She started to walk away, determined to reach the chapel fountain and return to her lands. There, she would have the slender comfort of grieving with her family. Fallon snatched at her sleeve and then gripped her arm. The warrior in her was tempted to heave him face-first onto the ground. She tensed, barely able to suppress the urge to humiliate him.
“Leaving already?” he challenged.
“I don’t want to argue with you, Fallon. Please let me go.”
“Not until I’ve said my piece.”
It tortured her to know she held secrets from him still. He was ready to complain about the least of them. She pressed her eyes with her free hand—he still gripped her arm. The wind rustled the branches again, and one of the magnolia buds broke loose and spun in a circle on its way down to the lawn. It was painful to watch it and think of that long-ago day they’d played so carelessly in that very grove.
“Say your piece, then,” she muttered darkly, and shook her arm free of his hold.
Fallon looked very unstable at that moment. He was too emotional. So was she. It was an ill omen.
“You should have told me,” he said. “My parents kept me in the dark. So did my own sister. But you . . . I thought we could trust one another. I thought you would have shared the truth before it happened. I was there at Guilme, Trynne! I might have prevented it if I’d known!”
“How?” she snapped. “What could you have done that would have helped? My mother had a vision of this long ago. She’s been carrying this grief for years. And so have I. I wasn’t at liberty to tell you, Fallon. It would have broken the king’s trust. It would have broken my father’s.”
His forehead was wrinkled with agitation. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, muttering to himself. “There is some treachery afoot in the kingdom, Trynne. I warned you of it before. The men in silver masks.”
She had to grit her teeth to prevent herself from accusing him of being one. She still had the cloak and mask she had taken from his tent the eve of the battle. How could she fully trust his words? He was scheming and unreliable, cavorting with Morwenna while trying to win Trynne’s trust. Or was he faithful to his sister, to King Drew, to her. He was like a glob of quicksilver, always darting away when poked.
“My father knew of them,” she said passionately, resisting the urge to hit him. “Lord Amrein knows. If you have information that would help, say it! Stop tottering between sides, Fallon.”
“I’m not tottering between sides!” he said, nearly shouting. “I am loyal to the king. To my sister. There is nothing I could be offered that would tempt me to break my allegiance. I want to be useful. I want to prove that I can do more.” His voice throbbed with pent-up disappointment and rancor. He stepped closer to her. “I loved your father. Maybe not as much as you do. But I always respected and admired him. I would wheedle my mother to tell stories of their childhood adventures.” He had a half smile as the memories came. Then he looked pointedly at her. “We grew up together, Trynne. I loved those years in Ploemeur. Walking on the beach of sea glass with you. Finding pies and other delights to share while we rode the lift up the mountain to the castle.”
His voice dropped off suddenly, becoming husky. “I was there the night Dragan hurt you.” He gently pressed his thumb to the edge of her mouth, and she saw tears dance in his eyes. His hand lingered there, his touch so soft and tender. It made her feel dizzy, and she realized he was about to say something, to commit himself in a way that would forever alter their relationship.
“I must go,” she said, her voice shaking.
“You must hear me out,” he insisted.
“I . . . I don’t think—”
He stopped her words with a kiss that startled her. She did not reciprocate it, but she could not help but feel it burn all the way down to her toes.
His fingers had slid into the nest of her short hair, behind her neck. He pulled back, a devious smile on his mouth. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
Part of her wanted to fling herself into his arms—to cry, sob, and kiss him back. She was stunned, off balance.
“You are too reckless,” she said, shaking her head. She brushed her wrist against her mouth, but it could not remove the memory of the kiss that lingered there. Her blood raced, her heart was pounding in her ears, making her almost abandon all reason.
“I am,” he said with a curt laugh. “Too much like my father, I suppose. He stole a kiss from my mother before she left Atabyrion the first time. It was his way of claiming her.” He raised his eyebrows archly.