Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [118]
Marie hesitated. The little boy might well be in danger of being pecked, but — wise woman that she was — she knew her darling in the garden was in worse danger still. Another wail, this one more frantic, sounded from Master Samuels. There was no help for it. Bidding Gwendolyn follow her immediately — a command Marie knew had about as much chance of being obeyed as if she had ordered the sun out of the sky — the catalyst sped off with the servant to rescue, soothe, and chastise Master Samuels.
“I … can … only stay … a moment,” said Gwen. Blushing beneath the intense stare of the dark eyes and conscious that she was disobeying her father, she started to remove her hand from Joram’s arm when Joram caught hold of it.
“Father Dunstable is resting comfortably this morning,” he said.
“Please, don’t,” Gwen said, confused by the feelings his touch aroused in her. Gently pulling her hand away from him, she put both hands behind her back. “Papa wouldn’t … That is, I mustn’t … What were you saying about the kind Father?” she asked finally, desperately.
“The Theldara said it was a … um … mild attack,” Joram continued, a prey to sudden longings and desires himself. “Something about the blood vessels constricting and preventing the blood from reaching the brain. I don’t understand it, but it could have been very bad, paralyzing him permanently. As it is, she said Father Dunstable’s own magic forces were able to completely heal the damage. I — I was going to thank Marie for her help,” Joram added gruffly, being little used to thanking anyone, “before she left. If you would do so when you go into the house …” Once more, he bowed and started to leave, and again, the soft hand on his arm stopped him.
“I — I prayed to the Almin that he would be well again,” Gwen murmured in such a low voice that Joram had to move closer to her in order to hear. Gwen accidentally left her hand upon his arm and Joram was quick to capture it.
“Is that all you prayed for?” he asked her softly, his lips brushing the golden hair.
Gwendolyn felt the touch of his lips, soft as it had been. Her entire body was sensitive to him suddenly; her very hair seemed to tingle at his nearness. Raising her head, Gwen found herself much closer to Joram than she had expected. The strange feelings of pleasurable pain that had stirred within her when he held her hand became stronger and more frightening. She was very much aware of him, of his physical body, The lips that had touched her hair were parted, as though they thirsted. His arms were strong and they crept around her, drawing her into a darkness and a mystery that made her heart both stand still with fear and race with wild excitement.
Alarmed, Gwen tried to pull away, but he held her fast.
“Please, let me go,” she said faintly, averting her face, afraid to look up at him again, afraid of letting him see what she knew must be plain in her eyes.
Instead, he pressed her close. The blood surged through her body; she was warm inside yet shaking with chills. She could feel his warmth surround her; his strength comforted her and, at the same time, frightened her. She lifted her head to look into his eyes and tell him to let her go …
Somehow, the words were never spoken. They were on her lips but then his lips touched hers and the words were swallowed up, vanished in a thrill of sweet pain.
Perhaps the Almin doesn’t hear the prayers of lovers, after all. If He did, He would have left them in that fragrant garden forever, clasped in each others arms. But the wailing of Master Samuels ceased, a door banged, and Gwen, blushing deeply, hurriedly tore herself free of Joram’s embrace.
“I — I must go,” she cried, backing away, stumbling in panicked confusion.
“Wait, one word!” Joram said swiftly, taking a step after her. “If … if … something happens, and I don’t receive the inheritance, will that matter to you,