I should have realized then that something was wrong, but hers was the first thought I had ever heard in my own mind, and I was so shocked by it that I had run away. Instead of telling Uncle Frederich what I’d sensed, I’d gone to get a piece of cranberry-apple pie.
So many people had died because of my cowardice.
“I would never harm a child,” Leonidas repeated, breaking into my dark thoughts.
“Your mother had no such compunctions during the Seven Spire massacre.” Once again, the words slipped out before I could stop them.
My harsh truth crackled through the air, but it vanished just as quickly, and an ugly silence sprang up between us. Leonidas’s face remained blank, although a muscle ticced in his jaw, and his whole body tensed.
“Despite what you and everyone else might think, I am not my mother,” he replied in a cold, clipped tone. “I don’t agree with many of the things she has done. Especially not the Seven Spire massacre.”
His regret stabbed into my mind, sharper than a gladiator’s sword, while his anger cracked against my body like a red-hot whip peeling the flesh from my bones. He didn’t like being compared to Maeven. I could understand that, although the knowledge didn’t drown out the phantom screams echoing in my ears.
I waited until the worst of the screams had faded away before I spoke again. “Point taken. Think of it this way. You spared that girl’s life, so I decided to spare yours in return.”
“How benevolent of you.”
I ignored his snide tone. “Will anyone besides Lyra come looking for you?”
“Planning to kill me now that you realize I’m of no use?” he asked, his tone snider than before.
“Not unless you give me a reason to. Unlike your charming mother, I don’t go around murdering people for sport.”
“How very reassuring,” he drawled. “Although, for the record, my mother never does anything for mere sport.”
“I just want to know if Wexel might descend on the cottage with more guards.”
Leonidas shook his head. “No. Wexel’s too arrogant to realize that he didn’t kill me. He won’t send anyone to check and make sure that I’m dead. What about you? Where are your . . . associates?”
Yet again, I got the impression that he meant an entirely different word, although I couldn’t imagine what it might be. “I have a friend in the city, trying to track down Wexel.”
“I doubt your friend will have much luck,” Leonidas replied. “From the rumors I’ve heard, as soon as Wexel has the tearstone, he and his men fly their strixes back to Morta.”
More frustration surged through me. Maybe Topacia could at least find out where the Mortans had been staying. Maybe if Wexel picked up another load of tearstone, he would return to the same place, and the Andvarian guards could capture him then.
“Who does Wexel work for?” I asked. “Queen Maeven?”
“Don’t worry about Wexel. I plan on killing him just as soon as I get the chance.” Deadly intent rippled through the prince’s voice.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What does it matter who Wexel works for? You’ve obviously made up your mind that all Morricones, all Mortans, are evil. That we are all cruel, heartless monsters and nothing more.” He sighed. “I can’t blame you for your distrust.”
“But?”
Leonidas shrugged. “But if I tell you that Wexel works for my mother, then I’ll just be confirming your worst suspicions about her. If I claim that he works for someone else, then you probably won’t believe me. So what’s the point of saying anything at all?”
His words stung, because they were all too true. I did see the Morricones, especially Maeven, as monsters, and it was far easier to view Leonidas that way too. Otherwise, I would have to admit that he was a person with flaws, foibles, and feelings, and a man that I found far too interesting for my own good.
I thought about demanding some answers, but I doubted there was anything I could threaten him with that would be worse than what he’d already endured, given the scars on his back.
“So what now?” Leonidas asked, a tired note creeping into his voice.
By this point, he was slumped back against the settee cushions, and his body sagged with pain and exhaustion. Like it or not, he still needed my help, and I wasn’t going to toss him out on his ass just because he hadn’t revealed the information I’d wanted. That would have been petty and cruel, even for a spy like me.
“Now I check your wound.”
And we try not to kill each other in the meantime. I didn’t voice my thought, but Leonidas’s eyes narrowed again, as though he was thinking something similar.
I held back a sigh. It was going to be a long, long night.
