Chapter 14 #3
Of course, he knew perfectly well what would be involved. One could hardly study Greek pottery for two semesters without learning a thing or two about the arts of love.
A few less scholarly reference volumes had fallen into his hands as they circulated around Cambridge. The fervor with which Neil had devoured them had been far from strictly academic.
At Constance’s inquiry, he remembered those illicit readings once again… only it was Constance’s face he saw hovering above him as she pinned his hands to the headboard.
Constance who was staring at him right now, puzzled by Neil’s conspicuously ongoing silence.
He jolted with panic. “Obviously,” he burst out.
Neil realized that might not have been an appropriate answer.
Had she even asked him a question?
He couldn’t remember.
“I mean—nothing,” he amended.
The pavilion spun gently around him. Neil wondered if he would feel like this if he were ever run over by a stampede.
Constance’s brow furrowed with concern. “Are you quite all right?”
He drew in a careful breath, wrestling to regain his self-control. This was Constance. She was his friend—practically a sister. Certainly not someone he was going to haul against his body as he ran his hands over her…
“Fine,” Neil coughed out desperately. “Excellent.”
Constance eyed him skeptically. “You’re not having some sort of mild seizure?”
Neil gritted his teeth. “I am not having a seizure.”
“Well, that’s good,” Constance concluded. “As for the rest—pretend I never brought it up.”
Worry still roiled through Neil’s chest, mingling with the lingering after-effects of his wretched burst of lust. “But what will you do?”
Constance waved dismissively. “I’ll think of something.”
“If you’re sure…” Neil returned uneasily.
Constance crossed her arms over her chest. “You are not pretending to marry me, Stuffy.”
“Right,” Neil agreed awkwardly.
“Honestly, you’re a dear for even considering it.” After a moment of thoughtful hesitation, Constance punctuated her words by popping up onto her toes and planting a kiss on his cheek.
Her lips were a soft pressure against Neil’s skin. His hand twitched with the urge to reach for her silk-clad hip.
Danger gnome, he reminded himself urgently.
“See you in the morning,” Constance promised, and hopped down from the pavilion.
Neil watched her go, unease settling inside of him like a lump of stone.
He tried to reason the feeling away. Everything would be fine. Constance was a master at dreaming up ways to get herself out of trouble—or into it.
Mostly the latter, he admitted uncomfortably.
She would find her way out of this particular trouble, he was sure of it. Refraining from entering into a false engagement over the matter was clearly the more sensible course of action.
Everything was going to be fine.
Swallowing a lingering thread of unease, he turned back to the problem that had brought him out into the garden in the first place.
The sword was still hidden under the folds of the old towel where it sat on the balustrade. Neil didn’t particularly feel like facing that dilemma again that evening. He bundled the mythical weapon in the cloth as he scooped it up.
Drynwyn slipped free of the fabric.
With a flailing instinct, Neil lurched for the hilt. His fingers closed around bone—and the blade whooshed with flame.
The towel caught fire.
Neil frantically shook the cloth loose from the fiery arcanum, then stomped on it to extinguish the smoldering edges. He held the sword out awkwardly in the air at his side as he prayed he wasn’t about to set something else alight.
The weight of the weapon pulled his arm back. Neil fumblingly righted his grip just as the blade swung against one of the pavilion’s mossy pillars.
It seemed to snag against the stone. With a twist of his wrist, Neil pulled it loose.
He clasped the flaming blade with both hands, holding it still and steady in front of him as he caught his breath.
Carefully, he shifted Dyrnwyn to his left hand, then used the right to pull a handkerchief from his pocket.
He yanked the scrap of fabric around the hilt, and the blade finally snuffed out.
Shoulders sagging with relief, Neil finally wrapped the weapon in the slightly charred towel. Holding it to his chest, he indulged in a moment of feeling wretchedly sorry for himself.
How had he ended up with this thing? What the devil was he going to do with it?
He resigned himself to completely failing to find an answer to either of those questions tonight.
Picking up the lantern, he turned to go—then hesitated as something caught his eye on the surface of the nearby pillar. He brought the lamp closer, where the glow fell across a straight, dark cut that marred the stone.
The line was very regular for a natural fault in the rock. Strangely, it looked as though the moss that grew over the surface was neatly severed as well.
That’s odd, he thought with an uneasy itch of discomfort.
He backed away from it—both the railing and the feeling—and hurried from the pavilion.