Aleatha permitted her skirts to rustle loudly, and at the sound Roland straightened, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began to saunter about quite casually, regarding the hedge with interest, as if he had just arrived. Aleatha smothered a laugh. She’d been thinking about him all day. Thinking how much she didn’t like him. Thinking that she detested him, in fact. Thinking that he was boorish, and arrogant and... well... human. Recalling how much she hated him, it was only natural for her to think about the night they’d once made love. There had been extenuating circumstances, of course. Neither had been responsible. Both had been recovering from the terrible fright of being nearly eaten by a dragon. Roland had been hurt and she’d only been trying to comfort him...
And why did she have to keep remembering that night and his strong arms and soft lips and the way he’d loved her, a way in which no other man had ever dared to love her...
It wasn’t until the next day she’d remembered he was human and had peremptorily ordered him never to touch her again. He apparently had been only too glad to obey—judging by what he’d said to her in response. But she took a grim delight in teasing him—it was the only pleasure she had. And he seemed to take equal delight in irritating her.
Aleatha stepped out into the pathway. Roland, lounging against the hedge, glanced at her and smiled what she considered a nasty smile.
“Ah, I see you came,” he said, implying that she had come because of him, robbing her of the line that had been on her lips—implying that he’d come because of her—and thereby making her instantly furious.
And when Aleatha was furious, she was simply sweeter and more charming than ever.
“Why, Roland,” she said, with a very natural start of surprise. “Is that you?”
“And who the hell would it be? Lord Dumdrun, perhaps?” Aleatha flushed. Lord Dumdrun had been her elven fiance, and while she hadn’t loved him and she’d been going to marry him only for his money, he was dead and this human had no right to make fun of him and... oh, never mind!
“I wasn’t certain,” she said, tossing her hair back over a bare shoulder (the sleeve of her dress didn’t quite fit properly anymore because she’d lost weight, and it kept slipping down her arm, revealing a white shoulder of surpassing loveliness). “Who knows what slimy thing might have crawled up from Below?”
Roland’s eyes were drawn to her shoulder. She permitted him to look and yearn (she trusted he was yearning), and then she slowly and caressingly covered her shoulder with a lacy shawl she’d found in an abandoned house.
“Well, if something slimy did crawl up out of nowhere, I’m certain you’d frighten it off.” He took a step nearer her, glanced again pointedly at her shoulder. “You’re turning all bony.”
Bony! Aleatha glared at him, so angry she forgot to be charming. She bounded at him, her hand raised to strike.
He caught her wrist, twisted it, bent down and kissed her. Aleatha struggled exactly the right length of time—not too long (which might discourage him), but long enough to force him to tighten his hold on her. Then she relaxed in his arms.
His lips brushed over her neck. “I know this is going to disappoint you,” he whispered, “but I only came to tell you I wasn’t coming. Sorry.” And with that, he let go of her.
Aleatha had been leaning her full weight on him. When he removed his hold, she tumbled onto her hands and knees. He grinned at her.
“Begging for me to stay? Won’t do any good, I’m afraid.” Turning, he sauntered off.
Enraged, Aleatha struggled to her feet, but her heavy skirts hampered her, and by the time she was upright and ready to claw his eyes out, Roland had rounded a corner of a building and was gone.
Aleatha paused, breathing heavily. To run after him now would look like just that—running after him. (If she had gone after him, she would have discovered him slumped against a wall, shivering and wiping sweat from his face.) Digging her nails into her palms, she stormed through the gate that led into the maze, flounced down the stones marked with Sartan runes, and threw herself on the marble bench.
Certain she was alone, hidden, where no one could see her if her eyes turned red and her nose swelled, she began to cry.
“Did he hurt you?” a gruff voice demanded.
Startled, Aleatha jerked her head up. “What—oh, Drugar.” She sighed, at first relieved, then not so. The dwarf was strange, dour. Who knew what he was thinking? And he had tried to kill them all once...
“No, of course not,” she replied scornfully, drying her eyes and sniffing.
“I’m not crying.” She gave a light little laugh. “I had something in my eye. How... long have you been standing here?” she asked, airy, nonchalant. The dwarf grunted. “Long enough.” And what he meant by that, Aleatha hadn’t a clue.
His name among the humans was Blackbeard, and he suited it. His beard was long and so thick and full that it was difficult to see his mouth. One rarely knew whether he was smiling or frowning. The glittering black eyes, shining out from beneath heavy, beetling brows, gave no hint of his thoughts or feelings. Then Aleatha noticed that he had come from the inner part of the maze, the part into which she’d never dared venture. She was intrigued. Obviously no wicked magic had stopped him. She was about to ask him eagerly what he’d seen, how far he’d gone, when he disconcerted her by asking her a question first.
“You love him. He loves you. Why do you play these hurtful games?”
“I? Love him?” Aleatha gave a lilting laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Drugar. Such a thing is impossible. He’s a human, isn’t he? And I’m an elf. You might as well ask a cat to love a dog.”
“It is not impossible. I know,” he answered.
His dark eyes met hers and then their gaze shifted away. He stared into the hedge, gloomy, silent.
Blessed Mother! Aleatha thought, her breath taken away. Though Roland might not love her (and she was quite convinced, at this moment, that he did not and never would), here was someone who did.
Except it was not love which had stared at her hungrily from those eyes. It was more. Almost adoration.
Had it been any other man—elf or human—Aleatha would have been amused, accepting his infatuation as her due, taking his love and hanging it up for show with the rest of her trophies. But her feeling at the moment was not triumph over another conquest. Her feeling was pity—deep and profound. If Aleatha appeared heartless, it was only because her heart had been hurt so much that she had locked it up in a box and hidden the key. Everyone she had ever cared about had abandoned her—first her mother, then Callie, then her father. Even that fop Dumdrun—who had been a sap, but rather a dear sap—had managed to get himself killed by the tytans.
And if she ever had been attracted to Roland (Aleatha was careful to put that in the past tense), it was only because he’d never seemed the least bit interested in finding the key to the box containing her heart. Which made the game safe, fun. Most of the time.
But this wasn’t a game. Not with Drugar. He was lonely, as lonely as she was herself. Lonelier, for his people, everyone whom he had loved and cared for, were gone, destroyed by the tytans. He had nothing, nobody. Pity was swallowed by shame. For the first time in her life, Aleatha was at a loss for words. She didn’t have to tell him his love was hopeless—he knew that for himself. She didn’t worry that he would become a nuisance. He would never mention it again. This time had been an accident—he’d spoken out of sympathy for her. From this moment forward, he’d be on his guard. She couldn’t prevent him from being hurt.