“Don’t mock me, Leyton. You are making a terrible mistake.”
“Well, I have a terrible responsibility, and not much hope of deliverance elsewhere. . . . Unless you’re planning on marrying Tiris ul Sadek.” He cocked a bushy brow at her, and when she said nothing, he snorted. “I didn’t think so.”
With that he strode to the door, told the man on guard to see that she stayed there until he returned, and left.
CHAPTER
17
While Maddie was speaking with the king, Carissa had nursed one-yearold Conal and sent him off to the nursery with Prisina, then forced herself to eat the rest of his small bowl of porridge, the first food she’d consumed since the night of the coronation. Afterward she sat at her breakfast table sipping her last bit of morning shae’a as she read through the Words and prayed for deliverance from the deep melancholy that had seized her.
A mantle of hopelessness combined with a sense of deep inadequacy to sap her strength and ambition. Everything seemed too hard and fraught with the near certainty of failure and disappointment. She felt alone, unwanted, and irrelevant—wondered why she even bothered to get out of bed. Even Conal was needing her less and less these days as he transitioned from mother’s milk to solid food. Today she’d deliberately fed him less of the porridge than he would have eaten just to get him to suckle longer.
A silly and futile vanity.
Why did Eidon bless everyone else and never her? Even the good things he gave her he took away; and his promises always expired unfulfilled. Was it because she never really trusted him fully? But how could she when he never seemed to know she was alive?
She’d not sat there very long before a bespectacled clerk in a gray suit arrived with the divorce papers she had requested of Trap. He pulled them out of a leather portfolio and arranged them across the table for her to examine and sign. He would wait while she did so.
She stared up at him, unable to breathe, shocked that Trap had actually done it, even as she’d spent the last two days assuring herself that he would. She had asked him for this, after all, then fled his presence when he’d sought to persuade her otherwise. What else was he to do?
The little clerk cleared his throat, watching her with birdlike eyes, radiating disapproval. She glanced at the papers, but even that made her throat close up and tears blur her vision. “Can I look them over and get them back to you?” she asked, her voice shaking pitifully.
He exhaled a short burst of annoyance but said only, “Of course,” then packed up his portfolio and left.
She wouldn’t look over the papers. She couldn’t even stand to sit at the same table with them. So she went and sat in her chair before the window, where she could look out on the waterpark and grieve.
How could it all have come to this? Why did she have to make that stupid suggestion? Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone?
The night of the ball he had been so gallant, so attentive, so wonderful. Asking her to dance not once but five times. She’d said yes the first time, and could hardly believe it when she found herself in his arms. He’d smiled down at her as if he were truly enjoying himself, and she thought she might burst with happiness.
But then the dance had ended, and she’d heard the whispers, a snatch of snide comment here, a bit of deprecation there, the heads bending together, the eyes watching them. She hated the way everyone faulted him and impugned his character. Thus, as much as she would have loved to have danced with him again, she’d refused the next time, unwilling to put him out there for the world to snicker and sniff at.
Why did Conal’s hair have to be red? At least if it were black or brown or even blond, people would have some cause to believe the truth. But Eidon hadn’t chosen that, naturally. When had he ever made things easy for her?
Finally she’d asked to go home and saw she’d disappointed him—again. The expression was quickly veiled, and gracious as ever, he’d tucked her hand between his elbow and his side and walked her back to the palace. And all the way there, she’d thought about the divorce and whether she should or shouldn’t offer it. It had so distressed her, she didn’t think she’d even made a decision until the words were tumbling from her mouth. And then he’d kissed her.
The moment would live in her memory forever. She’d yearned for him to do it for so long, yet it had taken her completely by surprise when he had. It was tantalizing, magical, delicious—everything she’d dreamed it would be. She’d felt him tremble beneath her hand, felt his lips grow hot upon her own, and she’d leaned toward him eagerly, hoping he would take her in his arms and make love to her that very night.