Chapter Seven
I offered to help Leonidas into the bathroom, but he growled that he was fine on his own. The prince heaved himself up and off the settee and took a step forward. One of his knees came dangerously close to buckling, but he managed to catch himself. Still, by the time he slowly righted his body, he was sweating again, and his face was gray with pain.
“Your stubbornness is going to be the death of you someday,” I drawled.
Leonidas glowered at me, but he staggered into the bathroom and shut the door. An audible click sounded, but him throwing the lock didn’t concern me. There was only a small window in the bathroom, but I doubted he had the strength to break the glass, much less climb out of the frame.
Squeak. A faucet turned, and water started running in the sink. Since he seemed to be behaving, I moved around the cottage, disposing of his ruined tunic, the bloody bowl of water, and the other used supplies. I also rolled the wheelbarrow back outside.
Fifteen minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and Leonidas stepped back out into the living room, his stride a little steadier than before. He was still wearing his black leggings, along with his boots, and he had slung a damp towel around his neck. Water glistened like silver rain in his onyx-black hair, while a few drops clung to his bare muscled chest. Mesmerized, I watched one rivulet glide down the center of his breastbone, going lower . . . and lower . . . and lower . . .
“See something that interests you?” Leonidas asked, a mocking note in his voice.
My gaze snapped up to his. An unwanted blush scalded my cheeks, and I had to clear the dryness out of my throat. “Nothing particularly impressive.”
Amusement danced in his eyes, and his lips curved up into a smug smirk, melting some of his icy reserve. Leonidas Morricone knew exactly how attractive he was. No doubt everyone from palace servants to merchants’ bored wives to noble ladies searching for a suitably rich husband had thrown themselves at him.
Leonidas stepped closer, looming over me, and his gaze raked down my body. I held my ground and let him look his fill.
“See something that interests you?” I tossed his own words back at him.
“Very much so.”
His admission surprised me, as did the heat suddenly glimmering in his eyes, and his deep voice curled around me like an invisible string of energy, even though neither one of us was using our magic.
If he had been anyone else, I might have moved forward, tangled my fingers in his hair, pressed my lips to his, and seen what happened next. I took all the proper herbs and precautions, and I’d had a few discreet affairs while undercover on missions. But I’d never found someone so strangely, hypnotically appealing as Leonidas.
Still, despite our seemingly mutual attraction, I couldn’t trust him not to betray me the second he climbed out of my bed—if not sooner. Even if he hadn’t been my childhood enemy, Leonidas was still a Mortan. There was charmingly star-crossed, and then there was bloody impossible, and any sort of Ripley-Morricone dalliance fell squarely into that latter category.
“Well, I suppose we’ll both just have to be disappointed,” I drawled.
“Pity,” he murmured, although he kept staring at me as though I were a sweet cake he wanted to gobble up.
I dropped my gaze to hi
s shoulder, which was the only part of him I should be examining. He’d removed the bandage, and the ugly, angry pink stain of the stab wound had faded considerably. I made a mental note to thank Helene the next time I saw her. The cucumber-ginger healing ointment had worked even better than promised, and it had saved the prince’s life.
I grabbed the jar of ointment from a nearby table and approached Leonidas. “Let me put some more of this on your wound.”
He plucked the jar from my hand. “I can do it.”
Then he did a most curious thing. Instead of turning around and heading into the bathroom face-first like a normal person, he eased backward, keeping his gaze on me.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. I went to far too much trouble to save you just to kill you now.”
Instead of answering my taunt with one of his own, he grimaced and quickened his pace, still backing into the bathroom. What was he doing?
Before he could close the door, I moved forward, crossed my arms over my chest, and leaned my shoulder against the doorjamb. Leonidas shot me a sour look, but he didn’t demand that I leave. Instead, still facing me, he grabbed the towel from around his neck and draped it on the sink. Then he reached for his shoulder. He stopped halfway, a loud hiss of pain escaping through his clenched teeth.
