Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  Terror stopped her breath.

  “Miss me, sweetheart?” Harve asked.

  Cele turned and ran.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What did the skald say?” Ragni asked Dahleven, pouring ale.

  They were in Dahleven’s rooms. After Dahleven had finished with Neven, Ragni had persuaded him that word of Celia would reach him quickest if he stayed where the guards could find him.

  Neven had assigned Dahleven the task of organizing increased security throughout Quartzholm against spies and assassins. The job had required several hours of close conference with the Warden of the Guard, and all his attention. Now he had nothing to do but wait. Dahleven didn’t like remaining idle, and he paced across the room. The search was taking far too long.

  “Nothing of much use. ‘Our enemy is among us.’ ‘Change brings danger.’ ‘Harmony will be achieved.’ The usual dung.” Dahleven looked closely at his brother. Ragni wasn’t asking just to distract him. “Why?”

  “When I passed him at the door, I felt something strange from him. Not deception, exactly. Something more like…amusement.”

  “Maybe he didn’t like Jon any better than we did,” Dahleven suggested, pacing back across the room to stand in front of his brother.

  “Probably not,” Ragni agreed. “But that’s not quite what I felt.”

  Dahleven cocked an eyebrow at his brother, but a knock forestalled his question. “Enter!”

  It was Fender. “We’ve found her, my lord. They’re taking her to her room.”

  Relief flared in Dahleven’s breast like a torch, along with the need to see her safe with his own eyes. He pushed by Fendrikanin on his way out of the room, with Ragni only a step behind. “What took so long?” he demanded.

  Fender continued his report on the move. “The Trackers only just picked up her trail, my lord. It started up clean at a nexus of tunnels. Before that they couldn’t find a thing.”

  Fender hesitated and went on. “She’s in bad shape. Exhausted. Apparently, she tried to Find her way out of the tunnels after she escaped from her captor. We gave her some sterkkidrikk, though, so she’s safe, even if she’s spent.”

  “Well done,” Dahleven said.

  Fender cleared his throat. “My lord…”

  The younger man’s awkward pause caught Dahleven’s attention. He stopped and looked at him, demanding an answer with his eyes. “And?”

  Fender met Dahleven’s stare briefly, then looked past his shoulder as he went on. The younger man’s mouth was tight with emotion. “She hasn’t said much, about what happened. But her robe is torn and…she’s bruised…”

  Dahleven’s gut twisted.

  Ragni put a hand on his shoulder.

  Dahleven turned and stalked down the hall. Whatever had happened had happened. There was nothing he could do to change that. Just as he couldn’t change the fact that he’d failed to keep her safe, despite posting a guard. “I’m going to kill Jeger.”

  *

  Cele opened her eyes on near dark, and for an instant she thought she was still in the tunnels, listening for Harve to pounce on her. She jerked as a hand touched her shoulder.

  “You’re safe,” a familiar deep voice said from very close.

  “Dahleven?” Cele asked, clasping his hand with her own.

  The light grew, the wick turned up on the wall lamp by Thora, who said, “You gave us quite a scare, my lady.”

  “Leave us,” Dahleven said.

  Thora balked. “My lord!”

  “Thora, leave us—please.”

  Thora still hesitated and Dahleven turned to Cele. His face was half shadowed, but she heard the hesitation in his voice. “Do you will it? That she go?”

  Dahleven’s question surprised her, but not as much as the tone of his voice. He sounded worried, tentative. What could he have to say that he wouldn’t want Thora to hear? She’d spent too much time uncomfortably alone with men lately, but she had no reservations about Dahleven. Whatever he had to say, he could say it in private if that’s what he wanted. “It’s all right, Thora. Only…”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Could you send food? Enough for two, please.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Thora smiled at her, then glowered at Dahleven as she sailed out the door.

