Page 11 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

“This is your favorite? I don’t know why, but you didn’t strike me as a rose kind of girl.” The garden was beautiful. They didn’t have anything like it in Edam. As the northernmost kingdom on the continent, it was too cold most of the year for the flowers to grow properly.

“You don’t know me well enough to know what kind of girl I would be. But no, this one isn’t my favorite. You said I get to pick where we went, so here we are.”

While moving around the garden to take in the delicate flowers, Owain watched as Orla made her way around the flowers. She stopped frequently, touching the various roses and running her fingers gently along the petals. Turning her back on him, she ran her fingers through the loose soil at the base of one of the deep red rose bushes. She seemed to relish in the feel of the soil. Owain had never seen anyone look so content to be running their hands through a pile of dirt. It was strange.

She looked more relaxed here than she had in the palace. In the palace, she was breathing heavily and picking at her cuticles. Here, among the flowers, her shoulders were no longer up to her ears. He watched her as she looked at the roses, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, revealing the elegant slope of her neck. Her dark brown skin reflected the golden hue of the sun. Something prickled along his neck as he watched her eyes close as she inhaled the scent of the roses. She looked peaceful.

The thought made him immediately suspicious. Here was a bloodthirsty warrior who had killed thousands. Likely, she was trying to get him comfortable so he let his guard down. It would be unsurprising if King Mikki’s actual goal had been to kill King Vernon’s last living heir.

Well, two could play that game. Owain would have to ensure he got what he needed from her before King Mikki showed his cards, or worse, forced Owain to show his.

He had to get information from her. Edam’s battalions had been decimated during the war. It was why they hadn’t attacked again in the ensuing years. As their prized warrior, she would know about if their king’s army suffered similar losses. No sense waging another war only to find they were outnumbered, again.

“You garden?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied simply, looking at a particularly pink rose with petals larger than the rest.

“Gardening seems an odd pastime for a warrior.”

She stiffened at his words; he had clearly hit some kind of nerve. Her hands had been relaxed at her side but now they were clasped behind her back. Her shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, were now tense.

“No odder a pastime than playing at being a lord,” she said in a cutting remark.

“What do you mean playing at?” He said defensively as his cocky smirk fell.

She hadn’t seemed to remember him, but maybe she had heard of the bastard born to King Vernon. No one in Edam took him seriously. Most didn’t want him to be their heir, didn’t view him as worthy. Had she seen what they saw, a bastard playing at the games of nobles?

“You’re clearly a warrior, at least by trade. For one, you’re wearing leather armor, you have a broadsword strapped to your back, and the manners of someone who grew up in the barracks, not in the halls of a palace.” She looked him up and down as she read him like a book. He felt laid bare and he didn’t like it. “Nobles don’t even call you prince. So while you may be the king’s son, you clearly weren’t bred for this role.”

Her caustic words cut him like a knife. She might as well have ran him through with his sword for the way her words made him feel. She wasn’t wrong; Owain hadn’t been bred to be the heir.

Until he was five, his father hadn’t even recognized him as his son. But her words weren’t the only thing that shocked him; he was used to court mutterings about his background. Used to the way people looked at him like he was less than, but she hadn’t said the words with that same malice. No, she just spoke them as if they were a matter of fact.

Simply true.

He was used to the backhanded way that other Elves spoke about him, full of venom, disguised as pretty words. He had never had someone speak to him in such a direct way, no pretense, no bullshit, only truth. It still hurt like a bitch though.

“Tell me, are you always this impolite? I would have thought the Hero of Fontina would have better manners.”

More proof that the rumors were true. She was the self-important person others made her out to be.

“That’s rich coming from a male who called me vile mere hours ago. I don’t owe you politeness, Owain, and I already told you to stop calling me that.” She turned away from him, walking back towards the entrance of the gardens.

In a tense silence, she walked him around the stables, only breaking it to greet the stable hands that came up to thank her for her service. Orla would flinch ever so slightly whenever someone would come up to thank her or talk about her impressive deeds. He wondered why.

True to her word, Orla dropped him back off at his rooms in time for supper to be delivered by the butler. Owain was joined by Chrys, Lord Patrin, and the other lords who had made the journey: Lord Allium and Lord Calix. All the men were close advisors to Owain’s father. And all of them loathed Owain. Lord Calix and Lord Patrin held him in particularly low esteem.

The men talked at length about their plans. Owain’s objective was to get close to Orla and gain information about the current might of Emmental’s army and any weaknesses that could be exploited. When the time came, Chrys would be tasked with using his ability as a changeling to kill King Mikki while donning the appearance of Orla. The other lords would spend the time at the palace garnering support for the upcoming coup.

Owain listened to their plans on ways and means, but his mind was still in the gardens with Orla, fixating on the act she put on. As if a talented warrior was that enthralled by a few flowers. More than anything, he ruminated on the way she read him. It was strange for him to feel seen like that; she looked at him as if he were as transparent as glass.

It took hours for the lords to feel confident in their plan for the next several moons, and it was well past two in the morning when they all left. After the meeting with the lords, Owain found himself looking out of the balcony at the palace gardens. These were different gardens than the ones Orla had taken him to this afternoon. Less planned and more wild.

These gardens reminded him of springtime in the magic lands when he was a boy. The pale silver glow of the moon evoked memories of spending time with his mother in her homeland, eating berries by the river under the moonlight, laughing at the silly things his mother would do or say, and lying in fields of tall grasses as he watched the sunrise. The scent of wildflowers enveloped him as he was transported back to those days of his childhood, and the last times he truly felt a sense of peace.

As he looked, he was surprised to see in the center of the garden, sitting on a bench with her knees tucked under her chin, was Orla.

Chapter Seven