Page 24 of The Prince or the Bard?
But I won’t lie to myself. Not here, with new leaves coming to bud on the distant wintry trees, where I lived the start of the kind of romance I’d dreamt of but never hoped to truly have.
I was the lady in the storybooks for a moment—just a moment—in time. A soft smile lifts my cold-reddened cheeks. It will have to do.
I turn from the star garden as quickly as I can, before more tears can come. I think I’m finally through crying for that dream and that man.
Without knowing in which direction I plod, I travel the gardens, my cloak held close, not really seeing much around me. Which is how I smack straight into someone’s firm chest.
The collision sends me stumbling backwards, into the garden bed and some dead sprigs of lavender. Their calming scent still wafts up as I crush the winter-dried stems, and I’d savor it if I wasn’t struggling to regain my footing. The man I collided with catches my arm with a gloved hand.
Buckskin gloves, just like the ones Cillian wore when he left.
His hold on me is so reassuring, my foolish heart beats a little faster, wishing without reason that it’s Cillian Cloudtongue before me.
Slowly, I lift my eyes to dispel the illusion. The concerned face of Prince Ruairí gazes down at me. The corners of his eyes are creased with worry.
“Are you alright?”
Of course I’m not alright,and then, to my horror, those same words fly out from my lips. Only they sound horribly cross.
Prince Ruairí’s pink cheeks flush red in an instant. He releases his grip on me, instead proffering his arm in a gallant fashion as his eyes fix upon the stone path.
“I’m sorry, Queen's Maid Laoise. It is my fault entirely. I was distracted and did not give enough care to where I walked.”
Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. Not only have I snapped at him, but the prince sounds nothing like that drunken lout who tried to kiss me during the midsummer revel. He sounds a lot more like that fellow who traveled back from Sunspray village with us—the one I was starting to like.
Yet there’s something else there now. He sounds the way a proper prince should. And I wonder, was I wrong about him all along? Or has he just changed?
“It’s my fault, Your Highness. And I shouldn’t have spoken to you so.” Back on firm footing, I dip into a low curtsy.
Prince Ruairí scoffs. My eyes shoot up to him, wary and confused.
“I deserved it,” he says, rubbing the light stubble on his chin. “It’s not becoming of a prince, knocking over poor helpless maids.”
“Poor and helpless?” As I stand, my eyes search his, ready to challenge him.
“By comparison, yes.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes I’m not sure I like.
“That I’m poor compared to a prince needs no remarking upon,sir,” I say tartly, “nor should you assume I’m helpless. I’m a púca, after all.”
“And I’m trained in the ways of knighthood daily.” That twinkle now lights up his eyes. “My dear lady, I’m hurt you did not notice my firm and strong physique as we collided. I’m sure a mighty púca would not stumble backwards for some mere High Fae weakling.”
“You’re mocking me.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“I’m teasing,” the prince replies, tilting both his head and his mouth. “There’s a difference. And only half teasing at that. When it comes to my respect for the heartiness of púcaí and belief in my own physical prowess, I never jest.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Why is it you always wish to bait me?”
“Why is it I must bait you to engage you in any manner of conversation?” the prince retorts, then presses his lips together. “Forgive me. That was also unchivalrous.”
Oh, I’ve had enough of this pest! He hasn’t changed atall.
As I pluck my skirts to curtsy in an attempt to take my leave, suddenly Prince Ruairí’s hand is upon me again, this time grasping my shoulder. Even through the layers I wear and the gloves upon his hands, his grip is firm and warm.
“Queen's Maid Laoise, I beg of you, walk with me a little further. There’s something I wish for your help with.”
“Mine, sir?”
He takes my gloved hand in his own, squeezing it. The intimacy of the gesture has me setting my teeth. But I don’t recoil.