Instead, he’d pulled away, gently but firmly, so grim-looking it seemed he’d needed all his self-control to force himself to kiss her. Confusion and hurt had swirled through her, and the cold hard truth had slammed into her—he’d done it out of kindness and the desire to reassure her he was content with their relationship.
Yes, he’d said he’d loved her, but she knew what he meant. He meant the kind of love Kohal Gentry always spoke about in Terstmeet, the kind of love Terstans were to have for one another and all men. A love that treated others in grace and kindness, regardless of how unattractive they were. A love based not on personal attraction but on duty to Eidon.
But duty couldn’t inspire passion, and that was what she wanted from him. And though she had hoped desperately in that gentle embrace that he would take things further . . . she had seen in that moment the truth that he never would. Because he didn’t want it. Hadn’t he claimed as much only a few minutes prior to kissing her? He’d never expected it nor wanted it. Not from her.
It was that realization that had brought her to tears. And when he’d asked her what was wrong, it had only made things worse. For how could she tell him? And how could she blame him? To him, the idea would be unthinkable. He knew her past better than anyone.
So she’d run from him without explanation to closet herself in her bedchamber. Sagging against the door as she closed it, she had let the tears flow.
Suddenly she was transported back to the stairwell of her home in Springerlan—her first husband lurching out of the shadows, his hand clapping over her mouth and nose so that she couldn’t breathe as he’d thrown her back upon the stairs and shoved up her skirts. . . .
Afterward he’d stood at the foot of the stair, grinning down at her as he’d refastened his trousers. He’d spoken, but she’d not discerned his words, only the mockery in his tone. Then he was gone, leaving her to lie there uncovered, bruised, and weeping. Cooper had found her not long after. Cursing under his breath, he’d fetched Elayne and they’d brought her to her room and cleaned her up. . . . But it hadn’t done any good. It never did.
Not then, not the night Trap rejected her, not in the days that followed. No bath could take away the sense of shame and filth she felt, and she knew herself to be soiled in a way that could never be cleaned.
Why would a man like Trap want anything to do with a woman like her?
“Damaged goods,” she’d once joked . . . before she really knew what those words meant. No joke anymore.
She’d had another nightmare that very night.
Now she stood before the window and prayed for guidance. Should she sign the papers? She’d asked for them. He’d complied with her wishes and sent them. Why would she want to bind him to her when he didn’t really want her? Wouldn’t the same sort of love as he’d professed for her dictate she set him free with no regrets?
Leaving the window, she went to her desk and found inkpot and pen, then returned to the table and the hated document. She sat down, uncapped the inkpot, dipped in the quill . . . then sat there, letting the ink drip off its tip onto the creamy paper as the tears flowed once more with a vengeance. Finally she threw the pen down and left the room.
By the time she reached the nursery she had herself under control and spent a mindless hour watching her nephews and little Abby, who never failed to have a smile for her. While the children napped, she sat
with Elayne and worked on her embroidery.
After a time Elayne asked quietly if something was troubling her.
Carissa started, and the heat rushed into her face. “No. Not at all.”
“Mmm . . . well, forgive me if I overstep, my lady. It’s just . . . you’re weeping.”
Abruptly Carissa realized tears were trickling down her cheeks. She stuck the needle into the taut fabric and touched trembling fingers to the moisture.
When Carissa said nothing more, Elayne added, “You keep too much to yourself, my lady. It’s not good to be so fiercely alone all the time.”
And still Carissa could not speak. The notion of telling the dear woman what had happened—of telling anyone, for that matter—seemed a harder thing than to strip naked and dance a jig for her.
Elayne’s knitting needles clicked in soothing rhythm. “You’ve been distant and sad-looking ever since the ball. Yet the only thing I’ve heard about you that night is how splendid you and your husband looked while dancing together and that later he kissed you at the foot of the stairs by the west entrance. Surely that cannot be the cause of all this sorrow.”
