Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(29)

I’m sorry.

He heard her whispered words, her voice had been sleepy but those words were heartfelt.

And he felt her soft body burrowing into his.

I’m sorry.

He stopped pacing and closed his eyes.

But when he did, he saw her eyes, scared, confused and holding pain, peering deep into his.

You’re not a hallucination.

He opened his eyes and muttered to himself, “Where the bloody hell is she?”

He was at The Swan.

He’d managed to drive Torment, his roan, through the snow and into the town with his mind consumed with finding reasons not to murder his closest friend.

But he’d been at the inn for twenty minutes, waiting for her, and thus he was having difficulty controlling his thoughts.

Thoughts he’d kept tightly leashed since that morning he slid away from her somnolent body and understood he’d made a colossal mistake.

Not saving her from her husband, that was not his mistake. But he could have arranged that without seeing her.

No, his mistake was seeing her.

Touching her.

Hearing her.

Smelling her.

Understanding instantly that she was not his Ilsa.

But the Ilsa she was was dangerous.

Something he now knew categorically considering his conversation with Derrik.

Therefore, when he should have been planning for an attack, he was making other plans.

And those plans included him negotiating the purchase of a chalet, a large one, a luxurious one, but one miles away from any of his estates.

And he’d already opened an account and deposited enough money in it that she could live and do so with every desire met but without her ever having the need to come to him and ask for a thing.

And live far away and well taken care of she would do, after they dealt with whatever was coming.

Unfortunately, until that time, for her safety she needed to be at Karsvall, with his men and with the witch who was watching over all of them.

And also with his children.

He’d explained all about Ilsa carefully to Christophe and Élan, and watched closely after he did so.

His daughter had been a year and a half when her mother had died. She was now six. She didn’t remember her mother, though she was excited about meeting Ilsa, as she was excited about everything under the sun.

It didn’t take much with his Élan. The flight of a sparrow could brighten her day.

Where she got that, he had no idea. It wasn’t from him.

It also wasn’t from her mother.

His Ilsa was quick to smile, droll with words, and so gods damned smart, it was, at times, alarming.

But she was not a dreamer. She did not anticipate excitement around every corner. She did not rush out to meet life, like her daughter.

Christophe, on the other hand, had been four when Ilsa was lost to him. He was now eight, almost nine.

He remembered her. Those memories were elusive due to his age but he’d carried a locket with his mother’s tiny portrait in it since he’d found it on Apollo’s dresser when he was five.

He was never without it.

He was also not excited to meet Ilsa. He tried to hide it from his father and sister.

But he failed.

This concerned Apollo but he intended to have a word with Achilles about it.

Achilles would keep an eye on things.

On this thought, the door opened and Ilsa moved into the room.

Apollo clenched his teeth and braced inwardly at the sight of her.

She looked exactly like his wife. She sounded like her. She even smelled like her.

But she didn’t move like her. Not her gait. Not a tilt of her head. Not a movement of her hands.

Nothing.

Her eyes came to him and those eyes were not his beauty’s eyes.

His Ilsa had lived a life full of abundance and serenity. When she was a child, she broke her toe, but that was the biggest difficulty she faced until she faced the difficulty that ended her days on this earth. They met young, fell in love young and married young. They had a marriage full of promise and passion, laughter and contentment. His Ilsa had a good life from her first breath, but not to the last one.

No, six months she suffered from her illness. Actually longer, though they didn’t catch it at first.

Then she took her last breath and that breath, as had the ones before it for months, had been pained.

But this Ilsa, what lurked behind her eyes was so deep he could mine it for centuries and never get to the bottom of it.

He also didn’t know, if he made that effort, if he would find riches…or despair.

What he knew, what he’d come to understand in their brief time together, and what he must guard against was the overwhelming desire he felt to find a shovel and start digging.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said, taking him from his contemplations and he knew by her expression she might not know his exact thoughts, but she suspected they were of her twin.

She was right as well as wrong.

There was also pain in her eyes, perhaps for her, perhaps for him, maybe even both. Further, there was sorrow, and that was probably for him.

But she also looked angry.

And that was a surprise.

“I didn’t know you would be here so fast,” she carried on. “I had something to eat, some wine and a bath. If I’d have known, I would have delayed the bath.”