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Welcome back to the Rose Court, Morgan, I told myself grimly as I pushed open the door to my room and pulled the bell for a servant to bring hot water.
CHAPTER 22 - MORGAN
Islipped into sleep, and when I opened my eyes, I knew I was back in the same idyllic place where I had last encountered Draven.
This time, it was long past twilight. The stars were already bright overhead.
Candles in tin lanterns glimmered in the windows of the little cottage ahead of me. Woodsmoke streamed upwards through the red brick chimney.
I walked up the cobblestone path and pushed open the door, expecting to see Draven lounging in a chair by the fire.
Instead, the cottage was empty.
But a fire burned in the hearth. Someone had kindled it not long ago.
I looked around. There were other signs of recent habitation. Walking towards one of the armchairs by the fireside, I reached out a hand and touched a black, linen shirt that had been carelessly tossed over its back. It was still warm.
Taking another step forward, I saw a pair of familiar, dark trousers pooled on the floor beside a set of leather boots.
Draven had clearly been here. And he had discarded most or all of his clothes.
I had to admit, the idea of him walking around the small cottage stark-naked was highly appealing.
I imagined the lean lines of his naked back. The bronze of his skin glowing in the firelight.
But where was he now?
I stepped towards one of the walls near the bed. Like the others, it was covered with an eclectic mish-mash of paintings. I hadn’t taken a good look at them the other day, but now I examined them with interest, looking from one frame to another. There were a vast range of styles, from charcoal sketches to watercolor pastels. Even a few oil paintings.
One of the paintings depicted a tranquil orchard bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun. The air seemed to ripple with serenity as if capturing a moment suspended in time. And at the heart of the scene stood a young woman.
I let out a little gasp.
A woman with long, silver hair trailing down her back.
She had been caught in the act of reaching upwards, her fingers poised to pluck a ripe apple from a tree. Silver markings gleamed softly along her golden skin, juxtaposed with the warm, earthy tones of the orchard. A small, secretive smile played on her lips.
