Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,38
Assuming our union breaks the curse, you’ll be widowed a second time very soon.”
Gavina’s body drew taut. How could he make fun of such a situation? There were some things that one shouldn’t joke about. “Is this a game to ye?” she rasped. “Don’t ye want to live?”
Draco held her gaze fast, and in the depths of his obsidian eyes, she saw nothing but bleakness.
The castle shuddered then, the impact so sudden that Gavina staggered. An instant later, something hit the wall behind her.
Gavina gasped, her gaze swiveling to where a massive hunk of lead had torn a hole in the garden wall.
“Come.” Draco took hold of her arm and firmly led her toward the archway. “I told you it wasn’t safe out here.”
Heart pounding, Gavina meekly went with him, shock rendering her biddable. However, the moment they were inside the keep, and had entered a long colonnaded gallery, she wrenched her arm free and turned to him. “It can’t really be that simple, can it?” she demanded. “How can ye and I marrying change anything?”
He stared down at her, his look so intense that Gavina suddenly forgot to breathe. She’d never met a man who looked at her like he did. She felt laid bare under that stare. “Over one thousand years ago, a witch woman cursed three centurions she’d taken captive,” he replied, his gaze never leaving hers. “And from that moment onward, things were set in stone. All that remains is for us to do our part.”
Gavina stood at the open window of the solar, looking out across the lower ward and the walls, which now smoked in places. Heaviness pressed down upon her; it had been a long, nerve-wracking day.
The attacks had ceased with the setting of the sun. The silence that followed sounded unnatural, hollow. The quietness unsettled Gavina more than the siege had. For with the quiet, Longshanks would be plotting his next move.
Hearing the door whisper open behind her, Gavina turned from the grim view.
A comely woman with a curvaceous figure and a thick mane of walnut hair entered. Heather had visited her, as Gavina requested.
Her friend’s grey-green eyes were wary, even as she favored Gavina with a smile. Ever since Heather had returned to Dunnottar a couple of months previously, the two of them had become close. Gavina had employed Heather as her companion, and they’d spent nearly every afternoon together in this solar weaving and sewing, and chatting. Heather had proved to be lively and interesting company—the sort of woman who drew Gavina out of herself and made her forget her worries.
But there was a reserve between them now.
A reserve that Gavina completely understood.
“How are yer parents faring?” Gavina asked. She hadn’t seen the steward and his wife all day, for they had kept to their quarters high in the tower.
“On edge,” Heather reported, her smile turning rueful. “Da keeps pacing the floor, demanding to be let out on the walls to fight, while Ma tells him he’s too old for such things.”
Gavina managed a tight smile of her own. She appreciated Donnan’s courage. There may come a time when the steward would be forced to join the fight; once the English breached the gates, he’d have no choice.
Her belly cramped then, and she hurriedly pushed the worry away.
“Thank ye for coming, Heather,” she said, moving over to one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth. “I’ve missed our chats.”
“As have I,” Heather replied softly. Did Gavina imagine it, or was her voice tinged with hurt. She moved over to join Gavina, seating herself in a chair opposite. Gavina studied her face. Heather’s expression was usually so open and frank, yet the lines of her softly rounded face were strained this evening. “I was beginning to think ye were deliberately avoiding me … have I offended ye in some way, My Lady?”
Gavina shook her head. “Ye have done nothing wrong, Heather.” The words gusted out of her. “My distance has more to do with my own conscience needling me.” She met her friend’s eye then. “Ye must resent my choice?”
She braced herself to receive the blunt edge of Heather’s tongue. This was what she needed, rather than Aila’s kindness and acceptance. Heather would be refreshingly frank, harsh even.
However, Heather merely swallowed, her gaze widening. “Of course I don’t.”
“I know how much this means to ye,” Gavina pressed. “If I don’t help ye … the curse won’t be broken.”
Heather’s full lips pressed together. “Aye,” she murmured, “but no one would force ye