The Highlander’s Accidental Wife (Queen’s Edict #3)

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Helena could not help it—she threw herself at Damien. He laughed and stumbled, then let out a wheeze as her bag smacked into his side and her arms squeezed his neck.

“Thank you,” she said and kissed his cheek.

Then, she was darting off, her heart faster than her feet, even as she practically ran over the grass. Giddy from this place, from Damien, and worried she might let him ravish her if he caught her.

Pushing that out of her mind, she clambered about, gazing and making notes to herself. How the water rolled over the smooth stones in ripples of light and dark hues, how the snow seemed to sink into the sleepy green earth, and how the cave beckoned.

As she drew closer, she slowed and tilted her head back to take it in. It had not been her imagination—the wind sang a mournful, lilting tune through the rocks. Her eyes ran across it, noting the fissures that spread out from the opening. Some were large and jagged, others were narrow and smooth. Water dripped from somewhere within, adding to the haunting, earthly melody, and then Helena realized that she could feel a faint breeze coming out of the cave.

“Is there another opening?”

“Aye,” Damien answered.

She wondered why she did not start, though she had not heard him following her. But something in her must have sensed him, for he drew even and gazed at it.

“More than one, though most are treacherous to get to.”

“I won’t go too far in,” Helena promised.

Damien chuckled. “I ken. Ye willnae be able to—goes pitch black. Poke around. I’m just goin’ to fetch somethin’ from the horses.”

Helena nodded and stepped inside, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, the sudden hush of stone pressing in. The sound of the waterfall was muted here. Instead, she heard the uneven patter of water droplets, the murmur of the wind, and the deeper silence—the slumber of the stone inside the cliffs.

Grinning, Helena ventured as far in as she dared, noting how the entrance was wide and rounded, with a sandy patch, but soon became filled with formations of rock jutting up from the ground and down from the ceiling. There was a path that went deeper into the cliff, but she stopped there, as she could barely see.

This is more than enough.

She hurried back to the entrance, blinking in the bright sunlight, and immediately found a flat rock to sit on, dry in the sunlight, if cold. Rifling through her bag, she pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, her trusty quill, and an inkpot. Pinning the parchment down with a rock, she found the tied notes in her mother’s work. She ran a finger down to remember where she’d left off, what she needed to translate next…

Usually, Helena lost herself in the swirl of ink and scent of parchment. This time, she felt as though she hovered on the tip of a quill between Iphigenia in Tauris, and the land around her. Her hand flew across the page, her heart beating to the rhythm of her fingertips, her mind brimming over with possibilities. For translation was not a mere mathematical formula, where one matched each word by rote. It was an art, a dance, and a continuous building arc of decisions. Often, she had to go back and change a word, or a whole paragraph, when she thought she’d finally figured it out.

In many ways, it was a fantastic puzzle to put together—or as her mother had written in her notes, a tapestry where I am constantly pulling the threads to weave them into colors I might comprehend.

Helena drew back after she’d filled nearly three sheets, front and back, and stretched her stiff neck. The sun was brighter, and she wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it had been at least an hour or so. She glanced around, thinking Damien must be off exploring or over with the horses.

She started when she realized that he sat not far from her, with a pack at his feet, a closed book next to him, and his gaze on her. She felt her face flush.

Drat, he must be so bored.

“I should have brought ye here sooner,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “Are ye done for now?”

“Oh, of course,” Helena said, and stood up, packing away her things. “I’m sure we need to go?—”

“Nay, we can stay all day. I thought ye might be hungry—I brought us supplies for a picnic.” He stood up and stretched. “And then ye can get back to work. I’ve never seen someone lose themselves in words like that. I suppose it’s the same as witnessin’ a great artist at work.”

Helena’s hands twisted the strap of her bag, and she watched Damien lay out a blanket and then the food. He then sat and looked up at her expectantly. When she didn’t move, he raised an eyebrow.

“Were you…?” Helena began to ask, her voice sounding strange to her own ears, and then she laughed. “No, that’s absurd.”

“What is, lass?”

