by Ann Lawrence
He frowned. Maybe she was a Marie Antoinette, feasting while her people starved. “If the Selaw are poor, why don’t you sell a few of those amber stones on your dress and distribute the proceeds?”
Ardra’s hand went to her breast. She touched the stones stitched into an intricate pattern there. “Do you think me so unfeeling of my people that I would harm them to my benefit? The stone is sacred, but not valuable.”
She wiped her hands on a towel, and he saw that her amber eyes were shot with red. He imagined she had done her grieving in private.
“I’m sorry. I guess that was pretty stupid of me.”
“Aye,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her.
He shrugged out of his cloak and tossed it over a bench, then touched her shoulder. “It was bad timing, too.”
She turned and leaned into him, her forehead on his chest. If he put his arms around her, he’d pick her up and take her to bed. The urge was visceral and intense.
Instead he stood there, his arms at his sides. After a few moments, she stepped back and looked up at him. There was something more than a little spellbinding about her sad eyes, innocent and weary at the same time.
“I’m sorry about Tol,” he said. It was one of the empty things he’d heard a hundred times at his mother’s funeral. It did nothing for the pain, but he now understood why people said it. You had to say something.
“Thank you.” She touched his bruised cheek. “This looks better today. Why do you not shave so I can see if it is clean?”
He shrugged. What should he say? Without my electric razor I’m lost?
She put her own interpretation on his silence. “Forgive me. Of course, everything you had was stolen. Sit. I will shave you. It is a small service in exchange for all you have done for me.”
“Uh, you don’t have to do that.” Actually, it sounded great to him. Like going to a barber, and he wouldn’t have to spy on Ollach and Ralen, or flub the effort in front of them.
“Sit, Lien. You protest too much over trivialities. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
“We have the same expression where I come from,” he said.
She pulled the heavy water pitcher from the brazier and poured some water into a basin that appeared to be made of marble. Next, she opened a wooden box and withdrew a rolled bundle and what turned out to be a cake of soap wrapped in cloth. She flipped the rolled bundle open and displayed a collection of blades—sharp ones.
“Ah…that is, maybe I’ll grow a beard. Nilrem has a beard—”
She smiled. “Are you afraid? You need not be. I may not be a personal slave, but I shaved Tol all the time. Now sit.”
He sat on a bench. His heart raced like an Indy car.
She stood between his thighs. One of his pistons misfired. Then she lifted his chin with the tip of one finger and ran her thumb back and forth along his jawline. His engine flat-out stalled.
“Does this hurt?” she asked, lingering on the bruise.
“No. Yes. Maybe.”
With a slight smile, she lathered her hands, smoothing soap on her palms and then on his face. He recognized the scent of the soap as the one he’d smelled in her hair. When she put a blade against his cheek, he closed his eyes and tried not to tense up.
Her legs were warm against the insides of his. Each time she stroked the knife along his cheek, her breath whispered along his freshly shaved skin.
“Breathe,” she said. “I will not hurt you.”
Finally, she was done. She stepped from between his thighs to wet a cloth and wipe his face. She held the warm cloth to his cheeks and examined his bruise.
“This is healing nicely on its own, but I think ‘twould serve well to keep your face shaved.”
She bent and kissed his mouth. He wrapped her up and pulled her into his lap. He lifted his hips and pressed against her.
She moaned. An instant later, he held a wild creature. She raked her fingers into his hair. Her mouth moved on his—lips, tongue, breath—in a maelstrom of sensation.
Her laces defied him, but finally parted. He pulled the jumper thing aside and cupped her breast. It was small, firm, warm through the linen. He clasped her nipple in his fingertips and rugged. She jerked in his arms, and the sounds she made in her throat were low, guttural—feral. They inflamed him.
A braid uncoiled and slithered across his hand. He took the silky gold rope, pulled her head back, and put his mouth on the long, slim column of her throat.
