Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

A charming blush crept across her cheeks as she swept a nervous glance toward their son. Hugging a leather satchel to her chest, she stepped away. “I enjoyed the rose garden when I lived here. Does it have to be destroyed?”

“Not if you don’t wish it to be,” he said.

“I don’t.”

He bit back a grin at her suddenly formal tone. “Then I will have it put back.”

“Please do.”

The gardener had paused in his digging, leaning against his shovel, unabashedly eavesdropping.

“You heard my wife, George,” Dylan called over. “You may put your precious roses back in the ground.”

“They may well still die,” he called over, but with obvious relief. “Ground’s not fully thawed. Not good,” he grumbled, “not good at all.” Some of his roses were original strains, cultivated and perfected throughout centuries.

The fact that he had shown more concern for his plants than the possible arrival of the Guardians was, in Dylan’s mind, a greater concern. George, like many others, relied on his protection. Moreover, they expected it.

Don’t choose our safety over your own happiness. I’ll not allow that a second time.

His sister had known this would happen. She had told him once, when he had chosen to love a human, that their people would become a burden. Had they sensed his dissension? he wondered. If so, then he had a role in their hatred toward Sophie.

Dylan showed his family through the front door of the main house, stopping on the threshold before heading up the central staircase. He was committed to starting a new beginning with his wife and son, and no one, not even the people he protected, was going to get in his way.

“My home is open to everyone who lives in Rhuddin Village,” he explained. “But the second floor is our private quarters, for immediate family only.”

“Why is the kitchen empty?” Sophie ran her hand along the railing as they walked up the stairs. “Is it because Enid didn’t like my suggestion?”

“Enid accepted your offer,” he told her, “but asked for a week’s vacation before coming back.”

“And that’s a problem?” Sophie paused on the landing, too astute for her own good.

Dylan sighed, having hoped to save this conversation for a better time. But would there ever be a better time? The gathering was only two days away, and preparations had already commenced, as Porter had needlessly reminded him.

Wary of her reaction, he offered only minimum details. “I’m having guests this weekend, a gathering of sorts with leaders from other territories. It was planned before your arrival.” He waited for an assault of questions and didn’t know whether to be concerned or relieved when none came. But then Sophie had only lived in his house for a few months. She would have no knowledge of his interactions with others outside his territory. In her world, a weekend with associates was a normal affair. “A feast is a traditional offering for these guests.”

“You have no one willing to cover Enid’s vacation?” Her lips thinned as he shook his head. “That was clever of her, wasn’t it?”

He placed a hand on her lower back, gently guiding her up the stairs. Her proximity affected him. A snarl of satisfaction rumbled against his spine. The mere fact that she didn’t shun his touch was all the encouragement his wolf needed.

His endurance, he had no doubt, was going to be tried beyond comprehension over the next few days. “I’d rather not force the issue, but I will if it comes to that. Meanwhile, the guards have become used to eating here. Expect some crankiness this week.”

“I have a better idea,” Francine suggested behind them, clearly having listened to their conversation and not the least bit embarrassed for doing so. “My daughter is a competent chef.”

“I could manage a dinner party,” Sophie offered. “As well as feeding the guards . . . if you need me to.”

“You’re not a servant,” he reminded her.

“Oh, please,” Sophie scoffed. “If I don’t have something to do, I’ll go crazy. Besides, if I cover Enid’s vacation, it will make things easier for the poor person who has to work with her in the future.”

“We have several guards and their immediate families that we normally provide for during the week,” he warned her.

And potentially a hundred more if other leaders brought their own assembly of guards, but he kept that information to himself for the moment.

She hedged for a number. “I need to know how many, if I’m to prepare enough food.”

Dylan knew her inquiry about the people who lived in his home, who guarded his family, had an ulterior motive. He found it difficult to be annoyed, however, after overhearing her confession to her mother.

I love him so much that when I look at him it hurts.

He could forgive a great deal, he realized, knowing he still had a place in her heart. “Sixty-two.”

“What about the people who live in the village?”

“They care for themselves, as can those who live within Rhuddin Hall, if needed.”

“If you can provide the supplies,” she said without pause, “I can manage the preparations.”

“Fine,” he conceded, warming to the idea of having his wife occupied with a productive task rather than planning her escape. “The kitchen is at your disposal. And I’ll introduce you to the butcher this afternoon.”

Dylan walked ahead once they reached the upper landing. The scent of lemon oil lingered from a recent polishing of woodwork and pine floors. Joshua and his mother-in-law seemed pleased as he showed them to their apartments. He waited in the hallway as Sophie fussed and stalled in each room. Eventually, she did emerge, but with obvious resignation.

“I know you and Joshua conspired together for this move,” she said once they were alone. “Please don’t make me regret my decision to cooperate.”

“Can you not have faith in me, Sophie?” He made sure his voice held warmth and not ire, a promise of sorts, and a plea. “Just this once? You might find that I’ve done everything within reason to make you comfortable here. You might find that I am worthy of your trust.”

TRUST? SHE ALMOST LAUGHED AT SUCH AN IMPOSSIBLE outcome to their broken history—which was partially her fault—but kept her cynicism to herself. Not an easy task as he opened the door to the adjoining bedroom next to his (assuming he still resided in the master suite) and held his arm out for her to enter.

Surprise overrode caution as Sophie walked around the double bed with an unfinished child’s quilt folded neatly across the footboard, a project she’d been working on during those last few months before leaving this place.

The room remained exactly as she remembered it: pine floors scattered with Oriental rugs, cream wallpaper and a four-poster bed with blue velvet curtains tied back. She opened the top drawer of the tall mahogany bureau. Tiny cotton shirts and infant socks were folded neatly in two rows—just as she’d left them sixteen years ago. Because of the connecting doors that led to the master bedroom, she and Dylan had planned to make this smaller room into a nursery.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the broken pieces of a wooden cradle stacked under the window. The cradle had been a gift from Luc, the first given to their unborn child. It had also been intact when she left.

“Porter was supposed to remove that,” Dylan said with discontent heavy in his voice. He didn’t deny he had been the one to destroy it, nor did he offer an excuse.

Sophie knew full well why Porter had kept it there—to remind her of what she’d taken from Dylan, and to show her the stark evidence of the anguish her leaving had caused.