Storm Warned (The Grim Series) (18 page)

“Ranyon, your work is so grand,” she breathed. “It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“After hearing yer songs, I’m thinkin’ that fiddle is the loveliest thing you’ve seen.”

She smiled then. “We won’t count that.” Caris carefully slipped the ellyll’s creation over her head as if it were made of spun glass, and tenderly cupped the pendent in her hands to admire it further. “How did you know I liked this stone?”

“Because it liked ya too.”

Laughing, she threw her arms around the little ellyll. She was careful not to squeeze him too hard, but although he looked like he could blow away in the next good gust of wind, Ranyon was surprisingly solid.
Goodness, he
is
just like a tree!

He chuckled and sat back. “A smart man would be givin’ ya a gift every day, just fer a fine
cwtch
like that.” His gnarled face sobered then. “But ya must know, the stone is much more than it looks. ’Tis as strong a charm as I’ve ever made. D’ya trust me, good lady?”

She didn’t have to think about it, though she hadn’t known the little ellyll for long. “Yes. Yes I do. Absolutely.”

“Good.” He held up a twiggy finger, and wagged it at her. “Now, fer the love of little fishes,
never take it off
. Not fer a single minute.”

“But—”

“Not even if Maelgwn himself threatens to do harm to ya, or to someone ya care fer.”

“Wait, I can’t do that!”

“Ya can, good lady, and ya must. He can’t see it around yer neck, dontcha know, but ya might think to bargain with it.
Don’t
.” The ellyll waggled his finger at her. “I can’t explain all the magical workings to ya, but ’tis fer good purpose. Some things ya have to have a bit o’ faith in.” He held out his skinny hand to her. “Will ya make a solemn pledge on it?”

Caris swallowed hard. It wouldn’t be hard to keep a pledge when someone was trying to bully
her
. But if someone tried to harm Jay or Morgan or Ranyon—or worst of all,
Liam
—how would she ever keep her word?

“It really is that important?”

“Aye. Or I wouldn’t ask it of ya.”

She took his hand and shook it solemnly. “Then I promise.”

“Right then!” He slapped his knobby knee. “Let me just be teaching ya a few little tunes that might come in handy some day . . .”

“Liam, you’ve come back to us!” The voice startled him, and in the same moment,
eased
something within him. Everything in Liam’s world was fine as long as the owner of that sensuous voice was nearby . . .

Caris walked around the end of the couch, and it seemed to him that the room became brighter. She wasn’t in scrubs anymore, but wearing faded jeans and a simple blouse in tropical shades that loved her skin. Her long black hair was cleverly worked into a double braid that circled her head like a dark crown—and it was sexy as hell. But it was her broad smile that warmed him like good brandy. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” His voice came out hoarse, and his tongue was doing an imitation of a dried-out sponge again. With the pounding in his head, simply smiling could be harmful or fatal—but what a pleasant sensation to
want
to smile! He wished she hadn’t caught him lying down, of course, but his body had insisted on more sleep right after Morgan left. “At least I’ve been up once, so that’s an improvement.”

“Morgan was saying so.”

“Been checking up on me?”

“Well, now, someone needs to, don’t they? Here, I brought some water in case you were awake.” She produced a tall glass with a straw sticking out of it, holding it steady so that all he had to do was drink.

He took a couple of welcome sips, swishing it through his dry mouth before he swallowed. “Christ, that’s better.” It was only water, but it was sweet and cold, and he could swear he could feel his tissues expanding as he drank. Still, Caris pulled it away just as he passed the halfway mark.

“Your stomach’s likely to be tender still,” she cautioned. “Just let that settle a bit before you finish the glass while I make you a bit of lunch.”

“Not going to boss me around, are you?”

She smiled again. “Are you going to be needing it?”

“Probably not today. Maybe when I have more energy.”

“Let me know when that is,” she laughed. Liam decided he was definitely in love with her laugh. His sensible side said that wasn’t much of a basis for a relationship, but it made perfect sense to the rest of him.

