It could have been water in his goblet, but it was not. Everyone knew it. Jehan's hands gripped the goblet in his hands, tilting his head back towards the edge of his armchair as he took a long swig of the dark substance that affected him. He sighed as the walls began changing figure in the blink of an eye. His mouth was sore from the amount of alcohol that he poured down his throat. He cleared his throat as he groggily rose to his feet, staggering towards the fireplace. A noise behind him startled him, causing him to let out an involuntary shout of panic.
"Who are you?" he croaked out hoarsely to the woman standing in front of him, just silently watching him, to which he received no answer. The brunette woman was frozen in place, only the movement of her almost transparent hair gave away that it was not some elaborate prank set up by one of his members of staff.
She stared at Jehan with wide eyes, her face passive and slack. After a moment of indecision, Jehan took a half step backward and turned to retreat, but he could only stare in horror as the woman seemed to float right through his doorway, slamming it shut on her way out. The clock in his study ceased to tick.
There was no sound from the outside world, not a bird or the boisterous laughter of the guards outside. Then the air was rent with a scream so piercing he collapsed back into his chair, his hands clamped over his ears…not that it made any difference. The air became cold and his body heat quickly deserted his blood for the frigid atmosphere. An awareness crept over the young lord that he was no longer in contact with the ground, he was spinning. Once he opened his eyes, the room was no longer there, instead there was only the beautiful brunette woman's face and her open mouth that had become magnified, almost grotesque.
In utter fear and paralysis, Jehan Frollo was drawn to it. "You. I know you," he hissed through clenched teeth, his anger surfacing from a place of fear. "You're that—that thing's mother! Florika! Is it really you, after all this time? It can't be!" he shouted, wildly looking around for something, anything that he could as a weapon to defend himself. "What do you want with me?" he retorted, doing his best not to show this creature from hell his fear. Showing fear was a sign of weakness.
You, she seemed to say, and didn't give him a chance to say anything further before she vanished into thin air, as if she had never intruded upon his study in the first place.
A light knock on the door sounded almost immediately following the woman's departure, for which he was grateful. Scurrying to his feet, he wrenched the door open, only to find himself face-to-face with Roul. He coughed once to mask his racing heart and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it.
"Sir?" questioned Roul, a look of concern in his eyes. "I came to check on you after…I heard shouting, is everything all right?"
"Who's on guard duty tonight?" he demanded angrily, grabbing Roul by the scruff of his shirt collar and shaking it. "Someone—the insolent fools—let a woman slip past the gates without escort!" he bellowed, taking notice of how the sentry's face paled in shock. "WHO WAS IT?" he bellowed. "She was right there, you see? Look! YOU SEE?" Jehan shouted, pointing with a trembling finger to where the woman had stood in front of his fireplace only moments before. "I….no," he whispered. "But how? That cannot be, she—she was here, just now! I saw it!"
"S—sir?" stammered Roul, looking utterly confused.
"Never mind. Everything is fine, Roul," he managed, averting the sentry's quizzical gaze. "Send for the girl. Tell her I'm ready for her. Get out, you idiot," he growled.
Jehan did not miss Roul shooting him a questionable glare as he obeyed, lingering with one hand on the door frame as if to steady himself. He looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but closed his mouth and thought better of it, for which Jehan was grateful. Once Roul had gone, Jehan slumped back into his armchair, staring into the fire's depths as though nothing else mattered. "What the hell are you?" he hissed.
Though he could not see her, he could hear her. Your doom.
A heavy silence settled over the study, thicker than the uneasy tension in the atmosphere. Ingrid swallowed heavily and hoped the young lord didn't sense her nervousness. A surge of desperation and despair soared through her heart, and she made a mental to give Roul a thorough talking-to if she got out of this dinner unharmed. Ingrid shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she nervously tried to avoid Jehan Frollo's quizzical gaze as he stared at his new hearth keep over the rim of his goblet.
Ingrid would never openly admit her fear. She could be at a level that would induce paralysis in others, with her temper the way it was at times, and yet, she would still carry on as if nothing was wrong. Not a man in a thousand could spot her tension, not even Jehan at the other end of the table. She was to be the swan, swimming over the lake calmly, even if a great monster is coming her way with its mouth. In her case, her great monster was the young lord of the Frollo estate. Still, she forced herself to smile and never quickened her pace as she merely listlessly picked at her food. "Never let the enemy know they have you on the run and sometimes run when it isn't necessary. Keep them guessing, Ingrid." Her Uncle Marcus's words of wisdom rang in her ears and she clung to them.
