For although he still looked at Gwen and saw a cherished friend, he now also saw an exquisite woman with a spirited soul. One who called to his own with a siren’s soft song.
Desirable and precious.
But he was a wreck of a man…and perhaps promised to another.
“I ought to dress,” he muttered.
“Not on my account.” Her flush deepened. “I mean…” The breeze picked up, strands of hair streaking across her face like black satin ribbons, veiling her features.
“Then walk with me a while?” he asked, proffering an arm as though in a Mayfair ballroom, and she laughed, hooking her hand through.
The water gently lapped at her toes and he imagined her standing barefoot upon the deck of some schooner in the Mediterranean, eyes wide in wonder, hair flowing like a fluttering flag. “You are well suited to your name, Gwenllian.”
She snorted. “Princess Gwenllian was a courageous woman fighting for the freedom of Wales. If I was in the slightest bit courageous, I would have travelled years ago. Asked Father to advance my grandmother’s inheritance and sailed the seven seas. Instead, I suffered the London Seasons. It was only when I came home that…”
“That?”
She shook her head.
“Sing to me,” he rasped all of a sudden and she startled. “Sing our Welsh lullaby of Gwenllian. If you do not mind.”
“It’s… It’s been some while since you asked me to sing.”
“But I recall your voice as if yesterday. At musical soirees and the like.” And how he’d adored listening to her pure lyrical lilt, so he closed his eyes and waited until…
“Sleep, Gwenllian, my heart’s delight
Sleep on through shivering spear and brand…
How many a queen of high degree
Would cast away her crown to slumber thus like thee.”
Beautiful, and as she trailed off, he turned and…
“Gwen?” For a lone tear was rolling from her eye like a transparent pearl. “Gwen?” He clutched her cheeks between his hands. “Don’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” And before thought or rationale could interfere, he bent to kiss the tear away, lips feathering her eyes and skin, not comprehending what had caused this sorrow.
But then onwards, his lips drifted…to hers.
Warm and soft, lavender and salt.
Gentle, merely brushing and touching and caressing. Yet intense desire ensnared him, surging and tempestuous.
For he wanted so much more…
To breathe for one another, his hand ruining her coiffure, to feel the hanks of hair streaming through his fingers like black water.
More still.
He wanted not a finger’s breadth separating their bodies, his lips seeking the lobe of her ear, the silk of her throat, before returning to hers.
Yet he mustn’t.
“Gwenllian,” he gasped. “I–”
A slap of water drenched his legs, cold sense assailed, and pain thudded at his nape – so vicious, he staggered back.
“Tristan?”
