An Unlikely Match (20 page)

“So you fancied yourself a warrior, and I imagined myself a knight.” He chuckled. “It seems we were rather destined to meet someday.”

“I think maybe we were.”

Her sudden serious tone seemed to strike him. Nickolas’s gaze softened, his eyes dropping momentarily to her lips. For just a moment, she wondered what it would be like to be kissed by Nickolas Pritchard. The futility of that idea settled on her like a weight.

“How did your warrior adventure play out?” he asked.

For a moment, she did not understand Nickolas’s question, so thrown off was she by that fleeting glance at an impossible romance. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” she finally managed to say. “I accidentally broke a window, and my father was furious. I had only tried learning to be a warrior to please him, he being quite disappointed at not having a son to whom he could pass down his knowledge. I gave it up after that.”

Nickolas did not laugh or make light of her story. “Though no one could question your fire, dearest Gwen”—the endearment brought a smile back to her face—“I cannot at all picture you as a bloodthirsty warrior. You’re too sweet.”

“I am so grateful you came to Tŷ Mynydd, Nickolas.” She would have laid her head on his shoulder if she’d had that ability. “I have been so very lonely here without you.”

“Can I tell you something I have never told another soul?”

“Of course. You can tell me anything.” She meant it. Never before had she felt such a close connection to anyone. She would trust him with her secrets, just as she hoped he would trust her with his.

“I have been lonely all my life,” Nickolas said. “At times, I have been so alone it has hurt.”

“Have you felt better since coming here?” She waited anxiously for his reply.

“Infinitely better.” He smiled at her, and she knew in that moment that she’d entirely lost her heart to him.

She laid her hand on top of his, only to have it pass through. A feeling swelled up in her, and if she were still living, it would have been accompanied by a sudden and heartrending bout of tears. She turned away, so entirely frustrated.

“Gwen.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen whispered, certain he had not appreciated the odd sensation of a ghostly hand passing through his.

“Probably almost as sorry as I am,” Nickolas replied, pulling Gwen’s gaze back to his face. “I would very much like to have held your hand. I’ve wanted to before. But . . .”

“. . . but I am a ghost,” Gwen finished for him.

He didn’t answer immediately. The look on his face spoke frustration as poignant and real as her own. “And for that,” he said, “I am more sorry than I could possibly express.”

Gwen sensed more in his words than sadness at not being able to hold her hand. Hundreds of images flashed through her memory. Remembrances of the countless couples who had called her home their own, of weddings she’d attended, families she’d watched grow in number and in affection. The love she’d seen between so many of those she’d watched be born, grow old, and die would be forever lost to her. And it was a hole in her heart that until that moment, seeing something of those feelings reflected in Nickolas’s eyes, she had not felt so painfully and acutely as she ought to have.

“No one has ever said they were sorry I was dead,” Gwen whispered, feeling suddenly more weary than she had in hundreds of years.

“Not even your father?” he asked in obvious disbelief. Something in her look must have put the lie to that thought. “He seems to have been a rather unnatural sort of father, then, to have not lamented the loss of a beloved child.”

“He did not love me. I realized that some time ago. But in the end, he at least felt that I was useful.” She laughed humorlessly. “Every warrior needs a banner to fly, after all. That was my purpose, whether I wished for it or not.”

“An
unwilling
war cry
,” Nickolas said, watching her closely.

She immediately recognized the phrase. “You’ve seen the angel statue.”

“You do not seem to approve of your own monument.”

“How could I approve?” Gwen all but snapped. “That insulting attempt by the men who destroyed me to beg for redemption? Did they think merely erecting a monument with a long-suffering angel depicted atop it would serve as restitution for doing what they did?”

Nickolas looked astonished. And well he might be. Gwen had never spoken thus to another person, had never voiced her frustration and anger. Of all the people she’d known, he least deserved her anger.

“I am sorry for yelling, Nickolas. You certainly did not deserve it.” She sighed, weary and weighed down. “What they did was wrong. No amount of statuary is going to change that. And all the monuments in the world will not allow me to escape paying the recurrent price of their perfidy.”

“Tell me,” Nickolas said. “Please. What did they do?”

She could tell he asked not out of morbid curiosity but out of genuine concern. “They saved Y Castell,” was all she could bring herself to say. “And the price paid for that guarantee was steep, indeed.”

* * *

Nickolas went looking for Gwen the next day. She’d been playing least in sight, forcing him to search for some time. He found her late in the afternoon walking along the long-gone walls of the ancient castle. A cold wind whipped the grounds of Tŷ Mynydd, but as he approached her, Nickolas hardly felt it. How was it that the very sight of Gwen warmed his heart?

“You are a remarkably difficult lady to locate,” he called out.

She turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and a smile spread slowly across her beautiful face. Nickolas watched her appreciatively as she floated down to ground level, stopping directly in front of him.

“Good afternoon, Nickolas.”

The slight hesitancy that had touched her words seemed to confirm his suspicions. “Have you been avoiding me?”

