Into Thin Air (20 page)
He hoped his stew did in fact find a comfortable place in his belly soon.
After a glance at Ellie, who hung on his every word, he wasn't so sure anymore.
Bleedin' priests, he could fair believe himself not only to be an Angel, but an ex-warlord. With a deep calming breath, he began what he hoped to be a decent version of his own odd predicament.
Saints be with him.
"I was born in the year of our Lord 1115 in the north of Wales. It's passing odd to think of those times now, yet they seem as close as yesterday." Gawan shook his head. "My sire was a fierce warlord, and I followed directly into his footsteps, as was expected. By the time I'd reached nine winters, I'd already killed—I can't recall how many men. Hardly a month passed that we weren't at odds with the English, or the Norse, or an angry neighboring clan." He shrugged. "Fighting was all I knew, and I became rather good at it. Especially with the blade."
"That's pretty obvious," Ellie said. "You're amazing to watch." Her face softened, maybe even saddened a bit. "I can't imagine you as a little nine-year-old boy killing someone."
He gave her a slight nod, although her lack of mortification at his young character gave him more courage than he cared to admit. "Aye, 'tis a skill I was rather determined not to lose—with my sword, that is—despite the blood that had been shed because of it in my early years. And aye, nine was rather young, but 'twas how things were managed in my day. 'Twas a brutal time."
"I see that." Ellie shifted again, to more fully face Gawan. "But before today, nobody could have possibly convinced me that you'd shed any blood." She shook her head. "You're levelheaded." She smiled. "Sweet, even. But after the sword hacking I saw you do with Tristan earlier? Yeah, I can believe it now. Definitely amazing."
With a laugh, Gawan, too, turned to more fully face her. "I daresay I was anything but sweet. I was a disgusting, dirty, bloodthirsty heathen in those days, lady. 'Tis no secret that whilst I did what I had to do to survive, I also took pride in the number of enemies I'd slain."
"Show 'er your markings boy, an' get on wi' it!"
Ellie jumped, and Gawan shook his head and glanced at the door. "Sir Godfrey, could you please escort your nosy self—along with the Grimm ladies, who no doubt have their ears pressed to the door—
away?
This is a private discussion."
"We want to hear all about it, young Conwyk," Lady Follywolle said, her voice somewhat muffled.
"Do promise you'll give us full details later?"
"Godfrey, now," Gawan said.
All three sighs, overdramatized, to Gawan's notion, could be heard on the other side of the door.
"Very well," Godfrey said. "Come on, ladies." Then a mumbled curse, followed by "Blasted party pooper."
Gawan glanced at Ellie, who had her fingers pressed to her lips, smothering a grin. Or, rather, keeping a laugh from falling out.
"Meddlesome peahens," Gawan muttered. But a smile pulled at his mouth.
"So that's what those tattoos are across your chest and back?" Ellie said, and moved her stare across him. "And your arms? Marks of how many men you've killed?"
Gawan glanced down at one of the black symbols, barely showing beneath the cuff of his tunic. It was the very last one he'd burned into his flesh as a mortal. He ran a thumb over it. "Aye. They're ancient Pict symbols."
"Don't forget to tell her what they mean, Conwyk!"
Gawan rubbed a hand over his brow. "Godfrey, by the saint's robes, begone!"
"Fine, then. Just makin' sure you don't scare the girl off."
Gawan rose and headed to the door. "I'm not going to scare the girl off, Godfrey." God, he prayed he didn't, anyway. Mayhap she thought him a barbarian, no matter that he'd done his bloodshedding centuries before. 'Twas a gory existence he'd once led.
He yanked open the door and poked his head out. The corridor was indeed now empty. "Stay gone.
And I mean it."
Ellie's giggle sounded behind him, which made him feel that mayhap she didn't think him an animal. When he shut the door and turned around, Ellie, too, had risen from her spot on the sofa and now stood, staring out of one of the massive windows.
He moved to do the same, yet kept a safe distance between them. He didn't want to make her feel hemmed in.
Although, he admitted to himself, he wanted nothing more than to hem her in. Pull her soft body against his, slide his fingers through that fine mass of hair.
Saints.
"Okay, so you were a stinky bloodthirsty, warlord." She turned, smiled, and regarded him. "What do the markings mean?"
