Today was two months later, and Ravan officially met Nicolette. Of course they’d passed on occasion. Ravan had even once upon impulse murmured a ‘hello.’
She had looked at him long and hard, her skin translucent and chalky white, her eyes piercing and deeper than the sea, but she said nothing.
It troubled him that he’d felt the need to speak to her.
Today, however, she had come to a ball for a formal announcement of her betrothal to Adorno. It was a match from birth. She was English, keeping to the tradition of the Anglo-French alliance, and though she’d spent considerable time on the estate, the moment had come to finalize the arrangement. Her parents were present and Adorno was in fine form, insisting upon excess to the utmost. The garden party was just the start of the festivities and it was a beautiful afternoon.
In Adorno’s service, Ravan languished and settled into a miserable existence, a job he considered not only unreasonable but immoral. Adorno should die. He deserved to die. In Ravan’s mind, Adorno was only an inadequate scrap of a man—not worthy of the earth he stood on. It was his observation that Adorno was intentionally cruel and sadistic. He’d observed the stage plays, had seen Adorno attempt to rape a chambermaid and then, after a moment of his own impotence, had ordered the poor girl beaten nearly to death. Only then had the tyrant been able to gratify himself.
Ravan experienced incredible conflict at this. If nothing else, the fourteenth century boasted random acts of violence. Ravan had seen more than his share of unspeakable cruelty and brutality, but in all the campaigns that he'd fought, violence towards a woman or child had been his extreme sensitivity. From the pit of his being, he despised it. He’d never been guilty of a direct act of barbarism to a woman or child, and on some level, believed himself a better man for it.
In quick order, Ravan comprehended the hatred that all, given enough time, felt for Adorno. On at least two separate occasions Ravan intercepted an assassin only to hesitate. Later, he gained brief satisfaction at the fit Adorno threw as he had heaved the severed head of the assassin onto the table where Adorno dined.
“Get it away! Get it away!” he’d shrieked.
With a shrug, Ravan dragged it purposefully close enough to his master to smear the sleeve of his ivory silk brocade jacket. Again, it was obvious that Adorno savored exhibition of the macabre, but objected to any close proximity of it to himself.
Adorno was vain about his bodyguard, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he possibly feared Ravan. The whole township feared Ravan. He was an alarmingly efficient mercenary with a harrowing reputation; that is what people saw in him. Beyond that, Ravan came across as mortally menacing. His purposeful stride, black facade, and the desolate approach that he took to all tasks—these things served to create a monster from the man.
Many mistook Ravan’s silent and ominous demeanor as detachment from compassion. Few knew his tortured history and no one cared. Adorno looked at him as a possession, his own personal barbarian, a leashed sideshow.
Ravan, however, had resolved that Adorno possessed no honor.
Later that day, he asked himself, “What is it which binds me to this miserable assignment?” Muttering beneath his breath, he paced the floor, back and forth outside of Adorno’s bedroom suite. He was mentally preparing himself for the betrothal ball.
LanCoste sat by, perhaps simply to offer his friend company. “Hmmm...” LanCoste had moved beyond conversation and didn’t look up from sharpening the glistening arc of one of his magnificent axes. He drew the whetstone methodically across the weapons edge and it gave a satisfying ring with each pull.
“I’m tired of this,” Ravan protested. “I’m tired of wet-nursing that miserable tyrant—I wish to be gone—I need to be gone.”
This comment caused the giant to give pause and he scrutinized his younger comrade for a few seconds, but said nothing.
Later that evening, Ravan changed his mind entirely, when he met Nicolette.
She entered escorted by her parents and approached Adorno. She curtsied deeply and considered the dark man who stood with his arms casually crossed, behind and off to the left of her betrothed.
Ravan looked at her boldly and squarely, but it was not Nicolette who first looked away.
She was perplexing, mysterious, and beautiful. In a strange and peculiar way, she was almost not human. Even the way she moved was otherworldly, as though the room moved about her instead of her about the room.
