Page 30 of Never the Roses

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Perhaps this was indeed how the heart healed, Oneira reflected, as she sat eating the simple meal across from Tristan. At his suggestion, they’d pulled over a small table to sit in front of the fire, and the warm flickers shone rosy in his silver hair, gilding his fair skin. With the rain drumming on the roof and the wind howling like a pack ofscáthcúbeyond her white walls, it was cozy, even intimate, sharing the meal with him. An entirely new experience for her.

He’d asked if she had any wine. Naturally, the wealthy woman she pretended to be would have, so she pulled a few bottles of a rich red from the Dream, hoping it would at least taste right. Apparently it was real enough to have alcohol content—thank you, vivid dreamers—and she was slightly tipsy, warmed from within by the soup and wine, and from without by Tristan’s lavish compliments and scintillating company.

Quickly discerning she had no interest in hearing about politics or other events current in the world of men, Tristan entertained her by reciting poetry and relating epic tales of bravery and foolishness. He held her rapt with fascination, then had her helplessly giggling.Her, actually giggling. If only her detractors could see the dread sorceress Oneira in that moment. Would they call her the cruel, ruthless ice queen now? Or would they sneer at her giddiness, not understanding what this meant?

She didn’t care either way. For once in her life, she was living in the moment, relishing Tristan’s unsubtle courtship. He seemed to know just how to tease her to draw her out and whento back off, noticing when she grew nervous. Sometimes he picked up her hand where it rested on the table, gently toying with her fingers and holding her gaze, that stirring intensity in his. Then he backed off, giving her time to adjust to her changed circumstances and the sometimes alarmingly potent sensual charisma he exuded.

After a time, they’d eaten all they could hold, and sat back, sipping wine. “You have an excellent cook,” Tristan sighed happily, patting his flat belly. He still wore the robe and it parted over the hard planes of his chest, silvered with small, silky-looking hairs.

“Iamthe cook,” she replied with a smile that felt smug even to herself. After her many early failures, she felt justifiably proud of herself for her hard-won skills, enjoying Tristan’s praise for the perfectly crisp crust and meltingly tender interior of her fresh bread, the delicately seasoned vegetable soup, hearty and tasting of high summers past, as much as his comments on her loveliness. She realized her misstep when he raised his brows in surprise.

“You have no cook?” he asked, looking around as if he expected one to appear. “I thought perhaps she was caught in town in the storm.”

That would’ve been an excellent excuse, had Oneira thought of it. Too late now. Besides which, there was no town within leagues, part of why she’d picked this particular spot. “I have no servants. I prefer it that way.”

“You live totally alone.” He made it sound tragic.

“I’m not alone,” she replied, a bit tartly. “I have my animals.” Who had not put in an appearance since she’d let Tristan into the house. Perhaps they were sulking. “And I like the solitude,” she added.

Tristan watched her closely, solemnly listening. “It sounds like a lonely life to me, but you must have your reasons.”

She did, of course, and all of those reasons welled up in a roar,a cacophony of suffering and blood and death that forced tears to well up in her eyes, and she looked away so he wouldn’t see. Too late.

He took her hand, rubbing a thumb softly over the back of it. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to make you sad, lovely Lira.”

“You didn’t,” she lied, dashing the tears away. She was more than tipsy; she was drunk. “I should clear the dishes.”

He let her go without protest and she stacked their plates and silverware, carrying it all to the kitchen. Rain still lashed against the windows, driven by the gale howling off the ocean, invisible out there in the night, but making itself known in all its ferocity. When she returned to the fire, Tristan was standing before it, casually holding his mug of wine and studying the coiled hank of yarn she’d made of Bunny’s fur. Flushing with embarrassment, Oneira wished she’d hidden the ugly thing, or burned it, as there was no reason to have kept it.

Hearing her approach, Tristan glanced over his shoulder, then indicated the yarn on the mantel. “Is this an artwork? It’s so unusual.” He grinned. “I’m betting on a gift from someone you didn’t wish to offend. Otherwise, why keep something so ugly?”

Why, indeed?“I find it interesting,” she answered, which was mostly true.

“She is as mysterious as she is beautiful,” he observed without rancor. Setting aside his wine, he came to her, taking her hands and lacing their fingers together. “Now what?” he asked quietly.

The question needed no further elaboration. Did she want to take him to her bed? She did and she didn’t. She wasn’t sure and it seemed that sheshouldbe sure. Still, this choice wasn’t about a critical strategic decision point in a war. It was about a night of pleasure—hopefully, anyway—and simple joys that she should be able to grasp without making it into a referendum onher entire life. One night with a handsome, wandering poet whowantedher. When would she have another opportunity like this? Probably never.

Still, it felt like a turning point and Oneira had never been one to take risks. Not until recently. Still, that’s what this was, no matter how she talked herself around it: she would be risking something here, her inner voice warned, even if she couldn’t identify what it might be.

“Not tonight,” she heard herself saying. “Not yet.”

Instead of disappointment, a pleased smile quirked over his sensual lips. “Not tonight, not yet, but… maybe later?”

“Maybe later,” she confirmed, relaxing in the knowledge that he wouldn’t push. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Then I can stay?” he asked hesitantly. “A day or two more, though we agreed that I’d impose on your hospitality for only the one night, and I know you value your solitude.”

How refreshing to find a man who listened to her, who paid attention to what she cared about. “I would like you to stay.”

He grinned radiantly and lifted her hands, bending over to kiss the backs of her fingers, then looking up at her. “And I would love to stay. Good night, my lovely lady.”

“Good night.”

Giving her a last, softly chaste kiss, he stepped away and bowed, then walked off to his room, humming a tune, taking his full wineglass with him.

Oneira watched him go, telling herself she’d made the smart decision, that there would be tomorrow. That she wasn’t disappointed with his easy capitulation.

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