Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(9)

It was a good face, she thought, in somewhat of a daze. A kind face that liked to smile often. Masked by a relaxed demeanor, his dark gray eyes looked sharp and intent, and she felt stabbed all over again.

She could tell he knew something was deeply wrong.

“Good evening, my lady Beluviel,” Graydon said. The rumble of his deep voice was quiet and gentle. “It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

A wild upsurge of emotion shocked her. It poured out of her chest, from the deep, distant ache of the place that had gone cold and quiet so long ago. She felt a sudden urge to fling herself against his chest and huddle close.

The urge wasn’t to fling her problems at him in the hopes that he might fix them. She always fixed her own problems. The urge was for the simple comfort of that warm, companionable blaze.

Of all the impulses she could possibly experience, this had to be the most inappropriate. Appalled, she nearly recoiled but caught herself in time.

“Graydon,” she said stiffly. Hearing how that sounded, she reached for more warmth. “It’s always good to see you too. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have—”

As she spoke, he held out one large hand. Automatically, she curled her fingers around his in greeting. Instead of bowing, he turned and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

While keeping a strong, steady grip on it.

She had room inside for one more flicker of amusement that lived the life of a moment before it died. “I believe you’ve absconded with my hand,” she told him. “Perhaps you’ve retained it by mistake.”

“Walk with me,” he said. His easygoing smile had disappeared.

“I don’t have time to visit right now.” As she spoke, she glanced around.

Calondir had escorted a woman dressed in a Grecian costume onto the dance floor. Smiling at each other, they swirled with the other dancers. Weston and Constantine had busied themselves at the refreshments table. Virtually no one paid attention to Graydon and her.

Underneath the cloth of his coat, the massive arm muscle underneath her fingers bunched. He began to stroll away from the main crowd on the dance floor.

Due to the strong grip he maintained on her hand, she either had to fall in step beside him or cause a stir.

And since calling attention to herself was the very last thing she wanted, she went with him.

At least that was why she told herself she went with him.

“I know you’re distressed, and something is wrong,” he said quietly. “It’s clear that Calondir either has no knowledge of it, or the issue doesn’t concern him.”

Possible responses flitted through her mind.

I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. But the companionship of his presence was too warm and alluring, and the memory of that one shared glance between them still stabbed at her. And she couldn’t bring herself to utter such an untruth.

You are too forward, sir. But while she would not have hesitated to say such a thing to Oberon, the power of Graydon’s simple kindness was such she could not find it in her heart to rebuke him.

The tension in her throat muscles made it difficult to swallow. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny it.”

He had dropped all pretense of lightheartedness, and the glance he gave her was both piercing and troubled at once. Gently, he brought them to a halt and turned so that he faced her.

“I’m well aware that I’m crossing boundaries, and my overtures might be unwelcome,” he said quietly. “You’re the Lady of the Elven demesne. I’m just a Wyr sentinel in the demesne that borders yours, and the Wyr and the Elves aren’t always on the friendliest of terms.”

“That’s never personal, Graydon,” she said quickly.

He nodded. He had stopped gripping her fingers, yet somehow her hand still remained in the crook of his arm. She regarded her offending limb with some annoyance. While she felt she should do something to rectify the situation, she couldn’t seem to make herself withdraw.

“I know it’s not personal.” Graydon patted her hand. “But historically, the Elves and Dragos have been enemies before, so you can deny that anything’s wrong, and you can send me away with a word—and if you do, I will respect your wishes and never speak of this again. I just couldn’t stand back and say nothing, not when you’re under such distress. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She averted her gaze as she tried to decide how to respond. As she looked around, she saw that he had chosen the spot with care.

They now stood some distance away from the dancers and the densest part of the crowd, but they were still well visible, just not in the thick of things. It was a good choice for a sensitive conversation, offering both privacy and respectability at once.

She glanced back up at him. “What gave me away?”

He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “I thought there seemed to be some tension as you talked with your ladies, but I only really knew for sure when I walked up and could sense the stress in your scent.”

The Wyr and their sensitive senses. She paused while the part of her that relished the companionable warmth of the fire actually considered taking him up on his offer.

She shouldn’t. There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t. Not least among them was the one he had brought up—they were from different demesnes, and they had different responsibilities and commitments. They had different governments, with different, often conflicting, agendas.