As the handsome lord continued to stare at her in silence, poor Ingrid could feel the cage closing in, sealing off any viable exit. She dreamed last night of sitting in Notre Dame as a masked man painted over every window until ever last one of them was black. She awoke before the dawn into blackness and her heart almost exploded for fear it was true. If every door remained closed, every window concealed, she could not complete the mission that was her purpose. Find out what happen to Lord Geoffroi's will.
She'd learned from Roul that Lord Geoffroi, upon his passing, had left most of his inheritance to the young Barreau woman, a fact which displeased Jehan greatly.
The fear was a weight on her ribs and a dull ache in her hazel eyes, unwillingness for her mouth to lift past neutral. She could double down on her efforts for a victory or sit back and fall prey to Jehan's affections—sheep or line—her choice, her path. Ingrid flinched as the man lifted his golden cup and drank deeply, slamming the goblet down on the table. "More," he commanded, his baritone voice dangerously quiet and soft. The hearth keep obliged, rising steadily from her seat and moved towards the far end of the table, the flagon of wine in her hand.
"Enough, set it down," he ordered, his voice like steel. "You're the youngest Damas girl in the family, is that correct?"
Ingrid blinked, not expecting the question. "Y—yes, sir."
"You are unmarried, I take it, girl?" he asked solemnly. His mouth was a thin straight line, the brief momentary sparkle of kindness in his eyes extinguished. Ingrid opened her mouth to speak, but didn't get a chance. "There's no need to speak," he snapped. "Don't speak, don't look me in the eye. Don't even say 'no' to what I want or even hesitate. As long as you are under my employment, you will do what I say without question. When you stepped foot into my estate, you became mine to do with as I wish until I tell you to get out. Please me, and good things will happen for you. Disappoint me and bad things will happen. I hope you understand me. I'm sure you'd like to stay pretty, wouldn't you?" he snapped coldly.
The hearth keep was speechless, but she could feel the anger swelling deep within the pit of her stomach to dangerous levels.
Jehan noticed her tense form and snorted. "You are a Damas, woman. Your disgraced father is clearly in no position to arrange a match for you; girl, or you wouldn't be here working for me now, would you? No. Therefore it falls upon me as your employer to find you a suitable suitor." He took a moment of Ingrid's stunned silence to study her face. "You do have a pretty face, good figure, I will give you that much. But who to pair you with? Certainly not my sentry," he chuckled darkly. "The man is not good enough for you. He would never be able to provide for you. You aren't my type, I'm afraid, or I would consider myself a match for you. Ah, I know, I could pair you with my Head of House, the old man's been rather lonely since his wife passed. What's with that look, sweetheart? You know it's true. Let's see how proud you are then. Just because you are not my usual type doesn't mean I can't sample the goods before I pass you off to poor old Victor now, does it?" he teased cruelly.
White knuckles from clenching her fist too hard, and gritted teeth from her efforts to remain silent, her straight, rigid posture exuded an animosity that was like acid—burning, slicing, potent. Ingrid's face was stark white with suppressed rage, and when he dared to stand and set a single finger on her shoulder, she bolted from her chair, overturning it and mentally snapped. "No," she hissed, her jaw clenching and her shoulders stiffening as he moved his head back to meet her eyes. "You will not touch me, Frollo."
"You're just a girl of rough street rat from the slums, girl. There is no prince charming for you. Welcome to your life, girl, lonely regrets, opening your legs for any man who comes your way, it's what you're made for, Damas," he snapped angrily, his face red.
"You're wrong. I won't marry Victor," she growled. "He's old."
"Old?" he asked, sounding surprised, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he poured himself another cup of wine.
"Old," she repeated defiantly, jutting her chin out at the young lord, and daring to meet his piercing dark eyes. She did not know where her boldness was coming from, but the words were out before she could stop herself. "I'll spare you the details, Your Honor, but old Victor probably can't even get it hard these days. He wouldn't be able to perform. You should know, Your Grace. You're something of an expert on the subject, aren't you? That's why the Barreau woman rejected you, isn't it? You're getting old!"
Jehan Frollo drew back his hand and slapped her across the cheek, the sound seeming to linger in the study. Ingrid's cheek burned where his hand had made contact with her skin, but regardless, her wrathful gaze never wavered from him once.
