The Heart of a Queen (A Historical Romance)

Chapter 28

During their last practice, on the day before the castle was to be flooded with guests, Brienna didn't let Llewellyn do so much as touch her. She caught him again and again, jabbing the twig toward his kidneys and neck, always pulling back at the last second.

Though she was angry with him for what he had said in the great hall, she was also flush with pride that she had become so skilled; at the same time, she regretted not feeling his strong arms slide around her, his breath whisper against her cheek. She rebuffed his every approach until finally he stood back, caught his breath, and suggested her training was done.

"Let's try it with the real thing," Brienna put out casually, tossing her twig to the grass and grinding it under her foot.

"Alright," Llewellyn agreed, his gaze straying back to the castle.

"Unless you have to go and see to your more important guests," she said darkly.

"No," he said, looking at her strangely. "We can practice a little more."

He began to stalk her as before, sneaking up behind her while she pretended to be distracted. She knew he was coming, but didn't know how he would attempt to assail her, and her heart began to pound, her breath high in her chest, limbs tingling with adrenalin and anticipation. The faint breeze through the meadow felt like a gale against her skin, so heightened were her senses.

She knew he was close when she felt a pulse of energy sizzle along her back. From this training, her body had become so attuned to his presence, that whenever he got close enough she felt it like a push. Still, she waited, letting him get nearer.

He moved so silently that even though she knew it was coming, she still jumped when his strong arm enclosed her own, crossing over her chest to try to bind her. Like lightning, she ducked and spun to the side, bringing the dagger out from its hiding place in her sleeve, driving it up to where her target lay.

She halted just in time, and both she and Llewellyn stared, frozen, at where the dagger's point had pierced his shirt right over his heart. Then she gasped; she hadn't stopped quite soon enough, and she drew back her blade to find a pinprick of blood on its tip. The sight made her drop the weapon, and her hands went to the tear in his clothing, searching to see how bad of a wound she had made in his skin.

"Oh my god," she stammered as she found the place the dagger had nicked him; just a scratch, but to her eyes it looked as dire as if she'd nearly killed him.

Llewellyn put his hands over hers to still them.

"I'm fine, really." He looked down at her, their faces close. Brienna could see the striations of color in his eyes, the muted blue of a rainy sky with a shot of rusty orange like a ray of sunshine breaking through. His lips were so close that she could feel the warmth they promised ringing on her own.

He put her hands down, nearly pushing her away, and rearranged his shirt so the tear was covered.

"You should never drop your weapon, even if you've harmed someone without meaning to," he told her, going back into his instructor's mode.

She picked up the dagger and tucked it back into its sheath.

"I didn't mean to," she insisted, "I swear it."

"You've become a worthy adversary," he said generously. "I wouldn't want to face you on the battlefield."

"You won't have to. Wasn't that the whole point of my being here? To seal an alliance with my father?"

"It was," he answered matter-of-factly.

"And you'll soon be rid of me and have plenty of freedom to find a more suitable way to decorate your castle walls."

"Ah," he said, looking away in clear understanding that she had overheard his comment to Ruarc.

She wanted him to say something to reassure her that he hadn't meant what he said, that he had just been trying to end the conversation with her brother by belittling his opinion of her, that he thought highly of her and would regret the loss of her after she returned to Ireland. No—she wanted more than that. An admission of love, or of longing, or simply of fond affection.

As she thought these things and Llewellyn continued to stare out at the sea, a realization slowly dawned on her. He had never given her any reason to believe he harbored feelings of the sort she felt for him. Other than a few small concessions to her whims, teaching her to read and how to wield a weapon, he hadn't given her any sign that he thought of her as anything more than his ward. In fact, she reminded herself, he'd only started her education as a deterrent to any further attempts of escape. She was just an inconvenience that he was tolerating in order to protect the security of Gwynedd.

In this new light, she read his expression as one of embarrassment for her sake, that she had brought up the conversation with her brother and so exposed her illicit feelings for him—for Llewellyn, the king of Gwynedd, who could easily make a union much more prestigious than with the daughter of the clan of Connaught.

And not only was she making a fool of herself, she was being deceitful, plying him with her feelings when her own groom was eagerly awaiting their wedding day.

Shamed, Brienna felt an urgent need to leave him, to run back to her room and bury her face in her pillow. As she walked passed Llewellyn, she dipped into a brief curtsy, murmuring "Forgive me," and then, as soon as she was out of sight, broke into a run.

By the time she got back to the castle courtyard, she was in complete disarray, hair undone, face red with exertion, hand held over a heart that felt like it was bursting to break. She leaned against a post, thinking she wouldn't be able to get back to her room before she dissolved into tears.

"My daughter?" a voice broke in on her unexpectedly from a small party dismounting by the stables.

Lasair had arrived.