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She took two more strides before she realized that he was no longer beside her. She looked over her shoulder at him, that not-smile on the bow of her lips. “I’ve found a fact you didn’t know about me?”
He nodded mutely. Why? Why hadn’t he considered this? Four years ago she would’ve been four and twenty. Of course she’d had suitors.
“Well, I shouldn’t feel too bad,” she replied. “We hadn’t announced it yet, which was a good thing: it made it so much easier for him to call it off discreetly without seeming like a cad.”
Maximus glanced away so she couldn’t examine too closely the expression on his face. “Who was he?”
“Thomas Stone. The son of the town’s doctor.”
He sneered. “Beneath you.”
Her gaze hardened. “As you so kindly pointed out, my father was notorious for his flights of fancy. Too, I had no dowry to speak of. I couldn’t very well be choosy. Besides”—her tone softened—“Thomas was quite sweet. He used to bring me daisies and violets.”
He stared, incredulous. What sort of imbecile brought such common flowers to a goddess? Were it him, he’d shower her with hothouse lilies, peonies overflowing with perfumed bloom, roses in every shade.
Bah, violets.
He shook his head irritably. “But he stopped bringing those flowers, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Her lips twisted. “As soon as the news of Apollo’s arrest got out, in fact.”
He stepped closer, watching her face for any minute signs, wanting to see what would break her. Had she fancied herself in love with the doctor’s son? “I detect a trace of bitterness.”
“He did say he loved me more than the sun,” she said, her voice as dry and brittle as ashes.
“Ah.” He looked up as they emerged from the woods at the brightly shining sun. The man had been an idiot and a cad, no matter if he’d managed to save his own good name. Besides. Anyone could see she was tied to the moon, not the sun. “Then I wish I had it in my power to make him live without the sun for the rest of his pitiful life.”
She stopped and glanced at him. “That’s a romantic thing to say.”
He shook his head. “I’m not a romantic man, Miss Greaves. I don’t say things that I don’t mean. I find it a waste of time.”
“Do you?” she looked at him oddly for a moment, then sighed and glanced toward the house. “We’re no longer in the woods, are we? The day is about to begin.”
He bowed. “Indeed it is. Don your helmet, Lady Moon.”
She lifted her chin. “And you yours.”
He nodded and strode away without looking back. But he couldn’t help wishing it were different. That they could lay aside their armor and find a way to have the woods around them always.
A far too dangerous thought.
Chapter Eight
The Dwarf King was very pleased with King Herla’s wedding present, and when at last the feasting ended and his guests were leaving, he bid farewell to his friend with the gift of a small, snow-white hound.
“I know your love of the hunt,” said the Dwarf King. “With this hunting dog in your saddle, your arrow will never miss the quarry. But mind that you do not dismount before the dog leaps down of its own accord. In this way you shall always be safe.”…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
Artemis entered Penelope’s room just before eleven of the clock to find her cousin seated before her vanity mirror, turning her head one way and then another as she scrutinized her coiffure.
“What do you think of this new style?” she asked. Curled tendrils framed her face, artfully interwoven with seed pearls. “Blackbourne suggested it, but I’m uncertain if it truly complements the roundness of my face.”
Blackbourne was at the far end of the room tidying Penelope’s stockings and could clearly hear their exchange—not that Penelope seemed to care. “I like it,” Artemis said truthfully. “It’s quite elegant, yet very modern, too.”
Penelope flashed one of her lovely smiles—the real one that not many people saw. For a moment Artemis wondered if Wakefield had ever seen that smile. Then she shook the thought aside. “Do you want your shawl?”
“I suppose you’ve already been out.” Penelope touched a curl.
