Chapter 8

Hazel sat alone in the cottage, quietly knitting. She wanted to finish up the quilt her mother had been knitting before she passed on, but she ewa making a mess of it.

Her red gold hair was bent over her task, as she desperately knitted the threads together, it was as if her mother's life, or perhaps her mother's happiness depended on it and if she did a good job, then all would turn out well even though her mother was dead.

Hazel did not know the meaning of grief, did not know that she was grieving. She only knew that she felt wretched, desolate, and that she had the strong urge to sieze a knife and slit her own throat, the way she had do e to those many rabbits. She did not know how she was gougo to survive in a world without her mother in it.

Lord Garreth found her like that when he walked into the cottage. Her head was bent over a quilt she was knitting. She seemed to be doing a very awful job. She must have been lost in thought, because she didn't hear him approach, until just standing a few paces from her, he cleared his throat.

She looked up then, startled. Her large green eyes starring up at him in confusion. Then she blinked, her long lashes flickering. Gareth saw the moment she recognized him.

"Lord Gareth." Her voice was soft and melodious. She tried to smile, but it was obvious that she was sad and dejected. The smile came out in a pathetic bravery that was endearing as it was touching.

She got up from the only chair in the cottage and offered it to him, but he would have none of it.

"No, sit down. Heaven knows you need the seat far more than I do." He walked over and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder when she had retaken her seat, then unable to resist the urge, he traced a finger down her creamy smooth cheek. All the while, he was looking into her eyes, watching to see the emotions he could draw out.

Hazel reacted just like he had expected. Her breath hitched, and when the finger on her cheek began to trace her lips, she trembled slightly, a blush staining her cheek until they turned a Rosy color that could almost compete with her hair.

Lord Gareth ignored the urge to kiss her, to press his lips down on those small rose buds of hers. There was no need to go further -- as much as he would have wanted to. The chit was untried. Pure as the snow, and gentle as the morning dew. She would suit his purposes perfectly. A little part of him wished he did not need her to stay innocent, there were a lot of lessons in wickedness he could teach her.

Gareth carefully banished the thoughts in his head of plundering her soft lips with his own, taking her right there in the cottage -- with her dead mother's spirit probably hanging over them. He remembered how he had first met her, down at the village. She had been terrified and confused, her puny strength no match for the village rascals who had tried to assault her. Gareth reminded himself that she must see him as a savior, and not another male trying to take advantage of her if his plans were to work, but somehow, starinst down at the elfin-like creature in front of him, Gareth understood why she had set a flame to the passions of those lads down at the village -- hell! He was a grown man with a mission, a mission that involved her staying chaste, and yet, he still had to fight to resist her.

"I'm sorry about your mother." He said, finally removing his hand from her face and watching her gulp in a breath.

No one had ever said sorry to Hazel before, and now that this strange gentleman who had drawn out strange emotions from her stood apologizing for something he couldn't have caused, she was at loss of what to say, and so she bent her head, and slowly, determinedly, started picking her nails.