Her pulse throbbed beneath his lips. He dropped her hair and took the sweet mound of her breast into his hand again. She pushed against his palm. Hard metal grazed his knuckles as he caressed her. Armrings. Encircling her upper arm. He held a woman of status, one far above him in her world.
She kneaded his hip and he forgot why it mattered. Her fingers were so close. His heart began to thud in his chest. He wanted her hand on his erection.
He dropped his hand over hers. “Ardra,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes. They were hazy, lost. Then they widened.
“Nay.” She pulled out of his embrace. “Oh, forgive me. I am not wanton, truly I am not. I just…forgive me.”
He got up and embraced her from behind. She froze the instant his body touched hers. “Yes, I want you.” He kissed her neck. A small quiver went through her, but she was tense in his arms.
If he let go, she’d walk away. He needed her to walk away. He opened his arms. She took a step and fumbled with her jumper thing, pulling the laces tight.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
She shook her head and another braid fell down. With a small sound of dismay, she tried to put them up but made a mess of it.
“I just want to understand what message I’m getting here,” he said.
“What message?” She touched her breast. His insides danced.
“If you hadn’t called a halt just now, we’d have ended up over there—” He jerked his thumb at the chaise. “In about ten minutes, you and I would have been buck naked and screwing our brains out.” He cupped her face. “Is that what you want?”
Her eyes widened, and she drew back. She picked up a comb and ran it through her hair working out the remnants of her plaits. He gave her time to think. He needed time to think. She tied her hair at her nape with something that looked like gold cord.
“I like your kisses,” she said, “but I have never wanted what follows.”
And that did it for him. Maybe not physically, but it did it for the rest of him. What kind of lifemating had she had, to not want what followed kissing? He scooped up his cloak.
“I do not know why I kissed you, Lien.” Her eyes were wide, and she tipped her head and drew the ponytail over her shoulder, then twisted her fingers in the ends.
“You’re mourning Tol. Maybe you just wanted comfort.”
“That must be it. I wanted comfort.” She took the rope of hair in her two hands and stroked it over and over.
Blood surged through his veins.
“Kisses lead to other places, Ardra. I don’t want you making love to me just because you feel bad. The only thing you’re going to feel afterward is regret. Let’s not go there again.”
“Agreed.” Her abrupt acquiescence suited him but also disappointed him.
“Ardra, just out of curiosity, how do you prevent pregnancy here?”
The soft, vulnerable look on her face disappeared.
“Why? Are you concerned that your fine Ocean City blood might be tainted by association with a Selaw woman? That I might bear a mixed child and shame you?”
“Absolutely not. That’s not what I meant. I was just curious, nothing more.”
She threw open her coffer and tossed in her comb. “All know that a child born of a slave and a free woman is a slave. I would not subject a child to such a life. If I wanted to lie with a man, especially one with such a questionable status as yours, I would take the proper herbs.”
Her chin was up in the air, her hands on her hips,
but her eyes were huge and glittery.
“You haven’t a clue. You may know that some herbs or whatever exist, but I’ll wager my left hand you’ve never taken them.”
She hissed through her teeth. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“No. I’m saying I’ve kissed enough women to know you haven’t kissed many men—”
“Out.” She pointed at the tent flap. “Out.”
He ran his hands over his hair. “Okay. Fine.”
Ardra turned her back on him, wiped off the knife blade she’d used to shave him, and began to wrap up her bundle of blades. He was glad she wasn’t pitching them at him.
Time to escape. He pulled up the tent flap.
“Lien. Wait.” She held the basin of shaving water in the circle of her arms and walked slowly toward him, her hips swaying.
If she wanted another kiss, she wasn’t getting it.
“Please find Ollach and tell him I want Tol’s men ready to leave at the sunrising. Tell him I want him to stand guard outside my tent after the scattering of Tol’s ashes so I may rest undisturbed.” She thrust the basin into his arms. “Please dispose of this.”