The dark-haired lord leaned in to her face close enough to kiss her. "You dare reject me, Ingrid Damas? Woman, your tongue must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends," he snarled. "I should have it cut out for daring to speak to me the way you did," he said, his voice suddenly calm.
Ingrid froze, not daring to make another retort. She closed her eyes and silently cursed herself and her temper, courtesy of spending many years around Marcus and Sophia.
Jehan turned away from his new young hearth keep, lovingly fingering a silver dagger in his hands, feeling its weight and shifting it in his palms. "Still," he mused, almost sounding thoughtful. "It's been a long time since a woman has dared to speak to me in the manner you just did," he replied, feeling his voice go dangerously soft and quiet. He turned back to Ingrid, who was panting heavily. She tossed her wavy brown hair over her shoulders, the trademark of the Damas women that they were angry with you. He chuckled. "You're looking a bit peaky, wench, what's the matter?"
Ingrid scowled, her lips pursed into a thin line. "Begging pardon, Your Grace, but it must the current company I remain in."
Jehan laughed, surprised by the young hearth keep's wit. "Do you attend church? My brother was something of a religious man. I am curious." he claimed, truly curious now. The young hearth keep had a fiery spirit, and she was pretty enough.
Ingrid hesitated. "No, Your Honor," she confessed, thinking it would not do her situation any good to lie. "Not recently."
"You ought," he scolded, going over to sit by the fireplace and staring into its depths as though he could not hear her voice. "God is Love and Love is God. He is my compass, my companion since Father and now Claude's death, and serenity. I hold onto what I know of Him and He hears our prayers and is with us in our struggles, but He can only act through the willing heart."
"Personally, Your Grace, I don't object to the concept of a deity but I'm baffled by the notion of one who takes attendance," growled Ingrid darkly, reaching for a goblet and downing the remainder of her red merlot. It must be the wine that had her feeling so bold.
"God is all around us," said Jehan, regarding young Ingrid in a new light, as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time. "Don't you want Heaven on Earth? Don't you want Him to guide and work through you too? He has so many ways to speak in poetry and song, but I can keep you grounded, my child, while you try out your new wings," he said, his breathing growing more rapidly the longer he dwelled on this topic. "Stick close to me, and soon you'll be on the right path to salvation, Ingrid Damas. I want to help you. I still believe your soul can be saved."
Ingrid was about to open her mouth to speak, but didn't get a chance to as Jehan once again interrupted her. She sighed. "It is getting late," Jehan said softly, and she could detect no hint of malice or deceit in his voice. "I have kept you up late. Will you come back tomorrow?" he asked, his voice calm.
Ingrid froze on her way out the door, silently fuming in her anger and nausea. She fought back the urge to be sick. But she said the only thing she could. The only right answer. "Yes, m'lord," she whispered, her voice cracking. She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears misting in the corners of her eyes. If this was the only way to obtain information on the whereabouts of Lord Geoffroi's will, then she would do it. She had to be strong. For her parents. And for Roul. He expected it of her and would be disappointed with her if she didn't go through with this. Her parents were counting on her.
"There, you see, there's that look. You're starting to fade out, already. You're getting better at it," he complimented sincerely.
Ingrid didn't know what to say to that. She dipped her head in acknowledgment, letting her hair fall in front of her face like a curtain; grateful it shielded her panicked look. "Goodnight, m'lord," she murmured, wrenching open the door and lifting the skirts of her dress and fled down the corridor, not even acknowledging Roul, shooting him a dirty look as she passed. If getting close to Jehan was the only way home and the only way to save her parents from financial ruin, then she would do it. Ingrid considered living in the Frollo estate Hell's Gate itself. As she stormed down the deserted corridor and instead of turning left to go towards her quarters, she turned right and headed for the castle's grounds. Perhaps a walk would do her some good. Fresh air, a fresh perspective. As she stepped outside, the cold December air pained her lungs that made her draw in a sharp gasp. When she let it out, she could see the visible puff of breath in front of her. As soon as she was outside, she let her anger at herself rise to the surface.
This was where she got to pay for her mistakes, her sins, and for that, she was glad. She would let herself sink deeper into this hell, to feel the pain she must have inflicted on others in her lifetime. But if doing this for Roul meant atonement, then so be it. For him, she would endure this hell if it meant her freedom.
