Read Online Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) by Phoenix Sullivan - Free Book Online
Authors: Phoenix Sullivan
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After an eternity he broke the silence but not the stare. “You didn’t kill The Morholt. Cornwall did. Mark did. As well to blame the sword or horse that helped fell him. You were the king’s tool. Could you have disobeyed your kin and king when he spoke the command to challenge?”
“If these knights knew, they would have my head. If Yseult knew…”
“You would never have her.”
“I don’t want her,” I protested.
“And I thought this was our night for speaking truth.”
I think it was the gentleness in that rebuke that angered me most. “She is Mark’s.”
“Not yet.”
No, I couldn’t think that. Thinking that meant there was a spark of hope to fend off Fate. Thinking that—
I shoved away from Des, forcing him to break that preternatural stare. “You! You mean to—what? Steal her away between here and Cornwall? Destroy the only chance for peace we have? What are you to be so cavalier about the future? English? Welsh?”
“Neither.” He shrugged. “All.”
“From the man who lectured me on truth not two minutes ago.” I spat my disgust. “I can’t—won’t—let you have her.”
“Believe what you will, but I’ll tell you this: it is only willing I would ever take her. I just want the chance for her to make the choice on her own.”
My anger fled, unable to face Des’ sincerity. Realizing he was held hostage to circumstance and heart the same as me. Knowing the despair soon to be visited upon us both. The only difference between he and I was that I had turned away hope. Just as he must too.
“She is her father’s daughter and a child of Ireland. Nothing you nor I can offer could even equal that in her heart. Loyalty over love is every queen’s lot.”
“Not every queen’s.”
He was right, of course. More than one queen’s neck had met the executioner’s axe, more than one queen had burned at the stake for forsaking duty for passion. “Could you still love a woman who would be so selfish?”
He struggled with that, too proud to concede defeat though the edges of it as it crept over him were clear in the slump of his shoulders and the shadowed look in his eyes.
Like me, he knew unimaginable pain waited for us in Cornwall upon a spoken vow of ‘I do’.
“Tintagel is my home,” I pointed out. “The least I can do is see that Yseult is not alone there in her sorrow.”
I didn’t offer him to come with me, just as he didn’t propose to. Our friendship was too new, our rivalry too strong. Yet we both knew, soul-deep, where destiny must lead us—and with whom.
Des gathered the reins and swung lightly to his horse’s broad back.
“Des.” A simple thing a name. Even one given in trust. Yet it gave me power to stop him and turn him back to me. “Call me Tris.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRISTAN
In all, the week before tourney was like a small gift handed to us from God, an appeasement, perhaps, for the trials to come. Just after nightfall, Des and I would meet in the clearing to joust and swing our swords at one another.
Despite my having bared my secrets to him, Des seemed determined to keep his private however much I wore away at his armor with endless questions on the subject.
Only once did he expose a little piece of himself as we sat together between bouts sipping watered wine from our skins, a soft breeze cooling the sweat from our brows. Not for the first time I tried for an answer. “You have strength, cunning and that divine face of yours—all unforgettable. A hundred knights I might cross swords with in a tourney and not remember ninety-nine of them after. But you… How is it we’ve never met before? How is it we meet now, here in Whitehaven? A chance wind guided my boat here; what chance brought you?”
The uncanny way his eyes shone in the dark didn’t hide the sudden weariness that appeared in them. For a moment he looked far older than his years. It struck me that whatever pain he was running from might at last be catching up.
“My
After an eternity he broke the silence but not the stare. “You didn’t kill The Morholt. Cornwall did. Mark did. As well to blame the sword or horse that helped fell him. You were the king’s tool. Could you have disobeyed your kin and king when he spoke the command to challenge?”
“If these knights knew, they would have my head. If Yseult knew…”
“You would never have her.”
“I don’t want her,” I protested.
“And I thought this was our night for speaking truth.”
I think it was the gentleness in that rebuke that angered me most. “She is Mark’s.”
“Not yet.”
No, I couldn’t think that. Thinking that meant there was a spark of hope to fend off Fate. Thinking that—
I shoved away from Des, forcing him to break that preternatural stare. “You! You mean to—what? Steal her away between here and Cornwall? Destroy the only chance for peace we have? What are you to be so cavalier about the future? English? Welsh?”
“Neither.” He shrugged. “All.”
“From the man who lectured me on truth not two minutes ago.” I spat my disgust. “I can’t—won’t—let you have her.”
“Believe what you will, but I’ll tell you this: it is only willing I would ever take her. I just want the chance for her to make the choice on her own.”
My anger fled, unable to face Des’ sincerity. Realizing he was held hostage to circumstance and heart the same as me. Knowing the despair soon to be visited upon us both. The only difference between he and I was that I had turned away hope. Just as he must too.
“She is her father’s daughter and a child of Ireland. Nothing you nor I can offer could even equal that in her heart. Loyalty over love is every queen’s lot.”
“Not every queen’s.”
He was right, of course. More than one queen’s neck had met the executioner’s axe, more than one queen had burned at the stake for forsaking duty for passion. “Could you still love a woman who would be so selfish?”
He struggled with that, too proud to concede defeat though the edges of it as it crept over him were clear in the slump of his shoulders and the shadowed look in his eyes.
Like me, he knew unimaginable pain waited for us in Cornwall upon a spoken vow of ‘I do’.
“Tintagel is my home,” I pointed out. “The least I can do is see that Yseult is not alone there in her sorrow.”
I didn’t offer him to come with me, just as he didn’t propose to. Our friendship was too new, our rivalry too strong. Yet we both knew, soul-deep, where destiny must lead us—and with whom.
Des gathered the reins and swung lightly to his horse’s broad back.
“Des.” A simple thing a name. Even one given in trust. Yet it gave me power to stop him and turn him back to me. “Call me Tris.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRISTAN
In all, the week before tourney was like a small gift handed to us from God, an appeasement, perhaps, for the trials to come. Just after nightfall, Des and I would meet in the clearing to joust and swing our swords at one another.
Despite my having bared my secrets to him, Des seemed determined to keep his private however much I wore away at his armor with endless questions on the subject.
Only once did he expose a little piece of himself as we sat together between bouts sipping watered wine from our skins, a soft breeze cooling the sweat from our brows. Not for the first time I tried for an answer. “You have strength, cunning and that divine face of yours—all unforgettable. A hundred knights I might cross swords with in a tourney and not remember ninety-nine of them after. But you… How is it we’ve never met before? How is it we meet now, here in Whitehaven? A chance wind guided my boat here; what chance brought you?”
The uncanny way his eyes shone in the dark didn’t hide the sudden weariness that appeared in them. For a moment he looked far older than his years. It struck me that whatever pain he was running from might at last be catching up.
“My
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