The storm didn’t come, but the winds did. They lashed against the castle and bent huge trees into submission. Small woodland creatures scurried for safety. The night had a curious luminescence, a greenish-black hue, with stark white clouds scuttling against the hectic colouring as if racing for a safe haven. But there was none. The storm looked to stretch for miles, across into Scotland, and they all, clouds and creatures and men, would do best to hunker down and weather it.
Despite the gusting wind, Gwyn didn’t close the shutters. A low fire burned in the brazier. She ought go walk on the ramparts. That’s what she always did when restless and awake, when she should be well far into sleep.
Having decided, she stood curiously still, breathing in slow, measured breaths. She stared out at the storm, her view restricted by the narrow window frame and the tears threatening under her eyelids.
“Come.”
The word rode like low thunder across the room. The sting of tears grew hot. How could his voice hold so much heat, when she was assured what awaited her if she turned around? Cold, frigid recriminations, benumbed rage.
She turned, sending her skirts into a billowing flute around her ankles before settling back to docility. His eyes burned a path through the darkened room.
“My lord?”
“Come back.”
She crossed to him without argument, stepping slowly and deliberately, and stopped when she reached his shadowy figure.
“We are nothing but trouble together.” Her prediction was soft and tremulous.
His dark head bent into a nod. “Nothing but.”
“And yet you would have me with you?”
“I would.”
She stepped in front of him and felt his heat at her back all the way down the curving staircase, past the guttering torchlamps, through the cold stone corridors, and into the lord’s chambers, silent all the way.
He closed the door behind them, its solid thud forbidding. But Griffyn didn’t spare her a look. He turned away and began undressing, not speaking to her at all.
Gwyn wandered to the window and swung open the shutters in time to see a jagged spear of lightning cut across the stormy sky before leaving it to darkness again. A strangely cold wind sneaked through the window. The world smelled close to hand. The odour of the bailey and barns rode up to her nose, and the sweeter, subtle smell of dying grass on the meadows came calm beneath it.
She turned. He was naked, his body a solid swipe of muscle and skin. Only one candle burned. Its flame leapt wildly in the wind.
“Come to bed.” When she didn’t move, he spoke again, his words heavy. “I will not touch you.” He lay down without another word. The only sound was the moaning of the wind.
Maybe it was an hour later, maybe less, when she finally curled into the bed beside him and fell into a dreamless sleep.
It was still dark when Griffyn awoke. Still lying down, he scanned the bedchamber in his mind. He was home. Everything was as he’d dreamed. And it was hollow, like a gourd scraped and mashed. It was baffling. And infuriating. And he had the vague sense that Guinevere was both part of the reason and most of the cure.
It was almost as if she sensed his thoughts, for she stirred beside him in the bed. She mumbled something, then quieted again.
He looked over at her, tumbled beneath the furs, still clothed, her dress bunched up around her hips, her hair still in pins. A few strands had pulled free and were curled above her head on the pillow, like dark winding roads spied from a hilltop. She shifted again, flinging her hand out. It made contact with his chest but she didn’t wake. The back of her hand stayed on his chest for a moment, then slid down to the furs.
What was he to do? Home with a mission denied and a wife who hated him, and he was starting to lose control. Guinevere was far too much woman for this marriage to be tranquil or predictable, but that was not the problem. The problem was, could he keep making the leap between the ledges of passion and respect, humour and hatred, when such dizzying chasms echoed below?
And if
not, then what?
More to the point, the problem was, she was de l’Ami’s daughter, and he did not know if he could ever forgive her for that.
But he wanted to. Enough cold remove, enough of wanting and never finding. Guinevere was everything he’d never known to wish for.
He rolled to his feet and pulled on his chausses. The air was cold. He placed another piece of wood on the fire and walked to the window. The shutters were swung wide, and he stepped into the stream of chalky light triangulated on the floor, leaning his shoulder against the wall. He stared out. The winds had passed, giving no rain, but leaving the world reverent and hushed in their wake.
He must have stood there for half an hour. Only twice did he move, both times to glance at the bed. A candle flame flared up, crackling fiercely before settling into a steady burn. The stream of white moonlight moved slowly across the floor.
“Griffyn?”