Page 73 of The Cornish Princess
“And you believe the aldermen feel the same?”
Gwendolyn thought about that a moment, and said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, do you believe they are content enough to leave this knowledge to your father alone? Have you never considered whether they have, for a moment, taken a gander within?”
“I—well, no,” Gwendolyn said, shaking her head. The entire notion was preposterous. “Only once in my life has anyone ever defied the King’s Law, and that man paid for his offense with his life. Why, by the eyes of Lugh, would anyone dare?”
“Unless they didn’t believe they would be caught,” he suggested, giving her a single, meaningful nod, and Gwendolyn thought about that another moment, watching as Málik tossed away his blade of grass and plucked himself another.
What if someone defied the King’s Law?
What if he was caught?
What if Bryok was the man who’d caught him?
The question posed all new possibilities.
The Treasury guards were always on duty, else waiting to assume a shift. Only once every new moon were they allowed a day of rest, and then they resumed a shift of opposite hours. But each shift was assumed in pairs—two guards for every watch.
When Gwendolyn returned, she really must inquire who was Bryok’s shift mate—was it Aelwin?
She eyed the blade of grass that had returned to its place between Málik’s teeth. “That must be delicious,” she teased.
“A mere distraction,” he allowed, and Gwendolyn asked, “What for?”
“For what I’d really like to be tasting instead…”
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Today must be the last day, Gwendolyn decided.
The very, very last.
The last, last, last.
And yet, much to her dismay, the questions Málik posed the night before were rifling through her head, revealing more and more questions, and they all desperately vied for attention, seeking answers. Mayhap it was a simple matter of two aldermen scheming for the same position, else it could be something more sinister… possibilities she really didn’t wish to entertain, because she was enjoying this time away—far, far more than she should.
Intending to break the news to her uncle before the noontide, she and Málik stood sparring in the courtyard, sweating off last night’s mead.
The muscles in Gwendolyn’s arms burned atrociously—never had they practiced so ruthlessly. She punished herself for her wayward thoughts, continuing to spar, even when her belly roiled in protest over the heat of the warming sun.
In fact, for the first time, beads of sweat formed upon Málik’s brow, and his movements were dawdling and unsteady—at least for him. For anyone else, they would still be quick.
Even now, Gwendolyn despaired of besting him, although he was definitely slower to parry than he should have been, and then, she noticed he went to defend without stepping, and because his feet were ill-positioned, he had to lean to defend himself.
Gwendolyn struck when she had the chance.
“Well done!” he announced, lifting an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His cheeks were rosy and his lips flushed bright red.
Her cousins were still in the house, lingering at their father’s table after breaking their fast. Borlewen, she knew, hadn’t found her bed until the small hours, and as yet, her uncle and Lowenna hadn’t emerged from their bower. Gwendolyn was quite certain they were trying again for that son he hadn’t yet been blessed with. If nothing else, she must leave this place, because she was surrounded by the scent of sex. It was distracting her in ways she had no business being distracted. “You let me win, didn’t you?”
Málik grinned.
“Why?” she demanded.
Málik peered at Gwendolyn sideways and said innocently, “Are you accusing me of playing favorites, Princess?”
His use of the word Princess always sounded so suggestive.
