“Damn,” he growled aloud as he made his way through the kitchens to pause at the door to the gardens.
Surely she wouldn’t be out there. Not this late at night. Not in this cold.
And yet . . .
He’d checked everywhere within the castle proper to no avail. And hadn’t she prattled on at the noonday meal about some sort of preparations for observing Samhain?
Watch her,Malcolm had asked of him, and watching her was exactly what he intended to do. He had given his word.
As he slipped out into the night, he sent a silent thanks to Freya for the full moon lighting his way even as he paused, listening for any telltale sounds.
Within moments he sensed her presence. Following his unexplainable instinct through the cook’s garden and beyond the small orchard, he spotted her at last.
Noiselessly, he concealed himself behind a large tree, where he could watch without being seen.
What was the woman up to now?
Elesyria kneeled on the ground, at the very center of a circle of strewn stones, her arms lifted beseechingly toward the skies. For an instant, as if his eyes played tricks on him, he could have sworn another figure floated above her.
“Damned Elf,” he muttered under his breath.
No doubt she practiced her own form of religion and, like as not, whatever she was up to now would do naught but bode ill for all of them. As if Malcolm needed one more burden placed upon his shoulders.
If that was her plan, she’d best be about thinking again, because he was having none of it.
Intending to stop whatever Elesyria attempted, Patrick stepped away from the tree but halted his movement as the woman he watched rose to her feet.
Moonlight glinted off her form, sparkling playfully over the unbound hair that cascaded down her back like a river of fire. She twirled in dance, arms lifted, her face shining with unbridled joy as her laughter tinkled like the music of water over stones.
Patrick ducked back behind the tree and rubbed a hand over his eyes.
Whether by trick of moonlight or magic, the woman before him was no gray-haired matron but a maiden. A lass at the peak of womanhood.
By Freya, she was beautiful!
In his chest, his heart pounded even as he fought to control his erratic breathing before he once again moved from behind the tree to catch another glimpse of her. Carelessly, his step snapped a dry branch, and across the field her head swiveled toward the spot where he stood. When their eyes met, the air shimmered as if a thick curtain had been pulled between them.
For the second time he wiped a hand over his eyes to clear his vision. When he looked again, the Elesyria he recognized approached him, her face much older than he’d imagined only moments before, but her eyes still shining with her joy.
“Good evening, Northman,” she greeted sweetly. “Did you satisfy your curiosity with your spying on me?”
“Good evening, Elf.”
He tipped his head respectfully, careful to hide the smile their shared greeting brought to his lips. A week ago he would have scoffed aloud at the suggestion that he would fall into such a comfortable routine with this woman.
In the face of his self-imposed control, her smile broadened, her eyes twinkling.
“Ah, Patrick, you are such a joy.” She linked her arm through his, patting his hand as she did. “Walk with me. I’ve had the most wonderful Samhain.”
She was infectious in her happiness and, at last, he allowed himself the weakness of returning her smile.
“So tell me, my lady, what has made this evening so special for you?”
“My Goddess has brought me wonderful news. My Isabella lives, though far from this time. She’s happier than I could ever have hoped, and I have your brother to thank for that.”
“You spoke to . . . your Goddess.” In light of her happiness, Patrick meant to remove any traces of doubt and sarcasm from his words. To his ears, though, he’d been less than successful. “She was here, was she?”
Who was he to question what comfort the woman took from her religion? If their positions were reversed, he couldn’t say how he might react to the loss of a child. Even a child grown to full womanhood.
