She could feel his melancholy as it mingled with her own, now that the haze of their passion was wearing off. “I feel as if I have lived my entire life for that one moment,” she murmured. “Now that it is gone, I do not know what I shall do.”
“You will marry your prince and rule England.”
She was silent a moment, struggling with the return of her tears. “Rhys.…”
“No,” he said shortly, with quiet firmness. “I would suggest you stop wishing for what can never be. We both must.”
“But.…”
“No.”
“Stop telling me that,” she hissed at him, blinking rapidly to chase off her tears. “You do not even know what I am going to say.”
“What are you going to say?”
“That… that at least for the next few days, can we simply forget that I have a destiny and you have a mission?”
He stopped abruptly and faced her. His massive hands gripped her arms as he forced her to look at him.
“No,” he said, more strongly. “Believe me when I say that it gives me no pleasure to tell you that, but it is necessary. You must trust me, angel. To allow ourselves even a moment more of this heaven will only do us greater harm in the end. It will shatter you and devastate me. It will be hard enough watching you wed another without the added burden of pretending, even for a short while, that things between us are different. Do you understand that?”
Elizabeau gazed at him steadily, knowing he was correct but hating with every fiber of her being to admit it. She finally closed her eyes and lowered her head.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I understand. But the pain of that understanding is surely going to kill me.”
He felt the same as she did but refrained from telling her; it would only make her feel worse. When she lowered her head, he resisted the urge to pull her into his arms to comfort her. Instead, he took her hand again and resumed their walk.
“Then let us speak of other things,” he said, though his heart wasn’t in it. “You have not told me what kind of garments you would like for me to buy for you when I go into town.”
She was silent a moment, daintily wiping at the tears in her eyes and watching the ground beneath her feet. “So your mother expects a grandchild right away, does she?” she teased gently.
He looked at her, seeing a weak smile playing on her lips. He just shook his head, fighting off a grin and not entirely surprised that she wasn’t willing to let the subject of their relationship go so easily. But at least she wasn’t weeping any longer.
“It will be a huge disappointment to her when I am forced to tell her that you and I are not really married,” he admitted.
“It is a great disappointment to me, too.”
“Elizabeau….”
She waved him off, knowing what he was going to say. “I know, I know,” she took a deep breath and struggled to focus on something other than her breaking heart. “Your mother seems like a kind woman. She was very gracious and attentive to me last night. I do believe she has cured my cold single-handedly.”
“She seems to like you a great deal,” Rhys said softly.
She looked up at him, surprised. “She does? I’ve not truly spent any time speaking with her. How could she know?”
“She just knows. You have a good character about you.”
Elizabeau gazed up at him as they finished the remainder of their walk back to the manse. He glanced down at her now and again, seeing an expression on her face that made his entire body go weak. He didn’t want to give in to it, but it was difficult. He was trying to return to business as usual with her; he was her escort and she was his ward. But he knew, as he lived and breathed, that things would be different from this moment on. Every time he looked at her, his heart would be doomed.
As they reached the front door of the manse, the panel suddenly opened and a short, dark-haired bear of a man walked out. He looked at Rhys with surprise, his round, ruddy face creased with a smile.
“Rhys,” he said, his gaze moving between Rhys and Elizabeau. “Good to see you, lad. Your mother said you were home.”
Rhys smiled and held out a hand, which the man took and shook heartily. “We arrived yesterday,” he released the man’s hand and indicated Elizabeau. “Renard, this is my wife, the Lady Julianna. My lady, this is my mother’s husband, Sir Renard de Titouan.”
Elizabeau dipped in a slight curtsy. “My lord,” she greeted pleasantly.
Renard focused on her intently; he had come from the house wiping his hands off with some kind of rag and he stood there and inspected her, still wiping his hands off. After a moment, he smiled broadly.