Chapter 6

Rhys took a deep, welcome breath of cool air as he stepped out of the butterfly house behind Lenore.

He felt slightly dizzy, and while it would be tempting to blame the oppressive heat inside, he knew the real reason was the outrageously provoking woman in front of him.

His blood was still pounding at the memory of having his head between her thighs. The delicious, perfumed scent of her had filled his nose as her skirts had billowed round him, and it had taken all his willpower to concentrate on lifting her up to get the flag. The temptation to run his hands up the front of her shins, over her knees and then higher, to the soft feminine skin he knew lurked just above her garters, had been almost too much to bear.

His cock had hardened to the point of pain, and as soon as she'd climbed off him, he'd turned away and pretended to admire a swallowtail butterfly while subtly rearranging himself in his breeches.

He'd let her precede him out of the glasshouse.

Lenore had surprised him with her cheeky suggestion. He'd known she had the reputation as someone who put little store in the tedious formalities of social convention, and he was delighted to find she had a naughty, rebellious streak.

He couldn't have planned things better himself. They'd already skipped the traditional, dull first steps of courtship, like exchanging longing glances and holding hands, and progressed straight to more intimate physical contact. And Lenore hadn't seemed to mind it one bit. In fact, she'd been the one to suggest it.

Rhys's heart swelled with hope. Perhaps she might not be so averse to him as he'd thought.

Lenore handed him his jacket, from where it had been dangling from a bush, and he shrugged it back on with a smile of thanks. Her cheeks were a becoming shade of pink, and a few wisps of her coppery-brown hair had sprung free from her upswept hairstyle and curled in the heat. She looked deliciously tousled, and his stomach clenched at the thought of all the other ways he'd like to tousle her even more. He wanted her positively disheveled.

But not yet. He had to know that she was willing. And that she knew his intentions were honorable. He wasn't some cad who would ravish her and then leave her. He wouldn't touch her unless he was certain she understood that it was marriage, not merely seduction, he had planned.

Lenore pointed at the flag he still held in his hand. "Should we take this straight to the aunts, or go after the next flag?"

"Next flag, of course. The sooner we get there, the better chance we'll have of getting it. Which is the next nearest clue?"

"The wishing well. It's that way, through the woods. We can either walk, or go back to the stables and get horses."

"Saddling a horse will take a bit of time. If there's a chance of beating the others to it on foot, then we should go."

"I'm perfectly able to walk. I'm not some idle miss who's never done more than amble around Hyde Park. I can trek for miles." She gave her skirts a dismissive twitch. "I'd do much better in breeches, of course, but never mind. Let's go."

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the mental image of Lenore's delicious curves in a pair of breeches. God, that was something he'd give half his fortune to see.

She was already heading off through the trees, so he started after her, enjoying the seductive sway of her pert bottom as she strode along in front of him.

They walked for a good ten minutes, following a barely-visible path, and Rhys found his senses soothed by the dappled greens of the ancient woodland. Mossy oaks and lichen-covered boulders were bordered by an outrageous number of ferns and flowering plants, and he took a moment to appreciate the joy of being home.

When he'd been in Spain and Portugal, exhausted after a day of fighting or scouting, trying to sleep on some dusty, uncomfortable cot and cursing the dry heat that seemed to suck every drop of moisture from his bones, he'd closed his eyes and dreamed of this place. Of Wales, and Trellech, and this soul-calming green. Of this profound feeling of contentment and rest. Of some unknown woman who was out there, somewhere, waiting for him. A woman he'd yet to meet, but one he knew, deep in his gut, that he would meet, one day.

That wishful yearning had a face now. And a name.

And eyes the same green of this forest. He wanted to drown in them.

"Here we are."

Lenore stopped and Rhys almost bumped into her. He peered over her shoulder and saw a clearing up ahead, with a low circular stone wall in the center.

"The Virtuous Well." Lenore said reverently.

Rhys snorted. "That's the English name for it. We Welsh call it Ffynnon Pen Rhys—Pen Rhys's well."

She gave him a playful nudge in the ribs with her elbow. "Of course you'd prefer that. It's got your name in it."

He puffed his chest out with mock pride. "I'll have you know that Rhys is an ancient Welsh name. One given to princes and kings. Like Rhys ap Gruffud, the ruler of southern Wales in the twelfth century."

He leaned closer, loving the way her eyes widened slightly. "It means ardor or passion."

Her lips parted as she sucked in a breath, and he quashed the almost overwhelming urge to kiss her.

"Passion?" Her lips curved up at the corners and her gaze held his. "Really? How interesting."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she wanted him to demonstrate said passion, but instead he turned his head and broke the sizzling contact between them.

Patience.

"I've never come at it from this direction before," he said easily, brushing past her and into the clearing. "I've always ridden over here from Trellech." He cocked his head and listened. "Doesn't sound as if anyone else is here. We might be the first."

The curved stone wall that protected the well was scarcely knee-high, but Rhys descended the set of shallow steps about six feet down into the earth and stepped into the tiny stone-flagged ‘courtyard', open to the sky. The well itself was housed in a small, arched enclave at one end, surrounded by a lip of flat stones.

"Local tradition has it that if you toss a coin, or some other metal offering, into the water, your wish will come true." Lenore said, following him down.

"Might come true," Rhys corrected. "That's what Carys told me, anyway. She said if the bubbles that form on the object rise quickly, then the wish will be granted with equal speed. If they're slow to rise, the wish will take longer to come true. And if there are no bubbles at all, your wish won't be granted. Nothing's guaranteed."

Lenore thrust her hand into a side slit in her skirts and rummaged around in the pocket beneath. She pulled out a bent hairpin. "Might as well try my luck."

She stepped to his side and tossed it into the waters with a splash, and they both leaned forward to watch it sink to the bottom. The shaft was very deep—fed by an underground system of caves that his older brother Gryff had stumbled upon one day with Maddie, Lenore's cousin—but it was so clear that it was easy to see the rapid stream of bubbles coming off the bent metal as it sank.

Lenore gave a pleased little hum.

"Whatever you wished for, it's going to come true very soon," he said.

She sent him an enigmatic smile. "Oh, I certainly hope so. It's something I've been wanting for almost a year now. I'm getting rather impatient."