Ravan was uncertain of her nationality. She was English by breeding, but her accent seemed remotely Slavic. She was white, almost as snow, but her eyes were the darkest green, through and through. She spoke French superbly, as though she had been born on French soil.
He was surprised again at his own undeniable interest in her. This was not like him and had never happened before. He was again uncomfortable with a feeling he could not seem to categorize. Ravan was deeply fascinated by her and tonight, she seemed to notice him as well.
Curiously, Adorno appeared oblivious to the fleeting glances the two exchanged. He seemed too self-absorbed to concern himself with how his betrothed might really feel about him. He'd announced his intention to marry Nicolette Gray that evening and was reveling in the attention he commanded. The champagne flowed freely.
Eventually, Adorno would retire, drunk and unable to perform. In his drunkenness, he would be mercifully impotent to cast his rage on the unfortunate wench of his choosing. As was proper for the occasion, Nicolette would sleep on the other side of the castle from him.
She maintained a subtle gaze upon Ravan, even as she murmured a greeting to Adorno.
Ravan shrugged. ‘What of it? He was simply a bodyguard—not responsible for her attentions and so again, what of it?’
It was later, at the announcement ball that Ravan found an opportune moment and uncharacteristically, he approached her. He'd never done something like this, but it was as if an odd force exacted control of him. He must speak to her, and was not even certain what he intended to say. Perhaps, he intended to downplay the looks they’d exchanged for some time now.
“I am Master Adorno’s bodyguard, his personal soldier. You will frequently see me at your fiancé’s side.” He bowed ever so slightly. “My name is Ravan.”
“You don’t belong here, do you?” Her question was rhetorical and she did not bow back, only stepped closer to him.
Silent, he hesitated, taken aback.
“You don’t belong in this type of trade either, is that not so?” Her emerald eyes bottomless, her face blank, she moved slowly into him as he stepped away.
Her abrupt frankness caught Ravan very much by surprise.
She looked him straight in the eyes, her skin ghostly pale against the inky-black of her hair. Her lips were blood red, even without rouge. She was for the most part, expressionless and translucent, like an unfathomable pearl.
“And you, Nicolette?” he countered. It sounded odd to him to voice her name in such a personal way. “Do you belong at the side of one like your betrothed?” He allowed a rare glimmer of a smile to pass fleetingly across his lips. He was not in the least bit amused, and his question was unusually candid and sincere.
Shrugging, she replied, “I am a woman in the fourteenth century, what choice have I?” She spoke as though she were a time traveler, and temporarily out of place.
“You don’t strike me as one inclined to conform to the state of society in current times.” Ravan leaned his head back, eyes narrowing, curious how she might answer him. He was shocked at how easily he spoke to her and surprised at how she answered.
“What do you know of how I should strike you, one way or another? What do you know of me?” The question carried with it a certain amount of hazard, as though one might answer it at one’s own peril.
There was no inflection to the voice, it was toneless, but Ravan sensed a dark authority in it, as though it spoke for all time. Again, he had the sense that she was out of place, but oddly detached about it. He was immediately intrigue
d by her, urgently and deeply attracted to her. He leaned closer, so that he could smell the scent of her. Breathing in deeply, he stood much too close now—but it pleased him.
“Have you ever loved someone?” She quipped before he could answer her previous question. One razor thin eyebrow climbed ever so slightly. She peered up at him, commanding an answer, her lips slightly pursed as she waited.
He was surprised again at the personal question, and even more surprised that he answered after only a moment's hesitation.
”My mother and father, of course.” He was utterly honest in his answer. “Although, I have also hated them for leaving me.” He'd never spoken of this to anyone, scarcely thought of it himself. He was shocked at how quickly he divulged this to Nicolette.
She tilted her head to one side. “You don’t have parents.” Again, it was a statement, not a question.