Dolt. Can you keep your lecherous mind to task for a single second?
"In truth, they're sort of a number system. Each symbol stands for a certain number, a specific battle. A cluster of enemies, if you will."
Without warning, Ellie stepped toward him and reached for his hand. She lifted it, and he allowed it, and then she pushed his cuff up and brought it closer to her eyes. She studied it for several seconds, and then, damnation, she traced it with the very soft pad of her index finger. His entire bloody arm tingled.
"So this symbol here," she said, still tracing the mark. "How many does it represent?"
Without hesitation, Gawan said, "Twenty-five." And well he should easily remember. The last had been naught but an innocent boy.
Ellie lowered his hand, but she did not let go of it. "Let me get this straight." She looked at him.
"Each symbol represents a specific battle and a cluster of men you've killed."
"Aye."
"All in battle?"
Gawan nodded, his eyes unable to look directly at hers, so he stared out the window instead.
She stepped closer, and blast her, she threaded her slim fingers through his own. "So tell me, Mr.
Stinky Warlord. If you were so horrible, as I can tell you seem to think you were"—she moved in front of him, her back to the glass window, forcing him to look at her—"then how did you become an Angel?" The smile she offered was soft and, dared he hope, understanding. "They don't let just any old smelly, bloodthirsty swordswinger become an Angel, last I heard."
She smiled. By the saints, she understood.
His heart melted.
At that moment, she gently dropped her hand from his and moved away, just a bit, and continued staring toward the sea. 'Twas a good thing, to his mind, because a minute more and he would have had her pressed against that blasted window, his lips moving over hers,
tasting ...
"Ooo-kay. So. How
exactly
did you become an Angel?"
Shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from touching her, he continued. " 'Twas in a battle. I found an injured boy. A warrior, in truth—he certainly had a lethal blade in his hand—but a boy, just the same. No more than twelve, I suspect, and he had a nasty slash"—he pointed to the left side of his chest—"just here. As I dragged him to safety, another warrior attacked."
She turned from the window to face him, her face tense. "That's when you were killed?"
"Aye. 'Twas the lad's father, no less, thinking I'd killed his boy." He shrugged. "I'd have done the same."
"But the boy, even though he was young, was still on the opposing team, or the guys you were fighting. Right?"
" 'Twas a Moor, indeed. During the Crusades. Still"—he shook his head—"if only I knew then what I know now."
Silence stretched for what seemed like minutes. Far too long for Gawan's liking. Then Ellie spoke softly.
"It's you in that tapestry in your great hall, isn't it?" Her eyes searched his. "The only warrior without battle gear on, riding beside Queen Eleanor."
So many centuries ago, yet it seemed like yesterday, Eleanor of Aquitaine herself delivered the stitching. "Aye, 'tis me." He shrugged. "Rather, a depiction of me. The medievals—we were a dramatic lot, you know."
"Right. I knew it the first time I saw it, up close. Well," she said, turning and pressing her nose against the window, "I had a feeling that warrior looked familiar. Same tattoos, same hair. I knew it was you." She sighed. "Look, you can see the snow falling through the moonlight, and the waves in the ocean. It's so beautiful out there"—she tapped the glass with her fingernail, making a
click-click
sound—"it almost hurts to look at it."
Christ, how he knew the feeling. He studied every inch of her, from the way her little nose pushed upward from the pressure against the glass, to her long lashes that brushed her cheeks when she blinked, to every small movement her lips made when she spoke.
Besotted,
Tristan had called him. Aye, he truly was that.
He cleared his throat and spoke, before he did something ridiculous, like act on that besottedness and kiss her again.
"Aye, 'tis a magnificent view, indeed."
"So you were awarded Angelhood, or whatever it's called, by saving the life of your enemy when you really didn't have to. Right?"
"Right."
She began to pace, pondering out loud in that charming way she had. "That was what year, exactly?"
"1145."
She whistled, long and low. "God, you're old."
Gawan chuckled. "Aye, so I am."
At the hearth, she turned, a grin on her face. "You know what I mean. So you were, what? Thirty, when you died?"
"Closer to thirty-one, but aye," he said, following her to the hearth. He'd thank Jameson later for building such a fine fire. The room was justly warm, not too much so.