Jehan sat ruminating in his armchair over his conversation with the young hearth keep. Ingrid was every bit a Damas, from her natural beauty to her fiery spirit and temper. All her untapped potential. Young women like her usually weren't his type, but…He had been all logic and feigned cool detachment until he had touched her skin. Her shoulder, his fingers drifting towards her prominent collarbones. Then something familiar not only stirred in him, but it took over his thinking until he could think of nothing but the Damas girl. The rest of his world became an unimportant blur that was banished into the far recesses of his mind. The only thing that mattered was touching her more. To kiss her mouth, her stomach, her breasts. The girl would be his. There was so much to Ingrid's silence, so much she just wouldn't say in his company. He had seen by her expression there was a lot ruminating in her head, but when he asked, she refused to answer. Jehan had to give the wench credit; she was smoother than silk. He smirked, as he knew the girl had scars, but where they were on her, he would find her marks. Oh, yes.
His lustful thoughts began to torment his mind, arousing him until he could no longer take it. It wasn't long before he felt himself shiver and tighten in sexual delight. These types of thoughts had for the most part lain dormant in his life, at least until Madellaine came of age, and she made it so incredibly difficult, the wench. But no matter. He would take care of that one soon enough. Once, he might have been able to help her, perhaps even love her, but she had made her choice. But this girl, this new Damas girl, she wasn't quite like the temptress, his sister, and he knew he could get her to go to him willingly. Regaining his breath after such a lewd act, he grimaced, thinking of the whip in his armoire patiently waiting to reprimand the man for such lecherous activity. Jehan sneered in anger and stormed through his study to the adjacent door that led to his private chambers. He'd pay for his sins another time. For now, sleep beckoned to him and he quickly fell asleep, dreaming of the hearth girl's eyes…
Her eyes were a brilliant hazel. When she was jovial they were warm, lively, and sparkled with mirth. When she was downcast they seemed to grow dim and dark. The smooth green on the edge contrasted beautifully with the amber color in the middle, capturing the attentions of any man who gazed at her. Including him.
Along one of the hallways that led to the kitchens, Marcus was doing his rounds of the estate after a brief tryst with Helen in the library when he could hear faint moans coming from Frollo's room. He paused, a look of disgust mixed with sadness on his weathered face, his brow quirked towards the door. It was no secret among the rest of the staff that the young lord, just as his brother had done once, practiced self-flagellation. The knight's curiosity getting the better of him, he crept closer to the door. The fact that the young master of the estate was sounding...pleased, as if he were enjoying it, greatly disturbed Marcus.
It only dawned on Marcus when he heard the man speak his niece's name through the locked door. His eyes widened in shock and brief anger as he bit his lip hard enough that he drew blood. He heard Jehan murmur his niece's name through the closed door and he was of half a mind to break down the door and beat the young lord within an inch of his life.
Stifling the worst of his anger and his desire to break out into laughter, he sauntered off quickly towards the lounge where the other servants often conversed during their breaks. He noticed with some amusement Roul was sitting cross-legged on the settle, his back resting against the hard wood. Every once in a while, he would glance out the window, a strange look of longing on his face. He'd taken a bad habit of unsheathing his knife and was repeatedly plunging it into the wooden settle, leaving marks.
The sentry glanced up at Marcus, frowning slightly. "What's wrong with you?" he challenged hotly. "Why are you so…disheveled, Marcus?" he asked, narrowing his eyes and taking in the knight's flushed appearance and tousled hair.
"There was an…incident in the library, I'm afraid. Some rather…intimidating books in the library, young master Roul," he said jovially, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "Never you mind, it's been taken care of." He paused, glancing around the room. "Where's my niece?" he asked suddenly. "I thought for certain she'd be with you, although judging by what I just overheard in Jehan's chambers, I'd stay away from that man the next few nights," he laughed, unable to contain his laughter any longer. "Lest you want to hear something inappropriate for your delicate ears, Roul," he snorted, rolling his eyes at the wide-eyed look of horror in the sentry's eyes.
"I don't appreciate your tone, Ser Marcus. Mind yourself. What the hell happened, Marcus?" demanded Roul, suddenly growing angry. He jumped to his feet and grabbed Marcus by the scruff of his collar and shook it slightly. "What did you hear?" When Marcus didn't immediately answer, he lost it. "TELL ME!" he roared, his powerful voice reverberating.
