Page 8 of Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie's Curse
Chapter2
Tamsyn suffered through a long,restless night, tossing and turning and thinking ofGryff.
It was a huge adjustment, letting go of the anger, shame and resentment she’d held on to for so long. And the problem remained—with what would she replace them? Not the wide-eyed excitement and pleasure she’d felt eight years ago. And not the stirring fascination she’d felt yesterday, seeing how powerfully broad and male and mature he’dgrown.
She rather thought he held no interest in her feelings. He’d left quickly enough yesterday, and with no real warmth at all. No surprise, since he must have harbored resentment toward her all of these years. Goodness, he might even be married. No, he would likely have mentioned it when she spoke so rashly of her mother’s possible machinations. Well, he might be courting some young woman. She sighed. Of a surety the young ladies around here must be vying for his attentions. He was so intriguingly different from the other young men she’d met, with that long hair that made her fingers itch, his dark eyes and his air of utterstrength.
But she must forget all of that. She would do him the favor of following his lead. They would be mere neighbors. Acquaintances. Nothing more. It was likely forthebest.
Why then, did the thought saddenherso?
She decided to rise early. More than her own thoughts had disturbed her during the long hours of the night. Had that really been a scream she heard? She’d sat up once, sure she’d seen a strange flashing light. And why had someone decided to play the harpsichord so loudlyandlong?
Bleary eyed, she decided to go out in search of some fresh morning air. Perhaps it would clear her head. She dressed in a simple gown, pulled on a heavy shawl and ventureddownstairs.
“Good morning to you, Lady Tamsyn.” A footman hurried toward her, carrying a pitcher of steamingwater.
“And to you,” she returned. She didn’t know any of the servant’snamesyet.
He murmured a polite agreement, but Tamsyn gawked as an image formed in the air before him—a clear picture of the same man tucked asleep in a narrow bed. He stepped through the image, going on his way—and itdissolved.
She stared after him. Perhaps she was more tired than she’dthought.
She did feel better after wandering the gardens a bit. The air was brisk. She breathed deeply and stopped to watch some of the gardeners at work. Her mother always warned her that her vivid imagination would catch up with her. Perhaps it finally had, but she felt more normal now. A man trundled by with a small, wheeled cart full of empty eggshells and curious, she followed him to a bed of late-bloomingroses.
“Howlovely.”
The gardener tugged his forelock and began to crush the shells and work them into the soil. Noticing her attention, he offered, “My mam’s mam always did say as how roses loved eggshells. Keeps ‘emstrong.”
“How interesting. These are so beautiful, she must have beenright.”
“The old mistress loved her roses,” he began, but then he glanced back towards the castle andturnedaway.
And it happened again. Over his head formed another scene, an image of a tall, blonde woman in this garden, screaming, crying and tearing at the roses with bloodyhands.
Rubbing her eyes with a shaking hand, she backed away. What was happening? What were these images she was seeing? She walked unsteadily until she found an empty bench andsankdown.
Breathing deeply, she bent over to rest her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. It was this place. So dark and gloomy—and perhaps the added distress of her encounter with Gryff had overwhelmed her. She strove for calm, letting the quiet morning sounds of the garden soothe her—and then she noticed a sturdy set of small boots planted right before her ownslippers.
She looked up into the smiling face of alittleboy.
“Good morning,” he saidbrightly.
“Goodmorning.”
“May I sitwithyou?”
Her nod was automatic. Eyes narrowed, she watched him. “You look familiar.” She recalled the boy she’d glimpsed out here on their last visit. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? But no, that wouldn’t be right. Do you have abrother?”
“No.” He sighed. “Most of my family isgone,now.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you live here at thecastle?”
“I used to.” He paused. “But I still spend a lot oftimehere.”
“I see.” And she did. She saw the bench right through his swinging legs. She swallowed, remembering Marjorie’s talk of ghosts. But oddly enough, he didn’t frighten her. “What isyourname?”
“Paul. What’syours?”