I arched an eyebrow. He tried again, with the same hiss of pain. My eyebrow rose a little higher.
He started to try a third time, but he must have thought better of it because he stopped. “Maybe you should do it after all,” he grumbled.
I stepped into the bathroom, dipped my fingers into the ointment, and reached for him. Leonidas jerked back, as skittish as a long-tailed gargoyle in a room full of rocking chairs. My eyebrow crept up even higher, and he finally stilled.
The water had dried on his chest, although a few drops still glimmered in his hair, and I had the oddest urge to run my fingers through his longish, wavy locks and flick the drops away. He smelled faintly of honeysuckle, the scent completely masculine and strangely intoxicating. The only thing that ruined his good looks was the mass of scars on his back, which I could clearly see in the mirror. The scars made Leonidas seem like a coin with two distinct sides—handsome, arrogant prince and wary, weary survivor. I found both halves far more appealing than I should have.
Leonidas tracked my gaze and stiffened. A sharp dagger of pain sliced through my mind, while anger, shame, and embarrassment throbbed like red-hot nails that had been driven into my chest. He might not care if I ogled his bare chest, but he didn’t like me studying his scars. That must have been why he’d so awkwardly backed into the bathroom.
Once again, that treacherous sympathy pricked my heart, and I suddenly longed to tell him that the marks were nothing to be ashamed of and that I had my own deep, painful scars, only mine were on the inside, where no one could see them. But I didn’t want to answer questions about my emotional scars any more than he wanted to talk about his physical ones, so I kept quiet as I eased closer to him, as slowly and carefully as I would approach a wounded animal.
Leonidas sighed, then gingerly lifted his left arm out to the side.
“This might sting,” I murmured.
“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “I’ve had worse.”
Yes, he had, given those horrific scars, although I didn’t voice the obvious thought. Instead, I smeared the ointment onto his wound. The cucumber-ginger scent tickled my nose, and that warm tingling spread through my fingertips again.
It’s just the ointment, I told myself in a stern voice. Just the ointment, and nothing to do with the man—enemy—before me.
Leonidas’s smooth, hard muscles involuntarily bunched and flexed at my touch, although the prince himself remained perfectly still, as though he were a strix about to swoop down from a high perch and attack its prey. His body might be locked in place, but his presence, his magic, brushed up against my own, like a warm, feathery cloak wrapping around me from head to toe. The light sensation was surprisingly heady, made even more so by the obvious strength and power lurking underneath his cold, quiet veneer.
Oh, yes, Leonidas Morricone was most definitely a strix at heart—a beautiful creature that was capable of great violence at any moment.
Despite everything that had happened between us, both today and years ago, I found the Morricone prince highly intriguing in a way that the rich nobles, merchants, and all my other potential suitors at Glitnir were not. Of course we were already bound together by our respective families’ long-standing animosity. And our royal backgrounds, as well as our deep connections to Lyra and Grimley, were quite similar. But perhaps the thing I found most appealing about Leonidas Morricone was that he seemed to feel the same sort of hidden pain and simmering rage that relentlessly stormed in my own heart.
I used the last of the ointment and wrapped another bandage around his torso, careful not to touch the scars on his back. The second I had tied off the bandage, Leonidas shifted away, putting some distance between us. It must be difficult to let anyone get close, even to heal you, when you had suffered so much agony at someone else’s hands.
More sympathy flared in my heart, burning as brightly as a fluorestone, but I squashed the feeling. Leonidas might be wounded and vulnerable, but he was still a Morricone, still Maeven’s son, which made him extremely dangerous. I needed to remember how he had hurt me before, not how appealing I found him now.
“Thank you,” he rasped.
“You’re welcome.”
Our gazes met and held. Tension gathered around us, but it wasn’t the uneasy feeling of mistrust. No, this tension was deeper, stronger, and hot enough to warm my cheeks, along with other, more intimate parts of my body.