"The maître of the castle has…developed an unhealthy fixation on my niece. When I passed by his quarters, well, let's just say he was really getting off in there. Wonderful work, Roul. You've fucked up, boy. You've failed to keep my niece from the likes of Jehan, and now she's right in his crosshairs. What are you going to do to fix it?" he growled darkly, recognizing defeat. There was no keeping this from Roul. No doubt he would find out soon enough. The knight watched as Roul's face went ashen and clammy.
"Oh, God," he moaned, jerking away from Marcus's touch. He breathed deep, collapsing into a nearby chair and looked like he was fighting back the urge to be sick. "What—what do I do?"
Marcus scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I would have thought that would be obvious," his hissed. "You know, for a man of the world, you're strangely naïve, Roul. I thought I knew you."
"Ingrid is the most intelligible person in this entire estate. She is a respectable woman, not a chance in hell would she allow herself to be used like that in such a despicable way," said Roul, looking like he was on the verge of having a mental breakdown.
"If she isn't careful, she's about to become the Judge's newest plaything," sighed Marcus, no warmth in his tone. "Unless…"
"Unless what?" snapped Roul, swallowing the bile that crept up into his throat at the thought of harm coming to young Ingrid.
Marcus resisted the urge to slap the sentry upside his head. "Are you really that blind? Are you another idiot? No, no, you're not, are you, Roul? You're just a bit thick in the skull, boy."
Roul's green eyes flashed angrily but he bit back his retort. Fuming silently in his anger, he said not a word as he stormed off, his footsteps echoing down the deserted corridor.
Ser Marcus sighed in exasperation and took the seat on the settle where Roul had been sitting. He knew that look in the sentry's eyes all too well. He liked the man well enough, and should things progress in their favor with finding old Lord Geoffroi's will, he would see his niece married to Roul before the year was out, assuming that he had his way, of course. "I always do," he chuckled, picking up the habit that Roul had started, absentmindedly holding his own dagger in his hands and continuing the practice of repeatedly plunging the knife into the wood of the bench, making his own marks on the surface.
"I only want you to be happy, Ingrid," he whispered. "Find your happiness with Roul if he truly makes you happy. Be free."
It didn't take long for the sentry to find Ingrid. She was sitting on one of the stone benches in the flower gardens, a creation of Lady Elaine's when she'd still been alive. The gardens even in winter smelled of jasmine and lavender somehow. Intoxicating. "So are you," he whispered, his voice low so she wouldn't hear.
Ingrid turned her head slightly, her light brown hair concealing most of her face, but when she tossed it back over her shoulder and glared up at him, he couldn't fight the soft smile that formed. God, she was so beautiful. The red and gold dress with the brass dragon embellishments on the bodice brought attention to her slender figure. She was looking at him with a new fire in her eyes. If Aries were a woman, it would be Ingrid. Aries, meet Aries—not sheep—but hearts of flame, of passion unending. Ingrid was the soul that played as he did, fought like he did, held on with determination like Roul did. How he longed to feel the sparks in his fingertips just to touch, knowing that their love would be legendary every time, that just one of her kisses would be more addictive than any fine wine known to man. If they were fortunate enough to spend a night in love's embrace, the two of them would become angels of perfect flame, separate and one. As he gazed at the beautiful hearth keep, his insecurity came back for another bite. He gingerly took a seat on the cold stone bench next to her and without waiting for permission, reached over and held her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Is everything okay, Ingrid?" he asked quietly. "Tell me."
He watched as Ingrid turned her face slightly with that serious look that still had her trademark warm eyes. "I am now," she sighed, sounding exhausted. "As long as…" she hesitated, turning away from him, her voice pained.
"Tell me," he urged again, not unkindly. He wasn't aware he was holding his breath until he let it out. "Did Jehan…did he…?"
She turned back and regarded him in silence for a moment. Ingrid sensed what he was thinking and shook her head. "No, he didn't touch me in that way. I'd kill myself if he did, Roul, I wouldn't be able to live with myself after that," she hissed angrily through clenched teeth. "But I—I don't know if I have strength enough for this alone," she confessed, absentmindedly picking at the cuticles of her nails to avoid looking Roul in the eyes. "But…if you're by my side, Roul, if you will have me, then I—the rest of the world can go screw themselves," she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in a kind smile as she let the smallest bit of Sophia's personality that she did happen to possess slip out.
