“How very noble of you.” She flashed him a fiery glance. “And did you have the showiest horse?”
“Yes.”
“And the shiniest sword?”
“Brighter than the sun.”
“And the tallest feather in your cap?”
“Bushiest, too.”
Ever more acid swirled into her words with each question asked. So, too, did her Spanish accent grow thicker. He knew what she was not-so-subtly hinting at, but he had no desire to defend himself or disabuse her of her implications. For she wasn’t wrong.
The Lord Percival Bretagne who had sped off to war had been concerned about each and every point on her list of trifling matters.
“I know your kind.”
“My kind?”
Why was he encouraging her? A part of him craved the tongue lashing she was offering, that was why. He wanted to be punished, deserved it, in fact.
“Sí, you’re definitely of a kind.”
“The vainglorious popinjay? Could you be referring to him?”
While he craved a verbal beating, another side of him had a different need. It longed to look directly into her clear green gaze and offer an addendum to the narrative she was spinning. Yes, he’d gone to war the swaggering boy she described, but he hadn’t stayed that way for long. It wasn’t that the man who had returned to England was a better man, but he was a different one.
And how would dredging up the past serve him? Once this matter with Montfort was concluded, he would never see this woman again.
His questions hung in the air, the answer too obvious and insulting to speak aloud, the sheepish expression on her face said as much. So, they walked in silence, side by side, not touching, until the path suddenly cleared and they found themselves at the cliff’s edge.
Isabel gasped at the sight before them. “Oh.”
High above, the full moon lit upon the outstretched sea all the way to the horizon, illuminating placid waves as they rippled toward the shore, inviting the eye to return to the land. One hundred feet below lay a small island connected to the mainland by a short, stone bridge.
“Is that Mercy Island?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Oh, look.” Isabel pointed toward three distant figures crossing the bridge. “Shall we join them?”
She took a few steps toward the smaller path that branched off the main one and switched back and forth to the bridge below. Percy’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm, pulling her to an abrupt stop. “No.”
Wide, surprised eyes met his over her shoulder, then fell pointedly to his fingers still wrapped around her arm. His hand dropped that instant. “We can watch them from here. My presence would only spoil Lucy’s adventure.”
Why had he felt compelled to add that last bit?
“Your daughter, she—” Isabel trailed, clearly uncertain how to speak the horrible, obvious truth aloud.
“Can hardly tolerate the sight of me.” He spoke it for her. “Choices have consequences. I didn’t understand how far reaching they would be when I sped off to war.”
The way Isabel was now looking at him, with understanding, made Percy want to kick himself. He didn’t want her pity. Yet that look had another effect upon him, too. It warmed a part of him that had been cold far too long.
He broke the contact, strode to the other side of a boulder, and held his hand to his forehead on the pretext of looking out to sea for smugglers. Isabel’s light step drew closer. Didn’t she know better?
He gestured toward the boulder that could easily serve as a bench. “Sit.”
The command sat on the air for a trio of seconds, then Isabel broke into a laugh that sparkled on the breeze. It was the sort of laugh that could pierce a soul, if one wasn’t careful not to let it.
