He cleared his throat. “In this past fortnight, I have come to care for ye...” He cleared his throat again, glad that she could not see the blush staining his cheeks. “What I mean is, I think I loveye, Channa Leigh. Will ye marry me? I swear I’ll make ye a good husband. Ye’ll want for nothing.”
A soft sigh escaped Channa Leigh’s lips. She was not in love with Ronin. He was a kind man, a good man, and she knew he would care for her and provide for her. But she did not love him. She did not love anyone. She thought fleetingly of Merick, the baker’s son, but he had never shown any interest in her, and she feared he never would.
“Please, Channa Leigh,” he murmured.
“Ronin...”
He lifted her hand and she felt the brush of his lips on her fingertips. “Say yes, Channa Leigh.”
Why not say yes? It seemed no one else wanted her. She was far past the age when most girls were wed. But would it be fair to marry Ronin when she did not love him?
“Channa Leigh, what say ye?”
Honesty compelled her to say, “Ronin, ye know I am fond of ye, but I dinna love ye.”
“But ye may come to love me, in time.”
“Perhaps.”
“Ye’ll marry me, then?”
She sighed, a soft sigh tinged with resignation. “Aye, Ronin, I will marry ye. In the spring.” She lifted a hand to his face, let her fingertips trace his features. She had seen him only once since childhood, and that very briefly the night the wolf appeared in the village square. Ronin was a handsome young man, with light brown hair and brown eyes, and, yes, a cleft in his chin, she recalled, running her finger over the gentle dip in his skin.
“Channa Leigh.” He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Might I...” He swallowed hard. “Might I kiss ye?”
She nodded, her heart pounding with trepidation. She had seen two and twenty summers and never had she been kissed by a man.
His lips were warm on hers, his touch as light as dandelion fluff. It was pleasant, she thought, quite pleasant.
“Come,” Ronin said, suddenly exuberant. “Let us go back and tell yer kinfolk.”
~ * ~
Dugald and Maura were pleased by the news of their daughter’s betrothal. They had long hoped for just this match for their daughter, for Ronin was a kind man, one who would be patient with her affliction. And he was a strong hunter, she would never lack for meat at her table.
“Aye, ye’ll make a beautiful bride,” Maura remarked, beaming.
Dugald brought out a flask and they toasted the young couple. Ronin stayed to take supper with them, and they made plans for the wedding. Maura would begin weaving the material for Channa Leigh’s dress on the morrow; Ronin would begin looking for a suitable place to build their house, Dugald would gather the best of his flock for her dowry.
Later that night, still caught up in the excitement of the evening’s events and unable to sleep, Channa Leigh gazed sightlessly into the darkness and wondered where the wolf had gone and if it would ever come to her again.
Chapter Four
He heard of Channa Leigh’s betrothal, as he heard of everything that happened in the village. He had shunned her presence for weeks and now she was betrothed to another. Stricken by the news, he shut himself away in his castle. He felt the changing seasons in the chill within the castle’s cold stone walls, saw it in the changing color of his eyes as the season’s changed. He had ever hated winter. Below, the villagers gathered their children close. Huddled around their cozy hearth fires, fathers told and retold the ancient stories and legends of their people, while mothers sang songs and lullabies.
Sometimes, when it seemed the long winter nights would never pass, when the loneliness grew more than he could bear, he took on the wolf form and ran with the pack that dwelled high in the mountains behind the castle. They accepted him as one of them, and he found solace in their company.
Often, he felt compelled to go to Channa Leigh, but it was too painful to be close to her. Had he been less selfish, he would have sought her out so that she might again see the world through his eyes, but being near her only emphasized his loneliness, his separateness from those in the village.
Now, he stood before the hearth, the light from the fire playing hide and seek with the shadows that lurked in the corners. He held his hands out to the flames, felt the warmth seep into him, but all the fire in the world could not ease his loneliness, or chase the darkness from his heart and soul.
He was like the shadows, he thought, torn between light and dark, between good and evil. There had been times, though rare, when he had refused to grant a boon to one of the villagers simply because it pleased him to refuse, because it gave him a perverse sense of power to know that he held the fate of the supplicant in his hands. There were times, when he stood withinthe cold stone walls of the dungeon where he practiced his magic, when he felt the darkness rise up within him. At those times, he felt the promise, the insidious lure, of the Dark Arts.
Other times, when he had granted a boon to one who sought his help, he was filled with an inner light, with the satisfaction that came from helping one in need.
But he had no thought for goodness or kindness this night. The Darkness rose up within him, thick and black and smothering. Muttering an oath, he stalked the dusky corridors of the castle, his long black cloak floating behind him like the smoky gray mists that sometimes covered the land near the sea.
He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the windows, a tall dark silhouette moving swiftly, silently. A solitary creature that belonged to no one, belonged nowhere but here, in a castle that was as cold and empty as his heart.
