It was far more of a sacrifice than she would ever have asked of him. Even now it was on the tip of her tongue to urge him to go back, and to do it quickly, but that was foolish.
When she needed him to complete the rest of her task.
Not the one she was born to, but the one that was needed all the same.
“Grim,” she murmured softly, coming to him and resting a hand on his arm. She gripped it lightly, wanting to hug it near to her, but a part of her feared that somehow he regretted that choice even now, that it was made from a sense of duty rather than a choice freely made.
From the same love she felt for him.
It made her nervous, made her timid, and perhaps she did not ask all she should.
But no one had ever accused her of being brave.
“I have to go back,” she confided, awaiting his reaction with a tight pit in her stomach. “I am not supposed to, but I find that I must.”
He turned his brow furrowed. “Not because of me,” he insisted, his voice nearer an accusation than anything she had heard before. She smiled at him, a sad offering that she knew he would not truly accept.
“I would restore you to your family,” she confessed, “But I have known since this morning that I must return. Things are not as they should be, and your people need to be warned.” Grimult’s eyes hardened and she could see what he was thinking, her grip on his arm tightening. “Not about those I was with,” she clarified. “The treaty is signed and they will honour it.”
“They carve our people into stone and use them to decorate their Keep. I hardly think those are the actions of people who are to be trusted.”
Penryn’s agitation was mounting and she was grateful when Grimult seemed satisfied with the kettle and he poured steaming water into the waiting pot. She did not want a quarrel, and they seemed destined to do just that if she could not pour out the whole of the history.
It was tempting to renege on the agreement, to sit him down and begin as close to the beginning as she could. But there was so much to cover, so much to explain, and a very great part of her wanted to simply push it all away, to pretend none existed outside the walls of this little cottage.
Just for a night.
She could feel his eyes on her, probing and assessing, and she did not like that for a brief moment it felt like any other’s stare, watchful and perhaps even judgemental. It should be different with him, should make her feel cared for and attended to, not urge her to flee, to hide away until the eyes went away.
“You are angry with me,” he commented, swirling the pot in his hands, encouraging the leaves the burst and release their precious oils, but he looked only at her rather than at the work.
Penryn groaned, tugging at her hair and running a frustrated hand down the fabric of her dress. “That is not the right word,” she denied, finding it was truthful enough. “I am frustrated. By all that you do not know, even if it is not remotely your fault you do not know it. I want to be free of this gown, I want—”
She did not know how to address the last want, not without causing more mortification to herself, so she cut off abruptly, turning from him. Maybe she could still cut herself out of her gown while he made their tea, and at least one of those troubles would be resolved with little inconvenience to him.
She heard the pot of tea against the counter as he set it down, but did not hear his footsteps following after her. But she certainly felt his long fingers curling around her upper arm, ceasing her movement away from him. “What else do you want?” he enquired, and she wished he had not, and she could not quite raise her miserable eyes up to meet his. She took a deep breath and then another, remembering well how he had resisted the request before, and doubted tonight would be any different.
“I wanted to go to sleep with you next to me, not having to spend the night worrying about what was happening to you or if you had reached home yet.” Her free hand came about her middle, as if trying to protect from some outward pain that was truly only internal. “Wondering if you needed me and I would not be there.”
It was foolish to hold on to such concerns even now, most especially when it was quite apparent that he had never even attempted the journey back, so her fretting was for nothing. A hand, large and warm, cupped her cheek, urging her eyes upward to look at him. There was little point in resisting, so she complied, gratified to see that the softness had returned to his gaze when he regarded her. Even now she felt a clutch in her belly, in her heart, to be the one to receive such a look. “I shared the same burden,” he confessed, stepping closer and drawing her into his embrace. Was that what tonight was meant to be? Of joining and partings, of quarrels mended with soft eyes and gentle touches? The thought was not quite so intolerable now that she was back where she belonged. “Wondering if they were hurting you, if you needed me, and I had not found a way to you yet.”
She opened her mouth to inform him that they would never have done so, that they held ample respect for her position, but she belatedly remembered he knew nothing of their language. He could not have heard the rumblings of the common folk, of the awe with which they spoke of her, of the fascination that came
