Anne Bishop - The House of Gaian

"What don't you understand?"

"I don't know if you expect me . . . if your female kin expect me . . ." He slumped back down on the bench. "I don't like Jean. I don't want to bed Jean."

Breanna felt her jaw start to drop. "Whoever said you had to?"

"Since I'm visiting your . . . family . . . and you haven't said you want me for yourself, I'm obliged to. . . to . . ."

He was on his feet again, pacing in front of her.

"It's not that your female kin aren't fine women—most of them—but I—"

"Don't want to bed them."

"Yes!"

"You want to bed me."

"Yes!"

"Why?"

He stopped pacing and looked at her as if she'd just asked him to count every leaf on every tree in the Old Place.

"Because . . . you're you."

Breanna blew out a breath. What was she supposed to say to that?

"Breanna?"

She patted the bench. "Sit down, Falco."

He sat. Perched was a better word, since he looked like he was going to jump up again at any moment.

"When I was nineteen," Breanna said, "I visited my kin in the Mother's Hills during the celebration of the Summer Moon. A full moon, wine, lots of laughter and dancing. There was a young man there, older than me by a few years, who was staying with friends. We danced and talked and laughed. . . and when he asked me to go walking with him, I went. It was romantic and exciting, and he was experienced enough with women that I didn't regret him being my first lover. But in the morning . . . Well, he didn't seem quite so wonderful without the moonlight and the wine. I decided after that visit that I needed to like a man in the daylight before I gave in to the lure of moonlight."

"I see," Falco said thoughtfully. "Do you like me?"

"Yes, I like you," Breanna replied. "I like you very much. But I don't know you well enough yet to invite you to my bed."

Falco nodded. "What about kisses?"

He was persistent. "Kisses?"

"Do you like kisses?"

"Well. . . I. . . Yes."

Something about the way his gaze focused on her mouth before he raised his eyes to look into hers made her palms go suddenly damp. Watching her, he leaned forward slowly.

Just before his lips touched hers, she felt a prickle along her neck. She pulled back, turned her head.

Liam was leaning against the washhouse doorway, watching her.

Clay had his arms over the back of a gelding. He had a grooming brush in one hand, but he wasn't making any pretense of grooming the horse.

Looking around to see what had distracted her, Falco cleared his throat and eased back.

"Ah. . ." Breanna wasn't sure what to do. Go back in the house? Pretend nothing happened? Pick up her quiver of arrows, march over to the washhouse, and smack Liam over the head with it?

Quiver. Arrows. The bow leaning against the bench where Falco had set it after her confrontation with the Lightbringer.

"Target practice," she said, bouncing to her feet.

"What?" Falco blinked.

"You were supposed to help me with target practice." She brushed past him, picked up the quiver and bow. "Come along."

"You want target practice now?"

"The bales of hay are stacked as tall as I am," Breanna said patiently.

"So?" His puzzled expression turned to understanding. " Oh ." He took the quiver from her and smiled.

As she and Falco started walking toward the kitchen garden and the bales of hay, Breanna glanced back at Liam. Which part of him would win the inner struggle—brother or man? She suspected she already knew, but she hoped the man would struggle long enough for her to try a kiss or two before the brother joined her and Falco for target practice.

Standing in the doorway of the Clan house, Ashk hesitated, wanting some excuse to delay. But everything was ready; the huntsmen who were going with her had already gone up the shining road to Tir Alainn, and her companions were waiting for her.

She studied them as they talked quietly among themselves, all of them carefully avoiding glances at the Clan house to allow her a private good-bye.

Aiden and Lyrra, the Bard and the Muse, were coming with her to record the events that would alter their world in one way or another and to use their gift of words to help her in whatever way they could. Sheridan, Bretonwood's Lord of the Hawks, was coming as one of her huntsmen—chosen from others because he was also Morphia's lover. As the Sleep Sister and Lady of Dreams, Morphia's ability to use sleep as a defensive weapon had proved useful when hunting down the nighthunters and when she had stopped two Inquisitors from hurting a family during the Black Coats' attack on Bretonwood, but there was no way to tell how effective that gift would be on a battlefield. Morphia was mainly coming with them in order to stay close to her sister, Morag.

And Morag . . .

The Gatherer had looked so pale and shaken when she'd joined them for the morning meal, Ashk hadn't dared ask what was wrong. They needed Morag, not just as mercy for the mortally wounded but as a warrior. Would she falter when she was needed most because of her passion for life?

No. Morag would do what needed to be done. And so would she.

"You're going now."

Ashk turned around. Padrick stood back from the doorway, not quite within arm's reach. "Yes. It's time."

Then she was in his arms, taking and giving a kiss that was as fierce as it was loving. She didn't want to leave him, didn't want to leave their children, didn't want to leave the Clan that had become her people. But they couldn't wait for the battle to come to them. Not if they wanted to survive.

Padrick broke the kiss, then buried his face against her neck. "Come back to me, Ashk. Just. . . come back to me."

Tears stung her eyes. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't promise him that. Instead, she whispered, "I will hold you in my heart. Always."

He stepped back slowly until they were no longer touching. "They're waiting for you."

She took a moment more to look at him before she walked out of the Clan house. When the others saw her, they mounted their horses. She swung into the saddle and turned her horse toward the forest trail that led to the shining road, her companions following behind her.

She didn't look back. Sylvalan didn't need Ashk, the Lady of the Woods and wife of the Baron of Breton. Sylvalan needed the Hunter. So she let them go—husband, children, family, and friends. By the time they rode up the shining road and were joined by the huntsmen waiting for them in Tir Alainn, all she was was the Hunter. It was all she allowed herself to be.

Jenny closed the iron grill gate of her new home and walked toward the sea. She could see it from some of the windows, could hear its song while she worked day after day cleaning more of the neglected rooms in the old house and getting them ready for her family. But standing at a window wasn't the same as standing on the cliff, where she could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin and taste the sea in the air—where she could look to the south, hoping to see the sails of a vessel large enough to be Sweet Selkie , her brother Mihail's ship.

Had he been gone long enough to have reached Seahaven? Surely, he'd been gone long enough. With a good wind, it didn't take that many days to sail the coastline of Sylvalan.

He'd stayed with her an extra day to help her get herself and their nephews, Guy and Kyle, settled into their new home—and to unload his ship and store the cargo in some of the empty first-floor rooms. Then he'd sailed away, intending to go to Seahaven and wait for Craig and any cargo their cousin could send by wagon from the family warehouses in Durham. And to wait for any other family members who had chosen to flee to a harbor town in the south rather than go to their kin near the Mother's Hills.