  Cele was nude under the sheets again, but warm. She didn’t remember much about returning to her room. She’d tried to Find her way back, but the tunnels kept veering off in the wrong direction, away from where she wanted to go. Crushing fatigue had nearly brought her to her knees, but the fear that Harve would catch her kept her going. She’d still been stumbling forward when she’d heard the footsteps of the search party echoing in the dark. At first she’d thought it was Harve, and she’d drawn back as the light of the lantern fell on her. Then she’d recognized Fender’s voice and collapsed from relief. After that, her rescuers made her drink that vile, sweet liquid. She vaguely remembered being carried before she passed out.

  Now here she was talking to Dahleven while wearing even less than she had during her interview with Jorund. At the thought of the Outcast lord, Cele looked away from Dahleven, unable to meet his eyes. She couldn’t tell him about Jorund. Jorund probably hadn’t told her everything, but what he had told her was very convincing. And the Outcast Jarl was the only one offering a way home. She couldn’t risk that by saying too much to Neven’s son. Dahleven would have to tell the Kon. She couldn’t expect Dahleven to take sides against his own father.

  “You needn’t turn away. I deserve your censure.” Dahleven said in a voice full of sorrow.

  Cele’s gaze snapped back to him, surprised. His face was rigid, but his eyes were full of grief. “What are you talking about? I’m not angry.”

  Dahleven’s brows drew downward. “I let you be taken. My guards failed to keep you safe. How could you not blame me for…for what you endured?”

  “Dahleven!” She couldn’t talk lying down like this. She struggled to sit up, holding the covers up against her chest, wincing as her sore muscles protested. I can’t tell him it was probably his own father’s men who took me, not without betraying Jorund. “What were you supposed to do? Send a guard in to wash my back for me? You can’t think of everything.”

  “I’m supposed to think of everything!” Dahleven stood and took a step away from the bed before turning and spreading his hands. “I can’t keep my people safe if I don’t. As I’ve proven far too often, of late.” His hands clenched.

  “Stop it! That’s your grief talking. If Sorn were here, I bet he wouldn’t let you get away with that crap. You can’t anticipate everything. You can only do your best and learn from your mistakes.”

  “I have a lot to learn from, don’t I?” Dahleven’s voice was bitter and angry. “And what do you know of what Sorn would say? He’d be the first to condemn me for letting you be kidnapped and raped.”

  “Raped!”

  Dahleven knelt beside the bed and took her hand in both of his. “I’m so sorry, Celia. I—”

  “I wasn’t raped. I got away.”

  “But…”

  Her voice was as firm as she knew how to make it, even as the memory of the men’s hands on her made her shiver. “I got away.”

  Dahleven sat on the edge of the bed, cradling her shoulders with a gentle touch, searching her face with anxious, hopeful eyes.

  She couldn’t let Dahleven carry the responsibility and the guilt for something that hadn’t quite happened. “I’m okay.”

  Dahleven groaned and pulled her against him, burying his face in her hair. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed his arms around her. She melted into the warmth of his embrace with a sigh and let go her hold on the covers to pull him closer.

  She felt safe and protected, nestled against the hard muscle of his body, wrapped in his strong arms. Nothing could hurt her. Not Mord or Orlyg or Harve. A flash of terror swept over her and a sob escaped her throat. She blinked away tears. What’s the matter with me? I escaped! But the tears wouldn’
t stop and she shook with uneven, shuddering breaths.

  *

  Dahleven swallowed hard on the lump of anguish in his throat as he felt her tremble in his arms. He couldn’t believe her words. He’d ordered Ghav to tell him about her injuries. He knew about the bruises on her arms and breast and back, the scratches on her thigh. Those, combined with her torn robe and how she clung to him now—weeping with great racking sobs—told him all he needed to know of what had happened.

  He wanted to kill whoever had done this to her, and crawl into a pit for letting it happen.

  But at the moment there was nothing he could do but hold her. He stroked her silky hair and rubbed her bare back, murmuring whatever he could think of to comfort and reassure her. “You’re safe now. I’ll never let you be harmed again. Be still. You’re safe.”

  Gradually her breathing eased. She sniffed and hiccupped, pulled a hand from his back to wipe her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  He forced a tight smile. “I’d be surprised if you did not weep.”