Carissa focused on her needlework, stitching rapidly for a few moments. Then the vigor of her movements slowed and came to a stop. The designs blurred before her eyes, and a lump filled her throat. Elayne’s arms wrapped around her, and in moments she was sobbing outright, like a child in her mother’s lap—all the loss and frustration and disappointment she’d kept inside for so long finally bursting out of her.
When it had passed and she had regained her poise, she stayed there, strangely strengthened by the older woman’s arms.
And after a while she said, “Trap sent me papers of divorcement today.” She felt Elayne’s start of surprise and went on miserably. “I asked for them. That’s why he kissed me . . . but he didn’t mean it. Not the way I wanted him to. . . .”
“He kissed you because you asked him for a divorce?”
“No. He did it to reassure me that he was content with the way things are, not because he loves me. But then, how could he? I keep forgetting what I am.”
Elayne’s arms dropped away from her and the woman drew back. “Ah, my lady, do not let Rennalf do this to you.”
“I cannot help it. He’s already done it.”
“He’s done no more than you allow him.”
Carissa watched her fingers track the designs on her embroidery. “You say that, but I don’t know how to stop it. It happened. I can’t make it go away.”
“You can stop going back to it all the time. It wasn’t your fault, Carissa. Eidon commands us to leave the past behind us, so why do you keep dredging it up to torture yourself?”
“You don’t understand. Trap knows about Rennalf.”
“I cannot for one moment believe that Duke Eltrap would ever care about that, nor why in the world you would think he doesn’t love you. He’s done everything for you. He married you, didn’t he?”
“Our marriage has never been consummated, Elayne.”
There. The dreadful, shameful truth out in the open at last. Let her say he loved her now. “He’s never suggested it.” Mortified now by her confessions, she staring fixedly at the needlework in her hands. “Nor has he shown any interest in doing so,” she added stiffly.
And again the silence hung heavily between them. Then Elayne sighed. “Oh, my poor girl, if you believe there is no interest on his part, you are sorely mistaken.”
Carissa looked up at her in astonishment.
“I have seen the way he looks at you. We all have. And I do not think he spends his days away from you by his own choice.”
“I know what I saw that night, when he kissed me.”
“A man struggling to control himself? Yes, my lady, he does know about Rennalf. Did you ever think he might have been fearful of coming on too strongly? That you might not welcome such attention from him? Or any man?”
“Wouldn’t welcome it?! I burn for him every time I’m in his presence. I stand there trembling, unable to breathe, the awareness of him so great I can hardly speak or think. I yearn for a look, a touch . . . some word of affection. But there is nothing. He is cool, polite, and scrupulously proper.”
“And what reason have you to think he might know you feel this way?” Elayne asked, eyes upon her knitting.
“I should think it obvious.”
“Obvious?” Elayne looked out over the nursery. “Let’s see. From what I’ve observed, every time he comes near you, you move away. You do not meet his gaze, and speak to him only if you must. You decline all his invitations to dinner, refuse to share cocoa with him in the morning—though he’s the only one who can make it to your liking—and four out of five times at the ball you turned down his requests to dance. What is he to take from that but that it is you who finds him distasteful?”
Carissa sat there, stunned. She had focused so hard on hiding the truth from him, it had never occurred to her that the consequences of success would be a man careful to respect what she showed him and never trouble her with what he felt himself.
Elayne said it was obvious to everyone that he loved her. Was it? She ran back through her memories, searching for signs it might be true. But even as she did, something in her resisted it, mocking it as wishful thinking on her part, and presumption on the part of others. She’d seen what she’d seen, hadn’t she? Surely she could not have been that blind. And what did anyone else know, anyway?
“Carissa.” Elayne’s age-spotted hand covered her own. “Don’t let that part of you that hates yourself blind you to this truth. Eidon has given you this man as a precious gift. He’s one of the finest I’ve ever known, but even he has his limits. Don’t let the darkness in you drive him away.”
