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It was nice to imagine, for a moment, that Sain could be taken at his word. She could not blame him for the falsehood, not when it was spoken with good intentions behind it, not when he said it with that earnest little crease between his brows, as if he really believed he would always have the luxury of being there.
But life was—well, it was not always kind, and she, Priscilla formerly of Cornwell, now Priscilla of Caerleon, was not the sort of person to allow herself to get foolishly carried away regarding fantasies of the mind, no matter how appealing they dared to be.
Sain was a good person: spirited, in his own way. He always had a smile for everyone. He was exactly the kind of man that young women like Priscilla fell for. He was not a man of means, not enough to support a countess, anyway, but he made up for material wealth with joviality, something often missing—surprisingly so—from the courts of Etruria.
She had never cared much for inconsequential things such as money, but she had grown used to them—fine linens and sometimes silk. Shoes of soft leather with good soles. Broaches and jewelry and other things that kept her looking like the lady she was instead of the street urchin she could have easily been.
And had things been different, had she never been given up for adoption, had she lived her life with her brother Raymond on one side and her brother's dearest friend Lucius on the other, she may have been able to love Sain for everything he was and more. She may have been happy to live with him, to share in what material wealth he did have, to mingle pleasantly with his mother and sisters as if she were their equal or less.
But Priscilla was a countess of Caerleon and Sain was a knight of Caelin. They were separated by rolling hills and peaks and river valleys if one were to look at the physical barriers standing between them. But there was much more to it than that. There were financial barriers, too; though Sain had some rank to his name, lower than most, and he had some property… It was not enough. It would never be enough. Not for Priscilla herself, and not for Count Caerleon. Her adopted father would never agree to a union.
It was surely for the best. Priscilla had known most of her life that she may never be able to marry for love. She wondered, sometimes, if she wanted to marry at all. It seemed such a hassle, whether for love or convenience or security or acquisition of property.
The situation was sad nonetheless. Sain did love her. Perhaps not much as he was able, not yet. He did not know her: she drew the line at that, at allowing him to think that he knew her innermost thoughts and desires.
When she had said, sitting with him in front of the campfire after most of the others had retired for the night, "Sain, things may not always be as they are now," he had cocked his head to the side and said,
"Whatever do you mean?"
And that was when she said, "You and I. Together, in this way."
The crease in his brow appeared, then, the smile following after it like a stumbling little lamb. "I'm right here, my dear. I'll not be going anywhere."
She wanted to say that he was wrong, wanted to tell him that the closeness he felt for her was an illusion, that their love was a farce and that it would eventually end, as such things often do.
But then he took her hand. He was not so bold as to kiss it.
He simply held it between both of his. His smile wavered just a little, and she felt a pull in her chest that made her nearly wish for death. How selfish was she, to want to throw all of this away—his kindness, his loyalty, his love, however misdirected it was—for the luxury of her home in Caerleon?
"Will you make a promise of it?" she asked him, knowing that what was between them was as fleeting as a sunshower.
To Priscilla's surprise, Sain shifted uncomfortably. "I would like nothing more," he admitted, "but I—I fear that saying such a thing may be foolish of me, this evening."
She dipped her head in understanding, though his hesitation left her feeling queer. "Well then," she said at long last, "will you stay here with me for now? For five or ten more minutes?"
The smile was back on his face, strong and sure. "Of course," was his reply. "Of course. I will remain with you as long as you wish it to be so."
She wondered if he knew—if he understood her attachment to him was a temporary one, born of affection for his mannerisms and of their circumstance. Had they met in Caerleon, surely she would feel nothing for him; she would see him only as a man in service to Lady Lyndis of Caelin. She would never know his expressions, his temper; she would not have cared to imagine the softness of his hair or the warmth of his skin.
War, however limited in scope it was, had changed her a little. It was fine for now, to care about him in this way. Who in Caerleon would ever know that Countess Priscilla dared to let a nobody-knight hold her hand?
"Thank you, Sain," she whispered.
He hummed a sound of acknowledgement to her words, but Priscilla hardly heard it; all she could think of was the fact that soon…things would change again. She would return to Caerleon a lady, wearing the latest fashions; she would speak of politics and the economy and she would help her adopted mother run the vast estates that operated under the count's watchful eye.
And Sain—well, he would not go with her. Count Caerleon was a lovely man, kind and charismatic…but he would not approve. So Sain would return to Caelin to serve Lady Lyndis and her children for the rest of his life. Hopefully he would not think of her too often, and she…
She would put him out of her mind when the time came.
And not, she decided when she turned her head and caught Sain smiling at her, a moment before.