He reached over and took one of Caris’s hands in his larger one, holding it captive while he examined it gently. “A little bird told me you milked all the goats by hand last night.”

She looked baffled. “Well, of course I did, and this morning too. I know you’ve got clever machines to do it, but they need electricity. Jay’s already got your generator running some of your other equipment to cool down the milk. Your cheese maker’s coming by today to collect it.”

A small hand, yet strong. Her skin was soft, but there were also calluses here and there, badges of hard, honest work—and God help him, he’d do anything to feel those hands on his body. Liam looked boldly into her dark eyes as he brought her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed each fingertip. It was a delight to see the color rise in her cheeks, as a flurry of emotions passed over her beautiful face. Shocked, as he pressed his lips to the pad of her thumb. Apprehensive, as he kissed the first finger, and downright confused as he kissed the second. His lips lingered on the ring finger, long enough to shield the furtive flick of his tongue from view. Her eyes darkened with arousal, and crimson blushed at her throat. Caris tugged at her hand, but he didn’t release it until he had kissed her pinky—and nipped it lightly. She stammered something about making lunch and left the room as if it were on fire.

But unless he was very mistaken, she was the one who’d been set alight . . .

SIXTEEN

W
e have accomplished a very great deal this day,” declared Gwenhidw. “And I think it well worth celebrating. I know that we had planned to do more, to attempt an even greater merging of our magics to send the first small seedings to Tir Hardd, but I believe we would do far better after a refreshment of the mind and spirit. Tomorrow will be soon enough to carry on our work. For now, let us rest and make ready, then repair to the great throne room when the moon reaches her height. It has been far too many years since we danced there. Let us remedy that together with a party, shall we?”

The envoys cheered her suggestion mightily and hastened to their quarters, laughing and talking as if they were the best of friends. Lurien didn’t know which was more astonishing—that the diplomats were getting along so well, or that Gwenhidw had suggested an actual social event.

As for the vast throne room, it was seldom used at all, never mind for a celebration. In fact, outside of the queen’s recent gathering to discuss her plans for Tir Hardd, there hadn’t been a crowd in the throne room since . . .

Since the king died.

For some reason, the thought of the merriment to come filled the Lord of the Wild Hunt with a curious melancholy. Perhaps it was because the assassination of Arthfael was never very far from his mind. Though Lurien had arrived in time to save Gwenhidw from the murderous attackers, he would never be rid of the terrible sense of failure that trailed him like a hungry wolf. As for the queen, she had mourned her husband for nearly two millennia.

Did the announcement of a
party
mean that she might be healing at last? Or was she, as always, simply doing what she felt her people needed her to do? He didn’t know.

Nor did he know what an actual
party
would be like. Lurien searched his memories, trying to recall past fêtes. He hoped to Hades it wouldn’t be like the chaotic Court. The shallow and chattering assembly was perpetually seeking amusement and diversion, competing for the attention and admiration of their titled peers. Luckily, their lustful galas and raucous entertainments were restricted to the outermost ballrooms.

Lurien never attended the Court unless it was to escort and guard Gwenhidw—and thankfully, her appearance there was rare indeed. She hated the silly and small-minded assemblage as much as he did. In fact, battling the snapping beaks of
adar gwyn
, the white-headed gryphons, during a hunt was far less dangerous than an hour spent with the sharp-tongued wags of the Court.

No
, he thought with relief,
Gwenhidw’s party would be nothing like that
. She would host something tasteful and elegant. It would still be boring to
him
, of course—after all, his own ideas of entertainment involved untamed faery horses, ghostly hounds, and a fresh trail to follow over rough countryside. But while the envoys enjoyed the festivities, he would simply focus on guarding his queen and ensuring her safety. He would assign every one of his hunters to the occasion as well and . . .

“Lurien.”