“But it already has. . . . He sent me the papers.”
“At your request. You don’t have to sign them.” She returned to her knitting. “Why not set yourself to show him how you really feel and win him back?”
“Show him how I feel?”
Elayne chuckled. “Surely you’ve not forgotten how to flirt, my lady?”
“Flirt?” Carissa gulped. “I’m not sure I ever knew,” she said. “More than that, I’m not sure I even could. . . .” She thought of Byron Blackwell’s sister, Leona, and Maddie’s own Briellen, and distaste welled up within her. Distaste wedded to a deep and powerful dread. “He’d probably think me batty. Or worse, he might laugh. . . .”
“You might shock his shoes off, my lady, but I know he’d never laugh at you. You ought—”
They were interrupted then by the breathless arrival of Maddie’s auburnhaired maid, Jeyanne, who skidded to a stop before them as the words poured out of her mouth.
“You’re saying,” Carissa repeated back when Jeyanne was done, “that the king himself is searching his sister’s bedroom?”
“No! He’s sent that hideous Captain LaSalle. He rounded up all the servants and locked them in one of the sleeping cells. I was out of the suites when they arrived, or I’d be in there, too.”
“They?”
“There were five of them, milady. Ripping everything to pieces. Pulling out drawers, cutting up pillows, tearing down draperies. They were even punching holes in the paneling. . . .”
“What in the world. . . ?” Elayne cried. “Did they say what they were looking for?”
“No, ma’am. The girls were begging them to, so they could help, but they refused.”
“The regalia,” Carissa murmured. She looked at Elayne. “Maddie went to confront him about having Abramm’s scepter. Somehow the conversation must have come round to the rest of the pieces and he guessed she has them.”
“How in the world could he have gotten hold of the king’s scepter? We didn’t have it when we fled the palace. Abramm took it when he went to face Rennalf.”
“Did he?” Carissa asked coldly. “Or did he take a copy of it?”
Elayne’s eyes widened.
“Trap thinks Leyton stole it when he was in Kiriath for Abr
amm and Maddie’s wedding,” Carissa added.
“But that was—”
“Almost six years ago. I know. It also lays much of the blame for Abramm’s fall at Leyton’s feet. Which is hardly going to endear him to the Kiriathan exiles here. Nor is taking the rest of the regalia for his own.”
A man in the uniform of the palace guard stepped into the room and, seeing the women, strode briskly toward them. He dropped a quick bow. “Your Highness,” he said to Carissa. “I’m afraid you must return to your quarters at once.” He held his hand toward the doorway he’d just come through. “If you will, ma’am?”
At her apartments a quartet of soldiers were already searching through her things. When their leader, whom she recognized as Captain LaSalle, asked where her husband was, she told him he lived in his office near the queen’s apartments. Frowning, he bade her sit down and returned to supervising the others. To her surprise, not long after that Trap himself arrived, stepping into the sitting room for the first time in months. He looked grim and angry, and he scrupulously avoided her gaze as he addressed the intruders.
“What are you men doing here?” he demanded.
LaSalle turned to him with obvious satisfaction. “Ah, Lord Meridon. We’ve been looking for you.” He nodded at one of his men, who had come up behind Trap. “Bind this man and escort him to Larochell.”
“What?!” Carissa cried indignantly. “You can’t arrest him!”
“We’re palace guard, my lady. We can do whatever we want.” As he spoke, another of his men stepped up to Trap’s side, pulling a pair of manacles from his belt and binding the former Kiriathan First Minister’s wrists behind his back.
“This is outrageous!” Carissa erupted. “You can’t arrest a man for no reason!”
“Oh, we have a reason, my lady. The king would like to borrow your regalia. He will of course return it when he is finished, but he needs all the pieces.”
“So,” Trap said, his voice quietly furious, “the stories about his stealing Abramm’s scepter are true, then.”
Return of the Guardian-King Page 24
