by Nancy Gideon
“We girls?”
“You, me and Kendra.” A giggle. “And Tony, of course, as our watchdog.” She fluttered lashes up at Wes. “Unless you’d like to be our chaperone.”
“Oh, God no. The only interest I have in women’s clothing is how quickly it can be removed.”
His wink brought on a girlish giggle that made Sylvia want to slap them both.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time.” She noticed others still glaring in her direction as they whispered.
“It’s the perfect time. What else do you have to do?” Rosie challenged. “Sit around in what you’re wearing worrying about tonight? Is that how you want your prince to see you when he looks up from the arena?”
Pride provoked her past her upset, just as Rosie must have known it would.
The not-so-silly girl leaned close to whisper, “Hair and nails, too. Come on.”
“All right.”
No mate of Turow Terriot would be seen looking like she’d escaped chains and certain death and now feared she’d never find redemption. They’d see a princess in the House of Terriot proudly supporting her prince.
And that’s what he would see, too.
Once the killing fury trickled down, Turow’s mind overtook the unexpected madness.
When he’d noticed Sylvia slip away, when he’d seen Stephen follow, he hadn’t connected the two events until a sudden hard punch of alarm sent him reeling. Every hair on his body had prickled. Instincts had sharpened. Warning screamed through him so loudly his head rang with it.
What the hell?
Danger. Sylvia.
He didn’t question the source or reliability of the threat. He acted, quick, decisive, knotted up so tight he shook from the difficulty of restraint.
His mate was in danger!
When he’d come upon them, rage incinerated reason. Sylvia’s wide, frightened gaze cauterized all emotion. If she hadn’t stopped him, his brother Stephen would have been cleaned up with a bucket and mop. He hadn’t believed himself capable of such gut-ripping, mind-blanking violence.
For her.
If Sylvia hadn’t called him back, Stephen would be dead and he’d be facing Cale’s justice instead of dealing out his own.
Testing the boundaries of his still-healing body, Turow shadow boxed alone on the darkened court where he’d later face his brother. Aggressive movement woke a pull of complaint in his side. Time alone woke questions he should have asked himself before plowing in like an avenging god.
Was there any truth to what Stephen claimed?
Could his entire family be right, and he the only one clueless as to Sylvia’s motives?
He sent out a fierce combination of punches only to hug his ribs, breathing shallowly through the pain. In his side and in his heart.
She’d never pretended to be anything other than what his clan claimedschemer, liar, userwith beauty and sex her weapons. He’d never stood a chance, lacking Cale’s experience and cynicism, to escape the aura that burned so bright and hot around her. Once singed, he’d been desperate for that continued heat.
She’d become his mate to save her own life. Nothing more or less. She enjoyed their verbal and sexual sparring. He knew he pleased her in bed. But could he satisfy her in any other arena?
Tonight, he’d prove himself to her in this one.
“You’re fighting a losing battle, brother.”
Turow turned to face Wesley, wondering if he’d somehow been privy to his thoughts.
“You don’t think I can take Stephen?”
Wes laughed. “My girlfriend could take Stephen. But can you take on all of them? The endless parade of those who’ll want what you have and try to take what they think she offers because they think they can?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Did you ever bother to ask yourself if the wanting is worth the trouble of the having?”
“No.”
“Sylvia is complicated.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Really? Because she doesn’t understand herself.” He moved behind the bag to steady it for several half-hearted blows that stopped when he continued. “Our mother was complicated, too. Getting us to want things we couldn’t have and didn’t need. Making us believe we had more of a right to them than anyone else and that gave us permission to use whatever means necessary. We’re damaged goods, Row. We can’t be fixed because we don’t know how wrong we are.”
To combat the terrible fear that he was right, Turow argued, “You turned out okay. You’re Cale’s right hand. Everyone respects you.”
“You’d think so. If I respected myself. I didn’t see what they were doing right under my nose. Our king could have died, and that would have been on me.”
“But he didn’t. And it isn’t.”
Wes smirked at his succinct assessment. “But that doesn’t change anything. Not who we are and what we’re capable of. Let her go, Turow. You don’t understand her. How could someone like you?”
Someone like you. How those words burned.
“Tell me.”
“It’s not my place, brother. I like you, Row. Always have. So does she. Which is why it’ll tear her apart when she betrays you. She can’t help herself. The closer you get, the more she’ll struggle to get away. She’ll destroy you.”
“Why?”
“Ask her. But when you do, be prepared for the answer. You’re a good man, a strong man. Maybe you can handle it. But if you can’t, if you fail her, then you and I will have this conversation again, and it won’t involve words. We’re not particularly close, but she’s my kin. Let her go now while both of you can still survive it.”
“Too late for that already.”
“You mean this dramatic display?” Wesley laughed. “Call it off. Stephen’s a drunken fool. No one would think less of you.”