  Celia held the sheets to cover her breasts as she pulled back to glance up at him, then she looked away again as if embarrassed. “It was a little traumatic.”

  Dahleven’s chest constricted. He lifted her chin with one finger so he could look her in the eyes. “You have no need of shame, my lady. That is all mine.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Her lips pressed together.

  He recognized that look of exasperation. He’d seen it on his sisters’ faces often enough.

  “Do I have to knock you upside the head to get you to believe me? Read my lips. I wasn’t raped. I. Got. Away.” And then she kissed him.

  The touch of her soft lips and tongue made him instantly hard. He didn’t believe her words, but her body…Celia pressed herself into his arms freely, without reservation. Could she have been raped and still forgive him? Still want him? Dahleven leaned back just enough to search her face. He saw no shame or fear there, just desire. Relief jumped in his veins. He kissed her back with all the joy flooding his body. She’d been through an ordeal, but at least she hadn’t suffered that. She would be worth no less in his eyes if she had, but rape was a violation he was beyond glad she’d been spared.

  Celia’s mouth opened and her tongue stroked his. His body tightened and his hands slipped to just above her elbows, massaging the flesh there with his thumbs. Celia tightened her arms around him and he leaned forward, laying her back into the softness of the featherbed.

  His heart threatened to choke him. In but a few candlemarks he’d been terrified for her, relieved, and ridden by guilt. Now she was safe and whole and opening her arms to him. Dahleven tenderly kissed his way down her shoulder. Celia lowered the covers to her waist and he continued to her breast, encouraged by the way Celia arched as his tongue laved her nipple.

  “Yes.” Celia’s fingers threaded through his hair as he kissed his way over to her other breast. She wriggled against him and his cock throbbed, anxious to be free.

  A knock at the door brought his head up, then he lowered it to rest his forehead against her shoulder in frustration.

  Celia groaned, then huffed a small chuckle. “At least this interruption is less violent than our last one.”

  He was amazed she could find humor after all she’d been through.

  The second knock was more forceful. He sat up, and Celia pulled the covers to her shoulders, but not before he glimpsed the bruises marring the tender flesh he’d just been kissing. He had just enough time to think about killing the whoreson who’d hurt her before a third, more demanding knock drew an answer from him. “Enter!”

  Thora came in with a servant bearing a laden tray and a scalding expression on her face. Dahleven almost felt like he was fifteen again and caught with his sister’s maid. The girl had been willing enough, and older than he, but the event had precipitated a stern lecture from his father about not abusing the privilege of his position. Thora looked like she wanted to do more than lecture.

  The servant put the tray on the table by the bed. There looked to be enough food for six instead of two, even if one of them was in Emergence.

  Thora’s manner gave the impression she intended to stay. Dahleven was about to invite her to leave again when she said, “Kon Neven wants to speak to Lady Celia after she’s eaten.”

  “Now?” Celia exclaimed.

  “It’s nearly midnight!” Dahleven protested.

  “I can tell time, Lord Dahleven. And so can your father,” Thora snapped.

  What is Father thinking? “Celia, I…” What could he say? He couldn’t, wouldn’t, undermine his father’s authority, even if he didn’t agree with his methods. “I regret I can’t join you at supper. Take your time, eat your fill. And don’t let my father upset you.”

  Dahleven shut the door gently behind him and strode purposefully to Neven’s chambers. This time he’d be present and visible during the interview.

  *

  Cele stepped into Neven’s chambers, trying to look more confident than she felt. The heavy embroidered skirts of her green gown swished around her ankles. She’d chosen the dress because she knew it brought out the color of her eyes. She might be going back into the lion’s den, but she’d go with her head held high. The ivory lace that Dahleven had bought for her was draped over her head and shoulders like a mantilla. She’d worn it to give her a little extra courage, and when she saw Dahleven’s eyes widen in a subtle smile, she was glad she had.

  As usual, Neven sat far from the door.

  Gris spoke for him. “Your ordeal doesn’t seem to have harmed you seriously, Lady Celia.” Gris’s tone turned his comment into a provocation. “I’m sure we’re all grateful for that.”

