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“I know what you would say,” she said. “It meant nothing. I am ransom. The world is dark and dying. You are awful. I am arrogant. My father is a worm. There is no hope for the English, for you will wreak your vengeance upon us—”
He reached her in three strides and hauled her up against him. Her words sputtered into silence. She waited to find out, yet again, how she had angered a man.
“It meant something,” he rasped.
The hoarse, harsh murmur filled her with hope. Unrealistic, improper, foolish hope, for there was no future between an outlaw and a lady.
He bent his head and parted her lips with the slowest, sweetest kiss. His lips almost floated from one side of her mouth to the other, depositing light kisses on her bottom lip, then her top. So soft, so gentle, they were barely whispers of a kiss.
“Last night meant something…” he said as his mouth moved over hers, “…last night. Not today.”
“No.”
“Trust me, Cassia. You do not want it to mean something today,” he murmured, still kissing her. And she clung to him, knowing he was right in the thing he had not said: there was no hope for them.
The things that mattered were all past tense. He would return her to her future and ride away.
Which was as it should be. She’d been made for something different.
The kiss ended eventually. All kisses must.
He stepped back, then reached out and tugged the blanket over her shoulders.
“Come, princess. Time to ride.”
Yes. Ride to his sword and her future, a future filled with silk-clad noblemen. There was no place for scruff-jawed warriors who knew how to have an adventure.
Máel guided Fury to the trail and followed it. Vigilance marked his ride: he was not worried about pursuit, for no one but bandits rode into such forests. He was alert to Cassia.
She sat before him, rocking in the saddle, at times humming a little. She’d tried to pin her hair up, but it had only half taken, and long tendrils of it tumbled down her back like a blonde river, swaying back and forth, catching on the fabric of her gown at the nip of her waist.
He stared at those curls until the track emerged from the trees.
“Oh,” she exclaimed softly, and pointed to the east.
A pale sunrise spilled over the land. Pink dusted the low horizon, then expanded upward. A tiny cloud above the land turned russet, then burst into glittering gold. Along the low hump of the earth, a hot, white band of light appeared, grew brighter, brighter yet, then the sun burst up in the sky, a pulsing, liquid gold orb.
She sighed in happiness, then gave a small, almost apologetic laugh and glanced over her shoulder.
“I know it is naught but a sunrise, yet…”
“You like beautiful things,” he said quietly.
She smiled. “I do.” Then she faced forward and, a moment later, began to sing.
Her voice was as clear as the dawn had been. Clear and golden, cascading like droplets of liquid sound.
Las! toz jors la desir,
Et ades voi ma mort,
Et si ne puis morir.
The song told the tale of a pure knight and unrequited love, and how the idiot then went on to die for the woman. But as she continued to sing, her voice rising and mixing with the bird song and the breezes and sun and blue sky, even he almost believed.
Jesus. She truly was noble.
She turned her head slightly, chin over her shoulder. “That was a tale a trouvère sang for me this past winter.” She paused. “It is better with a lute. You do not have a lute in any of your little packs, do you?”