“She would.”
Wes studied him for a moment then shook his head, smiling wryly as he stood away from the bag and from his attempt to sway his stalwart brother. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Good luck tonight. In the ring, and after.”
Turow watched him walk away, questions and fears roiling around in his belly like two warring badgers.
Ask her.
Did he really want to know? Could he afford to risk the tentative truce they’d established between them by pushing into her private spaces? If he crossed that line and Wes was right, would their new bond be enough to hold them together or, as his brother predicted, would she run from him and the future he longed for them to have together?
Sleeping dogs, Row, he told himself. Leave them alone. Step back. Don’t provoke a response. It won’t be in your favor.
It’s never in your favor.
Eventually, he went back to his workout. Only now his attack was less certain, his opponent a doubt that could crush him.
Though she’d lived her life chasing the frivolous distractions of shopping, gossip, and spending what she hadn’t earned, Sylvia had never enjoyed it. Like everything she did, the energy spent was toward the outer goal of shaping her future at the expense of the moment, nothing spontaneous, every move, every word carefully calculated toward crafting that perfect exterior image of a powerful, enviable catch.
In truth, she’d never felt closer to her true self than when wearing borrowed yoga pants and gel shoes. She’d never seen herself reflected in another’s eyes until ragged and on the run with Turow Terriot.
But Rosie was right. How she appeared would reflect on how their clan viewed her prince. She owed him too much to fail him. If there was anything she knew how to do well, it was shape opinion. This one mattered if any happiness was to be found with her new mate.
The fact she even considered that possibility made her mock such a Pollyanna view. There was no happiness for someone like her. There was only survival in the best case scenario. Thinking of it any other way would only lead to heartache.
She went about gathering a new wardrobe the way a general would mount an attack. Eschew
ing Kendra’s suggestion that she appear subdued and therefore harmless, Sylvia went bold and proud, not in-your-face or sexual, but with strong, elegant choices to compliment her mate’s understated image. Deep colors, rich textures, sleek lines accented with a single set of jewelryblue topazes the color of a certain Terriot prince’s eyes. And each outfit with a scooped neckline, not to show off the curve of throat or bosom, but to reveal the faint scars that marked her place in the House of Terriot.
The afternoon proved fairly painless. Rosie’s endless chattering filled the awkward silences between her and Kendra, who obviously would have preferred having an ingrown toenail extracted to a pedicure in the chair next to hers. Cale no longer stood between them. It was Turow and their queen’s sudden affection for him. Like a noble pet, Sylvia assumed, unable to find a better reason.
“Such a terrifying ordeal,” Rosie expounded with a dramatic sigh. “I wouldn’t have been brave enough.”
“Bravery is overrated.”
“And a prince as your reward.” A bigger gust of pure dreaminess.
“A reward few believe I deserve.”
“You must if a man like Turow would stand for you against such horrible rumors.”
Rumors? She knew Rosie was baiting her, trying to squeeze out information, so she stepped down hard on her own curiosity, choosing to make an assenting noise in lieu of providing fodder for the scandal mill.
“I mean after all, you run away with the man who tried to kill our king. I know, he’s my cousin, but I’m horrified to think he’d do such a thing or that anyone would believe I had anything to do with his diabolical plans.”
Sylvia smiled thinly. “No one would think that.”
Rosie gave her a relieved look. “I know we’re almost sisters and all, so I’m so glad you saw the evil of your ways in time.”
“Mmmm. Yes. I was quite reborn a newer, better creature. Having a parent die in front of you and your life go up in flames is quite the incentive.”
“And then there’s Turow.” That heaving sigh again.
“Yes. Turow. There to drag me to my death. My hero.”
Rosie giggled, thinking she joked, but Kendra studied her through cool, assessing eyes. “That was quite unexpected. You must have been very persuasive to get him to change his allegiance.”
“You mean by using my scheming wiles to corrupt the innocent virgin prince?” She laughed as Kendra’s glare intensified. “Turow is neither of those things, and no one can make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. He would never betray Cale. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“He risked his life for you. You know that, don’t you? Cale could have had both of you killed.”
“I didn’t ask him to do it. I asked him to let me go.”
“Back to James?”
Sylvia let her silence be Kendra’s answer.
Kendra wouldn’t relent. “And yet he risks all again on your behalf.”
“So romantic,” Rosie cooed.
“So stupid and unnecessary,” Sylvia corrected, tone harsh, eyes welling, to her further irritation. “His future will be a short one if he thinks he can fight his way to wiping away the sins attached to my name. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He values you above all females, it seems.”
Kendra’s antagonism faded behind a small smile. “I don’t think so.”
Sylvia turned back to the fashion magazine lying open in her lap, pretending once more to be interested in its pages.
“How is James?” Rosie asked in a faint little voice. “I mean besides being a traitor and all?”
