Gwen was aware that her head had nodded, though all of her nerves and limbs seemed apart from herself.
“Lady Gwen?” She found herself supported either side by the Brecken siblings, expressions concerned, a brandy proffered and…
“Thank you but I… I need some fresh air. Do excuse me…” And she willed her slippers to carry her to the French doors, her fingers to stretch for the handle.
“’Tis a bitter night, my lady…” called the captain.
Nevertheless, she opened the door, stepped through, drew it closed behind her and sagged upon the stone bench that hugged the outside wall.
The drawing room overlooked the rear terrace and gardens, the faint glow of candlelight from within solely stretching to the balustrade, the distant trees grey and skeletal in the dusk. Flowers had long gone, blackened by frost, and a light drizzle drifted but she was protected well enough tucked against the wall.
Her entire being was flooded with such emotion that it threatened to submerse her.
Tristan was alive and her heart sang.
So elated for Rhys and Mari who’d so deeply mourned his loss.
Yet his eyes had been so very different from when she’d last looked into them one year, four months and twelve days ago.
The two of them had been at his boat shed a few miles or so along the coast at Darowen Bay where there was sloped access to the small shingle beach. He’d been carving a new figurehead for the prow of his boat – of a ferocious dragon – and she’d teased that no storm would stand in his way with such a beast at the helm.
How she’d so regretted tempting the wrath of Neptune with those words.
Tristan had laughed before leaning near and brushing her cheek with his lips, lichen-green eyes full of tenderness and vigorous life.
She choked back a sob.
A heavy cloak abruptly swathed her shoulders and she glanced up. “Thank you, Captain Brecken.”
With a nod of accord, he limped back inside, and she listened to the silence. The gardens had now been claimed by sudden night – an amaranthine darkness, the moon hidden by turbid cloud.
Where had Tristan been these past sixteen months? His stance had been so fatigued, his features so harsh…
And why had his eyes held…nothing?
Another wail from Mari pervaded the silence.
Closing her eyes, she drew her cloak tighter, watched as the drizzle was caught and lost in the faint lantern light like fireflies, ethereal, transient and–
“This will see you right, Lady Gwen.”
A steaming mug was wafted beneath her nose. She sniffed. Chocolate and…a hefty dose of brandy, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
“Thank you, Mrs Pugh.” She sighed and clenched hands around the clay. “I cannot feel the cold, yet I know it is there.”
“’Tis the shock of it all, I expect. All of us will need time, not least Lord Tristan himself. Looks to have gone through an ordeal, he does.” And after a pat to Gwen’s shoulder, her black dress drifted off, footfall silent as the grave upon the terrace stones.
Gwen sipped, the sweetness slipping through her and warming her soul.
Chocolate was truly a miracle to womankind.
Strangely, as she watched the stone glisten with its layer of drizzle, felt heat permeate her fingers and listened to the far-off hoot of an owl, an odd peacefulness descended.
Tristan was alive.
And that was all that was needed tonight.
“Gwen?”
