Angharad of Llyr is heir to a matriarchy: a line of enchantress-queens that has ruled her island for centuries. Her destiny from birth: to rule as sole authority and ensure that her powerful bloodline endures for another generation. Devoted to her p...
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Why hadn't she told him to leave?
Angharad twisted her hands into Tan's mane until the long strands bit into her fingers, turning their tips white. She stared at them absently but did not see them - nor anything else in her surroundings. Tan, fortunately, knew her own way home.
It should have been simple enough. She could have ordered him passage on a trading ship heading for the mainland the next day, and then he would, at least, be safe. From whatever was happening on the island. From whatever was happening between them.
Rubbish. Angharad snatched in her breath sharply. There was nothing happening between them, or not to her, at any rate; nothing that couldn't be blamed on a full moon and a lot of raw nerves and unsatisfied curiosity. She ought to have postponed this trip another day or two instead of being so blasted keen. She ought to have known better than to allow him to look her in the face; this was what came of breaking rules, of making allowances, of letting her guard down.
She should have made him leave. She had meant to. She'd spent the entire journey to the cove planning out what to tell him, how to convince him to go without giving away either her worry over the island or her disappointment over the necessity of his going. She'd planned, even, to be a bit harsh if she had to.
And then the moment she stood before him and he had looked at her with those laughing blue eyes, so bursting with light and life, she had forgotten every word. Llyr. Was this why eye contact with men was forbidden?
No, of course not. How absurd. Common men or noble, they were like enough, and she could look her own cousins in the face, the Chief Steward, even the High King, without any such disconcerting effect. Even Gwydion's clear, earnest gaze did not make her heart rise into her throat the way Geraint's did...though come to think of it, there were certain similarities in their expressions toward her, and it was all too true that she had begun to blush in Gwydion's presence. But that was entirely different.
I've already found it. What did one say after such a thing? When Gwydion had made comments with such unmistakeable intent she had feigned to misunderstand him, laughed as though she believed he were teasing her. She saw that her laughter pained him, and wondered if it would have been worse or better to be as direct as her wont, and was irritated at his putting her in such a predicament at all. The Prince of Don was a frustrating creature, having stubbornly resisted being pigeonholed into any convenient category between friend and...something else, undefined. She could not even say exactly why his compliments left her lukewarm; certainly he was attractive, in his rugged, dark way, with his aura of serious authority and his rare, intense smile. She found him admirable, a fascinating conversationalist, a trustworthy friend, a man of honor. But further than that she had never cared to explore, even should the temptation present itself. Which it had. Repeatedly.
A match between them was unthinkable, at any rate. Llyr was independent and would ever belong to its Daughters; unless the prince were willing to abdicate the throne of Prydain to become a mere queen's consort, there could be no union between monarchs. Angharad suspected that Regat had made this excessively clear to him upon his last visit, and was, for once, relieved and rather grateful for the queen's adamance.