“I… For a moment, you made it sound like you were watching me work this entire time, Damien.” She laughed, her face burning hotter. “But you couldn’t?—”

“I could,” he said and held out a hand. Helena took it immediately, without a thought, and he pulled her down. “And I did.”

Again, Helena shook her head, even as her eyes filled with a shy hope, causing his pulse to race dangerously. He tugged her closer, then reached up and brushed a wayward curl from her forehead. He’d noticed it slip free earlier, and Helena had batted at it impatiently before returning to her work.

She’d been so intense in her focus, so singular in her scholarship. How could he look away? When she’d stopped, Damien had felt an absurd pang of disappointment, even though he knew she had to be stiff and sore from sitting on a rock and writing for over an hour.

He did not think he’d ever forget the sight of her sitting in front of the cave’s mouth. With the sunlight falling all around her, the beauty of this place paled in comparison to her. She made him think of the way light moved across the sea or a playful wind in the pines. And he felt a fierce gladness that he could have her here, that he could give her this.

It had felt almost holy, in a way, and as much as Damien wanted to say as much to her—he could not find the words.

“This whole time?” she whispered.

Damien nodded, tracing his fingers over the shell of her ear.

“Why?”

He pulled back slowly, thoughtfully. For a moment, there was silence, then he said, “I couldnae look away, lass.”

“Oh.” Helena turned a brighter pink and looked down, fiddling with her skirts. “You weren’t bored?”

A rough laugh escaped him. “Not in the least.”

He cleared his throat when Helena gave him a look that made him wonder why he wasn’t pinning her down and kissing her until she begged for mercy.

“Why this particular play?” He sat back, hoping he looked the picture of ease. But he also hoped that Helena could hear the admiration in his voice. “Just for yer maither?”

“No. She had other translations—poetry and such—that I’d like to one day look at,” Helena said. “This play, I suppose, was where she left off—partially because of its length.”

“So, this is what ye like to do? Translation?”

Helena bit her lip and nodded. “When you translate, whether or not you know the story, the work pulls you in.” She put her hands behind her so she could lean back and look up at the sky. “It is a puzzle to put together, a series of choices that you’re not sure will pay off, and then they do. It’s like discovering colors that you did not realize existed. They glow and shift until you recognize them—but more than that, you brought them to life.”

Damien stared at her, his chest expanding, and a dizzying rush went through him. All he wanted was for her to continue. He felt mesmerized, lost in her words, and desperate for more.

Christ, what is happenin’ to me?

She continued, her tone dreamy, her gaze still skyward, “That’s why when you brought me here and talked about bringing Iphigenia to life, I was so overcome. So grateful, Damien, truly.” She smiled to herself. “And what a strange, lovely thing for you to say something that I’ve always felt…” She looked over at him, and her lips parted. “I…”

For a moment, they simply gazed at each other, and then Helena straightened, hugging her knees. Her face shuttered, and the gleam in her hazel eyes dimmed.

“You’ll forgive me for bringing this up, but this is why I ran.” She pressed her chin to her knees, looking wistful and young. “Why I’ve always feared marriage. I could not lose that—I would perish.”

Damien’s chest tightened. He caught her hand and pressed a fierce kiss to the back of it. Then, his eyes closed as he put his other hand over it and held it for a long moment. For he saw, with a sharp and terrible clarity, the future that Helena feared. A future where a foolish husband sucked all the light and life out of her until she?—

“I willnae let that happen,” he said, then blew out a breath, recalling that he was her betrothed and needed to be a wise husband. “I wish to be the one to always help ye find yer way to yer passions, Helena. To let yer brilliance shine.” He looked up. “I promise ye, I will do right by ye.” A smile curved over his face, and he kissed her hand again. “Ye willnae perish on me watch, me scholar-wife.”

Helena’s eyes shone as they had earlier, and his heart clenched when a single tear rolled down her cheek. She gave him the most devastating, lovely smile he’d ever seen—sweet and fragile, yet full of hope.

“Thank you, and I-I believe you.”