Peter followed far behind the rest of the party as they made their way to the formation of rock that rose up near the cliff’s edge. He tried his damnedest to keep his gaze from Lenora and Redburn, but thus far had been an abysmal failure. Which was doing absolutely nothing to improve his mood.
Thank goodness he hadn’t been relegated to pack mule again. No, Redburn, gallant fellow that he was, had been more than happy to take on the carrying of Lenora’s supplies. With Quincy helping Margery, Peter was left to his own devices.
Which was as he liked it. He wouldn’t even consider how his lack of a task left him with too much time to think about Lenora and her fiancé.
The night before had been utter torture. Lenora had appeared content, happy even, guiding Redburn around the room to introduce him to the other guests with a natural ease that spoke volumes of where she belonged. Was that what she was like in London, a glittering diamond, in her element? That was the Lenora he didn’t know, the one who had a place in the world that he could never be a part of.
But Redburn was a part of that world. He would give her all she deserved and more. And Peter had been the greatest fool in creation to think he could have made her happy.
They came to the formation then. From the road, it had appeared to be solid stone. But upon closer inspection, there was a wide opening tucked in the rock. They slipped through, one by one. A short walk through a tunnel into a wide, open-ended cave, and suddenly the whole of the ocean was before them in all its splendor.
Beyond the cave a sturdy shelf jutted out over the sea, and it was here they stopped and took in the view. As with the Elven Pools, Peter stood for a moment in wonder. He had looked out over the sea during his time here, of course, had stood at the cliff’s edge and studied the churning waves. But there was something different here, dredging up an inscrutable kind of recognition that Peter felt to the very depths of his soul.
He frowned, studying the surrounding scenery, trying to make sense of the emotions awakening in his breast. The wind caught in the bowl of rocks, whipping the sparse vegetation, twisting it into fanciful shapes, a hollow lowing moving through the protected grotto. It sounded eerily like distant sobbing, bridging the distance of a millennium. He shivered, though the air was so warm today as to be nearly uncomfortable, his wonder transforming to a keen sorrow as that recognition became clear: it was grief calling to grief, of a loss so profound, he felt it in his very bones.
Quincy spoke then, pulling Peter from the dark depths of his musings. “This is quite the place,” he said, moving tentatively toward the edge to peer down. Peter couldn’t blame him his caution. The wind tugged at his hair and his clothing, so that he felt as if it were trying to drag him over the edge.
“It’s disconcerting, I know,” Margery said. “But quite important to Synne and Ivar’s story. I do hope it’s not too much for you gentlemen.”
Redburn let loose a weak chuckle. “Certainly not,” he said with false bravado.
“Of course not,” Quincy echoed. Despite his brave words, however, he was quick to step far back from the edge.
“And you, cousin?”
“I assure you,” Peter said, “I cannot be frightened away.”
She gave him a long, considering look before turning to Lenora. “Shall we begin?”
Lenora nodded and took a seat on a flat rock close to the wall, adjusting her skirts. Redburn was at her side in a trice, handing over her sketch pad, asking her if she needed her pencil sharpened. When she murmured her thanks, the man immediately went to work, using a small knife to trim the tip.
Peter fought the urge to gag. Did she truly like that fawning attention? She was certainly welcoming it readily enough.
As disgusted as he was, however, he couldn’t fail to recognize the desire deep in him to be the one beside Lenora, trimming her pencils and seeing to her comfort, the one receiving her smiles.
Margery spoke then. “You remember, of course, that Synne and Ivar fell in love at the Elven Pools,” she began, settling beside Lenora and accepting her own sketch supplies from Quincy with a smile. “They lived happily for a short time. Synne even gave Ivar a son.”
She looked out over the water. “Ivar was often at sea. Every time he left, Synne would keep vigil here during the day, waiting for his return.” Her fingers drifted over the rock wall between her and Lenora. “It’s said she carved this symbol into the rock to protect him while he was away.”
Despite his determination to remain aloof, Peter found himself transfixed. The carving was rough, a circle made up of what looked to be runes, surrounding a figure that branched into eight spokes. He stepped closer, the better to see it.
Lenora, who was bent over her blank page, tensed. Too late he realized he had stepped too close. A breeze blew into the alcove, stirring the tendrils of hair that curled against her cheek, and he was assailed by her sweet scent of berries. It wrapped around him, making him remember things he shouldn’t. Of a dim room, pale limbs against white sheets. The taste of her on his tongue. Her moans of pleasure filling his ears.
He jerked back as if burned. Even so, he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. She wouldn’t return his gaze, instead staring at her blank paper. But her beautiful green eyes were wide, her face pale. Was she remembering as well? He longed to reach out for her, to skim his fingers over her cheek, to see if she turned her face into his palm in silent plea, or if she pulled away. Her lush lips parted as if she heard his thoughts. His hand twitched, and he felt himself leaning toward her…
“A symbol of protection,” Redburn said in his jovial tone, breaking Peter from the spell he’d been under. “That’s quite romantic, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled down at Lenora.
Peter recoiled, striding to the far side of the alcove. The more distance he placed between him and Lenora, the better.
“I’m afraid,” Margery murmured, “it doesn’t have a happy ending. You’ll recall, Ivar never meant to make this island his home. He had ambitions that went far beyond a mere outpost. And so, when he was offered a position in one of the Five Boroughs, he took it. And left Synne and their child behind.”
