He did not know how to answer truthfully, so he did not answer it at all. Instead he read the silence that came from her and found that beneath her carefully composed, meek demeanor, her mind was working feverishly. It was entirely unexpected, as surprising as if she had sprouted wings.

“By Mary, I believe you are full relieved I will renounce it.” He could not stop the incredulous smile that came over his face. “You do not wish to marry me?”

She gripped her hands together and blurted, “I do not wish to marry anyone, my lord!” She looked up at him with something like impatience. “Nor can I see that it matters what my wishes are. I must marry. My father commands it.”

“You cannot be married without you consent to it. Would you not rather pledge yourself to a life of devotion? Would your father dare gainsay a calling from God?”

Her breath sped up. She glanced toward the door, where her ladies no doubt waited outside, trying to hear whatever they could. He could see the idea take hold of her, a spark in her eye as she considered it.

Will would hate him for this. It was he who had chosen her – there was some advantage to him in getting her married off to just the right man, some intricate web of alliances and favors that Gryff had not bothered to learn. It only made him feel a sudden sympathy for this woman, who was as much a pawn as he was. Now her eyes were alight with intelligence, the meek passivity tossed aside. What a terrible thing, that she had been so forced to hide her true nature beneath this submissive mask.

“Go now to the abbey of your choosing, and give yourself to God,” he said. “I will send men of my guard as escort. You may say in truth to your father that I did refuse this marriage, and it is none of your doing.”

She was frowning in concentration, her mind calculating. She nodded once, twice, then looked up at him again with a curious mixture of decision and doubt and, surprisingly, concern for him.

“But will there not be consequences to you, my lord? Why would you defy your king?”

He curled his fingers around the knife in his hand, evidence that she had been here. That she did not revile him. That she still cared for him.

For love, he might answer. For his people, for himself. For the blood he had cursed, for the title he had thought meant nothing. For her.

“Because I am a prince,” he said, his eyes on the blade in his hand. “Because I was born to be Gruffydd ab Iorwerth, not a common Welshman, and I will defy the whole world if I must.”