Page 9 of The Cornish Princess
Danann! Danann!As though he had a right to the name. For all she knew,hisblood spilled the same as hers. Anyone could claim to be anything at all.
Her cradleside visit notwithstanding, no one had ever actually met a true-bloodfaein so long, and so much as Gwendolyn loved Demelza, even Demelza’s story gave Gwendolyn pause. All her life, she’d sought to meet one—untilhim. But iffaekindwere anything like him, she didn’t wish to know any more.
Silver-haired, silver-eyed, he certainly favored the stories of his ilk, including his teeth, which were frighteningly sharp. Whenever he smiled, he looked as vicious as a wolf.
Daring to meet his gaze now, Gwendolyn found a telltale glimmer in his eye, hard as diamonds, and much to her disgust, it sent a quiver down her spine.
In answer, she gritted her teeth because he was both smugandarrogant—the difference being that one was all about being annoyingly pleased with oneself; the latter a matter of abundant pride, coupled with a blatant contempt for others. Somehow, Málik managed both—always smirking, never affable, always judging. And if Gwendolyn read his expression right, he had clearly judged her and found her wanting. “I’m off to hunt!” she announced, instead of stopping to ask Bryn to join her—and truly she would have, instead of presuming he would attend her, but it irked her terribly that Málik gave her his usual look of disdain, as though her presence eternally wearied him.
As it was, he was quite fortunate her father no longer put heads on pikes, as her grandfather used to do, because Málik’s might be a perfect candidate—not that her father would agree, mind you, because, somehow, the sorry creature had inveigled him, as he seemed to have inveigled everyone, Bryn and Ely included.
Nay, she hadn’t missed all the times Ely tried to convince Gwendolyn to go watch her brother spar, when in truth, it was Málik Ely cared to see.
His partner at once dismissed—and she had to confess it filled her with glee—Bryn hurried to catch her. “Gwendolyn… please, please tell me you asked your mother?”
Gwendolyn kept walking, readjusting the strap of her quiver so it wouldn’t slip down her arm. “Yes, of course,” she lied.
“Good,” he said. “Good. The last thing I need today is another rebuke.”
She dared not look at him. “Oh? And did you receive one already?”
“Of course.”
“What for?”
His voice held a note of pique. “Need you ask?”
“Nay,” Gwendolyn said, and kept moving, one foot in front of the other. No doubt it had something to do with her—as always. Bryn had one small weakness—he couldn’t seem to deny Gwendolyn when she begged. And yet, Bryn was an intelligent man; she couldn’t help if he saw her reason and capitulated.
Lamentably, even once they were inside the stables, Gwendolyn still couldn’t look at him. She knew him too well, and he knew her equally so. He would read the truth in her eyes, though her silence did not reassure him. “You didn’t ask, did you?”
It wasn’t a question and Gwendolyn gave him no answer, insomuch as silence wasn’t an answer. But it was.
Grumbling beneath his breath, Bryn reached out to pull open the stall door, cursing as he did so. “Blood and bloody bones, Gwendolyn!” He only ever called her Gwendolyn whenever he was angry. “You’ll be the death of me yet!”
“Princess to you,” Gwendolyn teased, not so much to remind him of his station as to nettle him—though perhaps in part to remind him, because the last thing she needed at that instant was for Bryn to gainsay her and prevent her from leaving the city. These were the first days of Spring, after a long Winter, and Gwendolyn was eager to visit the glen to see if the blight had returned, and she really wanted for Bryn to come along. If he forced her to go ask her mother, no one would go anywhere today.
And really, though she could leave without him—no one would stop her—he would answer for that as well. Therefore, he might as well come along. It wouldn’t go unnoticed if she rode out of the city unescorted.
But it wasn’t only the glen she wished to see. She wanted to speak to him privately to ask him what he knew of Prince Locrinus, since no one else seemed able or willing to say aught—save for Ely, if only to reveal he was tall.
Although Bryn might not be so forthcoming with his own cares, he was the one person she knew who understood what was at stake and who would speak to her without prevarication. And yet, he was right, of course. Her mother would be furious, but Prince Locrinus’ arrival wasn’t anticipated until the morrow and Gwendolyn shouldn’t be expected to think only of him, especially where it concerned her father.
Moreover, though she realized the import of the Prince’s visit, she hadn’t any clue how long theirguestsintended to remain, or when would be the next time she might get out of the city, and simply be a girl, not a princess, or a would-be queen, and especially not a Promised One.
The Queen Consort would see her immersed in too many preparatory efforts, none of which bore any true value to anyone, including herself. At this point, there was nomagikcream to change Gwendolyn’s countenance, and this was all her mother truly cared about. She would have Gwendolyn bedeviled with beauty regimens—the washing of hair, the combing of hair, the braiding of hair, the powdering of skin, the inking of eyes, the scrubbing of skin, the moisturizing of skin, the painting of skin—it was all too much!
Not to mention the endless reminders about manners and suggestions for how to behave in the presence of her new betrothed—what to say, how to say it, when to say it.
Most significantly, whatnotto say, and how to comport herself as a woman should, keeping a smile painted upon her face, even through a wash of tears.
Itwas enough to make Gwendolyn nervy as a bat fresh from slumber, despite that she did truly wish to make a good impression.
But if all that were not reason enough, Bryn also needed time for repose. After the Prince arrived, there would be no rest for him at all, and Gwendolyn hadn’t any questions about her duties tomorrow. She’d been taught from the day of her birth that her people were her priority, and this wedding would come to pass, if only for them.
She knew little about the Prince, but as far as she was concerned, far more than a perfectly powdered face, knowing something about his likes and dislikes could help her conduct herself so he might find her appealing. No matter what Ely claimed, Bryn must have surely met him at some point. How else would Ely know he was tall, or that Bryn didn’t like him? Really, what plausible reason could Bryn have to dislike a man he’d never met?
At any rate, she knew Bryn was keeping secrets of late, and she didn’t like it. If he’d met Prince Locrinus, then what good reason could he have for failing to say so?