There was a stunned beat of silence. And then a voice, ringing through the grotto: “You cannot be serious.”
Every eye turned his way, all save Lenora’s. And Peter realized that he had been the one to speak.
His face heated. “That is,” he continued, “I’m surprised it ended in such a way.”
“I agree,” Quincy jumped in. “We were under the assumption it was a romance you were telling us. But he left. That’s not a romance. A romance should end with a happily-ever-after. This is a tragedy, like Romeo and Juliet.”
Lenora did look at Peter then, her eyes wide with the pain of remembrance. And he recalled with stunning clarity the conversation they’d shared at the pools, and how close he’d been to kissing her.
Blessedly the others were too engrossed to notice their tense exchange. “I do apologize, Mr. Nesbitt,” Margery drawled. “I should have warned you.”
“Yes, you should have,” he grumbled.
She laughed. “But does that mean you don’t wish to hear the rest?”
Quincy threw up his hands, leaning against the stone wall. “You may as well tell us. I don’t see how it can get any worse.”
Margery grinned but continued. “Synne remarried soon after and is thought to have had a long and prosperous life, though she never bore another child. Perhaps she wasn’t happy in that life, however. For when she died, she asked that her ashes be brought to these very cliffs, to be spread over the sea so she might find her beloved Ivar in the afterlife.”
“I was wrong,” Quincy muttered. “It got worse.”
Margery shrugged. “Love does not guarantee a happy ending, I’m afraid.”
There was a small sound from Lenora’s direction. It mingled with the lowing of the wind, until they appeared to be one and the same. How Peter kept from looking at her, he would never know.
Suddenly she spoke. “We should get started, Margery. It unsettles me to be out here.”
Strange wording. Peter could see her being nervous. The height, as well as the concentrated wind, had even Quincy looking a bit green.
But no, she had specifically said “unsettled.” Did she feel it, too, the eeriness of the place? As if there would never be happiness here again?
As Quincy and Redburn moved off to the side, conversing quietly, Lenora and Margery bent their heads over their paper. Several minutes passed, the faint sound of pencil scratching parchment breaking through the low sounds of wind and conversation. Eventually Peter realized that only one pencil was moving across the page. A quick look at the women, and he could see he was right on that score. But it was not Margery whose pencil was still. No, it was Lenora.
* * *
Peering down at the pristine paper, Lenora frowned. The simple mechanics of art had always come easily to her, even when she had refused to put her heart in it. Now, however, the image wouldn’t come. By sheer will, she lowered the pencil, scratched out a few hesitant lines. She glanced up at the view, returned her gaze to the beginnings of her drawing, tried adding a bit more.
Blowing out a huff of frustration, she erased the image. She would try again. And this time she would succeed. No matter her determination, however, only disjointed lines came from her pencil. Tearing the sheet free, she crushed it in her hands and tossed it across the stone floor. It bounced along, caught up in the wind, until it was launched over the side of the cliff and fell out of view. But there was no satisfaction in it.
She returned her attention to the paper in her lap and bent her head to try again. And again. Yet no matter how many times she attempted it, the image wouldn’t come. Finally she was out of paper and she sat there, lost.
“Lenora.”
Her name on his lips. She closed her eyes, feeling it flow through her, a tingling that worked its way through her limbs to her very heart. Taking a deep breath, she fought against her longing with everything in her.
But he wasn’t through tormenting her. She felt him lower to his haunches beside her. “Are you well?”
Damn the man for choosing now to be kind. And damn her traitorous heart for clinging so desperately to it, for trying to find hope in it. Things were over between them, and she’d best remember it.
She opened her eyes and looked out over the cliff’s edge. For she knew, if she looked at him, she would be lost. “I’m fine.”
He paused. His breath stirred the wisps of hair that had come loose at her temple. Lenora gripped her pencil tight, feeling the aromatic cedar begin to bend in her grip as she fought against the desire to lean into him and feel his strong arms close about her.
Peter spoke again. “Is there anything I can do?”
Leave me, she wanted to cry out. Leave the Isle, let me heal from this and find peace again! The words clamored at her lips, begging to be released. As long as he remained on Synne, she would never be able to put him behind her.
Desperate, she pressed her lips tight and shook her head. Still he stood there, hovering over her. Pulling her nerves so taut, she thought she might snap in two. Please go away. The thought whispered through her head in an endless litany.
Finally he seemed to sense he was not wanted. He rose and moved to the far side of the grotto. And Lenora thought she would suffocate from the crushing loss that washed over her.
She stood, the remainder of her supplies falling to the stone floor with a clatter. The conversation beside her paused. Margery peered at her, concern darkening her eyes.
For a moment, she feared her friend would ask if she was well. Because she was not. She was the furthest thing from “well” there was.
Instead her friend forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she rose from her own seat. “I’ve had enough for today as well. It’s not the easiest place to sketch, is it, dearest?”
Immediately she set about gathering their supplies with a busy cheerfulness. Lenora let her direct the men, her mind too full of Peter and Ivar and Synne and tragedy and her own broken heart to help. When they were ready to depart, she took a deep breath and turned to join the others. Only to find that Peter was not there. His mount, too, was gone when they emerged. The only indication he had even been there, the distant pounding of his horse’s hooves in the air, and the ache in Lenora’s chest.