Sapphire Sea

by Kelsey McKnight

  She had felt true passion and what it was like to be cared for and desired by a man. It had only been two weeks, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to throw away those feelings for the rest of her life. However, the bonds of matrimony and the strength of contracts was enough to give her pause. The plan to have her wed to the prince was in motion, and it was she who made the first move. It was too late to turn back. It was too late to change her fate.

  “I thought I saw you here.” It was Gaspar. He towered over her a moment before crouching down. “You have been crying?”

  Staring at him, she swiped at her cheeks, surprised to find them wet. “I…I suppose so.” She turned her head away. She was embarrassed at having been seen crying, even though she had no idea tears had fallen. Was she grieving for her old life? Was the thought of leaving her home and family paining her? Or was it Gaspar?

  “What has happened?” he asked, pulling her to his chest and gently rubbing her back.

  Gwen caved in to his touch, welcoming the warmth and comfort of his body. She opened her mouth to try to verbalize her feelings, but no sound issued. Perhaps she was in shock? She had read that people in stressful situations sometimes shut down their mind and disassociated from their surroundings. Yes, that sounded right…

  “Gwendolyn, speak to me, por favor.” His dark brow was furrowed and he regarded her with a strange expression akin to fear. She had never seen his face look so torn, so frightened.

  Still unable to speak, she unattached herself from him and held out the letter from Eduardo with a shaking hand. Then she watched Gaspar’s expression as he scanned the note. His full lips rapidly turned into a thin, hard line as he read and his expressional darkened.

  When he had finished, his stormy eyes turned to her. He regarded her for a moment before whispering harshly, “You are to truly marry him? Is it arranged?

  “No,” she replied in a voice no louder than the wind. “There are many things to be prepared before the match is formally announced, although I believe we are in the final stages. I just…I don’t know.”

  “What do you not know?”

  “I thought I…I thought I would be prepared for this,” she admitted, taking back the letter and fingering the wax seal, raised with the crest of her future husband. “I thought I knew what was to come and that I could handle all that went with it. But now? Now I’m not sure of anything.”

  Gaspar reached out to her and brushed back her hair from her face. “You will marry him, though?”

  “I suppose I must. It’s being finalized.” Gwen rose shakily to her feet, her hand against a rock for support. “How did you find me?”

  “I saw you riding from the castle. I borrowed a horse from the stable and rode it like hell to follow you.”

  She began to weave in and out of the labyrinth of broken rocks, keeping a steady pattern as she stepped around and over them. It helped her to stabilize her movements. She didn’t need to think in order to walk. But her gaze kept wandering to the center, where Gaspar now stood, watching her intently. His hands were fisted to his side and his shoulders tense.

  “Must you do it?” he finally asked, his voice cutting harshly into the silence surrounding the hill.

  “Do what?”

  “Marry him.”

  She stopped and caught his gaze. “I suppose I must.”

  “As you keep saying,” Gaspar growled, striding toward her frozen form. “But will you marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do not do it.” His voice still sounded severe as he came to stop before her. But after a moment, his gaze softened and he repeated, “Do not marry him, meu único ouro. I will not deliver you into his arms, into his…bed.”

  The tone of his words and the use of their secret pet name sparked something within Gwen. The weight in her chest felt heavier than ever, so much so that it forced her to lean back against a stone for support. For the briefest of moments, she felt as if the rocks would fall and crush her, and she almost hoped they would as Gaspar’s eyes bored into her. She could no longer handle the pain of knowing what was to come. So many things had changed between them—within her—she didn’t know how to fix any of it.

  “Do not marry him,” he commanded again, stepping closer.

  Gwen swallowed, feeling her heart beat madly against her breast. “It’s done. The riders will have already left for Spain by now with talk of the dowry.”

  He reached out and cupped a hand to her cheek, forcing her to look up at him. “Then we shall send a faster rider to call them back. I will go myself.”

  “Why?” Her mind whirled. Gaspar looked pained and pale, which was an odd thing indeed for one with his usual golden complexion.

  “You just…you just cannot marry him!” He turned away abruptly, leaving Gwen’s cheek cold. He ran his fingers through his thick black hair as he paced within the circle.

  “But why can’t I?” she challenged, feeling the tears fall, unbidden. “I agreed to this bargain with Spain. I asked for it, even! I thought it’s what I wanted.”

  Gaspar rounded on her. His face was now unreadable. “And now? And now what do you want?”

  “I…I don’t know!” She sobbed, her shoulders beginning to shake and knees weakening. “I made this decision and now I must go through with it.”

  “You cannot. I forbid it!” His voice was a roar, but when his gaze settled upon Gwen, he groaned softly and gathered her up to his chest, burying his face in her hair as she cried into his shirt. As the tears began to ebb, she held Gaspar closer, breathing in his rugged scent of salt water and leather and the fine oiled wood that made up his captain’s quarters. She closed her eyes as she took it in and then pressed her lips to the sliver of smooth chest that showed in his open shirt.

  “Gwendolyn, what are you doing?”

