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“Gods,” she breathed, unable to help it.
His head snapped back around, hand flattening on top of Valencia’s nose, just above her nostrils. He held her like he would a horse, keeping her there, against him, behind him, almost as if he was protecting her. “What?”
She smoothed her expression – but then thought better of it, and let him see her smile. “You really like her, don’t you?” She nodded toward the drake who’d angled her head so that each breath stirred the golden hair around Reginald’s ear.
He frowned. “Yes?” Said it like a question. “What of it?”
“Nothing. I think it’s sweet.”
He made a face, but began to stroke the dragon’s face, the sharp bones along her jaw. “I can’t hear her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not like you can.”
“You’re not a Drake.”
“And thank the gods forthat. You’re crazy, the lot of you.” He sighed. “But…I don’t know.” His gaze flitted away again, and he looked self-conscious. “I’ve always found it peaceful to be at the stables, around the horses. This isn’t too different. Except…I don’t know,” he repeated, turning his head so he was gazing into one of Valencia’s red-gold eyes, glowing like a banked fire in the dark, half-lidded with pleasure as he scratched beneath her chin. “It’s different.” His voice had gone quiet. Vulnerable. “They’re more intelligent, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” she said, though it felt disloyal toward her stallion, Shadow.
“It’s like she knows things about me. Horses pick up on your moods, yes, but…” Another sigh, this one fond. “I can’t explain it.”
“Neither can I,” Amelia said.
It was quiet a moment, save the whooshing in-and-out of Valencia’s breath, the distant, usual murmur of the camp, and, nearer, Liam excitedly recounting the day’s bug search to Alpha, who’d curled up around the boy and provided a seat for him of his tail.
“Reggie,” Amelia said, and his gaze had softened when he turned to her this time. “I’m not prying.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he said, a wry twist to his lips.
“I’m not,” she insisted, “but I know you well enough by now to know that something is weighing on you. You don’t have to confide in me, or ask for my advice – though it would undoubtedly be the best advice.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said with a snort.
“But I think you should talk to someone. Maybe Connor–”
And just like that, the shutters snapped closed again. His face became a smooth, expressionless mask.
“What?” she asked, thinking of Leda’s words again. “What’s going on with you and Connor?”
His hand fell away from Valencia’s face. She made a low, concerned crooning sound, but he strode away from her. “Nothing,” he said, without turning around.
“Reginald.”
He lifted a hand over his shoulder, but didn’t stop, and didn’t acknowledge her further. Continued on at a ground-covering walk. He called something she couldn’t hear to Liam, and the boy patted Alpha on the nose, scrambled down off his tail, and went scampering off after Reginald. He took the lord’s hand, just before they slipped out of sight into the shadows, and Amelia was left wondering at the strangeness of men.
She shook it off, and went to see that Alpha was thoroughly unsaddled and ready for sleep.
The butchered deer arrived as she departed for the house, and she heard the low, hungry rumbling of the drakes as they moved in around the boys who’d brought the meat, their faces pale and knees quaking. She smiled to herself; perhaps one day she’d stop enjoying the way the drakes frightened others, but it wasn’t to be this night.
As she mounted the steps to the manor’s side entrance, amidst the long-dead terrace garden, helmet tucked under her arm, she was greeted by Lady Leda and her step-son, Colum.
Leda wore a high-necked wool gown that would have been modest, save the deep slit in the chest that flashed a startling amount of cleavage when she lifted her arms to pull her cloak more tightly around herself.
Colum, by contrast, was dressed in his usual dour browns and blues, buttoned up to the throat, cloaked with a wool nearly as heavy as the frown that marred his young forehead. He was tall, but willowy; shoulders broad, but hands soft from handling books rather than swords. The bookish boy she’d met years ago had grown up into a joyless young man, pale from lack of sun, his hair a limp and uninspiring brown, cut closer than was fashionable so that his ears seemed to stick out like mug handles. His devotion to his stepmother was an outward, obvious thing; at times it seemed to swell and fill a room, pressing its other occupants up against the wall where they traded raised-brow looks of surprise.
They made for an odd pair, and yet never strayed far from one another, save the occasions when Leda shooed him away so that she and Amelia might have a glass of wine and confer in private. On those occasions, war stratagem quickly turned to friendly lamentation of the lack of further feminine influence at camp.
“Anything of interest?” Leda asked.
Amelia reached the top of the stairs, and lady and stepson did an about face to fall into step beside her. “No. As usual.” She didn’t know if yet another fruitless search, or Reginald’s bad attitude was to blame for her grumpy tone.
