Dragon Rose(33)

Her gaze sharpened. “The Dragon keeps his own counsel.”

“But after twenty-eight years…”

“It seems a great span to you, I know. And yet it is a short time for his lordship. He does not view such things the way you and I do. And he is not one to share confidences.”

Apparently not. I had thought from her earlier reactions to some of my transgressions that he must have spoken to her of me, but now I guessed her disapproval had stemmed merely from her responses to his outward actions. Well, it seemed I had run up against a dead end.

Stubbornly, though, I refused to admit defeat. “He must speak to you of some things, though. How else do you get on?”

“As I always have, my lady. He gives his commands, and I do my best to follow them.”

“And does that make him happy?”

“Happy?” she repeated, as if she had never thought to associate such a word with the Dragon Lord. “It is not for the likes of me to comment on his lordship’s happiness.”

“And what about the likes of me? I must confess, I have lived here for six weeks, and yet I fear I know little more of him than the day I came to this place. Does he hold all his Brides at such lengths?”

“I would not presume to comment on such a thing.”

“Who better than you?” I cried, my tone becoming wild. “For you have been here all these years, and seen these young women come and go. Did they, too, break themselves upon him like a ship foundering upon the rocks?”

“My lady, do not distress yourself—”

“There is no need for that. I find that his lordship does it for me.”

And because I could feel my eyes begin to fill with tears once more, I turned from her and fled the gardens. No doubt she thought me a foolish girl, always either weeping or asking questions that had no simple answers. My rooms offered a spurious comfort at best, but they were the only place I could think of to go. Once there, I flung myself on my bed, thinking I could cry it out and have done, but somehow my tears seemed to dry themselves once I was alone.

All I could do was sit there and think of the way his voice sounded, like silk and honey, and the brief, bitter heat of his touch. I was his wife, and yet he would not let me be that in truth, little as I knew of such things. I only knew that some part of me yearned for him in a way I couldn’t explain, ached for something I knew I could never have.

Had they all died of a broken heart, these Brides of his? Once I might have laughed at such a notion, no matter what the songs and stories might say of lovers wasting away and dying, all because of a heart betrayed. Now, though, it seemed not so far-fetched. I had reached out to him, and he had even reached out to me…only to turn from me at the last moment.

You know what he is, I tried to tell myself. Most likely he only seeks to protect you. How can one such as he have anything close to a normal life?

That sounded logical to me. Unfortunately, I didn’t want logic. I wanted him.

Somehow I knew he was the one thing I could never have.





Chapter Eight





He did not speak of what had passed between us that one evening, and so, perforce, neither did I. From time to time I caught Sar watching me with troubled eyes, and from that I guessed she was not quite as indifferent to the situation as she pretended to be, but what could she do? The management of the household lay in her capable hands, but his lordship’s heart was his alone to govern.

Oh, we rubbed along tolerably. Mine was not a temperament much suited to brooding, and I had not grown up in a household with three sisters without learning a good deal about getting along even when personalities clashed. Not that Theran Blackmoor and I did much clashing—we spoke of the weather, of my painting, of the food Sar set before us, and not much more than that. The little bit of ground I had thought I gained the night of my birthday was long gone.

Not that he did not show me courtesy. My painting of the valley of Lirinsholme was framed and given a place of honor in the main hall, so that anyone entering would see it almost before anything else. This might have been more of a gesture if anyone except the same score of people had an opportunity to see it; my quiet home back in town seemed a veritable whirl of social gaiety compared to the stillness of Black’s Keep. There were no visitors, and perhaps the maids chattered in the kitchens as they prepared the meals or sang as they swept the stairs, but if they did, I never heard them.

Once I had thought all I needed was unlimited time to paint, but I began to realize even that was not quite the blessing I once deemed it. My parents had not possessed the resources to have us taught the harp or lute, and I had no voice for singing, so I could not use music to fill up some of the empty hours. Sar brought me embroidery silks, an elegant carved standing frame, and some fabric. I used that to while away a few afternoons, even though I still disliked embroidery…and even though I couldn’t help wondering whence came that frame, and whether it had belonged to one of Theran’s erstwhile Brides.

The dreams of the stranger came to me at least once a week, and I continued on his portrait, although to what end I couldn’t begin to imagine. The work went slowly, however, as each dream seemed to reveal a detail hitherto unnoticed, and I found myself continually painting over sections I had thought already completed. Once or twice I tried telling myself that I was being ridiculous, that I should abandon the thing and move on to something else. After a day or so of neglecting it, though, the dreams would return with even greater force, as if compelling me to return to the painting, as if trying to tell me I could not leave it undone, and so I always went back to it despite my internal objections.