Stretching her hands toward the flames, she rubbed her palms together. "Okay, bear with me as I try to piece all this together. You've been an Angel for nearly a thousand years, because of the selfless act of trying to save the life of your enemy in battle. Right?"
"Aye."
"So why didn't you want to tell me any of this before?"
Now the Brooding Chamber was beginning to feel like a bloody furnace.
"I am"—he now had to count, having lost track of the days—"nineteen days from retirement, Ell.
You're my assigned charge, and I have to see your situation settled properly before the Yuletide's eve, at midnight."
She moved closer, blast her. "Or?"
He sighed and swiped a hand over his jaw. "Or I lose my retirement."
"Which means?"
Damn, he sounded like an idiot. "Which means—"
"He'll lose the only chance he's got at livin' out his mortal life!"
Gawan closed his eyes, muttered a fine Welsh curse or two, then opened his eyes again. "Godfrey, by Christ—"
"Fine! I'm leaving. Just don't forget to tell the girl everything, lad. Everything!"
Ellie's face had gone decidedly pasty. "There's more?" She clapped a hand over her forehead. "Oh, gosh, I can't believe I've possibly altered a retiring Angel's pending mortalism."
Damnation, how he didn't want to tell her another bloody thing. He knew, though, with little thanks to Godfrey, that lace-wearing peahen, that she'd pester him until he
did
tell. " 'Tisn't your fault, Ell, and I vow to set things aright before long. We've nearly three weeks."
She slid her hand over her eyes, then peeped through a crack made between two fingers. "Stop skirting, Conwyk. Tell me
everything."
She dropped her hand and narrowed her eyes. "And I mean it."
He cleared his throat. Best to get this over with now. "You're my—er, let me start over. We, um, you see, damn." A hank of hair fell from his queue and into his eyes, and he let the bloody thing stay there. "You're my Intended, Ellie of Aquitaine. We"—he waved a hand between the two of them
—"are each other's Intended."
There. He'd said it. He'd told the bloody telling of it.
And he waited for her response.
That stew from earlier suddenly did not want to stay put ...
Ellie couldn't help it. A bubble of something—not gas, thank God, but something—welled up inside her. She tried oh so mightily to stop it from finding an exit. But it found one anyway.
She snorted.
Quickly, she covered her mouth with her hand, just in case another one slipped out.
Gawan just looked at her. Blank face—no, take that back. He looked ready to
hurl.
She stepped backward, just in case.
With her thumb and forefinger, she grabbed her lips and pinched them together for, oh, as long as she could stand it without hollering. It was a method she'd perfected as a kid, when her brother was whispering something wicked in her ear, trying to make her laugh at the most inappropriate times.
Gawan quirked a brow and cocked his head. "Is there aught amiss with you?"
Finally, she got a grip. "Sorry. But for some reason, it just struck me funny." She met his stare.
"What, exactly, does that mean?
Intended?"
His eyes darted to the corner of her mouth. "Forever mates of the soul, Ell."
Whump.
Talk about heart falling to bottom of stomach.
Although, she quickly reflected, it was pretty darn cute, the way he kept referring to her as
Ell ...
"Do you understand, girl?" he asked.
"Well, sort of," she said. A flutter of excitement she couldn't explain grew within her. "Tell me more." She took another step toward him. "Lots more."
Gawan's face visibly blanched. "Er, aye, well"—he scratched his ear—"we're destined, sort of, by Fate to belong to, mayhap, each other." He coughed. "Forever."
Where her boldness came from, she hadn't a clue. She
knew
there was more than simple attraction between them. Knew it. Nah, she didn't
really
know it. Secretly wished for it, though.
She stood before the fire, maybe a foot away from Gawan. She looked up, into his eyes. "How did you know? That I was your Intended, I mean."
For a long moment, Gawan didn't say anything. He looked down at his shoes, flicked a piece of something off his jeans, rubbed his brow. Then, as if a button had been pushed, he looked up.
And Ellie all but had to back up to the wall to stay upright.
Dark brown eyes had turned smoldering, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. His brows pulled not into a frown, but into
determination.
"The Welsh believe in many things, girl. Some may call it lore, but we believe in it, wholly and in truth. 'Tis said that a man can recognize his one and true Intended by a wee mark in the corner of her mouth." His eyes grew even darker. " 'Tis unmistakable, that mark.
