The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 2

  She fled without waiting for his response, which never materialized. As William shrank back into his hiding place, he hoped it would be the last time he saw fear in her eyes.

  *

  The moonless night was both a blessing and a curse. Concealed by darkness, William moved toward the well unseen, yet also unseeing. Fearful of stumbling, he trod with care. Over the stifled hiss of his breath and thrum of his heartbeat, he heard the faint rush of water from somewhere deep in the earth. He squinted, seeking the dark orifice that was the entrance to the well.

  There.

  He paused and lifted the medallion from around his neck, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. “Soon, my love,” he whispered, stepping forward. “Soon.”

  William looked inward, seeing his chosen words written on the walls of his mind. He took a deep breath, uttered his wish from the depths of his soul, and tossed the medallion into the void. He saw a brief spark of gold in the darkness before the offering vanished from sight. He never heard a splash. A moment later, he thought he heard the faint sound of a woman’s laughter drifting out of the night.

  Then he stood, motionless, and watched…and waited.

  Several hours later, when the sun pushed its feeble morning light through the clouds, he still had not moved. To do so meant accepting the sickening truth that nothing– nothing–in his life had changed. Bewildered, he struggled to understand why. He’d done everything exactly as the witch advised. He’d chosen his wish with great care and cast the offering into the void as instructed. Most important, he’d believed in the ancient power of the well, certain all that was wrong would be put right. Why, then, had he failed? Why had his wish been denied?

  A fleeting shadow drew his gaze skyward. A flock of swallows darted across the dawn sky, apparently confident of their direction. As William watched, the heavens blurred, the finer details erased by his tears. As reality crushed him in its frigid embrace, a fierce tremble took hold of his legs and a sharp pain throbbed in his temples.

  But neither compared to the terrible ache in his heart.

  *

  The saturated earth sucked at William’s booted feet with each step. The sound matched the rasp of his breath, which clouded in the chilly air. Rain dripped from the back of his hat and snaked beneath his collar down his spine. Adrift on a flood of emotion, he paid little attention to such trivialities. His main focus, honed to an edge by a murderous rage, was aimed at the witch. How dare she spout such lies and allow him to hope in vain? He wanted more than an explanation–he wanted vengeance. Craved it. He toyed with the hilt of the dagger jutting from his belt as he imagined thrusting the blade into the grwach’s corrupted heart.

  Heart? Pah! Does she even possess such a thing? Curse her bones. May she be damned to eternal hell.

  At the edge of the forest clearing, he halted, frowning. The little house looked different somehow–darker, as if cloaked in shadow. But then, everything in William’s world appeared darker nowadays. Anguish, like a wretched fog, clouded his perception.

  Before stepping forward, he glanced about as a matter of course, not really expecting to see anyone. Nothing untoward moved. Other than the rattle of rain on bare branches, silence reigned. He grasped the handle of the dagger in readiness, his anger coiling like a snake, ready to strike. The cottage door, he noticed, stood slightly ajar. He approached and pushed it with the heel of his hand. It swung open with the same creak as before.

  Squinting into the gloom, he tugged the dagger from his belt and stepped over the threshold. To his dismay, the place appeared empty. No flames danced in the hearth. The room smelled stale and unused. The witch, it seemed, had vanished.

  Bile, as bitter as his disappointment, rose to William’s throat. He wanted to weep.

  “Damn you,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Damn you to—”

  Then a sound–a soft rustle of cloth–came to his ear. He opened his eyes to see a black shape drifting out of the dark. William gave a tortured howl and lunged with his blade. Uttering a curse, the shape sidestepped and a large hand, certainly not that of a woman, grabbed William’s wrist.

  “Stay your weapon, Will,” a familiar voice said, “unless ’tis I you’re here to kill.”

  “Iorwerth? What in God’s name—?” William gritted his teeth and struggled against the man’s fierce grip. “Release me, will you? ’Tis that lying bitch I want. Where is she?”

  “I’ll release you when you drop the knife.” Iorwerth’s hold tightened. “The one you seek is not here.”