  She silenced him with a kiss, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. Gaspar tensed for a moment, but followed suit. His fingers tangled into her hair as he parted her lips with his tongue. She melted into his embrace, feeling his body tear away the tension that encased her.

  Gone were the tender, playful moments they had shared on his ship. Now there was only the primal need to feel his hands upon her body, to fill the emptiness she felt within her soul. And Gaspar complied fully, matching the pace of her lips and skimming her body with the palms of his hands. If he had any desire to stop her, he didn’t show it.

  She yanked his shirt over his head as he began to undo the buttons of her gown. He drew the neckline off her shoulders, baring her chest to him. Losing herself in Gaspar was what she craved. But as soon as Gwen touched the silver buckle of his belt, he finally stopped her.

  “Don’t marr—”

  Gwen pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t say it. Please. I…I need you, Gaspar.”

  Nodding, he dove back into her mouth and pressed her against what may have once been a stone wall. The rock scratched at her back, but she welcomed the slight pain, a punishment for her own decisions. His hand found her breast as Gwen undid his buckle. Gaspar rifled through her skirts, finding her bare legs beneath the fabric. He hitched both hands beneath her and lifted, holding her against the rock and impaling her on his member.

  “Meu único ouro…my golden one,” he murmured as he thrust into her.

  Having him take her there, on the ancient hill of her people, felt terribly blasphemous, but right. The primal act flooded her with a whirlwind of tossed emotions, more volatile than the sea and even more deep. She had never drowned—never even come close—but in that moment, she felt lost in his arms. It was as if all the air had left her lungs and she began to feel lightheaded. She was overwhelmed by the sensations of his hands upon her body and his lips upon hers. But she relished it.

  Finally, as the surge of orgasm brought Gwen back above water, she clung to Gaspar, unwilling to let him go as he reached the peak of his own desire within her. But then he placed her feet upon solid ground. Then, wordlessly, he pulled away to buckle his pants, and with tender fingers, buttoned
her gown carefully. He even untangled her pressed curls, arranging each one around her face with delicate intent. Finally, he dropped his hands to his sides and peered down at her intently.

  “Gwendolyn,” he began, his perfect English more accented than usual, the slight tang of Portuguese threatening to bubble to the top of his words. “I will not beg and I will not ask again after this time…but…come with me, meu único ouro.”

  Gwen’s breath caught in her throat and the sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears. “Come with you?”

  “Yes.” He nodded and grabbed her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “My ships have come, I can see them in the distance, and we will soon leave to new ports. But I do not wish to leave without you.”

  She was stunned by his offer of running away with him. Upon first thought, without thinking of the consequences, she wanted to answer in the affirmative. She couldn’t say that she loved Gaspar; it was something she had never even brought to mind and it was something she wasn’t sure she even understood. But having him there, asking her to leave with him for a new life, forced her to consider it.

  But as much as Gwen…cared for Gaspar, she couldn’t bear the thought of life at sea. It was too frightening and too horrid to picture. And yet she couldn’t ask him to throw away his fleet, his livelihood, and his passion of the water for her. And then there was the agreement that was made with Spain. Soon, she would be expected and Gwen was never one to throw away a contract.

  “Say something.” Gaspar’s voice was pleading and his eyes searched her face.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes. Say you will come with me. We could have a good life together, you and I. I could take you to Greece, Hispaniola, the orient…you would have finer jewels and gowns than any Spanish princess could ever dream of.”

  She pulled out of his grasp and turned away, unwilling to continue looking up into the penetrating gray stare. “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “You know why, Gaspar. I’ve told you a dozen times.” Gwen fought back a new wave of emotion. He needed to leave and she needed to return to the righteous path she had strayed from. “I’m not leaving Scotland with you.”

  “Please.” His voice was barely a whisper and it broke Gwen’s heart. “I said I would not beg, but if I fell to my knees before you, would you come with me?”

  “No.”

  The word hung in the air, hidden among so many others neither dared to say. The only sound was the low sweep of wind through the hills and the distant snorts and pawing of the horses. But there was something else tucked into the quiet—a heaviness that was settling in between them, building a wall so high, it would soon be impenetrable.

  “As you wish.” He stepped up behind her, his boots barely making a noise in the grass. “Look at me.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice cracked when she answered.

  “Look at me,” he repeated firmly, grasping her wrist.

  Gwen complied, but shut her eyes tightly when she turned.

  “Maldito seja, Gwendolyn!” he shouted. “Look at me! It is the least you can do!”

  “The least I could do for what?” she asked, daring to look at him.

  His gray eyes, so much like the sea he loved, were filled with unshed tears. “For breaking my heart.”

  Gwen felt as if she had been doused with freezing water and whatever words she could have spoken became trapped in her throat. So she said nothing, but pulled him down into a kiss. But it wasn’t a primal one like before, when he had taken her against the stones. It was tender and full of longing for the future they would never have.

  When they pulled away, neither made a move to speak. But Gaspar reached up and took off his crucifix and medallion necklace. He then pressed his lips against the charms before fastening it around Gwen’s neck, careful not to tangle her hair in the chain. It hung heavy against her breast.

