SCARLET PARTING
1
The days after the girl first pulled him in seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.
“You seem something of a sad excuse for a man.”
“Wh-what?!”
A baroness, a local noble he’d known for a long time, had insisted that Jorah consider a marriage with her granddaughter.
Jorah Pendleton, approaching his fiftieth birthday, had imagined marriage to be an affair that had little to do with him, a world he would never occupy. As nobility, he felt the obligation to continue his family name, of course, but to that end, he’d been seriously considering adopting someone to be his successor.
When he came to hear the marriage proposal, therefore, it was chiefly so that the baroness wouldn’t lose face. The granddaughter was all of twelve years old, after all. There was the proverbial woman “young enough to be your daughter”—but she was even younger than that! And Jorah had no desire to inflict the unhappiness of such a marriage on a young woman with her whole future ahead of her. If necessary, he was prepared to offer to support her daily life and perhaps to find her a suitable marriage match.
All these ideas were shattered like glass at the actual meeting.
“You may call me Priscilla. Although, I used to be Prisca Benedict, a member of the Volakian Royal Family.”
“Whaaaat?!”
Jorah found himself overwhelmed by a girl who acted far, far older than twelve. The discussion progressed rapidly, long before he’d been able to deploy any of the excuses he’d prepared. And then “Priscilla” had dropped the bombshell about her background.
Any Volakian noble, even one like Jorah, would have recognized the name Prisca Benedict. He promptly understood two things: that Priscilla’s declaration was absolutely, incontrovertibly true; and what his old friend wanted from him about it. Thus, Jorah played the role that was expected of him, as the guardian who would protect this vulnerable young girl…
“Fool. You think that’s the role I desire of you?”
“What? Well…but if not that, then why…?”
“Do you have to ask? I’ve heard that some very important old books rest within your family library.” She said it as easily as she breathed. Her interest and hope lay not in Jorah’s humanity, but in his possessions. This was an utterly self-assured way of being, one that took no notice or account of whatever situation the young woman was in.
Jorah took Priscilla, the young woman who lived like a fire, as his bride. He was deeply embarrassed, being in his fifties, but this was also the first time he had ever experienced someone desiring him intensely enough to sear.
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