Roul looked startled at her choice of words, but he smiled. That was just what the distraught sentry had needed to hear, that she was his for now and into the future…that there will be a future…one that he could survive as long as he could be with her. Roul linked his fingers into Ingrid's hand and shot her a look that was pure love. Just the right hint of softness, a crease at the corners of his eyes. Even without telling a soul, it was common knowledge to the rest of the servants in the castle that Roul and Ingrid were destined for each other. It was in the way their gazes lingered on one another, the way their voices became softer and in the shy grins they'd never worn before. In casual conversation, they stood that little bit closer than folks usually do, their body language so open and relaxed, natural.
Unexpectedly, his hand drifted to her waist. It settled there and he pulled her closer on the bench. She inhaled sharply, hardly daring to breathe. Ingrid was against his warm chest, a comfort in the December frigid cold, practically chiseled to perfection. She'd neglected to grab a cloak in her haste to escape from the young lord's chambers. Ingrid tried to will herself to pull away, but she couldn't. What they were doing was wrong, so very wrong, Roul was her employer, she his worker, she couldn't.
Roul cupped her cheek that was slowly turning white. He smiled at her before slowly leaning into her, closing the gap between them. His other hand was shaking slightly, his mind screaming at him not to do this or he'd regret it. But the sound of his heart was beating so loudly, he couldn't concentrate.
It felt like it was going to explode. Finally his lips touched hers. Sparks flew in every direction, and the gardens around them were slowly disappearing, along with all of their worries, troubles, and anxieties. Ingrid made him feel like none of that mattered. He never knew a kiss so innocent could be so intimate and passionate. Her lips were moving in perfect sync, his hands feeling her waist. One drifted upwards and clasped the back of her bodice for support before finding purchase in her brown tresses, loving the softness of her hair and the scent of lavender flooded his nostrils. The sentry pulled the hearth keep closer, catching her face in his hands and kissing her again, the kiss deeper, more passionate. He felt her hands on the back of his neck play with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on his face as it started to tickle. At last, he broke apart and pulled back to study her face. Her face was pale and devoid of color, her light brown hair tousled by the winter chill, cascading in waves and curls to her shoulders. Roul knew as he looked at Ingrid, he did not regret meeting the girl in the tavern all those months ago. He knew she might be his first, the first woman he ever really, truly loved, but what he really wished in life was for her to be his last.
Ingrid, when she looked into the sentry's eyes, saw only love, and her heart swelled with so much affection she thought that it might burst. She would not allow Jehan Frollo to tell her whom she could and could not love, employer or not, she wasn't going to listen to him. He would not put limits on what is or was not appropriate. Love did not know geographical or religious boundaries, it could not be confined. She could love any person she chose of any age and background, and Ingrid chose Roul. Love flew on indestructible wings and she was blessed to feel it coursing through her veins and in her blood. They loved each other, and that was all they really needed.
Roul pulled Ingrid closer so she was practically sitting astride his lap. The frigid cold from the night air didn't bother them; they basked in the warmth each other gave off. He captured her lips hungrily and as she shifted against his growing hardness he groaned, barely able to control himself as she buried her face in the crook of his neck as he left a trail of gentle, delicate kisses along her neck, before pulling back to kiss her again gently. Dear God, her very smell was flooding his senses, almost like an intoxicating perfume. He moaned as her body practically crushed his. He felt his hands move of their own accord, feeling each crevasse and curve of her body. His hands drifted beneath the skirts of her red gown and trailed up her legs and stroked her once deftly between her legs. She cried out only once, and to his surprise, Ingrid broke apart from his kiss, shoving herself off of him first. Her cheeks were pink, and flushed with color and she looked distraught. Her light brown hair tousled and moved with the winter's breeze.
"I—I'm sorry," she apologized, panting heavily and dropping into a deep curtsy. "Forgive me, Roul, I—I don't know what came over me. I—I'm sorry, but I—I have to go," she stammered, and before Roul could protest, she quit the gardens without another word, leaving the sentry speechless, confused as to what had just happened, not to mention hurt…and aroused.
Author's Note: I meant to type this earlier, but I didn't think of it until I wrote this chapter. Though this story is primarily Quasi and Madellaine's, I'm really loving Roul and Ingrid as a couple, and I have plenty more things in store for my favorite sentry and hearth keep. Not quite sure where I want to take them just yet, but I have a few ideas.