  William tried, in vain, to tug his hand free. “Then where is she?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Cannot, or will not? And why are you here? Don’t tell me you’re in league with that she-devil.”

  “I stand between her and those who would do her harm.”

  William snorted. “Christ. You must be a busy man, and one without a conscience. Aye, now I think on it, it was you who sent me to this bitch’s lair.”

  “Hold your tongue. You judge her unfairly. She did not deceive you.”

  “But she did. She did!” William’s anger wavered beneath a sudden rush of grief as he let the dagger fall. “I did everything just as she said. I chose my words with great care. I cast the talisman into the well. And I believed, Iorwerth. At the risk of sacrificing my mortal soul, I believed. Yet nothing has changed. Everything is as it was, and I want to know why.”

  “Ah, Will, I can’t tell you why, but I swear to you the grwach is not to blame.” Iorwerth released William’s wrist. “Why would she trick you? It serves no purpose. Something must have gone wrong.”

  “Is there something I can do to put it right?” He bent to retrieve his knife and sheathed it. “Tell me, I beg of you, for I’m a man without hope.”

  Iorwerth gave a half smile. “A man without hope would not ask such questions. For now, I think it best you return to Rothwyn.”

  “Return to Rothwyn?” William scoffed. “Are you completely daft? Under what guise? I have no place there.”

  “Did you not hear the news? The castle steward took a nasty fit this morning and dropped dead at the earl’s feet.”

  “So?” William’s addled brain struggled and failed to make a connection. “What does the poor bastard’s demise have to do with—?”

  “So, you must apply for the position without delay. I’ve an inkling you’ll be well-suited for it.”

  A tingle ran across William’s wet scalp. Something in his friend’s tone sounded so… certain. “Why do I have a feeling you know more than you’re saying? What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Iorwerth grunted. “Just get out of here, Will. Go back to Rothwyn, ingratiate yourself with the earl, and wait.”

  “Wait? Wait for what?”

  Iorwerth shrugged. “Fate will decide. But at least you’ll be close to—”

  “Fate?” Anger raised its head again. “God’s teeth. ’Tis beyond apparent you’re in league with that black-eyed heretic. You both speak in riddles, damn you.”

  Iorwerth’s expression hardened, as did his voice. “Cease with your unwarranted curses. Was it not you who approached us both, begging for help? And we offered it, in good heart.”

  Behind him, the door gave a familiar creak. William turned, half expecting to see the witch standing there, but the threshold was empty. Beyond, the rain still fell, tumbling like a silver-beaded curtain from the thatched roof. He had little choice, he realized, but to pass through that curtain and capitulate to his fate. Past events could not be changed. The future he’d hoped for had eluded him. He swallowed against a growing lump of self-pity.

  “Forgive me, Iorwerth,” he murmured, turning back to his friend. “I spoke in anger. I truly thought… I truly believed I’d found the answer here. I put all my faith in the power of that well.”

  Iorwerth sighed. “I know.”

  “I love Beth. More than anything.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “I feel so lost. Foolish.”

&
nbsp; “You’re no fool, William. Go back to Rothwyn and be near your daughter.”

  He yielded to a smile. “Steward, eh?”

  “Why not? And for what it’s worth, I believe things will work out for you some day. Just give it time. Give it time.”

  William reached the perimeter of the clearing when it dawned on him.

  Be near your daughter.

  He halted and looked back. The cottage door, which had been open, was now closed. How did Iorwerth know the child was female? Had the witch told him? So many questions remained unanswered in William’s mind. Perhaps, one day, those elusive answers would come. For now, though, as Iorwerth implied, he would simply have to wait.

  Chapter 2

  Seventeen years later

  Since the early days of childhood, Lora assumed she possessed a wayward spirit, like that of a restless bird whose wings struggled against the oppressive bonds of noble propriety. Only in the past few months, as she approached her sixteenth year, had she come to understand the truth.

  She possessed no such thing.

  The spirit, as wild and transient as an impetuous swallow, actually possessed her.

