low groan. “Be still, lass. Aye, it’s gold. Celtic. Probably very old.”
“How can you tell?”
“The symbols are pagan.”
“They are?” Lora’s eyes widened. “What do they mean?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. Iorwerth, the friend I visited tonight, would likely know. He’s knowledgeable of such things.” He dropped it back in her palm and patted her nose with a fingertip. “’Tis a rare and valuable trinket, but not worth dying for, daft girl.”
“I wonder who it belonged to? And I’m not dead.” A shudder ran through her. “Thanks to you.”
Gareth’s hand started its slow caress again. He bent his head and kissed a tear from her cheek. “From now on, you’ll not go near the well until the wall is finished. Swear it.”
“You sound like William.”
“William?”
“My father’s steward. The one who interrupted me last night.” She snuggled against him and stifled a yawn. “Tell me one of your stories, Gareth. I love to hear your voice. It calms me.”
A sound between a grunt and a chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I think not, cariad. ’Tis the middle of the night, your clothes are soaking wet and you’re obviously exhausted. It might be best if you seek out your bed and get some sleep.”
“I don’t think I could sleep. Not yet.” Lora blinked up at him, wondering if the lightness in her head was exhaustion or infatuation. Either way, she had no desire to leave the sweetness of his embrace. “What does cariad mean?”
“It’s the Welsh word for pest.”
Dismayed, she raised her brows. “Pest?”
“Aye, Lora FitzGilbert, for that is certainly what you are.” He heaved a sigh. “The stories of my people began long before men put ink to parchment. In the beginning, the ancients were the keepers of the spoken word. Our history was shared by moonlight in the summer and firelight in the winter, passed on from father to son, mother to daughter…”
As if in response to his words, moonlight burst through the small window and filled the room with a soft silver glow. With the gentle melodic lilt of his voice, Gareth lead Lora’s mind away from the dark brink of death. He showed her green valleys brushed with silver morning mist and gave her wings to fly across rugged mountain peaks that beckoned the clouds. She peered into underground caves that held treasures beyond belief and explored mighty oak forests where mysterious warlocks practiced their pagan arts.
“Perhaps,” said Gareth, “your piece of gold was blessed by one of the dryw.”
“Dryw?”
“The ancient priests. ’Tis said they could see beyond the present.”
Lora’s fingers tightened around the medallion and she squirmed in his lap. “Do you believe that?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “I believe you should keep still. Your wriggling is beyond distracting.”
Something hard nudged against the fabric of Lora’s dress and she shifted again, frowning.
“What in Heaven’s name is that?”
Gareth grinned. “Do you not know how a man shows his desire for a lass?”
Aye, she did, for she had coaxed Fritha, her maid, to tell her all that happened between a man and a woman in the bedchamber. The maid had been more than willing to share all the astonishing details about the act of love.
But to be confronted with the physical declaration…
“Oh,” she whispered as heat flooded her cheeks.
“Oh, indeed.” His mouth nuzzled her ear. “I think, Lora FitzGilbert, you must retire for what is left of this night.”
“Must I?” The image of a helpless moth embracing a deadly flame formed in her mind. Unable to resist, she turned her head, bringing her lips level with his. “Have you, then, had enough of your pest?”
His body tensed and his warm breath brushed across her skin. “I can never know what enough of you might be, Lora, as much as I am tempted.”
A warm flutter stirred in her belly. “But you kissed me last night.”
He lifted his face away from hers. “I should not have done so. Can you stand on your own or shall I lift you?”
His blatant rejection of her advances chilled her blood. Wounded pride and harsh disappointment bubbled up as did the flood of hot tears that burned her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she struggled to her feet, flinching at the sharp jolt of pain that lanced from her elbow to her shoulder.
“Your arm hurts yet?” He stood and reached for her, but she pushed his hand away.
“Nay. It’s perfectly fine.” Unlike her wretched heart, which ached beneath her ribs.
