Chin raised, Lora turned the corner.
The hammer, gripped by a hand whitened by limestone dust, paused in mid-strike.
“That’s close enough, lass.” The stonemason straightened and wiped his forearm across his brow. “Stop right there.”
Lora halted.
With one foot casually poised on a stone block, bare chest heaving with exertion and oiled with sweat, the man raised a brow and watched her. His arms hung relaxed at his side, chisel in one hand, hammer in the other. A rebellious mass of dark hair tumbled to his shoulders, a few damp strands clinging to his temples and forehead.
The sun suited him, she thought. It turned his skin to burnished bronze, a hue that accentuated his body, the smooth sculpted lines, the chiseled features. She was staring, she realized, and blatantly content to do so.
“Was there something you wanted, mistress? I mean no disrespect, but I can’t work if someone is standing too close. An errant chip of stone can do terrible damage if it pierces an eye. I would not put yours at such risk.”
The music in his voice went straight to Lora’s soul. She searched for her voice, lost as it was behind a thick tangle of emotions. “Forgive me. I heard the sound of your hammer and chisel and was curious about it, that’s all.”
“Ah.” He glanced down at the gaping hole in the earth. “I’m building a crown for the well.”
Lora smiled. “Given its importance, it merits one, I think.”
He smiled back. “You know something of its history, then?”
She nodded. “My father used to tell me stories about it when I was child. I loved hearing them. Do you know any?”
“I do. They have long been shared by my people.”
“Will you share some with me?”
He laughed. “I might consider it, if you tell me your name.”
“My name is Lora.”
“Lora,” he repeated, as if tasting the word on his tongue. “A pretty name.”
“Thank you.” Her spirit took flight. “May I hear yours?”
“You may,” he replied. “I am called Gareth.”
Epilogue
A slight chill edged the morning air, hinting at autumn’s imminent arrival. Seated on her blanket, Lora drew her shawl across her shoulders and watched a distant flock of birds moving in perfect unison across the dawn sky. The meadow, lush with knee-high grass and autumn flowers, surrounded her.
“’Tis said they sleep in caves for the winter.” She leaned over, plucked a nearby cornflower, and twirled its bright, feathered petals beneath her nose. “Or find refuge in the depths of lakes and hide beneath the ice till spring returns.”
“Who?” Gareth sat up and combed his fingers through his hair.
“The birds. At least, those that vanish come autumn.”
“Aye, I’ve heard such tales.” He pulled her close and nuzzled her ear. “Did you sleep well?”
He already knew the answer. Since their marriage two months earlier, they had spent many nights entwined beneath clear summer skies, loving the seclusion and each other. But Lora huffed, faking indignation. “I barely slept at all, Stonemason.”
“Oh?” He pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. “And why is that?”
“Because my husband would not let me.”
“Hmm. He’s obviously an inconsiderate rogue.” Another kiss sent a sweet little shiver down her spine.
She smiled. “Nay, he’s just a passionate Welshman.”
He lifted his head and grinned, dark eyes twinkling. “There is no other kind.”
A sudden rush of emotion took Lora by surprise. She laughed and turned away, tears prickling as she feigned interest in the impending sunrise.
“Lora.” Gareth cupped her chin and forced her to look at him, his expression now somber. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She placed her hand atop his heart. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Everything is perfect.” At times, I’m reminded of how it felt to lose you. To live without you. The miracle of what we have, the appreciation for it, is beyond words. “Sometimes, my love for you overwhelms me, that’s all.”
A slight frown settled on his brow as he studied her. His tousled hair and unshaven jaw gave him a wild, seductive appearance, and a familiar spark flared deep in Lora’s core. She raised a brow and Gareth’s frown vanished, replaced by a knowing smile. He lay back, pulling her with him. Content, she snuggled against his chest, feeling it rise and fall as she listened to the beloved beat of his heart.
“I have never told you this,” he said, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair, “but the first time I saw you, I was struck by the oddest feeling. I swear I recognized you somehow. I don’t mean we’d bumped shoulders in a market somewhere or passed each other on the road. Nay, nothing like that. It was more like I’d been waiting for you my whole life. The sight of you standing in the sun filled a hollow in my heart I didn’t know I possessed.”
Lora raised up on an elbow and looked at him, able to share a truth without revealing her secret. “I felt the same,” she said. “The first time I heard your voice, I knew we belonged together.”
He gave a soft sigh. “I thanked him for sending me to Rothwyn.”
Lora puzzled for a moment. “Ah. Iorwerth.”
“Aye. At our wedding.”
“Mmm.” She rested her head on his chest again. “I thanked him too. I’m glad he showed up, although I thought he might.”
“He’s a strange one.”
“Well, of course he is. He’s a warlock.”
Gareth chuckled. “You might be right.”
I know I am.
Lora reached beneath Gareth’s shirt and stroked the solid wall of his abdomen.
“We really should head back,” she murmured, moving her hand down to the already aroused part of him. “I understand you have a new guardhouse to build.”
“Christ, Lora.” Gareth blew out a breath. “You’d better stop doing that, then.”
She gave him a soft squeeze. “What, this?”
Parting with a groan, he rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “You’re utterly without shame,” he murmured.
“I know.” She guided his hand to her breast. “Make love to me, Stonemason.”
Author’s Note
I was working in my kitchen one day when a song – a long time favourite of mine – came on the radio.
It’s called ‘If You Could Read My Mind Love’, written and sung by renowned Canadian artist, Gordon Lightfoot. The enigmatic line ‘…’bout a ghost from a wishing-well’ triggered an idea in my head.
This novel is the result.
About the Author
Born and raised in Cumbria, England, Avril now resides in Ontario, Canada. A lover of history, legend, and romance, her books embrace those elements. Her Welsh/Irish roots also weave their way through much of her writing, and she does have a bit of a dark side too, which sneaks out now and then. When not writing, she enjoys reading, walking her dog, and spending time with family and friends.
Facebook author page:
facebook.com/borthiry
Website:
www.avrilborthiry.com
Twitter:
Avril Borthiry (@borthiry) | Twitter
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 24