  She watched one of the little birds now, her attention snared by its swift-moving shadow, which caused her to duck involuntarily as she left the herb garden. It swooped through the air above the courtyard, snatching insects in midflight. Sunlight glinted on the tawny bib around its throat and reflected off its lapis-lazuli wings. All at once, it turned a tight circle in the air and, with a sudden and graceful thrust, disappeared over the battlement walls.

  Perhaps, in a previous life, Lora’s dominant spirit had committed some crime and angered its Maker. Its penance was to inhabit a body well able to do all the things it longed to do, while being confined by the noble trappings of birth and restricted by the ethos of its sex.

  As she approached womanhood, her lifelong penchant for challenging the conventional boundaries shuddered beneath oppressive thoughts of prospective husbands and expectations of ladylike decorum. Childhood foolishness had become a worn-out excuse for her sometimes inappropriate behavior.

  Lora sighed. Oh, to be a bird, to be able to stretch my wings and fly away. She gave herself a mental shake. Such beautiful, impossible notions.

  A sound, different from the usual daytime clatter of the castle, caught her attention as she turned toward the kitchen entrance. Rhythmic yet intermittent, it echoed off the walls. It wasn’t the clang of hammer against anvil from the smithy, nor the solid thud of wooden practice blades in the Pell. Lora cocked her head, wondering what caused the rapid ching ching ching from the far end of the bailey.

  Curious, she spun on her heel and allowed her ears to lead her, intent on discovering the source. As she approached the corner of the main keep, a fleeting shadow streaked across the ground. The swallow had returned. Lora shaded her eyes and looked up, squinting against the brightness while she searched for the tiny bird.

  The tapping sound stopped as Lora turned the corner and she lowered her gaze, blinking against the sunspots in her vision. She blinked again when she saw a man leaning over a piece of stone, hammer and chisel at his command.

  Lora’s wild spirit stirred at the sight of the stonemason, whose form had, it seemed, also been sculpted by a master mason. Who was he?

  The hammer, gripped by a hand whitened by limestone dust, paused in mid-strike. “That’s close enough, lass.” The mason straightened and wiped his forearm across his brow. “Stop right there.”

  Lora halted, both aghast at the man’s boldness and taken aback by the sheer potency of his presence. Her heart set off at a gallop, while the flutter in her stomach rendered her breathless and incapable of clear thought. Flustered by the impact of his appearance, she hesitated, stumbling over several possible replies in her dazed mind. Her fumbling frustrated her even further and, to her utter dismay, heat flooded her cheeks.

  She was blushing, and Lora never blushed.

  With one foot casually poised on a stone block, bare chest heaving with exertion and oiled with sweat, the man raised a brow and watched her. Sunlight lit the moisture on his skin, accentuating muscle and form. A rebellious mass of dark hair tumbled to his shoulders, a few damp strands clinging to his temples and forehead. His arms hung relaxed at his side, chisel in one hand, hammer in the other.

  What had he called her? Lass?

  As Lora struggled to regain her poise his eyes narrowed.

  “Is something wrong, Mistress?” Lit with a hint of what looked like amusement, his eyes raked over her, lingering here and there in unabashed interest. “Are you lost, perhaps?”

  Lost? Why, of all the…

  His blatant examination of Lora’s body helped to focus her thoughts. Remembering who she was and, more to the point, who he was, Lora pulled back her shoulders, raised her noble chin and fixed him with a fierce glare.

  “I assure you nothing is wrong, nor am I lost. In future, you will address me as ‘my lady’, and will not tell me where I can and cannot go within these castle walls.”

  The man blinked, raised his chin to match hers, and then raised the corners of his mouth as well. Was he laughing at her?

  “I meant no disrespect, my lady,” he said, “but I can’t work if someone is standing too close. An errant chip of stone can do terrible damage if it pierces an eye. I’d hate to see harm befall the pretty ones presently casting daggers my way.”

  Lora frowned. Had she just been complimented? Or insulted? The man’s lips twitched and he looked up at the sky. “And I pray to God the wind doesn’t change,” he added.

  Puzzled and still frowning, Lora followed his gaze. “Why?”

  “Because if it does, your face will stay creased up like that for the rest of your life.”

  He blessed her with a cocky grin and, to her annoyance, she couldn’t help but return it.

