The Warlock's Daughter Read Online Free Page A

he so desperately needed.
    Bending in haste, he reached for the shards of porcelain. His cape slid forward, covering his hands for fleeting seconds before he threw the heavy cloth back out of the way.
    Straightening, he summoned his most profound bow as he presented the vase, whole once more, to the lady. “Forgive my clumsiness,” he said softly, “but at least some things are not easily demolished.” He waited expectantly for her response to his double apology, double meaning.
    “But I thought—” Veiling her gaze with her lashes, she took the unblemished porcelain, turning it in her hands as if searching for cracks. He saw the tremor in her fingers, saw the way she stilled it by pressing against the vase's sides until her fingertips were the same glassy white.
    She lifted her gaze, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth to speak.
    “Yes?” Renfrey said when she made no sound.
    Her lips clamped shut and she closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Never mind,” she said. “I don't know why I'm lingering here, can't imagine what possessed me to bandy words with you. There is no purpose in it, can never be any.”
    Swinging from him in a silken whirl of skirts, she moved swiftly off through the tombs. He watched with appreciation. She might leave him, but she would never escape him, not now.
    His smile was rueful, but he erased any trace of amusement from his voice before he called after her, “Running away?”
    “It's far better,” she said over her shoulder, “than becoming an unintentional murderess.”
    Swift, mocking, he pressed his offensive. “What would it take to make it intentional?”
    She halted, turned slowly. “You want to die?”
    “There are worse ways than from an excess of love.” The words were low and carrying. He meant them.
    “No doubt,” she answered, her gaze stark. “But what of the one left to live with the guilt and sorrow?” Putting her head down, she swung once more and moved quickly to the gate. She slipped through it and started down the street.
    Renfrey followed her with his gaze while he breathed slowly in and out against the pain inside him. It was her pain, readily assumed, deeply felt, in the instant when she had allowed him to see it. He had that gift, at least.
    He had also seen days and nights set apart. He knew, because he had assimilated her desolation. He saw her future with no one and nothing to love because human beings were too fragile, too mortal.
    She faced it with such courage, was so unwilling to inflict the consequences of her wayward passions on someone else. She made him ashamed. She made him ache somewhere deep inside where nothing and no one had ever touched.
    He wanted her as he had never wanted anything in all the long, eventful days of his life. Regardless of the consequences. Or possibly because of them.
    And yet, he was not without his own loneliness, or his own expectations. He required something more than merely to become the answer to another person's need.
    Love, freely given, was essential. He needed to be wanted for himself alone, not for what he could withstand or perhaps give, especially not for who and what he was by an accident of birth.
    Obtaining what he needed might be something more of a challenge than stealing a kiss. Giving what she required could tax his strength to the limit.
    She was magnificent. It had been underhanded to provoke her to such a display of temper, still he would not have missed it. There had been a practical purpose; he had wanted to see what forces she could rally against him, what methods she would descend to using in order to prove a point or gain a victory.
    Magnificent, but a lady even then. Yes, it would be a challenge, but one worth winning.
    He glanced at the fire. It flared high and hot, but he gave a single negligent nod and it settled into sizzling black ash. He shot the cuffs of his shirt, settled his cape, and returned his clothing to dry perfection again. Retrieving