Chapter 13
A summons from Maible had been surprising enough. But it was quickly eclipsed by the knock on Bethany’s door that evening. Usually, at this time, she would expect a maid, coming to summon her to dinner. Instead, Comgall stood there, wearing a casual tunic and fur-trimmed cloak.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, bowing stiffly. Bethany curtsied in return, feeling awkward. She had barely spoken to Comgall since the boat incident, and every time she met his gaze he seemed to be staring at her. What on earth could he want with her now?
“Can I help you, my lord?” she asked politely. Where was the maid, coming to fetch her to the hall? The interruption would be much appreciated.
“I thought it appropriate that we get to know each other a little before the wedding,” Comgall said, his voice still just as cold and formal.
“Oh,” Bethany said hollowly. “Yes, of course. Very appropriate. ”
Was this his own idea? Or was this his mother’s suggestion? A way to find out her weaknesses, perhaps. Maible seemed like that kind of woman.
“Will you take dinner with me this evening?” he asked.
A refusal was on the tip of Bethany’s tongue. It would serve him right, after the cold way he’d treated her over the past few days. But it would look strange to refuse her supposed future husband. And besides, this was the man who’d saved her son’s life. She owed him far, far more than a single dinner.
“Of course I will,” she said.
After assuring Bethany that maids would soon arrive to care for Matthew, Comgall led her through the hill fort to a small, private room that she had never seen before. A table had been set out with two bowls and two glasses.
“This is my private sitting room,” Comgall explained. He gestured to a door in the opposite wall. “My bedroom is just through there.”
Bethany tried very hard not to look at that door. Or even to think about it.
A servant appeared just a few moments later with a big pot of stew. Bethany accepted her portion with a murmured thanks, and sank into one of the chairs. Comgall sat down opposite her and filled her wine glass from a pitcher. Bethany could not help herself - she gulped down her first glass in just a few swallows. She was going to need it.
“Did you spend your childhood at home with your parents?” Comgall asked as they ate. “Or were you fostered?”
“I mostly stayed with my parents,” Bethany said vaguely. So, he did intend to learn more about her. That was not good. Could she keep up this facade for an entire evening of questioning?
He tried a few more questions about her childhood, and she slipped out of answering each one.
“Where did you spend your childhood?” she asked at last, hoping to turn the interrogation back on him. She took another big gulp of wine.
His expression darkened.
“I was fostered by my mother’s brother. I spent most of my time with his son, my cousin Donall. We were close as brothers. He has been dead five years and I miss him more than I can say.”
Pain was visible in his eyes and Bethany’s throat choked up.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, instinctively reaching out a hand.
Comgall slammed his wine glass down on the table and Bethany jerked back in surprise.
“My apologies,” he muttered, but he did not sound sorry, and he did not meet her eyes.
How mysterious? Did this cousin, Donall, perhaps have something to do with everyone’s dislike of Eithne and her brother? What a mess she’d wandered into! Could she not have been mistaken for a farmer’s daughter, or something equally simple?
“Did you raise Matthew yourself?” Comgall asked, breaking the silence. His polite mask was back in place, as firm and smooth as if it had never slipped.
“I did, yes,” Bethany said, latching onto the topic. “I couldn’t bear to be separated from him. And it’s lovely to spend time with him. He really is so intelligent.”
Unable to stop herself, she launched into stories of clever things Matthew had done. She had to remind herself constantly that Matthew was supposed to be mute, so a few of her stories crumbled and fell apart. Still, Comgall seemed interested enough, and perhaps even impressed at Matthew’s achievements.
“There’s not many boys can read and write before the age of ten,” he said gravely.
Bethany almost told him about Matthew’s tennis lessons, then remembered that an Irish princess would never have played tennis. She must not forget where she was, or who she was supposed to be.
Their conversation lapsed to a halt when the servants came to clear the table.
“Let me walk you back to your room,” Comgall offered. Bethany smiled in reply. At least he was polite. Things really could be a lot worse. Perhaps it was only the wine making her feel so positive.
They stepped out of the sitting room into the small open-air courtyard beyond. Comgall turned to close the door behind him, so Bethany stopped to wait for him. She became suddenly aware that no one else was around at that moment. Even though they stood in the centre of Dunadd, they were suddenly alone. She turned to Comgall and found him standing close beside her, gazing down at her in the darkness. Too close. She went to take a step backwards, but he caught her elbows. Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers. She felt the soft pressure of his lips and the roughness of his unshaven jaw.
This should not happen. This should never happen. But Bethany could not help herself. She pushed her lips back against his - just the barest pressure, but it was enough.
Comgall utterly changed. He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her tightly against him as the kiss deepened. Bethany twined her arms around his neck, sinking her fingers into his dark hair as he sank his tongue between her lips. She moaned into his mouth as he crushed her so tightly against her body that she could barely breathe. His teeth lightly bit her bottom lip and she almost wept at the sensation.
Then he drew back a little, looking down at her with a question in his eyes.
Bethany could take no more. She pushed him away from her. Without looking into his eyes, she turned and ran away.