Startled, he bowed instantly at the queen’s voice, but in the wrong direction entirely, causing her to laugh aloud. A thousand crystal bells were blended into that unique laugh, and the sound was all the more breathtaking for its rarity.

He turned to smile at her, an expression uncommon to his own face. “My apologies, Your Grace. Once again, you have surprised me. One might think you enjoy doing so.”

“I believe you may be right.” Her face was exquisite as always, her flawless gown capturing the delicate saffron hues of wild rock-roses. The crimson-spotted flowers were plaited into her shining hair, where he knew they would remain fresh and living as long as they stayed within the energy of her aura. The queen of the Nine Realms gave life to everything and everyone around her. Only Lurien, with the perception of long acquaintance, could see the weariness in her eyes.

“Do you think it wise to have this party so soon?” he asked. “I would sooner see you rest, your Grace.”

She groaned. “Do not ‘Your Grace’ me again,” she said quietly but firmly. “We are quite alone in the courtyard now. You are my oldest and dearest friend, but you have become far too formal, even to the point of
stuffy
, since I called you to be my
llaw dde
.”

“Stuffy? Now there is a word I haven’t heard in this kingdom before. I believe your visits with Morgan Edwards are giving you a new vocabulary.”

She favored him with a laugh again and motioned him to sit with her on a green malachite bench hedged with flame-colored foxgloves that grew nowhere else in the realms. “That may be so, but I miss your own irreverent tongue, Lurien. There is no one, past or present, who has ever spoken his mind in my presence with such piercing canniness. There was a time when a single word from you would shock many of our elders while silencing many fools. Yet throughout the labored proceedings of these past few days, you have been as silent as a shadow. Has nothing been said, no opinion voiced, that you have felt the urge to answer?”

“Gwenhidw,” he said, and her name on his tongue was easy and familiar. “Most of my urges the past few days have been violent at best. I have not wished to speak so much as throttle most of the delegates at one time or another. When the coblynau proposed seceding from the kingdom? I very nearly volunteered to throw them all off the high face of the palace into the great chasm below.” He sighed. “I do not have your patience, nor your gift for diplomacy. You are as perfect a monarch as there has ever been. The expansion into Tir Hardd is a mighty undertaking, and no one could bring about such a momentous thing, save
you
.”

“I am very far from perfect, Lurien. And we are not in Tir Hardd yet.” She placed her porcelain hand upon his black-gloved one, their contrast sharp and clear, yet balanced in their combination. “I truly fear for my people.”

“I know it. But I fear for you far more. You work as if you never tire, and you take many, many risks.” He clasped her hand as if holding a delicate bird in his palm. “I will do all within my power to keep you safe.”

“You always have, my dear friend. But this time, promise me instead that you will keep our
people
safe. Promise me you will see them to Tir Hardd should I fail to do so.”

Lurien’s heart pitched within him. He had spent most of his entire life fighting to protect Gwenhidw, and the thought of anything happening to her was simply unbearable. As for the concept that his determined queen might not accomplish her goal?
Impossible.

“You cannot fail,” he said gently. “You love the realms and all that are in them. And while I’m more inclined to solve things with a sword and a spell, you’ve proved again and again that love is a far greater magic.”

“I hope so,” she said, sighing. “Promise me one more thing?”

He could not deny her. “Anything.”

“You’re so vigilant all the time. Always watchful, always on guard, forever hovering and seeing to my safety. Particularly with the envoys recently.”

“I should not have told you that I wanted to kill some of them,” he teased.

She smiled at that. “You did not ask me if
I
did. Tonight, at the party, I want you to delegate your responsibilities and just enjoy yourself.”

What?
“Have I grown tiresome to be around, dear Gwenhidw?”

“No,” she chuckled. “Never that. Sometimes the weight of responsibility for everyone and everything seems too great, and it presses down on me. It would ease me greatly if just once, you attended as a guest and not a guardian.”

“I will always watch over you,” he said simply. “I cannot do otherwise.”