  I can show you my bruises if you’d like. Cele glanced at Dahleven, who stood behind Neven. He nodded his encouragement almost imperceptibly.

  Although she would just as soon have spit as speak to Gris, Cele answered civilly. “Thank you. I know how much that means, coming from you.”

  Ragni, standing beside Dahleven, suppressed a smile, but not before the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

  Gris scowled, but continued in a neutral tone. “We’re concerned for your safety, Lady Celia, and the safety of all who live in Quartzholm. Tell us everything that happened today, so we can prevent its recurrence.”

  Jorund had warned her to expect questions, but she thought she’d have a little longer to practice her story. Overnight, at least. But Neven hadn’t granted her that time, so she told the truth. Most of it. Beginning with her abduction from the bathing room. Neven must know most of it already, unless his men were too afraid of him to report their failure to kill me.

  Gris interrupted almost immediately. “How many men did you see after you climbed down the ladder?”

  “I told you, they lowered me with a sling and ropes. I couldn’t move.”

  “Yes, of course. How uncomfortable. It’s just as well you couldn’t feel anything.”

  “On the contrary. I felt every bump and scrape quite distinctly. I just couldn’t do anything about it.”

  She reported her experience straight through, until she got to the part where her muscles returned to normal and the three men put down the rug she’d been rolled in. “They started talking about…about what they were going to do to me. That’s when I got away.”

  “They just let you go?” The sneer wasn’t far beneath the surface of Gris’s question.

  “No, they didn’t just let me go.” Cele stopped and looked away. The feel of their hands grasping her, the sound of her robe ripping suddenly flooded her senses.

  Her stomach roiled, and she swallowed convulsively. Up until this moment she hadn’t really understood why rape victims could feel ashamed for being attacked. Fear surged as she smelled Orlyg’s foul breath again and felt his rough, dirty hand on her breast. She didn’t want anyone to know how he’d touched her. She didn’t want anyone to see in her eyes how he’d made her feel. In that instant before her train
ing had kicked in, she’d felt terrified and helpless. She felt that way again now. Sweat pricked under her arms and her heart raced.

  Not an hour ago, she’d reassured Dahleven that she wasn’t angry. But she was. She was furious. Not at Dahleven. At the world, at fate, at all men, for making her feel that fear, for letting this happen at all.

  But she was also proud of herself for having the skill to stop them, even if Jorund had saved her in the end. “I had to hurt them first. Then they let me go.”

  “There were only three of them? Where were their friends while this little dance was taking place?”

  Only three? Cele forced herself to look Gris in the eyes. “I don’t know. They didn’t confide in me.”

  Gris turned away from her for a moment, blocking her view of Neven and Ragni. Dahleven’s face was tight, but he gave her another small nod and Cele used that to steady herself. It was just as Jorund had said, Neven didn’t trust her, and he was using Gris to trick her into a mistake.

  The chamberlain turned back to her. “And in all of this, no one said anything about why you were taken?”

  “Other than wanting to rape me? No, they didn’t.”

  “Are we to believe you were kidnapped only so a few men could dally with you? You’re quite beautiful, Lady Celia, but that’s a lot of trouble to go to for a tumble, even with you.”

  Dahleven jerked and drew in a sharp breath, but held steady where he stood, clenching his fists. Ragni scowled.

  “How did you really get those bruises?” Gris continued. “Did you put them there yourself to make your story more convincing? Or did your fellow conspirators help you? Did your lover get too rough?”

  Involuntarily, Cele covered her breast. The memory of Harve’s nails scraping her thigh as he tore her robe open stabbed through her. Her stomach soured on the food she’d eaten. There were no words sharp enough to reply to those accusations, or lay the sick feeling in her gut to rest.

  Is that what Neven believes? How could he, if the men were his? Or was this just his way of diverting suspicion? The Kon’s face was impassive; she couldn’t read it. Would he throw her in the dungeon? Would Dahleven let him? Could he stop it? A hundred movies provided cold, dark images of damp and filthy prisons. Cele shivered.