Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,19
Gavina turned her attention to him. She held his gaze steadily as she replied, “It’s just that my name … Gavina … means ‘White Hawk’.”
VIII
GRASPING AT SHADOWS
SOME SILENCES WERE truly awkward—and this was one of them.
For a few moments, Draco and Maximus merely stared at Gavina. Both men wore poleaxed expressions, their lips parting as the weight of what she’d just revealed settled upon them.
Eventually, Maximus shattered the brittle hush. “Gavina means ‘White Hawk’?”
Gavina swallowed once more, in an effort to ease the choking tightness in her throat. “Aye … I remember my mother telling me once.”
Her words fell heavily, reverberating afterward like iron upon stone.
The crackling of the fire filled the void, and somewhere in the surrounding trees, a lonely owl hooted.
And then Draco muttered something in a tongue Gavina didn’t understand.
“It’s merely a coincidence,” she spoke up. The men’s reaction to her comment unnerved her.
Maximus’s dark eyes had gone wide, and they now gleamed with excitement, whereas Draco had stopped whittling his piece of wood and stared at her as if she’d just sprouted horns and a forked tail.
Gavina heartily regretted being so candid. Why did ye tell them what yer name means? she berated herself inwardly. Some comments were better left unvoiced.
“I don’t think it is,” Maximus replied. “Nothing that’s happened in the past few months has been.” His voice had tightened. “Everything is falling into place … as it is meant to.”
“You think this is fate deciding for us?” Draco asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief. Unlike his friend, he hadn’t welcomed this news. “After all these centuries of struggle, you believe the stars have aligned in our favor?”
Maximus’s mouth quirked. “They had to … eventually. You and Lady Gavina are destined to wed.”
Draco stared back at him, the expression upon his sharp-featured face a blend of disbelief and horror.
Another chill swept through Gavina. This time the sensation made her hands and feet prickle. Like his friends, Draco Vulcan wanted the curse broken—but the thought of being wed to her made him lose sight of that fact.
Wed to me?
Gavina’s breathing quickened, blood now roaring in her ears. “I think ye are mistaken, Maximus,” she heard herself say, although her voice sounded as if it were echoing down a long tunnel, almost as if it didn’t belong to her. “I’m a widow in mourning … and am expected to remain chaste for at least a year. I cannot wed anyone.”
She glanced down at the drab woolen kirtle she wore—dyed a dull-charcoal. It served as a reminder to them all. A widow didn’t remarry barely a month after her husband’s death.
Maximus stiffened, a shadow crossing his handsome face. “We don’t have a year, My Lady.” He gestured to the sky. “The Broom-star will fade from sight in less than a month. After that, the opportunity will be lost forever.”
Gavina’s fingers clasped around the cup. She could see the panic in the man’s eyes. He loved Heather and wanted to grow old with her. Although she sympathized with his predicament, anger spiked through Gavina’s belly.
He was desperate. But he’d lost sight of the fact that the decision also impacted her life. He was wedded to someone he loved, but he’d literally throw Gavina to the wolves in order to break the curse.
She shifted her attention to where Draco’s face suddenly looked hewn of granite.
Gavina’s belly twisted. He might have looked horrified at the thought of binding himself to her—but she felt the same way.
Draco Vulcan is the last man I’d choose as a husband.
Setting aside the cup, she rose to her feet. “I’m tired,” she announced. “I shall retire now.”
Maximus’s spine straightened. “Please, My Lady … don’t dismiss this.”
“I’m not.” A sharp note crept into her voice. “I just don’t want to talk about it any longer.”
“You have just given us all the answer we’ve been searching over a millennium for,” Maximus countered. His handsome face had gone taut, his eyes dark in the firelight. “There’s no good pretending you haven’t.”
“Aye, but maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. This is folly … all of it!”
His gaze narrowed. “Perhaps to you it is, My Lady.” His voice was sharp now. “But not to those of us who’ve had to live with the curse.”
“I’m not marrying yer friend.” Her voice was hoarse with the effort it was taking not to shout. “I’m sorry for yer pain.” And she was, although it was difficult to feel anything but anger right now. “But I’ve just escaped one loveless marriage, and I don’t