astonishment, blood oozing from beneath the hand cupped over his nose.
Stunned at what he’d done—he’d never struck his brother in anger, only for sport—Alex’s knees buckled. Finding himself kneeling in the grass, it only seemed right to whisper a brief prayer of forgiveness.
Luke sat up, chuckling to find Alex executing a solemn sign of the cross. “You’ll have to work on your punch if you expect to do enough damage to pray over.”
“I broke your nose.”
Luke prodded his swollen nose, from which blood trickled. “‘Tisn’t broken, just angry.” Gently fingering the reddened flesh around his left eye, he said, “I’ll have a black eye tomorrow, though. ‘Twill give me an excuse to visit Tempeste. She’s good with poultices and such. And when it comes to giving comfort, she’s without equal.”
Alex shook his head mournfully. “I’m an animal.”
Luke slapped him on the back. “I spoke without thinking, said things I shouldn’t have, especially with you so upset. I suppose all I really meant was...well, Milo is older than you, and...women tend to be attracted to a more mature man. And, of course, they’ve much in common. There’s a sort of affinity of the mind between them. Surely you’ve noticed.”
Steeped in misery, Alex could only nod.
“It really shouldn’t surprise you that she chose him,” Luke said gently.
“But it does,” Alex said hoarsely. “It astounds me. You don’t understand, Luke. You don’t know...what’s transpired between us.”
Luke frowned. “You told me you’d done naught but hold her hand.”
“I don’t mean physically. I never...I wouldn’t have...I love her! It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. She loves me, I know it!” Rising to his feet, Alex offered his brother a hand up. “I’m going to talk to her.”
Luke sighed. He started to say something, then shook his head. “Do as you must. But don’t make this a public event. Find some way to speak to her privately.”
“The things I need to say to her,” Alex assured his brother, “I could hardly say in front of an audience.”
Chapter 6
----
ALEX SPENT THE rest of that afternoon lying on the floor of the cave, studying the mysterious paintings and feeling very juvenile and inept for having let things come to this pass. His heart pushed against his chest as if it were trying to burst through. Part of him wished it would, just to put an end to this torment.
When night fell, he made his way undetected to the little guest house in which Nicki and her mother slept, a thatched stone cottage across the flagstone courtyard from Peter’s main house. Anxious not to be seen, he slipped around back, jimmied open the shutters on the single window, and crept inside.
By the watery moonlight he found a lantern and lit it. The one-room cottage was homey and well-kept, with a fresh coat of whitewash on the walls and herb-strewn rushes carpeting the clay floor.
A bowl of fragile little wild roses sat in the middle of a linen-draped table. They were from the edge of the sheep meadow, near the cave. Alex had picked them for Nicki yesterday. He lifted one to smell it, but a thorn bit into his thumb, drawing blood. Slipping the blossom back into the bowl, he licked the blood absently.
On a little table next to the wash stand he found a tidy arrangement of toiletries on an embroidered cloth: a lump of soft soap on a clay dish, a comb of bird’s-eye maple, a boar’s hair brush. He unstoppered a tiny bottle of thick, bubbly blue glass and sniffed; it contained rose oil. A little pot of some sort of balm smelled spicy. He opened a small ivory case carved in an intricate pattern and found that it housed a polished-steel looking glass. Fancying that it retained Nicki’s image in its silvery depths, he entertained a reckless urge to slip it into the leather pouch on his belt. In the end, he replaced it where it had been.
From hooks on the wall hung an assortment of ladies’ tunics. He
Stunned at what he’d done—he’d never struck his brother in anger, only for sport—Alex’s knees buckled. Finding himself kneeling in the grass, it only seemed right to whisper a brief prayer of forgiveness.
Luke sat up, chuckling to find Alex executing a solemn sign of the cross. “You’ll have to work on your punch if you expect to do enough damage to pray over.”
“I broke your nose.”
Luke prodded his swollen nose, from which blood trickled. “‘Tisn’t broken, just angry.” Gently fingering the reddened flesh around his left eye, he said, “I’ll have a black eye tomorrow, though. ‘Twill give me an excuse to visit Tempeste. She’s good with poultices and such. And when it comes to giving comfort, she’s without equal.”
Alex shook his head mournfully. “I’m an animal.”
Luke slapped him on the back. “I spoke without thinking, said things I shouldn’t have, especially with you so upset. I suppose all I really meant was...well, Milo is older than you, and...women tend to be attracted to a more mature man. And, of course, they’ve much in common. There’s a sort of affinity of the mind between them. Surely you’ve noticed.”
Steeped in misery, Alex could only nod.
“It really shouldn’t surprise you that she chose him,” Luke said gently.
“But it does,” Alex said hoarsely. “It astounds me. You don’t understand, Luke. You don’t know...what’s transpired between us.”
Luke frowned. “You told me you’d done naught but hold her hand.”
“I don’t mean physically. I never...I wouldn’t have...I love her! It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. She loves me, I know it!” Rising to his feet, Alex offered his brother a hand up. “I’m going to talk to her.”
Luke sighed. He started to say something, then shook his head. “Do as you must. But don’t make this a public event. Find some way to speak to her privately.”
“The things I need to say to her,” Alex assured his brother, “I could hardly say in front of an audience.”
Chapter 6
----
ALEX SPENT THE rest of that afternoon lying on the floor of the cave, studying the mysterious paintings and feeling very juvenile and inept for having let things come to this pass. His heart pushed against his chest as if it were trying to burst through. Part of him wished it would, just to put an end to this torment.
When night fell, he made his way undetected to the little guest house in which Nicki and her mother slept, a thatched stone cottage across the flagstone courtyard from Peter’s main house. Anxious not to be seen, he slipped around back, jimmied open the shutters on the single window, and crept inside.
By the watery moonlight he found a lantern and lit it. The one-room cottage was homey and well-kept, with a fresh coat of whitewash on the walls and herb-strewn rushes carpeting the clay floor.
A bowl of fragile little wild roses sat in the middle of a linen-draped table. They were from the edge of the sheep meadow, near the cave. Alex had picked them for Nicki yesterday. He lifted one to smell it, but a thorn bit into his thumb, drawing blood. Slipping the blossom back into the bowl, he licked the blood absently.
On a little table next to the wash stand he found a tidy arrangement of toiletries on an embroidered cloth: a lump of soft soap on a clay dish, a comb of bird’s-eye maple, a boar’s hair brush. He unstoppered a tiny bottle of thick, bubbly blue glass and sniffed; it contained rose oil. A little pot of some sort of balm smelled spicy. He opened a small ivory case carved in an intricate pattern and found that it housed a polished-steel looking glass. Fancying that it retained Nicki’s image in its silvery depths, he entertained a reckless urge to slip it into the leather pouch on his belt. In the end, he replaced it where it had been.
From hooks on the wall hung an assortment of ladies’ tunics. He
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