“Ah, Lora. Don’t—”
“Thank you for saving my life.” She held out the medallion. “I want you to have this. Please take it. I’ll be greatly offended if you refuse.”
He hesitated, and Lora challenged him with a stubborn lift of her chin. With a sigh, he took the medallion, the brush of his fingers against hers like a spark against her skin.
“It seems you’re already offended, my lady, and for that, I’m sorry. It was never my intent. My desire for you is real, but I dare not act upon it. You and I are obliged to follow separate paths. Your destiny will surely be very different to mine.”
Separate paths. The truth in his words seemed like an impregnable wall. It also hurt. Blinking tears away, Lora turned and stepped toward the staircase. At the top, she paused and looked back. Gareth stood like a statue in the moonlight, watching her. It took all the willpower she possessed not to run back to him, wrap her arms around his neck, and press her lips to his. Only the fear of his rejection kept her from doing so. She inclined her head.
“I shall not pester you anymore, Stonemason.”
He groaned and closed his eyes for a moment. “It means beloved.”
Something twisted in her gut. “What?”
“Cariad.” He shrugged. “It means ‘beloved.’”
Lora swallowed against a lump in her throat. Beloved? Did he lie again or speak the truth? And which did she fear more?
She swiped at a rebellious tear. “Does it amuse you to tease me so? ’Tis hardly fair, is it? Since I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m not teasing you, Lora. I’m just not sure about…”
“What?”
His gaze dropped to the gold medallion. He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the disc inside his shirt. Then he went to her, stopping half a stride away, frowning as his dark eyes searched her face.
“Tell me, has your wish been granted yet?” His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing the corner of her mouth. “I’m trying to decide if my feelings for you are my own, or have been thrust upon me by a pagan spirit.”
“A pagan…?” Lora gasped and tried to push his hand away, but he caught her fingers in a crushing grip. A flush of disbelief crept across her face and she blinked away the remnants of her tears. “You mean…you think I wished for you to lo…to have feelings for me? Are you saying I’m not worthy of them unles
s some magical power is at play? My God, how highly you rate yourself. Nay, that was not my wish, nor shall it ever be. I deserve more than a love conceived from a paltry piece of gold tossed into a haunted well.”
Gareth’s expression softened. “Aye, you do deserve more than that, Lora FitzGilbert. My apologies again. It seems I have a knack for offending you.”
“What am I, then?” she asked, her indignation dissolving at the musical sound of her name on his tongue. “A pest or beloved?”
The familiar twinkle came to his eyes. He released her fingers and captured her chin instead, giving a gentle tug down to part her lips. “Both,” he whispered, bending to kiss her.
His mouth was soft and warm. Lora shivered as his fingertips traced lines down her throat, brushed across her breasts, and around her waist, his hands tugging her body against his. With a groan, he drew back, studying her with an unfathomable expression as he muttered something in the language of his people. Lora raised an eyebrow, and Gareth shook his head.
“I refuse to translate that one, sweetheart.”
His lips found hers again, the kiss deeper and harder this time. Held tight in his arms, Lora yielded to the sensations of pleasure, her mind and body intoxicated with a growing desire. Their hearts, separated only by a fragile barrier of flesh and bone, thudded in impassioned unison. Oh, dear God. Had he lifted her clear off the ground or had the floor just fallen away?
Soft sounds of passion bestirred the stagnant air in the musty moonlit loft. Lora knew Gareth wanted her. She felt it. And, by all the stars in heaven, she wanted him, too. When he drew back again, she clutched at his shirt. “Gareth…please…”
“Nay, I must stop,” he whispered, breathing hard, “before I find myself unable to do so. Whether we wish it or not, this…this…desire we share is dangerous. I cannot… I will not shame you, my lady.”
His selflessness humbled her, for she knew if their trysts were discovered, her ensuing punishment would be nothing compared to his. Whereas Lora’s reputation might be lost to shame, Gareth stood to lose far more.
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 4
