“I’d only ever spoken with him once about the weather. Even so, I wasconvincedhe was the Sources’ gift to me—that we’d soon fall madly in love.”
A rumble of laughter built in Emmerick’s chest.
“Don’t make fun!” I huffed out playfully.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, and his head grew heavier. “Carry on.”
“I learned he lived a few miles from here, so I handcrafted the most beautiful card from linen and parchment for the winter solstice. Inside, I wrote out my deepest feelings for him. I rode my pony through the snow all the way there.”
“Oh no,” he sighed out.
“Oh yes. Young Elsie was a lovesick fool. I rapped on his door, and his mother answered and called for him. He came outside in his winter coat, and I gave him the card.
“He thanked me, and then asked, ‘I’m sorry, what is your name?’ I wasmortified. All those stolen glances, all those false hopes, and all those built-up dreams of love just crashed down. I galloped home and cried well into the night.”
“That kid was a damn fool,” Emmerick murmured, his voice raspy.
I smiled, watching the lines of his face smooth. That love-sick girl stirred within me because his words reached deeper than I was sure he’d meant them to. I’d once been so open to the ideaof finding my match; if I’d met Emmerick then, I wondered what might have come of us.
The rise and fall of his chest grew deeper.
I cleared my throat quietly. “Yes... Well, Fenris was here visiting. He forced me to come out of my room and drink hot cider in the parlor. Then he lulled me to sleep just like this with a story. I don’t recall the details. It was something about one of his tomb-raiding adventures for Krait. I’ll have to ask him if he remembers.”
Emmerick’s nose whistled quietly; sleep had taken him.
But it would not keep him. In this quiet moment, he belonged here with me. I kept running my fingers through his hair until I, too, dozed off.
Chapter 42
Emmerick
Iawoke with my head in El’s lap and her fingers still tangled in my hair. I’d never been more comfortable.
Her neck lolled to the side against the sofa’s backrest, and her features softened with sleep.
The temptation to push a stray strand of hair away from her face grew so strong that I reached up, but I stopped myself before my fingers met the soft skin of her cheek. Finding excuses to touch her would do me no good.
Everything with her already felt too intimate—too easy.
Watching her lose herself to lust before me had been thrilling, but moments like this? They seemed more important. I’d bet few people got to see this side of Elsedora Lamoreaux.
Wildflowers are not for taming.
They grow best when left to their own whims.
My father had told me that once. He’d never plucked them from the cottage yard, preferring to let them take over even his manicured flowerbeds if they chose to.
Elsedora didn’t want to be rooted to me, or any other. My predisposition to get attached easily spelled disaster—I’d end up crushed when she decided she could do without me.
I carefully extracted myself from her lap and rose to stretch.Well resteddidn’t describe the feeling, but I certainly felt better after a few more hours of sleep. It was better than the few winks I’d gotten through the night.
The sensation of her fingers against my scalp and the singsong rhythm of her voice had branded themselves into my memory. I’d known many men to depend on drink, or sex, or cards. I wondered if one could develop the same level of need for a person’s voice.
“Sleep well, puppy?” There it was, dripping with drowsiness.
Letting my heart grow fond of El beyond friendship would be unwise. My burning reaction to everything she did needed to be extinguished.
“Yes, thank you,” I answered and dared to glance down at her. “What should I know about our first stop?”