“My mother is dead,” he said, “but I love her.” It occurred suddenly to him that it was strange that he spoke of his mother as though she was still present.
Nicolette nodded, offering no condolence. “It is too bad fortune has tossed you about so,” she paused. “Perhaps fortune wishes that we meet.” Nicolette’s gaze never wavered, and it wasn’t coy or flirting, only nakedly forthright.
She had captured Ravan, without even trying. For the first time in a very long while, a feeling other than hatred, anger, or revenge preoccupied him. It was strong—primal but elegant. There was circulation to it, a scent and sensation. It was alive, and it made his skin tingle. It pleased him in a visceral way. He suddenly felt a need to be with her, as though for the first time ever he’d met someone who knew him. It was as though she knew his mind, his heart—as if she clearly saw the dark as well as the light of it and judged him not. However, his concrete thoughts did not so tidily formulate these ideas. It was an instinct.
“You should be with me—not him.” Ravan surprised himself and wasn’t even certain that the words had escaped his mouth. He looked more deeply into her eyes, looking for her to acknowledge what he’d just unburdened.
He stepped even closer to her, towered over her, but she was fearless.
“We are alike, Ravan—both of us, sad and wicked, honest in our treachery. But, the fabric of time does not necessarily care about these things. I belong with no one.” Her gaze was unwavering.
“What do we care of the fabric of time?” he murmured, his voice deep and husky. He liked very much the way he felt at this moment, with her so close to him that he could drop his head and brush his lips against her hair, should he wish. Fear was not even a whisper on him.
“What, indeed?” She floated backwards, stepping into an alcove and motioned to him with her eyes to follow.
He stepped into the shadows of the small, private sitting room with her. She pulled a heavy velvet curtain, separating them from the whirling mass of dancing and drinking guests. It was incredibly likely that they had been seen, but neither considered this even for a moment. The candlelight within cast an intimate glow on them, inviting transgression. Without a word, she reached for him, pulling his mouth down to hers.
Startled, Ravan hesitated.
She sensed this immediately and paused, staring pitiless into his eyes, not inviting, just waiting.
Quickly overcoming his trepidation, he responded, moving into her, acting upon need, devouring her in his kiss. He was surprised at how suddenly and completely he wanted her, wanted to make her stay with him, but she controlled him even as he advanced on her.
Pushing her almost too roughly against the pillar, so that her breath caught, he pressed his body against her. He stared down at her face, searching her eyes. This was all very new to him, he'd never done such a thing before. He kissed her again, roughly and deeply while inhaling the essence of her, thrilled with the unfamiliarity of it. She smelled fragrant, tribal. There was no perfume—it was all Nicolette.
The world turned slowly about as they kissed. His mouth was hard, his beard rough as it scratched her delicate lips and cheek.
She coaxed him, mouth open, asking him to give in to her completely.
Ravan had never kissed someone before, but proved a fast study, matching her arousal, drawing her into the maleness of himself.
Reaching down, she found his trouser’s waist and pulled hard on the laces, freeing the garment enough to reach her hand in and down. She grasped him, squeezing gently while she directed his hand towards her breast.
He gasped as she pulled gently but firmly on him, too overwhelmed with the sensation to question the lack of discretion. She pulled her gown free at the bodice exposing her small breasts, gently directing his hand over one.
It was hot to his touch, velvety and small, and he stroked it softly.
She reached up, hand behind his neck to pull his lips to her breast. All the while, her other hand was down his trousers, rhythmically pulling on him.
Ravan had never been handled in such a way, and he groaned, closing his eyes, his tongue tasting her skin. He stood, dropping his head, so that he could smell the spicy, smoky scent of her hair. She turned her face up to him, locking his mouth again in a warm, moist kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth as she drank from him.
This kiss was more than he could endure. It pushed him rapidly beyond the point of no return. He threw his head forward, his back arching as he pressed against her, his face against the cold of the stone pillar behind her. He reached down to encircle her hand with his own and groaned, a deep, carnal sound. Shuddering, his orgasm finally exploded into her hand, dripping down her fingers and spattering onto the floor.