  She couldn’t take his necklace. It wouldn’t be right of her. “I—”

  “No. You must have it. I cannot give you my love, nor my name, nor any of the riches on my fleet, though I would if you had let me. But I can give you this. I want you to keep it always, even if you never wear it. I hope that it can bring you all the luck it has brought me these past years and you find happiness in your new life in Spain.”

  Gwen could feel her cheeks dampen with tears. She didn’t know what to say. If she had been a stronger woman, a braver one, then maybe things would have been different. Maybe she could have begged him to stay in Scotland, or joined him on his ship for a life of adventure. Maybe she could have found a way for their secret meetings in his cabin to transform into a life they could share together.

  But as she watched Gaspar stride quickly from her to his horse, her vision obscured by emotion, Gwen said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Not even goodbye.

  Chapter Eleven

  Feigning illness, Gwen scurried up to her room, brushing past Charlotte and the bevy of maids preparing for luncheon. She needed to escape to the safety and privacy of her chambers before completely falling apart. As soon as shut the door behind her, she was thoroughly sick in a chamber pot, sobbing and retching, feeling as if her insides had been torn from her body. But, then again, it almost seemed fitting for her to have these pains searing from her broken heart.

  Sobbing, she crawled to the window, desperate for a glimpse of Gaspar’s ships, but a heavy fog had settled upon the cliffs, almost completely hiding them from view. She could barely make out the shape of a mast. She pushed open the glass, leaning out and squinting, desperate to see some sign of Gaspar—the brilliant white of his shirt, or perhaps even him, holding out a hand in farewell.

  She knew he wouldn’t stay long in Scotland. His ships had already arrived, according to him. And though she knew there was no point in them ever meeting again, she wished dreadfully that she could have one last lingering moment with him. She longed to kiss his lips and be held in the strong arms she had spent so many long afternoons within. It was selfish of her to wish for something so strongly, but she had never truly allowed herself to be selfish before.

  If they did meet again, she wasn’t even sure what she would say that hadn’t already been said. It would only be cruel to bring him into her shattered world again. It was entirely self-regarding, and she hated herself for it. And, if she were honest, she hated Eduardo. She hated his pale skin and dark eyes. She hated his wiry mustache and how dreadfully pleasant she expected their future to be. There was no feasible way she would ever be able to open herself to him fully. The mere thought of giving her body to Eduardo in the way she had to Gaspar disgusted her, but Gwen knew there was no way out of it.

  And as the fog lifted, the sun fell below the horizon, and the ship left the cove for the open sea, Gwen closed the window and drew the drapes firmly shut. She would soon be bound body and soul to the Spanish prince and would never lay eyes upon Gaspar again.

  ***

  After three long days and nights of lying abed, Gwen knew she needed to rise and rejoin life in the castle. Charlotte had been in several times, trying to ply her with soup and tea—even calling Sorcha, the medicine woman from the village, to attend to her. But Gwen brushed both women out, letting in only wee Ian. The lad would bring his pack of dogs to see her and was often content to merely sit beside her, reading aloud from his children’s book. He asked no questions, expected nothing, and would leave as quickly as he came.

  But there was work to be done and Gwen could stew in her sorrow no longer. So she quickly bathed, dressed, and came down one morning, just in time for breakfast.

  Conner and Charlotte exchanged silent glances as she sat, but it was wee Ian who spoke. “Gwen, are ye feelin’ better now?”

  Her mouth creaked into a forced smile, feeling unnatural upon her lips. “Much, thank you.”

  “What did ye think ye came down with?” Conner asked.

  Gwen shrugged and picked at the plate of food set before her from a servant. “I’m not enti
rely certain.”

  “The shock of seein’ your betrothed, I expect.” Conner laughed. “I did no’ think him that ugly, lass. Sure, he’s probably got soft hands and manners, but he’s well enough to look at.”

  “Yes, he looks quite kind,” Charlotte added, giving Gwen a reassuring smile. But she still peered at her queerly, as if she longed to say something.

  Not wishing to be asked any more questions, she willed herself to sit up straight and down her food without gagging. She needed to wash her hands of the past and look toward building a new future—and that meant not wallowing in self-pity for what could have been, no matter how much she wanted it. She was to marry the prince and there wasn’t anything more to it.

  When she had eaten a good deal and participated in some general niceties with her family, she excused herself to the library. She wanted to ensure that Conner hadn’t made a complete mess of her accounting and perhaps peruse one of the few books in Spanish hidden among the shelves. While her grasp of the language was relatively poor, there was nothing more she could do to remedy the situation other than read. It was a small comfort that Eduardo could write and presumably speak in English.

  When she saw the pile of disheveled papers upon the desk, she opted to read before tending to the disaster that waited. Her mind wasn’t up for the challenge just yet. She picked up a Spanish poetry book she had found weeks before but hadn’t actually read, and curled up in a chair beside the window, cloistered in the back of the library. If anyone were to come in, they would never see her behind the shelves.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the first page and began to read. But then stopped. She looked over the written words again and again, flipping through the book to random pages, seeing if she recognized a single thing. Surely her understanding of the Spanish language wasn’t so terrible that she didn’t recognize even the smallest of words?