Leonidas’s gaze traced over my face, and a frown creased his lips. My gaze darted to my own reflection in the mirror. Tangled hair, grimy skin, dirty coveralls. Not exactly an attractive image, despite his earlier assertion.
“I should get cleaned up. There are clothes in the armoire, and food in the kitchen, if you’re hungry.”
He skirted past me, and I pressed myself up against the wall so that he wouldn’t have to touch me. He hesitated at the door, as though he was thinking about backing away from me again. But he must have realized that it was too late to hide his scars, because he stepped out of the bathroom and shuffled over to the armoire, giving me a clear look at the marks.
I shut and locked the door behind him, my hands shaking as I leaned up against the sink. I clutched the cold porcelain until my emotions were under control again.
I also listened, wondering if Leonidas might use this opportunity to slip out of the cottage, but I only heard the soft thud of the armoire door closing, along with the creak-creak of the kitchen cabinets opening. He seemed content to stay here—for now.
I shook off my whirling thoughts, then twisted the knob to run a bath in the claw-foot tub. If only I could wash my troubles away as easily as water swirled down a drain.
But no one could do that, not even a princess like me.
* * *
I took a quick hot bath and donned a fresh gray tunic, along with some black leggings that were hanging on a hook on the bathroom door. I stuffed my feet back into my dirty boots and slid my tearstone dagger into the scabbard on my black leather belt. Then I opened the door and stepped out into the living room.
Leonidas had also donned a gray tunic. He was sitting at the kitchen table with several dishes arranged in front of him, although he hadn’t eaten a single bite yet. Even more surprising was the empty plate he’d set out across from his own.
“I thought you might be hungry too,” he said.
His thoughtfulness surprised me, and I took the chair across from him. “Thank you.”
He nodded, then started piling meats, cheeses, and dried fruit onto his plate. I made a cold gruyère and apricot jam sandwich, just like the one I’d had for lunch. Leonidas watched me wolf it down, an amused smile cracking through his icy expression.
“What’s so funny?” I mumbled.
“Well, it’s delicious. My very own secret, delectable recipe. I could tell you how to make it, but then I’d have to kill you.”
He laughed at the old, familiar joke, and the soft, low sound sent an unwanted shiver skittering down my spine. Still, his laughter broke the tension, and we ate the rest of our meal in quiet, companionable silence. When we finished, I dumped the dirty dishes in the sink, while he returned the leftover food to the cabinets and the metal chiller in the corner.
It had stopped storming, although the rain continued, drumming on the roof. The sun had set only a few minutes ago, but the landscape was already dark, so I closed all the curtains.
I reached out with my magic, and Grimley’s warm, drowsy presence filled my mind. The gargoyle must still be in that cave with Lyra. I reached out again, this time searching for Topacia. I only got a flicker of feeling off her, but she too seemed warm and safe.
Even though it was barely after six o’clock, I was exhausted. Dark circles ringed Leonidas’s eyes, and he wobbled on his feet again.
“Go to bed.” I gestured toward the open door that led to the bedroom in the back of the cottage. “I’ll build a fire and sleep out here on the settee.”
He stiffened, as though I had slapped him across the face and offended his honor. “You take the bed. I can sleep out here.”
“You’re the one who got hurt, so you take the bed. I’ve slept on far worse things than a lumpy settee.”
Something flickered across his face, but it vanished in an instant. Leonidas opened his mouth as if to keep arguing, but I stabbed a finger at him.
“Don’t be an idiot. You need rest far more than I do. Especially since you look like you’re about to pass out again.”
He grumbled something under his breath, but this was a battle he would never win. Miner, princess, or spy, Gemma Ripley was nothing if not a good hostess, even to her mortal enemy.
Leonidas shuffled toward the bedroom. He stopped at the door and looked at me. “Thank you. For saving me. I would be dead right now if it wasn’t for you.” His lips twisted a little, as if the sentiment left a sour taste in his mouth.
Capture the Crown Page 9