As Ravan gasped and finished, he moaned, leaning his head heavily against the pillar, his arms either side of her.
She pushed hard against his chest, pushing him to step away from her. Then, she looked down at her hand as though she didn’t recognize it.
Ravan just stared at her, unsteady, staggered by the immediate events.
Leaning her head casually to one side, her eyes never left his as she reached her hand up to wipe it clean upon his tunic, cleaning each finger of him, one by one. Then, she kissed him again, gently, just brushing her lips against his.
For the first time in his life, Ravan trembled. It was not from cold, pain or fear. He trembled because he felt alive.
Nicolette tugged at her gown to cover her nakedness, laced the bodice and carefully smoothed the brocade. She turned abruptly to leave and paused, almost as an afterthought.
“The fabric of time does not care about us, Ravan—not at all. Careful that you should ever think that it would...”
She turned away and did not look back as she stepped from behind the heavy silk-velvet curtain. Standing on the edge of the swirling mass of dancers, she pulled her gloves on, one by one. Then, accepting a glass of champagne and a ‘congratulations’, she was swept into the crowd.
All he could do was watch, helpless to stop her.
Ravan was stunned, utterly possessed by the strange beauty which had just handled him so completely, physically and emotionally. He glanced at the whirling bodies on the dance floor, then across the floor to the seated Adorno.
Vacantly and with hatred in his eyes, Adorno stared back...
* * *
Late that night, LanCoste took the watch and Ravan sat alone on the bench in his room, again overlooking the castle grounds. They were so lovely and dark on this early autumn’s night, the perfect backdrop for him to preoccupy himself with what had transpired earlier.
He repeatedly poured over in his mind what had happened at the ball, how Nicolette had spoken to him, what she had done to him, and how she had controlled him so completely, body and soul! He could scarcely believe it happened and worried that he might have dreamed it. Ravan was consumed with his thoughts of her and he felt more alive than ever before.
That night, there occurred a shift in the path of Ravan’s life. A dark haired beauty had given him a nudge and sent him careening wildly into very unfamiliar terrain. For the first time since arriving at Ado
rno’s castle, Ravan feared he might have to leave.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
†
D’ata sat in the gravel muck of the riverbank as God washed the world with gray. Everything was ashen now, and so quiet—he couldn’t hear anything. Clouds coursed across the leaden sky. It was a pallid backdrop to the tangle of leafless tree branches that swayed overhead, but the wind that moved them spoke nothing. Strange, even the river was silent as it lapped against Julianne’s legs.
Ah well—at least she was finally safe in his arms. He closed his eyes.
A group of nearly thirty men slowly encircled him, not saying anything, not interfering with the events that unfolded tragically before them. No one meant for it to come to this—no one had thought this could happen.
The wind hushed them all to silence and no one spoke. No one dared interrupt what happened on the banks of the river.
D’ata sat, gently rocking her in his arms, whispering into the hair of his lovely Julianne. He clutched her limp and frail body close to his and stared blankly out across the river. Everything was black and white.
Slowly, a dark red stain appeared from between her legs, spoiling the muddy pale of her dress. The stain looked oddly out of place and soaked slowly into the dampness of her gown so that eventually it seemed to claim most of the skirt for itself.
All the colors of the world were gone, save one. Only one terrible color remained—red.
He murmured his love for her, brushing her hair back with his hand and whispered to her that it was all right to sleep now, that he would watch over her, always. She was sleeping so soundly—he didn’t notice anyone else, only her.
The thin, lanky young man with the dark wet hair, hanging matted around his neck and face, kissed the golden-haired angel ever so softly on her closed eyelids.
Her skin was starkly pale against the golden brown of the man who held her. All watched as he lifted her delicate hand and pressed it against his bare chest, against his own beating heart.
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