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Rowan watched with a knot in his chest as Mary tossed her slim arms around Blanchette’s neck and squeezed. They stayed that way for several moments in what could only be described as an affectionate embrace. Blanchette came to her feet, sliding out of the hug, and Mary stepped back with visible reluctance.
“Can we read together again tomorrow?” Mary asked. Her sweet voice sounded impossibly small in the vast great hall.
“Yes, my sweet girl. And even more the day after.”
Rowan watched as Governess Agnes took his daughter by the shoulder and led her into the shadows. When his gaze returned to Blanchette, the question he’d been ignoring for weeks stared him straight in the face.
Is Mary truly my child?
* * *
Blanchette led Rowan up the steep staircase that lined the great walls of Winslowe Castle. Even at this late hour, the castle was a hive of activity. Clashing metal echoed from the training yard, where soldiers and squires sparred. The sharp, rhythmic clinks of swords meeting shields and the occasional triumphant shout added a vibrant urgency to the night.
Rowan’s arrival at the castle had breathed a new life into it. During her father’s reign, drunk merriment and feasts had often swelled the castle—but never this determination and tangible hope.
She glanced at Rowan, who walked behind her in silence. A black cloak, fastened by those snarling wolf heads, concealed him almost entirely. It whipped in the wind as they ascended the steep stone stairwell that led to the battlements.
He made a cutting image: a fierce, quiet darkness that deepened the shadows and gave the illusion of a ghost walking among the desolate walls of the castle.
Blanchette shivered. If a castle was ever entitled to some ghosts, Winslowe Castle was it.
Finally, they reached the roof and entered the battlements. Rowan and Blanchette drew close to the parapet wall and gazed down at the inner bailey from a crenel. The watchtower thrust into an ink-black sky. Torchlight glimmered from inside its mouth.
Blanchette felt Rowan’s presence like a tangible force. Her skin tightened at the sight of him beside her, halfway hidden beneath his cloak, surveying the kingdom before them. My domain, her heart confirmed, wanting it with every fiber of her being. She swallowed and fidgeted with her signet ring for several moments. Then she reached up and hesitantly gripped either side of Rowan’s hood. She removed it, sliding it off his head so the dark fabric pooled along the expanse of his shoulders. She expected to encounter that stony hardness in his eyes. But she found only gentleness… and a burning fire, which looked a lot like desire.
Rowan came forward until they stood inches apart. His large hands rested upon her shoulders; they were surprisingly light despite their size. She felt her muscles tighten and then relax. Deft fingers slid under her curls and up the length of her neck. Both thumbs came together at the base of her chin, where he traced gentle, invisible circles along her skin. Her eyes grew heavy and closed. Her head lolled forward as she lost herself to the magic of his caresses. How soothing they felt, his warm skin brushing against her own, the callused flesh of his thumbs sending fissions down her spine.
She released a long sigh… his hands slid up, up, up. His fingers traced the raised ridge of her scar from where it started next to her ear all the way to the corner of her lip. Then his thumb traced her mouth, first the bottom lip and then the top. Her mouth parted at the intimate touch. She heard Rowan’s sharp intake of breath. Her tongue darted out and ran across his thumb pad. She could taste the wine on his skin.
“Rowan...” She whispered his name like a talisman. He came closer, if even possible, and her breath caught as his head dipped forward and his lips came to her forehead. His hands still cradled her chin. A choked sound emerged from her. A tear slid down her cheek, and Rowan brushed it away with his fingertip. His touch felt achingly sweet. He was achingly sweet. Her head spun, her mind a mad clash of thoughts. She leaned into the heat of his body, savoring the security he offered her. As he embraced her, the chaotic din of her thoughts hushed, and she savored a peaceful silence unlike she’d ever known.
The war, the siege, the tragedy she’d endured… they all faded into merciful silence.
When he spoke, his voice sounded tentative—not at all the characteristic and commanding tone he carried onto the battlefield and in the training yard. Yet his quiet confidence demanded her focus.
“Since I can remember, I’ve never believed in anything,” Rowan whispered. She felt the brush of his breaths on her face. “I followed orders, and later I gave them... but faith? That was foreign to me. Something that had created a great divide between Beatrice and me. She told me to believe in God—to put my faith in Him. I would say the words, but they were always hollow. Spoken more for my wife’s peace of mind than my own. For a while, I believed in vengeance. That’s undeniable. I’d lay down to sleep, and my prayers wouldn’t be of God but of the suffering I’d one day bring to your father. That was my faith for almost ten years. Even so, it was an empty belief. Unfulfilling. Cold. And I saw ghosts everywhere I walked. Everywhere I looked. A ghost can be almost anything, Blanchette. Anger. A memory. Pain. Grief, a daydream, a nightmare. Wherever I walked, I never walked alone. The ghosts stood beside me, whispering on the back of my neck.”
He’d taken the words from her own heart. Never had she felt so connected to Rowan—or any other person. That summoned a medley of excitement and terror.
Another tear slipped down her cheek. Hastily, she knuckled it away as his hands withdrew from his face. “You got your vengeance,” she said. “Do you have faith now? Do you believe in anything?”
* * *
“I believe in you.”
His words hung in the crisp darkness. He watched her take them in, her gaze weighed down with bittersweet emotion. Silvery moonlight painted a melancholic glow on the scene. He watched as Blanchette turned away and gazed at the castle’s throng. Her blue eyes shimmered in the torchlight. Her gaze looked unfocused as if lost in the depths of her thoughts.
As the silence stretched between them, the night seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what might come next. At that moment, the castle’s battlements were an island of solitude amid the sea of night.
What would she do if I placed my hands on her cheeks, turned her lovely face toward mine, and kissed her? Would she pull away?
God, Rowan craved warmth. He felt cold. So very cold for so very long.
The castle below, bathed in a pale lunar glow, revealed a different shade of the night. Torches lining the walls cast extended shadows, and the courtyard was a tapestry of darkness and light. Rowan’s sentries and guardsmen patrolled, their armor clinking softly. The murmur of voices and laughter drifted from the great hall and barracks, carrying on the wind like the softest ballads.
Blanchette glided past Rowan and made her way toward the banister. She gazed down at the restless castle. Beyond the curtain wall, an angry mob of villagers lurked. They fought with the guards manning the gatehouse.
He faintly heard a tall, reed-thin woman in rags call out for Queen Blanchette. Or perhaps she said something else entirely, and his imagination was only at play.
