He had dropped all pretense of lightheartedness, and the glance he gave her was both piercing and troubled at once. Gently, he brought them to a halt and turned so that he faced her.
“I’m well aware that I’m crossing boundaries, and my overtures might be unwelcome,” he said quietly. “You’re the Lady of the Elven demesne. I’m just a Wyr sentinel in the demesne that borders yours, and the Wyr and the Elves aren’t always on the friendliest of terms.”
“That’s never personal, Graydon,” she said quickly.
He nodded. He had stopped gripping her fingers, yet somehow her hand still remained in the crook of his arm. She regarded her offending limb with some annoyance. While she felt she should do something to rectify the situation, she couldn’t seem to make herself withdraw.
“I know it’s not personal.” Graydon patted her hand. “But historically, the Elves and Dragos have been enemies before, so you can deny that anything’s wrong, and you can send me away with a word—and if you do, I will respect your wishes and never speak of this again. I just couldn’t stand back and say nothing, not when you’re under such distress. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She averted her gaze as she tried to decide how to respond. As she looked around, she saw that he had chosen the spot with care.
They now stood some distance away from the dancers and the densest part of the crowd, but they were still well visible, just not in the thick of things. It was a good choice for a sensitive conversation, offering both privacy and respectability at once.
She glanced back up at him. “What gave me away?”
He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “I thought there seemed to be some tension as you talked with your ladies, but I only really knew for sure when I walked up and could sense the stress in your scent.”
The Wyr and their sensitive senses. She paused while the part of her that relished the companionable warmth of the fire actually considered taking him up on his offer.
She shouldn’t. There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t. Not least among them was the one he had brought up—they were from different demesnes, and they had different responsibilities and commitments. They had different governments, with different, often conflicting, agendas.
Without realizing it, her fingers had tightened on his coat sleeve. When he shifted subtly to draw closer to her, his large body taking a protective stance, she realized what she was doing and made her grip relax.
Then she heard the exact wrong thing come out of her mouth. “Can I rely upon your discretion?”
He bent his head, studying the ground at their feet. She felt warmed all over again as she saw how carefully he considered her question.
He looked up at her again. “As long as you can say it has nothing to do with the workings of either demesne?”
“It doesn’t,” she said as she met his gaze. With those two simple words, she set them both on a path to disaster.
“Then you absolutely can,” he told her, dark gray eyes unwavering. “You have my word on it.”
Even as he spoke, she sensed a presence enter the Gardens, fierce and lava hot.
The Great Beast had arrived at the masque at last.
Inside, she completely fell apart. At the best of times, she had to brace herself to endure Dragos’s presence. To have him come so close now, when she was off balance anyway, abraded her nerves until she felt raw inside.
“Good, thank you, yes.” The words tumbled rapidly out of her mouth. “I must leave. I mean, in that case, if you would join me, we need to go. Only first, I must speak with one of my attendants.”
“Of course,” said Graydon immediately. “Let’s find one.”
As she fell into step beside him, she glanced over her shoulder.
Even in his human form, Dragos looked like a killer. The battles the Elves had fought against the dragon had burned the landscape and literally reshaped large tracts of the world. Many Elves had died, and several of them had been Beluviel’s friends.
The war had occurred so very long ago, but that was the thing about the Elves.
And the dragon.
None of them ever forgot.
THREE
Graydon’s assignment in attending the masque was a simple one.
Dragos wanted him and Constantine to show up, make nice, and demonstrate to people that they were friendly, domesticated creatures and not the wild, vicious animals that the Wyr were often reputed as being.
While the Wyr were very well aware that one thing did not necessarily preclude the other, putting a friendly face to their demesne did seem to help the rest of the world relax whenever they were present.
Graydon figured the parameters of the assignment meant he could enjoy himself as well, and Oberon’s cocktail fountains never did seem to run dry. The food was pretty decent too, except those gold cockatrices were frankly odd. He much preferred the plainer sausages.
One of the advantages of attending the masque meant a rare opportunity to visit with Francis, which was how Graydon came to be standing with Weston and Constantine when Beluviel and her two attendants appeared.
As always, whenever Graydon saw Beluviel, he had to pause what he was doing to take in the pleasure of her presence.
The three women made a uniquely powerful statement that had nothing to do with swords, armor, or anything else overtly warlike. In direct contrast to everyone else, they wore thin, colorful gowns, with short puffy sleeves.
While Graydon didn’t know the first thing about female fashion, he thought the dresses were lovely in their simplicity. Their bare, slender arms, and lack of jewelry or warm, thick clothing made everyone else seem lumbering and overdressed, the lavish decorations and refreshments garish and overdone.
Smiling, his gaze passed over the two other pretty Elven women to concentrate on Bel.
The Lady of the South Carolina Elven demesne was beautiful, of course. All the normal requisites for a face were arranged in the most pleasing proportions imaginable. She had a wide, dark gaze filled with calm intelligence, and her long, shining dark hair, also unadorned, cascaded down, like a silken waterfall, to her hips.
Beluviel’s beauty was the first thing anybody seemed to notice. Graydon thought it was the least important thing about her.
As one of the eldest of the Elven race, her Power had grown with age. It manifested as a brightness of spirit that lightened everything around her, gently transformative, like the first, tantalizing breath of spring when Graydon knew the season had changed, the cold of winter had fled, and life was beginning to burgeon once again.
That single breath was the rarest of delights. You could only take one breath like that in a year’s time. Each successive breath might be pleasurable and refreshing, but none of them quite held the same power as the first epiphany of spring.
That was the essence of what Beluviel’s presence brought to him. Also, like the first breath of spring, she was a rare, passing delight. She did not always attend public functions, preferring, or so he had heard, the peace and quiet of her Wood.
Except, this time was different. Graydon looked at her with every anticipation of the pleasure that the sight of her had always brought to him. What he saw instead made his fingers clench on his champagne glass.
She carried the same brightness of spirit. She couldn’t help but do so; the quality was an intrinsic part of her and woven into the fabric of her being.
But his sharp eagle’s eyes picked up a multitude of tiny fractures in her demeanor. The flex of tension in those long, graceful fingers. The rigid set to her shapely shoulders. The hooded quality to her gaze, and the tight line of her slender jaw.
Disappointment and concern welled up inside of him.
The disappointment was ludicrous and inappropriate. She was her own unique person. The purpose of her existence was not to bring him pleasure. He shoved the feeling aside and studied her more closely.