Page 45 of Never the Roses

With that stirring promise, he turned and walked across thebeach, then across the dancing waves, not altering his stride in the least, nor giving any evidence, even to her sorcerous senses, that he’d used magic to do it. Handy trick, making himself appear to have divine skills. He stepped into the little craft, standing there clearly visible with no sails to obscure him. Lifting a hand in farewell, he and the boat simply faded from sight, until he was gone, as if he’d never been.

24

Oneira trudged back up the long and winding flight of steps, the afternoon sun against the cliff face as hot as midsummer, the trek wearying as it hadn’t been since her early days living there, her thoughts whirling and gnawing over the problem Stearanos presented.

Would you prefer ‘affair’?

She could not afford to have an affair with the overpowering sorcerer. Her lifelong enemy, she reminded herself, and for good reason, no matter what he said about the world deciding it instead of them. The world knew what happened when magic-workers of their respective abilities clashed. Entering into any sort of relationship with Stearanos, let alone an intensely sexual one as all evidence indicated it would be, would be a world apart from dallying with someone like Tristan.

Yes, she could control Tristan, as Stearanos had astutely and uncomfortably observed. She could banish Tristan with a small mental nudge in his dreams. More important, she could handle Tristan. She liked the young poet, found him charming and amusing, for all the same reasons Stearanos found Tristan wanting.

If she admitted Stearanos within the silent white walls of her interior self, he would not be expelled again so easily—and not only because he would fight her with his considerable tenaciousness. She didn’t trust herself to be able to excise him if it became necessary.

And that was a serious problem.

By the time she reached her garden at the top of the steps, seeing it anew as Stearanos would have observed it on his arrival, she’d made up her mind. Her answer was no. There could be no other answer. She would find a way to return the novel without encountering him again, in all his disturbing presence.

She snorted in disgust at the arrogant sorcerer, the sheer audacity of him baldly proposing she come to him for sex. Saying he knew she wanted it. As if she found him so overwhelmingly seductive that she’d throw caution to the winds. That thought gave her pause. Sorcerers—particularly those poised to be pitted against each other in some war—were known to employ such tactics. What better way to undermine her enmity and determination to defeat him than to pretend to woo her?

Except that she’d told him she was done with war and she thought he’d believed her. He’d even offered to keep their putative friendship a secret. She refused to call it a relationshiporan affair. He’d understood, as he’d intuited so many other things, how important that secrecy would be to her. Not that it mattered, as there would be nothingtokeep secret.

They’d never have any contact again. That was for the best.

Never mind that the prospect cast a shadow of sorrow over her. Compared to everything else that grieved her and weighed on her heart and conscience, losing a lover she had never had meant less than nothing. She must keep that truth firmly in mind.

“Is he gone?” Tristan asked hopefully when she found him in her own library, small and sparse compared to the Stormbreaker’s. The poet sprawled attractively, harmlessly, in her favorite reading chair, several more books scattered on the floor. “I hope you don’t mind,” he added, waving a languid hand at the books. “You were gone so long, I grew bored. I missed you,” he added, his full lips in a pout, extending that hand. “Lovely Lira.”

Annoyed that Tristan now seemed far too boyish and softafter the stern and stirring Stearanos, Oneira made herself take the offered hand and smiled at him. “I don’t mind,” she said, although it did kind of bother her, especially the book upended pages down, so it sprawled open, spine in the air. You’d think a poet and scholar would have more respect.

“We’re out of wine,” Tristan said, giving her a hopeful smile. “I looked, but didn’t find a wine cellar in this place. But if we want more at dinner, then…” He trailed off expectantly.

Oneira glanced at the lowering light. “We only just finished lunch.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “Were you not planning on eating again? I suppose you’ve been away from court for so long that you’ve grown away from the custom of a late supper.”

“Why do you assume I’ve ever been to court?” She withdrew her hand, not enjoying Tristan’s touch as she had before. Curse Stearanos for ruining this, too. She couldn’t imagine bedding the poet now—and not because Stearanos had asked her not to.Don’t waste yourself on that pretty boy. He’s not good enough for you. Consider my suit instead.

She shook the sorcerer’s rough urging out of her head. No, with Tristan she was now too acutely conscious of the power imbalance between them, and the fundamental dishonesty of taking him to her bed under false pretenses. Picking up the abused book, she saw that one of the pages had creased, and set it to one side. She’d repair that later, when she could use magic to do so.

“Is that an incorrect assumption?” Tristan asked with a concerned frown, sitting upright. “I didn’t mean to offend, my lady. You clearly have immense wealth and access to magical conveniences. It would be strange if you had never attended our glorious queen.”

Glorious, indeed, Oneira thought wryly, but didn’t say aloud. No sense being unkind to the lad—now she was thinking likeStearanos—and upsetting his worldview. He was young, painfully so, and didn’t know better. “I’m not offended,” she told him lightly, adding a smile that came straight from court etiquette. “I have been to court, as you correctly guessed, but not for some time.”

“I knew I’d remember if I’d ever laid eyes on you before,” Tristan said with earnest sincerity. “What can I do to please my lady? I’ve taken terrible advantage of your hospitality and must find a way to repay you. I could sing for you, if you like?”

A private performance by a poet worthy of the queen’s court was a generous offer in every part of the world—and yet Oneira wanted only to be alone with her thoughts. And she felt abruptly weary, no doubt from the initial battle to hold her wards against Stearanos, then keeping up her guard in case he violated his guest vow. She hadn’t thought he would, but caution was, as ever, her watch word, and she’d maintained a low-level readiness, just in case, the Dream at the edge of her fingertips, ruthlessly under control.

“I’ve some studies to pursue,” she told Tristan. And a book to copy over, so she could return it to its rightful owner. “I think I shall have to leave you to your own devices this evening.”

His face fell into disappointed lines, rather gratifyingly. “Allevening? Then…”

“All evening,” she affirmed. “Help yourself to any food you like. I’m afraid there is no more wine.” Perhaps that lack would help to dislodge him and send him on his way. “I’ll see you off in the morning.” Yes, that felt right. Stearanos and his invidious offers had nothing to do with it. She didn’t really want Tristan. If she did, she’d have taken him to bed the night before, or allowed that morning to progress further. More’s the pity, as her body seethed with frustrated desire.

“See me off?” Tristan repeated, truly upset now. “Ihaveoffended you, my lady.”

“Not at all.” She offered him a reassuring smile, resisting the urge to pat him on the head. “I am a recluse accustomed to her own company. It’s simply time for you to go.”

He nodded, dropping his gaze, his entire demeanor downcast. “I understand. I won’t impose on you any longer.”

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