Whom had he bought it for? Why had she not come forward? Had she moved away? Was it the same woman as in his dream? Why did his family not know of her? Were his affections not free, therefore, to pursue…
All questions for the sea.
It lapped against the sand in such a tender manner, fooling one into thinking it could never be so merciless as to wreck one’s boat or steal one’s memories, or seek to claim one’s life for its own. For at this moment, it simply lured with that endless and deceptive low lull.
And Tristan was lured.
So he stuffed the ring box back in his greatcoat pocket and undid the buttons, shoving it from his shoulders.
Next to go were his boots – not without some effort – and then his stockings and jacket.
He rose and limped over the soft sand towards the shallow waters.
The cold stole his breath, stung his toes, but it likewise invigorated his every sense.
So he unravelled his cravat, held it aloft and then let it drift to the sea at his feet.
And even though he knew it was ridiculous, this being December, he unbuttoned his woollen waistcoat and tossed it back to the sand. Stretched, welcomed the chill through his linen shirt and thanked the almighty in heaven that he breathed. He was alive.
Then because he was alive, he dragged himself further into the sea till it weaved around his knees.
Bloody freezing.
But his mind felt so clear, the perpetual ache at his nape receding, sight crystalline as a raindrop. He twisted to view the cove behind him with its jagged cliff face and felt a fierce love for his home and his life and–
Gwen was clambering over the rocky outcrop with some sort of net bag.
She’d think he was a bottle-headed nigmenog if she saw him here, dithering in the wintry sea.
He dithered some more.
Could he make it to the sand, dress and pretend he’d been reading poetry?
She glanced up. Paused. Waved. And started towards him.
No, then.
So he wrenched his shoulders back and dragged himself up the beach, well aware he was mightily underdressed and rather dishevelled in drenched shirt and breeches.
Mind you, he wasn’t the only one.
At first light this morn, Gwen’s hair had doubtless been tethered in some complicated chignon but various locks had escaped from their pins, and a breeze had sprung up, causing silken black lengths to drift about her. She wore a dark-blue cloak that flapped, revealing a sapphire day dress, the hem of which was coated in sand. She looked so full of wellness and wildness and…beautiful.
“What on earth are you doing, Tristan? You’ll freeze.”
He wafted a hand at her feet. Herbarefeet. “Could I not say the same?”
She chewed a lip and swung her bag. “I was collecting shells amongst the rocks and it’s too difficult to clamber in boots. Isabelle and I are making a mirror framed with shells for Mari’s Christmas gift. What’s your excuse?”
Not sure he could better that, he went for the truth. “I just needed to feel the sea. It makes me feel alive.”
“It always has done. You used to swim here whenever you could.”
“Without togs, if I remember, so I hope you never caught sight of anything untoward, Lady Gwen Evans?”
“No!” A blush emerged. “Not at all.” And he wondered when his feelings for her had twisted to something…so much more than friendship.
At the stone circle ofBedd Ddraig? Or that night in the haunted attics?