Ardra led the Procession of the Ashes out of camp when night fell. No moons guided them tonight, and a misty rain fell. It caused the torches to smoke as Tol’s mourners wound their way across the level ground toward the mountains.
Finally they halted. Ralen handed her the stone jar containing Tol’s ashes and then led the rest of the procession back to Samoht’s camp.
Tradition required that she do this alone, but Deleh stood with her. When the many torches were out of sight, Ardra took a deep breath.
Despite Deleh’s presence, Ardra had never felt so alone as she did standing on this silent, wet plain. Her thin mourning robe offered no protection from the rain.
She opened the jar. “Hold my hand,” she said to Deleh.
They walked in a circle eight times, eyes closed, scattering the ashes, chanting the ancient words that would accompany Tol’s soul to the next life.
It should be just Deleh here. The love between her and Tol was so strong, death could not end it.
Finally the jar was empty. Now they must find their way back to camp.
“Which way?” Deleh asked. Her thin hand trembled.
“Away from the mountains.” Ardra frowned. The light rain had become a downpour. It pelted her shoulders and turned the rough ground muddy. Were they facing in the right direction?
She put her arm around Deleh’s shoulders and directed her to stand still. Where were the mountains? Why could she not see torches?
She listened for the river, but heard only the hiss of rain.
“We are lost, Ardra, are we not?” Deleh whispered. “‘Tis Samoht’s wish that we perish.”
“Stop it,” Ardra said, but she shivered.
“Why are there no guards to make sure we find our way back? All know that to walk in circles with one’s eyes closed makes one dizzy and disoriented. We will perish.” The old woman began to weep.
Ardra held Deleh in her arms. “I will find the way back. Trust me.”
Deleh sniffed. “I do not weep for myself. In truth, I can think of nothing but joining Tol. I have prayed that it will not be long. But you—you are so young. Your son needs you. And I know that Samoht would relish your death. ‘Twould mean he could take the fortress and the boy without bloodshed or dishonor to Tol’s name. If we die, Samoht solves two problems at once. I am a useless old woman, and you are too much trouble.”
“I will not believe Samoht so base as to allow two women to perish in such a way.” But doubts niggled at her composure.
She took Deleh’s hand and tugged her forward. “I will find our way back. We shall walk until we find the river, then follow it.”
Inside, she was sick with dread.
A shadow stepped in front of her. Deleh screamed.
“Lien!” Ardra clamped down on her joy. She forced herself to walk past him. It would not do to let him think she had been lost. As he walked at her side, she noticed he did not depend on his walking staff. His stride was fluid, easy.
“Camp’s the other way,” he said and pointed off to her right.
“Of course,” she said, veering in that direction, dragging Deleh behind her.
“I figured you must be lost, you were gone so long.”
She could not see his face in the heavy rain, but heard no mockery in his tone. “I again must thank you for your care.”
“No problem. I aim to serve. I heard voices, and that told me where to find you. Where is everyone anyway?”
A most apt question. Where were the guards to guide her home?
Lien pulled off his cloak and draped it over Deleh’s shoulders. He pulled the hood up, tucking it close about the old woman’s chin.
In silence, he led them back to the camp. Even when they were right upon the tents, the camp was nearly invisible in the heavy rain. Ardra went directly to Tol’s tent. Lien left them at the entrance.
No guards stood outside, and the itch of unease she’d felt became a certainty of some evil. Was Deleh right? Were there no guards because Samoht had expected them to perish on the plain?
Ardra helped the old woman into a warm woolen gown, stirred the braziers, and heated a warm drink for her. Then she pulled off her own soaked clothing and donned one of Deleh’s loose robes.
“You waste time,” Deleh said. “Go to the young man. He must need his cloak.” She crawled onto Tol’s bed couch and pulled a heavy fur over her legs. “Lien was uncommonly kind. Not even Tol would have given his cloak to a slave.”
“He is surely in Ollach’s tent by now.”
“I will wager my silver hair beads for a scented candle that he is outside as we speak,” Deleh said.
