"Your maid was right. You've neither sire nor brother to watch over you. I am charged with keeping you safe. There is no reason you should not rest. All is quiet. Return to your bed, Lady Fa Yune."
She cocked her head, studying the dark cowl, trying to make out the general shape beneath it, the edge of a jaw or nose. "If someone came with malicious intent, you would not hesitate to slay him, would you? You would endanger your own life for mine. Because the king has asked it, or because he offered you coin?"
"Both reasons you give are one and the same. Cronel will not accept fealty from a Waniand. I am only too happy to accept payment from the royal coffer. What he asks, I do. I would kill any man who seeks to harm you. Does this ease your mind?"
"Ah, yes. You are Waniand." Moreya had heard of the obscure race. They were said to be mystical people. "Do you—forgive my boldness, but I do not understand. It has been said . . . Are you somehow in concert with the changes of the sixth moon? I'd heard a fellow claim as much about your bodily nature, but I doubt his assertion is true."
There was a long silence. Did Preece simply stare at her?
The cowl obscured his features completely. Peering closer, Moreya wondered if there wasn't yet another cloth beneath it, masking his face. She could make out nothing, not even the glimmer of an eye. Yet she felt his gaze on her, that wolfish gaze she realized again was both intense and troubling.
This had been a poor idea, this attempt at reconciliation. She should have let sleeping beasts lie and never been so bold in her speech. Her father had oft complained it was one of her flaws, though hardly the worst.
"Forgive me, sir." She stepped back to close the door. "I have no right to ask such questions, nor do they matter."
"They do," he countered. "I was merely surprised you'd so candidly address the subject. I admire your courage. For the second time today."
He admired her courage?
He made a strange sound, which she belatedly realized had been the rough clearing of his throat. His stiff posture had not changed, but he was likely as chagrined as she at the decidedly odd turn their conversation had taken.
"Nay, Lady Fa Yune, I am not in concert with the sixth moon. Nor the first, nor the third. My seasons vary. There is no danger of one at present, nor by the time we reach Greensward. That is why Cronel entrusted you into my care."
Moreya really could not fathom what he'd said beyond the last of his words. No one but Glaryd and her father had spoken of caring for her. The Warmonger’s clipped words were strangely comforting, even when uttered from beneath a dark cowl.
"Do you know the other knights say you do not dine in the great hall because you are . . . different? Mayhap you stay away purposely to set tongues wagging. You like making people wary of you, I suspect."
"Indeed, and with good reason. I am Waniand, a warrior. The king’s blade. Go to bed, my lady."
"Do you mean to call me that for a fortnight, sir?" The cowl dipped in assent.
Moreya frowned up at the pinnacle of black cloth. "I would hope that by journey's end, we might become friends, Sir Preece. After all, I must place faith in you. I would have you understand that I did not know whom I'd encountered at first this afternoon, or I'd not have spoken so rashly. I beg your forgiveness, and pray you come to trust that I mean neither harm nor disrespect."
She leaned closer, adamantly shaking her head. "I do not accept their sordid tales of a monster hidden 'neath your cowl. Truly, I've no need of you here, but you may stay if you prefer to stand guard. Good evening."
She thrust out her right hand.
He ignored it. "You are to ride in a closed carriage with your maid. My men and I will guard it and the pack animals bearing your dowry and household goods. Dredonia is not a welcoming realm, but with precautions, I hope to forestall trouble. The first precaution is to train you not to make overtures to strange men, Lady Fa."
A broad smile lit her face. "But you are not a strange man. You are the Warmonger. Sleep well, sir." She shut the door and scurried back into bed, feeling tremendous relief. He’d wanted to take her hand. She'd sensed his hesitation. Would he have kissed it? Surely not, for then she’d have to feel his lips brush her skin. He'd not risk that. Not yet. But he wanted to clasp it. Moreya just knew he did.
He'd blustered instead, endeavoring to prove himself worthy as her defender.
Moreya released a small giggle. The dark knight called Preece was all her father had said of him, naught of what the gossips maligned. She'd descried a secret: the ferocious Warmonger was a decent, honorable man.
She was very glad she'd opened the door to speak with him, for she doubted his prowess as warrior not one whit. But she also knew he was no slathering beast. He harbored no malice toward her. In fact, she would almost go so far as to suspect he liked her.
That thought brought sleep easily.
The door to the woman's bedchamber shut. Preece collapsed with his back against it. He slid to the floor and wiped a hand over his head, allowing the oversize cowl to tilt back enough to admit a draught of cool air. He felt as though he'd climbed a glacier. His chest hitched with every breath.
He'd seriously misjudged the situation here. Misjudged the Yune female.
In the throne room, she'd worn a shapeless gown he couldn't even describe, beyond the recollection it was some drab brown or wheaten shade. He'd run his sword through her skirts, yet he couldn't now name the precise hue of them. He'd scoffed at the rumors about Yune women, refused Bourke's amulet, assured himself and everyone else there was no cause for concern.
Then she'd opened her chamber door and unleashed a maelstrom.
The faint glow he'd detected in the throne room emanated from a magnificent head of gleaming violet hair. It spilled down over her shoulders and waist, reaching clear to the back of her knees. The gleaming mantle matched her iridescent eyes. Which he'd mistaken for gray that afternoon. Ha! Never gray, not even blue, but a remarkable deep violet. Amethyst and crystalline. Warm-cold as the gems themselves.
Her flesh was not peachy like that of most Yunes, mayhap owing to her father's Glacian blood. But her shape was lithe and willowy, wraithlike and supple. He had only to close his eyes and he could see and hear her again. Asking his forgiveness, standing there with her hand extended.
Even though she knew.
She knew what he was. She'd asked about his cycle. She'd stood there and smiled, saying she hoped they might become friends.
Women who were not of his blood did not treat him thusly. They did not offer friendship and smiles. Nay, they cowered, whispered behind their hands, looked elsewhere, pretended they did not see the black cowl. This he'd come to accept. Just as he'd come to accept the markedly different lore of his race, the rigid rules of his existence. The Ancient Ones left tablets and scrolls behind. Mystic tomes filled with sacred cabals, rites and rituals, the mysteries of the olden ways. Preece had studied Waniand lore and understood the arcane ways of his race.
So by all natural order, this should not be happening to him. Not now . . . and not with this noble female. She was young and mayhap foolish, green to the ways between females and males. He was not.
He'd find a way to quell his fascination. He would not permit himself to indulge in unseemly thoughts. Thoughts of how she'd stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the torchlights in the passageway, holding out her hand to him. Smiling with her lips and eyes as the tips of her breasts pressed against her thin gown. How they and her gleaming mantle of flowing tresses had all but begged for a male's caressing touch.
He should not have even been aware of such things out of season. That he had now, he could only proclaim as the woman's own fault. Had she no sense of proper decorum, no maidenly coyness?
Damn her.
If only she hadn't sought him out, hadn't smiled at him. Hadn't stood there, glowing. But she had. And he did not sleep a wink that night for remembering.
lian’s Heart
The Quest for Gillian’s Heart Page 28
