“We used to come up here to feed the dragons,” he rasped. “Do you remember?”
A gust buffeted and she swayed so he reached a hand to her velvet-clad waist, to steady her.
Gwen stilled, like a deer catching the scent of man.
“I remember,” she whispered huskily, “you used to watch the boats and wish to sail the seven seas.”
“So I did.” His fingers fell away as she stood, turning to behold the rumpled seas.
He sat up and searched for his last memory of Gwen before the wreck, remembered her coming home from London, a few dinners, conversations, balls, he hadn’t liked any of her suitors, and then… Memories faded but he knew he must have commenced building his boat soon after that. He did recall happening upon her at the beach once, not long after her return home. She’d been barefoot, hem coated in sand, skin glistening in the sun, and he’d been rather surprised as she was normally so trim of appearance.
Now he silently watched her.
Gwen’s features were elegant with high delicate cheekbones, and though the three of them had been rough and tumble children, he’d always considered her a touch gentle, fine and fragile, hardly suited to the climate of Wales.
Yet now she stood, her cloak billowing and deep-blue pelisse skirts undulating, facing the sea like some ancient goddess, and he realised she wasn’t fragile at all, but of this place.
Of gentle hills and fine dales but also wild windswept moors and weather-beaten resilient flora.
And he must have been blind not to see it previously.
He wondered if he ought to ask of her travel plans again but at this moment, he felt an unaccountable irritation that she was…leaving.
“Do you recall,” she said all of a sudden, “that herder pup who became lost?”
His memory was not what it was, but even so… “You might have to give me a little more than that, Gwen.”
She pivoted, grinned, and hell, she was pretty, black hair streaming against the cloak, cheeks rosy and eyes all shades of the sea and sky behind her.
“That shepherd’s young herder pup?”
“There were a fair few shepherds in this area, as I recall.”
She tutted and put hands to hips, before sauntering clockwise around the stones. “The black-and-white one that used to follow us everywhere.”
“Ah, that pup. Yes, I do. We rode up to the Llancarys hills and he disappeared.”
“Just so. And who found him?”
“Rhys, of course. Never gives up, does he? Spent days searching every path, brook and rock crevice in those hills, and eventually found him stuck down that old fox’s den. Took hours to dig him out. Said he never would’ve forgiven himself if he’d not found…” Tristan scrunched his brow. “You… You don’t think Rhys…” He twisted to the sea that had taken him to Ireland.
Gwen lether fingertips glide over aBedd Ddraigstone, her favoured one with jagged weather-worn edges, moss creeping up the face like fingers seeking freedom from the earth. She spied a sixpence that someone had left at the base for their wishes.
She hoped they came true.
How her pulse had pounded when she’d spotted Tristan lying motionless, arms akimbo, as though dead to the world. Of course, she should have seen the blanket beneath him but…
All Gwen had thought was she’d lost him again and had been unable to bear it, had felt as if a whip was flaying her heart to ribbons, shadows consuming her like that morn she’d been told of his loss at sea.
She’d fallen to her knees in the hallway of Penffordd Manor, no strength, breath keening, agony overwhelming.
Tristan, her love. Gone.
But as she’d prodded him here on the ground, his eyes had opened and for the briefest of moments, she’d thought he’d remembered, for his gaze had been full of intense green and vivid life.
Then it had faded like mist.
Foolish Gwen.