“I have no need of your hair beads. He is not so much a fool that he would stand in the rain.”
“My bath oil for a scented candle.”
“Ah, now that is worth the wager.” Ardra peeked outside. At first she did not see him; then a glimmer of white caught her eye. Was it a guard making his rounds? Nay, ‘twas Lien sheltering against the side of a tent, the white his tunic.
“I owe you a scented candle. Now I must go,” she said to Deleh, picking up Lien’s wet cloak. “Rest and stay warm.”
“Thank him, Ardra, but be wary.”
“What does that mean?” Deleh often tried to mother her.
“It means Lien is a most intriguing man, but I wonder if he was born with such dark hair or if some evil curse changed him. If he was cursed…you may fall under ill luck in his company.”
“I mean only to return his cloak.”
“Ardra—” Deleh held out her hand. When Ardra took it, the old woman squeezed it. “I know Tol taught you much that a woman should not know. I could never agree with such nonsense. Do not allow his teachings to bring you harm. Accept the mate that Samoht will surely choose for you, and raise more babies. Forget the fortress.”
“It is not the fortress, but the people within its walls I worry about, my son included. Now rest. When the sun rises, I will speak to Samoht and Einalem about a place for you.”
“Old slaves have no place when their master dies.” A single tear ran down Deleh’s cheek.
“Do not speak so. I swear I will see to your care. Now please, sleep.” She kissed Deleh’s brow and drew the fur up to her chin. Deleh closed her eyes and sighed.
Ardra took up Lien’s cloak again and went out into the night. Where were the guards? Who neglected his duties so that her tent and Tol’s went unprotected?
She crossed the muddy expanse of ground to where Lien stood. She handed him the cloak. “I must thank you for your kindness to Deleh.”
“No problem. Anyone would have done the same.”
“Nay, not here. Could I impose upon you yet again to fetch Ollach? Please ask him to stand guard outside my tent.” She curtseyed and walked away. She did not look back.
She banished thoughts of what Lien would do about hi
s wet clothes, or how he would get them dry. She would not think of him pulling the wet tunic over his head, or drawing the black leather breeches down his hips.
Einalem watched Ardra speak with the dark one, then watched him stand in the rain until she disappeared into her tent. He pulled the cloak over his shoulders and went to the tent Ralen shared with Ollach. A few moments later, Ollach left the tent and stood guard before Ardra’s. The dark one did not reappear.
The thought of him, so exotic, so completely different from the other men, stirred her desires for a moment, but she thrust them aside. He would serve for a bed game or two, but that was not what she wanted. She skirted a muddy puddle and summoned one of Samoht’s guards.
“My brother wishes to speak with Ralen. Could you fetch him here?” The man bowed, and she pressed a coin into his palm. Now the man would say ‘twas the high councilor who wanted Ralen, not she. Gossip could be so troublesome.
While she waited she would tend to other matters. And she knew Ralen would keep her waiting. His need to defy her in small ways was part of his allure.
She opened a large coffer filled with the impedimenta of her craft. She drew one unexceptional stone bottle from a row of others much like it and tapped a bit of dusty powder onto a linen square. After filling a goblet with a fine wine she kept warm in a brazier, she poured the powder into it.
Lest the wine’s taste be ruined, she dropped dried fruit peel into the goblet. She placed it close to the brazier and then wandered around the tent, plumping pillows, lighting a wick in a dish of scented oil. Idly she considered a drop of hypnoflora between her breasts, but discarded the idea. Languid compliance was not what she wished from Ralen.
She heard the murmur of voices outside. Ralen entered the tent and shook the water from his cloak before draping it across a bench.
“I should complain to Samoht that you keep me waiting,” Einalem said.
“But you will not,” Ralen said. He pulled off his tunic and took care to lay it out neatly.
Einalem licked her lips. “Any punishment to you would punish me as well.” She ran her hands up his chest and pulled his head close. “Have I told you how the sight of you makes me wet with desire?”