  “That’s better.” He set his hammer down and ran powdered fingers through his hair, the movement causing his chest muscles to flex, and Lora’s breath to catch. “Was there something you wanted?”

  Aye, she wanted him to continue speaking, for she fancied she heard music in the rise and fall of his voice. The soft notes aroused her pulse and sent tingles up her spine.

  “No.” She dropped her gaze to his hands. “I heard the noise of your hammer and chisel and was curious. That’s all. So, you’re enclosing the old well?”

  “Not exactly.” The stonemason glanced down at the gaping hole in the earth. “I’m building a crown for it.”

  “A crown?” Lora smiled. “Is it a royal well, then?”

  He smiled back. “Much more than that, lass. It’s magic.”

  Magic? Did he consider her to be but a foolish child? She scoffed and ran her damp palms down the front of her skirt, at the same time realizing the sad state of her garb. No wonder he had addressed her so casually. Her plain wool kirtle was an artist’s palette of stains acquired from a morning spent in the herb gardens. What must he think of me? She shrugged. “You’re teasing me.”

  His eyes flicked to where her hands now rested on her thighs. His lips parted and he pulled in a soft intake of breath. “Teasing?” He shook his head. “Nay, I’m not teasing. Stories of its magic have been passed down through the centuries. I’ll share them with you if you will tell me your name.”

  “My name is Lora. Lora FitzGilbert.”

  He frowned and a shadow darkened his expression. “You’re the earl’s daughter?”

  “Yes.” Disturbed by his apparent dismay, Lora gathered her wits and glanced skyward. “And I pray to God the wind doesn’t change. It would be a pity to see your handsome face creased up like that for the rest of your life.”

  Fists clenched at her side, she waited, rooted to the spot by her obstinate spirit, noble pride, and an overwhelming attraction to this beautiful man. He studied her for a moment before his face relaxed and he released a shout of laughter. There was music in that, too, she thought.

  “Nicely countered, Lora FitzGilbert,” he said,
a smattering of admiration in his voice.

  “May I know your name?” she asked, wishing he would say hers again. It had never sounded so pretty before.

  “I am called Gareth. You’re not what I might have expected, lass.”

  For an earl’s daughter. She finished his thought in her own mind and raised a brow. If anyone heard him addressing her so casually, Gareth would likely find himself on his backside outside the castle gates before he could draw a fresh breath.

  His thinning smile told her he’d read her mind and misinterpreted her gesture. “Then again, perhaps it would not be wise for you to be seen with me, after all. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I have work to do. I am, of course, on the earl’s time.”

  She flinched at the aloofness in his voice and countered. “So, the earl’s daughter does not merit the mason’s story of an enchanted well?”

  A challenge arose in his eyes. “I fear the earl’s daughter is not at liberty to spend time alone with a man, mason or otherwise, and especially one who comes from stock different to her own.”

  Different, but not inferior. The unspoken words hung in the air. Her spirit rose to meet his, equal and pure.

  “You misunderstand, Gareth. I did not mean—”

  “I know what you meant, lass, but what I say is true. When first I saw you, I didn’t realize who you were. It would not bode well for us to be seen sitting side-by-side sharing fairy stories.”

  No, it wouldn’t. Lora, the earl’s daughter, wasn’t at liberty to spend time alone with any man, noble or otherwise, without a chaperone. But Lora, the rebel, had never before felt what she was feeling now. Being close to this man had ignited her spirit. How many times had she seen moths drawn inexorably to candlelight and wondered what insane passion drove them to embrace the deadly flame with their fragile wings?

  Now she knew, and the flame held no fear for her.

  “No one need know,” she blurted out. Such wantonness. Her mother would weep with shame.

  Gareth chuckled and gestured toward the castle with his head. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, mistress, but we’re not the only ones in this fine fortress. We’re sure to be seen together. No doubt someone will take great pleasure in telling your father, and then you’ll be in trouble, I’ll be without a job, or worse yet, cast into a dungeon on my sorry arse. I’m flattered by your interest, but in truth, it’s not worth the risk for a mere story.”