Page 5 of The Trick of It

He sighed and leaned back against the foot of his bed, glancing down at one of the more well-worn books in his collection and the lovely gilt illustration of a golden-haired princess gazing up at her doom. At him.

“Ych yi fi,” he said to her with a sigh. “I’ve lost time itself, Gwenllian, cariad. Smite me. Please.”

She didn’t.

She had never given him an inch, that Gwenllian ferch Gruffudd. She was glorious that way. He sighed and stroked the curve of her cheek before forcing himself to his feet.

If he was going to brood, he might as well do it on a full stomach. And he could smell the kippers from here.

He brought the book with him. And why not? He was entitled to break his fast with the only woman he’d ever loved, wasn’t he?

His siblings, three present at the table, all groaned the instant he appeared, their eyes falling on the book. It made him grin.

Assembled at the table were the once fat boy and slight girl, now perfectly proportionate and attractive adults. Now the Baron and Baroness Selwyn, Elias and Hattie. Well, somewhat proportionate. Hattie’s belly had started to expand to make room for the child inside it.

Seated slightly farther down the table was Malcolm Lennox, the brown-skinned boy he’d once stolen the watch from.

Rhys narrowed his eyes at Mal.

“Her again?” Malcolm said, clicking his tongue at the book. “Really, Rhys.”

“She feels the same way about you, Saes.” Rhys sniffed, pulling out a chair and flopping the book next to his plate.

“I sound English,” Malcolm retorted. “But I’m not. Father’s Scots, you know. Mother was West Indian.”

“And yet,” Rhys replied sweetly, “you’re the most English person ever to percolate through this dining room. No offense to our lord and lady.”

“Absolutely none taken,” Hattie French said immediately, a fluffy bit of pastry suspended on her fork. “I consider myself multi-national, anyhow.”

Hattie Selwyn, Rhys corrected mentally. She was married now, after all. Hattie was married and it was just as odd as everything else about her. He gave her a grin and cocked his head to the side. “That makes sense.”

“Of course it does,” her husband replied with a fond, if dry chuckle. “Which nation are you channeling this morning, my love?”

“Rhys’s, I think,” she said wistfully, reaching out for the book, which Rhys immediately handed over, pleased to have an ally. Hattie flipped it open and considered the illustration. “I always quite admired Princess Gwen and her courageous final stand. Not many princesses are warriors, you know.”

“Ah, yes,” said Elias, looking curiously over her shoulder. “I learned about her at Eton. Our illustration was not quite so fetching.”

“‘Fetching,’ is she?” Hattie replied mildly, slapping the book closed. “I always thought she rather resembled—”

“She doesn’t,” Rhys snapped before Hattie could finish her thought. “It’s a blasphemous, heretical thought and you all can stop voicing it now.”

“Oh,” Hattie said, blinking sleepily, returning the tome to its owner. “All right, then.”

Rhys frowned as he accepted the book, and this time stored it under his chair. Hattie had gone and ruined it.

“I’m more of an Aethelflaed man myself,” Mal said mildly, reaching forward for another bread roll. “She kept her head.”

“If you wish to join her in that feat,” Rhys replied, tearing his own bread in half, “you’ll stop talking.”

“He can’t,” came the singsong voice of the youngest ward, Ruby Little, as she swept into the room, a thicket of mail in her hands. “He’s tried.”

“I have tried,” Mal agreed, winking at her, which only made her wrinkle her nose in distaste.

Ruby was petite, dark haired, and loud. Rhys liked her very well. He especially liked when Mal tried to flirt with her and she reprimanded him. It seemed today the reprimand would be nothing more than a cutting facial expression.

Still good, he decided, if low on her scale of possibilities.

Mal didn’t mean it, anyhow. It was just ribbing in one of the many flavors of ribs.