“But you can still be a guest. You can still have fun, can you not? Just this once? I already know you’ll put your very best hunters in the room with me. You could put two on each side of me—even three or four—if that would free you for a single night. Please?”

“
’Tis a strange request, but I cannot say no to you.”

She sighed and leaned against him with her head on his shoulder. Her satin hair spilled across the black of his riding leathers, like moonlight upon still, dark waters. “Since you cannot say no, will you also permit me to rest here a while, dear Lurien?”

His queen continued to surprise him. “Rest here for as long as you wish, Gwenhidw. For as long as the stars wheel in the heavens if that is your desire.” He put his arm around her and drew her close, but whether he was comforting her or himself, he could not say.

Snatches of lively song came from the direction of the kitchen, and Liam realized he was hearing Caris’s voice as she worked. No radio accompanied her, no music video on the TV, yet her voice was pitch-perfect. It was unearthly, idyllic even—and it shook him to his very core. The tune was lower, softer, as if it had been tamed down from its ancient wild origins, but he recognized it instantly nonetheless.

It was the very same cascading song he’d heard her play in his dream.

He didn’t have a perfect voice himself, but he did have a faultless ear when it came to tunes. Liam knew without doubt that he’d never heard such music before his battered brain conjured it as he’d slept in the hospital. What the hell did it mean?

Aunt Ruby believed in psychic abilities. Uncle Conall believed in his gut and said it was the very same thing. Liam wasn’t so sure, since his own gut had never showed a tendency toward precognition before. Yet it wasn’t the prophetic aspect that bothered him. He could explain it away easily enough if he really tried. He’d simply heard Caris humming or singing sometime while he was asleep, and the tune worked itself into his dream. It was no mystery that she’d played a fiddle in his dream either. It was an instrument he himself played and loved.
Once.
If he’d been a tuba player, he’d probably have dreamed of Caris’s bare skin pressed against the shining gold surface of the great brass horn . . .
Ah, hell.
No question where the naked part came from,
he thought as he readjusted his jeans, and his focus, at the same time.

The issue was how the music made him feel—no, that wasn’t quite right.
It was the fact that the music made him feel anything at all.
The song opened something inside him that he had hammered shut. And dammit, it was going to
stay
shut. It had to, it . . .

Caris was still humming as she came out of the kitchen and rounded the couch.

“Why are you singing?” The words were out of Liam’s mouth before he could think and sharper than he would have chosen.

She froze in place, a plate and a cup of coffee in her hands. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you singing?”

“Ah. I’m very sorry to be making noise,” she said gently. “I should have thought it might bother your poor head.”

“No, I just—it’s not
noise
. Don’t ever call it that. It’s beautiful, really beautiful, but I just can’t have it around me. I can’t have you singing near me.” His voice rose a little in spite of himself, as if instead of explaining, he were underscoring the words that were pouring out of his mouth unbidden. “I know it makes no sense, but I have to ask you not to make music while you’re here. Please don’t sing anymore—don’t hum, don’t whistle, don’t do anything. At least not here, not around me, not anywhere that I can hear it.”

She stared at him as if he had struck her. Setting the food on the coffee table in front of him, she turned and left the room without another word. He heard the back door open and close—quietly.

So much for showing Caris his
better side
. . .

“Fuck!” he yelled, and threw his pillow across the room, where Brewster appeared to regard it with an accusing expression. “I know it,” he muttered at the silent moose head. “I’m being a total moron. Again.” When the hell had that become his default setting?

Liam muttered every curse he knew, sitting up carefully as he massaged the explosive pounding pain that was his head. He survived the change of position without passing out or throwing up, but he was unable to avoid the rush of purest guilt as he regarded the colorful plate with its tidy sandwich, trimmed and nestled next to a fan of sliced radish and pickle. Dammit, hadn’t he just been thinking about what an incredible gift the woman was, that just maybe he’d like to take a chance on opening his heart again?