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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He was a fool.
That was all. A fool, and he should leave as soon as possible, so as not to torment himself any further, not to keep pining away like a bawling bull-calf for a woman he had no right to love, no right even to look at. If it weren't for that blasted boat still being a useless shell he'd leave as soon as this storm cleared. He had put them off, the repairs - though he had never admitted, even to himself, that he had delayed them deliberately to avoid the possibility of leaving, despite her cryptic warnings.
But there was no point in wasting another moment of his life on this island. He could, of course, be of use. He owed her that much; he could take her warning to the Sons of Don, to that blasted prince she was so fond of and then, having fulfilled his obligation and paid his debt, he could excise her from his thoughts, until she were a mere memory, no weightier than any other.
Geraint tossed another chunk of dry turf on the fire with a grunt. It had been so much easier when he'd had no one to care for but himself. He could find that again; that carefree wandering, untethered, unconcerned, going along with whatever way the wind blew him. Only perhaps not to sea again; that treacherous thing that had lured him here, trapped him, surrounded him...enraptured him.
Now it mocked him. It would never stop reminding him of her. He would never go near it again.
The wind shrieked outside, tore at the thatched roof. He laughed out loud, bitterly. All that work. What for? Perhaps after he was gone she could find some homeless fisherman to move back in to this place...no, she wouldn't. This was her cove; she came here to be alone. He had disrupted her solitude; she would be happier, too, maybe, when he'd left. She could use this hut, then, to take shelter if it rained, until his improvements failed, fell apart from neglect. Unwittingly, and not for the first time, an image of her sitting here, before the fire, burned into his mind's eye. Sharing his bread. Listening, rapt, to his stories. Smiling that wry smile. Laughing her surprised laugh. The firelight, glittering in her hair, reflecting, golden, in her eyes, gilding her skin.
Stop. He pulled his mind back from its inevitable trajectory, the dangerous visions that filled his dreams and robbed him of sleep. Torture, exquisite torture — another thing he would be free of without the constant threat of her presence.
Thunder crashed, close and startling; no, it wasn't thunder; it was his own door; someone was pounding on it. Geraint leaped up in alarm. A voice cried, faint over the wind and rain, familiar; his heart pounded at his throat as he flew to the door and threw it open, all his anger forgotten.
Angharad stood in the doorway. She was pale, breathless, and drenched; the hem of her gown was in muddy tatters, shoes ragged, hair unbound and streaming; but it was her eyes – wild, flashing desperate, dangerous fire – that drove all the rules from his mind; he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her inside, out of the storm.
"Are you mad? What were you thinking, coming out in this?" Fear made him rougher than he intended; he pushed her onto his wicker stool and wrapped a blanket over her shoulders, reaching for a branch to stoke up the fire. She grabbed his arm and made an impatient gesture toward the hearth; the flames leapt up, roaring, throwing heat and light into the room. Geraint, arrested, dropped the branch, cursing his own uselessness under his breath.
