Sir Abstrupus remained undaunted. “And why isn’t it?”
Bran didn’t have a ready answer, except he knew it for the truth.
“It’s been seventy years since I made the mistake that changed my life,” said Sir Abstrupus. “I courted Lady Artemis’s grandmother, you know.”
Bran nodded, remembering talk of it.
“And I lost her.”
Bran held his counsel.
“But I have a confession—she was never mine to win, really.” Sir Abstrupus gave a wry chuckle. “She was absolutely wild for that blasted Duke of Rakesley, and I suppose who could blame her. Rakesley was every young lady’s dream. But the point is, when he entered the fray, I slunk away and retreated into myself. I never put up a fight.” He shook his head. “I regret that.”
“Why?”
“Because even if the answer wasno—and it definitely was—I still should have asked the question and heard the answer and moved on from it. But I never asked. Courage is required in these matters, yes?”
Bran felt his brow furrow. “I always thought you were content in the life you’ve created for yourself.”
“Oh, I am happy and have little doubt that I was destined to lead precisely the life I did. But I let myself down there, too, and even seventy years later—even as I’m the only one yet above ground—I still feel that sting. One finds it’s the sort of regret that never goes away.” He gave his head a subtle shake. “Unless …”
“Unless?”
“Unless you would prefer to follow my example and lock yourself away from the world here at the Château?” He shruggeda shoulder. “Such a life does have its advantages. One can do as one pleases, whenever one pleases. It’s a mode of life that’s easier to slip into than one imagines.” He gave a shrug of the other shoulder. “You’re certainly on your way.”
A dread of the variety Bran had only ever encountered on the field of battle flashed through him—shooting anxiety through his veins and a rush of blood through his ears.
This wasn’t a feeling brought on by Sir Abstrupus’s vision of his future, but rather a reinforcement of a specific readiness.
He was ready …
To fight …
For Artemis.
As if Providence had a hand in the proceedings—and perhaps a sense of humor—a thinning of the crowd occurred, and there appeared Artemis as if out of a dream.
Bran’s lungs had trouble drawing breath as he beheld her. She’d come adorned for a fancy-dress ball, from her white, one-shouldered, Grecian-style gown to the gold bangles wrapped around her upper arms and delicate moon pendant hanging between her deep décolletage. A bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder, she was a glory. Faithful Bathsheba at her feet seemed to know it, too.
Artemis had come as …Artemis.
As the goddess she was.
All he could do was stand in worship to her.
“Is that woman your destiny?” came a voice at his side. He’d forgotten Sir Abstrupus.
“Aye.”
“Then by God,” he said, “don’t let anything stand in your way. Go forth and win her.”
Destiny.
It held the ring of truth.
He and Artemis were, indeed, each other’s destiny. And he hoped tonight signified a special turn in that shared destiny.
Tonight could be the start of their forever.
