wel as the lines of her own hand.
Ravensmuir.
Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.
Twice.
In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.
Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.
And he had died.
Had she not died, as wel ?
Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tal and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.
By his masculinity.
With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company.
Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to chal enge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.
Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind fol y.
“I wil go into the caverns alone,” she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.
“I wil accompany you,” Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compel ed to do so.
She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring al as they chal enged convention.
At each other’s backs.
While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favours abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honour her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.
“No, not this time,” she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.
She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardour in his eyes. She saw his fear for her.
She saw his valour and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.
And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.
She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste.
“Take the ship,” she told him, in this dream as she had then. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”
It had been their jest, al those years, that they would one day sel everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the chil of the north.
“But what of the contents?” Padraig’s displeasure was clear.
“Sel them, sel them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.”
“But . . .”
“I owe you no less for al your
Ravensmuir.
Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.
Twice.
In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.
Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.
And he had died.
Had she not died, as wel ?
Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tal and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.
By his masculinity.
With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company.
Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to chal enge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.
Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind fol y.
“I wil go into the caverns alone,” she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.
“I wil accompany you,” Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compel ed to do so.
She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring al as they chal enged convention.
At each other’s backs.
While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favours abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honour her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.
“No, not this time,” she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.
She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardour in his eyes. She saw his fear for her.
She saw his valour and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.
And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.
She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste.
“Take the ship,” she told him, in this dream as she had then. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”
It had been their jest, al those years, that they would one day sel everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the chil of the north.
“But what of the contents?” Padraig’s displeasure was clear.
“Sel them, sel them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.”
“But . . .”
“I owe you no less for al your
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