Chapter Two
This was Elizabeth’sfavorite part. Not the pudding, nor the fact she’d have another jest under her belt against her family, who were much too strait-laced for her.
No, her favorite moment was any time Drystan was by her side. Over the years, she wondered if it was her antics she loved or the moment when Drystan arrived to share in her jests. Oh, he may call it cleaning up her messes, but there were plenty of times he could have stopped her, but instead, he helped her.
The jests were fun, a chance to laugh and ruffle feathers—a moment to share laughter with Drystan and others. Despite everything separating them, she wanted to share laughter with him. She wanted…him.
She liked the way the wind roughed up his hair as he swiftly walked toward her, the thickness of those eyelashes that framed his dark brown eyes. Nothing escaped his fierce gaze. His father had possessed the same shrewd look, one that didn’t brook any nonsense.
But when Drystan was close to her, like now, there was another reflection to his eyes, some softness, something warm. It was distracting. As was his clean, masculine, and evergreen scent and the width of his shoulders she could compare to the oak table they stood by.
She compared every man, every thought, and every deed to Drystan. Next to him, she found everything else wanting.
Especially John Evans, her neighbor and enemy ever since he suggested she lift her skirts so he could kneel and—No! She’d never want him, but that didn’t matter. Not when she spied the Evanses talking with her father. Not when she saw shaking hands between her father and John. Not when the servants looked at her with pity. She knew her father was concerned about the estate and understood the Evans estate was on higher ground and fared better than theirs.
It wouldn’t be the most advantageous match, but it would secure her future and tie her to a fate she never wanted. John was not Drystan and could never be.
Drystan had been her constant companion. When they were younger, it was almost easy to slip by her governess or tutors and find the steward’s young boy. An hour, perhaps two, they’d had, whilst they both avoided their lessons and duties. As they grew, those times were more difficult to achieve. So, she’d simply tried harder.
Now that she reflected on it all, now that she stood next to him and her palms grew damp merely from being this close, she could easily believe her mischief was so Drystan could find her! Oh, but there was a cost to those later, grander jests. It was like she couldn’t help it. The stricter her father became, the more Drystan was pulled away by his father neglecting his duties, she became almost desperate to keep him close.
Shame swept through her remembering the antics she’d done in those years! What Drystan had done for her, the punishments he shouldered when they should have been her responsibility!
She was the one who hid frogs in the housekeeper’s bed, but Drystan had taken the scolding. When trying to tie a quill on a rafter above a desk, she accidentally spilled ink on her mother’s rug; Drystan had taken her father’s whip. Oh, how she regretted that, but he’d been fierce then, too, and Drystan made her promise to keep quiet. And like a coward, she did.
She also regretted when John had said words no man should say to a woman unless encouraged to do so. They were offensive and wrong coming from his mealy-mouth, so she grabbed the nearest weapon, a large piece of wood, and swung it at his head.
Drystan somehow had taken that punishment, too, though she wasn’t supposed to know of it. Why had he done so? No doubt it protected her reputation, but she wanted to know why.
There were times she swore he wanted to tell her his feelings. He’d even grip his hair in that way he had, but still, he kept his silence. Did he care for her? Such a weak word! They were at least friends, as much as friends they could be. Of course, he cared for her, but was it more?Couldit be more?
She loved this fierce boy turned man, who looked only at her with warmth in his eyes. And it wasn’t only because he’d taken the punishments for her or that he cleaned up after her mischiefs when they became messes, and honestly, she tried to never make them so.
It was because he was kind, and when he was near, her heart flipped. It was because he understood her like no one else ever did or could.
How she wished she could find a way for her father to think this man was worthy to be her husband. A dream she wanted especially when he looked at her like he did now.
When Drystan was close, that fire in his eyes was there, but when he looked at her, it changed to a sort of smoldering heat, a sort of light, as if whatever she was on about pleased him deeply. And however she looked, either with hay in her hair or, like now, with every curl artfully done and powdered, he gazed at her as if she was something he greatly appreciated.
She’d spend all the time in the kitchen, think up any jest she could, simply to prolong time with him. She was happy with him, at ease with at least one person in all the world. Especially now that she was about to take the bite of pudding, and it was just them, and their one allowed cherished moment.
As the years went on, she loved this moment when Drystan’s deep absorbing eyes locked with hers. Accepted that her mouth would run dry, and shivers would begin, knew she’d be forced to thrust the crumbling sweet pudding into her mouth too quickly to savor.
But the prize moment was when she closed her lips around the pudding, and he did what he’d always done since they were children: he winked.
For years, and even now, her knees threatened to buckle, and her heart hammered hard. Her reaction to him was worse this year. Because she swore his chest stilled as if he held his breath when she took that bite, and his lashes lowered, casting shadows beneath his eyes as they remained riveted on her mouth and…
She could barely chew or swallow because everything in her seized up, and all the more as she watched his eyes darken further as they moved from one of her features to another as if he hadn’t seen her a thousand times in a thousand different ways.
But this time was different; some choked sound came between them. From her or him? Did it matter when he was leaning forward, and she was certain he would kiss her?
“Elizabeth,” he growled low.
With no thought at all, her empty hand lifted, intent on touching the side of his face to bring him closer so that—
“Is it prepared?” Her father’s voice boomed in the kitchens.
Drystan’s stance never changed, but Elizabeth jumped away. Senseless of her because she looked guilty, which wasn’t helped by the flush on her cheeks. Her father’s brow raised, but his stance was unsteady, his complexion ruddy. He wouldn’t notice her any more now than he ever did.
