The Blight of Muirwood

“How could you misunderstand?” Colvin said, nearly shouting. “Because I did not reject you in the tunnel? I interpreted your gesture very differently than you intended it, I can see that now.”

“No, it is a misunderstanding. I was wrong.”

“You believed I could betray my rank, my sister, my duty for someone like you? As a sister, it would be without scorn or shame. As my sister, your world would be expanded without mine being diminished. You could visit the kingdoms we have only talked about. You could learn more than what you know now. As my sister, you could do that. But not more. Never more than that.”

His words were like poison. The look on his face devastated her. She had to make him understand. “You are my dear friend, Colvin. What we went through together, in the Bearden Muir…that night at Winterrowd. I cannot tell it to anyone, nor have I. What our…friendship has meant to me. In my heart…you became…even more dear to me. More than a brother.”

He looked away, his teeth clenched tightly. “I cannot stay here.”

“Please do not leave like this.”

His scorching eyes transfixed hers. “I was afraid this would happen. If we spent too much time together, it would make one of us vulnerable. I should have heeded that inner voice. I never meant to injure you, Lia. Your friendship has been valuable to me as well. You saved my life. But I cannot give you what you wish for. I will not betray my Family in that way. It would be recklessly improper, with your feelings, for you to become part of my family now. It cannot be, Lia.”

“I know what I am, Colvin,” she said, sobbing. “I cannot help being a wretched. It was never my choice. But if I…but if I was Ellowyn Demont instead? Would you…?”

The look he gave her sucked the breath from her lungs.

“But you are not,” he said and stormed away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

Surrounded

Lia ran through the orchard rows with its interlocking branches, through the wet, whipping rain, through the mud and muck until her legs throbbed with pain and her chest heaved with exhaustion. Colvin’s words burned in her ears and filled her with such self-hate she thought she would die of it. The treeline vanished abruptly, and the ground beneath her feet gave way down a small hillside. Down she ran, faster and faster, trying to outrace the wind and her sickened feelings. What had she done! Why had she ruined everything with Colvin? The ground was slick and muddy and there was no one to catch her fall, so she tumbled headlong to the base of the slope. There, in a crumpled heap at the bottom, she sobbed.

The pain of it – the pain of knowing that she had lost him – no, not lost him for she had never had him to begin with. The deception was exposed, her deepest secret was bared as a shell…a husk. That somehow the Earl of Forshee would look past her being a wretched, would love her for who she was and accept her. His hand had always been extended in friendship, but never more than that. And she had ruined it. How could she face him again? How could she look at him without the searing pain in her heart choking the thought of any words? Never in her life had she felt so desolate, not even in the midst of the Bearden Muir when she feared she would never see Muirwood again.

The storm howled around her, adding a certain delight to her misery. Yes, this was the kind of day to be spurned by a man. The savagery of the storm paled next to her grieving. Sitting up, clutching herself, she let out a cry of sorrow and pain for the injustice of her birth. The shame of being a wretched had never stung so much.

How could she have misjudged him so badly? She was not angry that he scorned her. She was angry that she had let herself believe he would care for her in the way she did for him. The truth of it frayed away like the dead husks enfolding the core of an onion. Since she had saved his life, the secret had begun inside her, sprouting like a tiny seed. Only now did she focus on the monstrous growth that resulted from her untended thoughts. He had promised to teach her to read, but what hurt more was the broken promise of Whitsunday. How many times had she dreamed about holding his hand as the music played? How often had she lingered on the memory of holding his hand in the tunnels beneath the Abbey – alone, secluded, heeding the forbidden urge to comfort him, warm him, be near him. He had not rejected her then, as she had feared. It emboldened her to believe that his feelings, though masked, matched hers. The mask was gone. In its place, a look of contempt.

Lia opened her swollen eyes at the mud-splattered thing she had become. Mud and grass clogged her hair, mucked her gear, and burrowed beneath her fingernails. Her chest quivered and wheezed from the surge of tears. How could she go back to the Abbey? How could she ever look at him again without blushing a thousand shades of crimson?