“Not necessarily. I’ve simply been . . . not always visible.”

“Why have you been hiding from me, Gwen?”

She looked decidedly uncomfortable. How tempted he was to pull her into a reassuring embrace, and how frustrating the realization that he never could.

“I thought you would rather not see me,” she said, “after I snapped at you yesterday. That was unfair of me.”

“Well, then, let me assure you I not only wished to see you, I have been searching the grounds and house for some time now, trying to find you.”

“You have?” A smile suddenly appeared on her face.

“I have.” He motioned for her to walk with him, which she did, though ’twas more of a hover. “I had a brilliant idea I wished to run past you.”

“Are you looking for my opinion or my approval?”

“Both.”

She looked intrigued. Nickolas bit back a smile. He thoroughly enjoyed talking with her. She always held up her end of any conversation and never failed to follow right along with his teasing. Too many young ladies needed prodding or explanations.

“What is this brilliant idea of yours?”

“I want to commission a painting.”

Confusion showed in the creasing of her brow. “You seek my approval for a painting?”

Nickolas nodded, entirely serious. “Though you have graciously accepted my ownership, the house really is yours, and I want your opinion and, yes, your approval.”

She gave every indication of being flattered. “I have said it before but will do so again: you are a good man, Nickolas Pritchard.”

“Let me tell you about this painting, and then you can decide if I am a good man or a foolish one.”

“What in heaven’s name have you decided to have painted?” An amused laugh mingled with her tone of curiosity.

Nickolas could have happily spent every day of his life walking with her just like he was then. The grounds sat peacefully inviting all around them. The cares and concerns of the day faded into the background.

“I wish to have a painting done of the old castle,” he said.

“But Y Castell no longer stands, Nickolas. How could any artist accurately paint something that no longer exists?”

A gust tugged at his coat but had no noticeable impact on her. He hoped that meant she did not feel the biting wind. She was not dressed at all warmly enough for the recent drop in temperature. He would have offered her his coat if the gesture would have done any good.

“I have found a few sketches of it in the library,” Nickolas said, “though none of them are complete, all apparently having been rendered after it began to crumble.”

“You wish for a painting of it as it stood when whole?” She gave him a wary look, and he wondered at it.

“Not if it will upset you,” he quickly replied. “That was not my intention at all.”

“I never thought it was,” she said. “Of all the people who have ever resided here, you have never once seemed determined to upset me or overlook my feelings or desires.”

Her assessment touched him. “Your feelings are of paramount importance to me, Gwen. I actually first conceived of the idea of having the castle painted because of you.”

She once more appeared pleasantly curious. His simple words of reassurance had succeeded in wiping the wariness from her face.

“I thought you might appreciate being able to see it again,” he said. “You must miss it sometimes.”

She nodded. “I do have some very happy memories of the old castle.”

“Perhaps you would be willing to fill in the missing details so the rendering can be complete and true to the original.”

She did not answer immediately. Nickolas watched her as they continued their slow amble across the grounds. Her expression was decidedly contemplative. He hoped her recollections were pleasant ones. He knew all too well that she had many unhappy memories—he’d seen evidence of that fact on her face many times.

“Could it be painted as it looked in the spring?” she asked. “It was always so beautiful in the spring.”

He stepped in front of her, grateful when she stopped before passing through him. “This painting, Gwen, is for you. The castle will be painted however you wish to remember it.”

“I get to choose the memories I keep?”

He hadn’t considered it in quite that way. “I suppose that’s the idea,” he said.

She closed her eyes. He’d never seen anyone stand so perfectly still. “I would wish to remember the castle as it was while my mother was alive.” Unmistakable longing filled her words.

“Then do remember it that way.”

Gwen looked at him once more, resignation and sadness in her eyes. “It’s not that simple, Nickolas. Some things aren’t easy to forget.”

What things
? he wondered. Asking her outright would be unforgivably presumptuous. “What can I do?” he asked instead.

She smiled a little. “Have I told you how much I appreciate that you treat me as though I actually matter?”

“You
do
actually matter.”

Her smile grew a bit. “How fearsome you look just now.”

“Fearsome?” He stepped closer, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, fearsome.” A mischievous expression lit her face. “And I confess I enjoy it immensely. No one has ever stood up for me before.”

“Which brings me back to my original question. What can I do about these memories you can’t manage to forget?”

“Tell me a story.”

He studied her a moment, wanting to see if she was indeed serious. Sincerity radiated from her. “Another story?”

“Yes, please. I enjoyed the last one.”

They took up their walk once more, while Nickolas searched his mind for something that might amuse her. He knew she asked him in order to distract her, not because a tale would actually solve any of her problems. Still, a lighthearted story wasn’t much to ask. He would do anything for her, anything at all.

“I lived with a cousin of my mother when I was eleven.”

“The same cousin as when you were seven?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I was passed from relative to relative. I’d live with one for a few months, sometimes as long as a year, and they’d tire of me and send me to someone else.”