Alberon winced in disgust. ‘Brother! Don’t be foul! I’m simply trying to preserve what little reputation Wyn has left in court.’ He pushed himself to his feet, staggered, then nudged Anthony with his toe. ‘Up, little mankin.’
Anthony climbed slowly to his feet.
‘Listen, Razi,’ said Alberon. ‘If Wyn has any hope at all of making a suitable match, we must be very careful to restore her character. Sleeping alone in the tent of the man already suspected of being her lover will do nothing for her future. She has already become . . .’
Alberon’s voice went on, his intentions admirable, his words vile. With them, court life fell down on Wynter again with all its crushing weight of complexities, all its labyrinthine meanings, all its watchfulness. She stood silently listening, too swamped in tiredness to react; too filled with sorrow. She looked out into the night. It was blotted into nothing by the dancing firelight. She was too tired for this. She was too tired. She wanted Christopher. She wanted to stagger down the hill to him, to find him standing in the dark, to rest her head on his shoulder. She wanted him to chuckle and call her ‘lass’. She wanted him to kiss her hair and not to give a damn.
Razi and Alberon were arguing over the wisdom of Wynter sleeping the night in Alberon’s tent. For some reason, Alberon did not see that as a compromise to her virtue at all. Razi, however, was insisting that were she to sleep in his tent she would at least not be alone in his company, as Christopher Garron would also be there. Alberon found this so ludicrous that he laughed loudly. Unheeded, Anthony swayed by the Prince’s side, his eyes closing already.
‘There are women,’ mumbled Wynter.
The men swivelled as one. ‘What?’ they snapped, irritated that she should interrupt their debate.
‘Women,’ she said, ‘among the Merron. Women. They can be my defence against scandal.’
She began to stagger down the hill, heedless of the men’s protests. Alberon was saying something about Merron women being as bad as the men. Razi was telling him to keep his voice down. Wynter passed from firelight into pitch dark. Stones gritted beneath her boots as she made her way blindly, not caring. Alberon said something about the blue tent and Razi said, ‘Tomorrow, damn it, Albi. Just leave it till tomorrow.’
Wynter didn’t care. Leave them to it.
It was cold, very cold, but the air felt pleasant on her tired face. She reached the base of the hill and someone stepped to her side, quiet as a cat. She smiled at the familiar, spicy scent of him.
‘Hello, lass,’ he murmured.
‘You waited.’
‘Did you doubt me?’
‘Not for a moment.’
His arms closed warm around her and she leaned in, her head finding his shoulder in the dark. ‘Let us to bed,’ she whispered.
‘Alone?’
Wynter sighed. How lovely it would be, in the midst of all these complications, to find themselves alone. To simply take each other’s hand and walk through the brooding maze of the tents and out into the forest; to lay their cloaks on a fragrant bed of pine, to undo the laces on each other’s clothes and to press together, skin to skin in the dappled moonlight. It would be so good to finally allow themselves the gift of being together. It would be so good. It would be such a simple – such an honest – joy.
The thought of it made Wynter squeeze her eyes shut and tighten her arms, pulling Christopher’s slim body in against hers. He tightened his hold on her and they stood clenched together, their bodies so close, holding each other so tight that it felt as if their hearts were beating side-by-side with just the barest breadth of skin between.
I want you so badly, thought Wynter. I want so badly to keep you. Please. Please. Can’t I have this one thing? Just this one thing for my own?
Her hair had fallen a little loose from its binding and, as he held her, Christopher ran his fingers through the stray locks at the nape of her neck. His touch sent delicious fire tingling down Wynter’s body. It made her ache. He lowered his forehead to her shoulder. She touched her lips to his neck.
He groaned.
‘We ain’t doing ourselves any favours, lass.’
‘No,’ she whispered, ‘we are not.’
‘We need to let go, before neither of us has the strength.’
‘I know.’
Still he held her, quiet and motionless, pressed close in the velvet dark,