“James is a dangerous lunatic, and Cale needs to be very afraid of the threat he presents.”
Her suspicion that their queen was using Rosie to gracelessly pump her for information ended when Kendra bristled protectively. “What do you know of his plans?”
“He told me nothing. My use to him died with my mother.”
“And yet, according to Turow, he went to great lengths to retrieve you.”
“I’m a good listener. He likes an audience.”
“Which hotel were you in in Las Vegas? Which of Cale’s brothers gave James sanctuary?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see a name in neon or embroidered on the very expensive towels?”
“I didn’t pay attention. I was too busy trying to stay alive.”
“But it was one of ours?”
“He said it was.” That’s all Sylvia could afford to give her without revealing a truth she feared.
That Wesley was in league with James, making the line she walked all the narrower.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The last time Sylvia had sat in the gallery overlooking the site of combat, she’d been at a naïve Kendra’s side as her supposed confidant while the unmated princes fought for the right to court and claim the ingénue. They’d both been after the same arrogant heir to the throne, and Kendra had won that prize away. Such irony that she be here tonight wedged between the blissfully happy king and queen, depending on their mercy as much as her prince’s skill.
The thought of bloodshed always drew a crowd, but on this night, curiosity and contempt packed the seats to watch a respected prince fight for the nonexistent honor of his chosen. Sylvia felt those condemning stares and knew her appearance was an added slap in their direction. They wanted to see a wan and anxious creature whose life hung on the whim of their king and the strength of her male. Unlike Steven’s weepy-eyed mate seated in a shivery huddle on Cale’s opposite side, what she gave them was a poised and purposefully indifferent façade. Glossy hair upswept, makeup perfect, wearing fitted slacks and fur-trimmed jacket of soft, supple suede with topazes flashing with every turn of her head, Sylvia projected confidence instead of fear or arrogance.
Then she forgot her clan’s existence as her prince crossed the court floor to take a knee.
“My king.”
He had eyes only for his sovereign until Cale’s nod freed his glance to slide her way. Fear jumped within Sylvia's chest.
Where was the roaring ferocity of that morning? Kneeling on the boards, Turow displayed none of that angry fervor. His affect was remote, his posture humble. Did he regret his choice to defend her?
His gaze held hers for only a moment before his opponent arrived to pull everyone’s attention away. Except hers. She continued to study that noble profile, seeing the faded bruising, noting the way he still favored his side. Still, how hard could it be to defeat a drink-addled foe?
Then she saw Stephen, and her certainty wavered even more.
No sign of the morning’s debauchery remained in the male standing boldly beside his challenger. Clear eyes and grim intent accompanied his curt, “My king.” Next to Turow’s subdued pose, his was strong and combative. A dangerous combination.
How had he recovered so quickly and completely? Unless his appearance that morning had been only for appearance's sake.
Cale rose to regard his brothers. “You are princes in the House of Terriot. Conduct yourself as such. This challenge will settle all ill-will between the two of you. Is that understood?”
Quick nods of agreement.
“This is a contest of men. There will be no shifting into your baser selves. This challenge will be answered when one of you yields. It is not to the death. Is that understood? I will not lose either of you over this point of honor.”
Over her honor. He couldn’t have made that more clear. Sylvia stiffened even as gratitude settled about her anxious heart.
“Put an end to this quickly and completely. Begin.”
As soon as Cale took his seat, Turow began to rise. Stephen’s elbow to his injured middle sent him staggering to a safe distance, where he hugged his side and carefully assessed his opponent. Stephen selected a staff from the weapons available and Turow followed suit, preferring not to grapple up close where his brother could slip in another near-crippling blow.
They circled warily, waiting for the right moment to strike. Having sparred with
Stephen before, Turow knew him to be a rash, impulsive fighter. But this evening, he was all coolly competent, taking his time, looking for the chance to take advantage of an obvious weakness. Instead of guarding his side, Row chose a bold attack, making hard hits to hip, shoulder and head from which Stephen recovered far too quickly, rebounding with another sharp jab into his barely healed middle. Quickly pressing that advantage, his brother battered him with lightning-fast strikes, drawing him off his guarded stance to slip in more devastating assaults to his ribs. Excruciating pain doubled him. Unable to rally an adequate response, Turow was forced to retreat while a confident Stephen strutted and preened for his audience.
Vision clouding, Row looked to the gallery, seeing Sylvia begin to rise but unable to clearly make out her features. A raw inhale filled his senses with his mate’s stabilizing scent. He replayed again what he’d seen that morning, the fear in her eyes as his brother gripped her throat. The handprint marring her skin, the moisture wetting her lashes. Relief replacing that panic when she saw him coming to her rescue.
The bastard had put hands on his mate. Had frightened that magnificent creature into uncharacteristic tears! Had slandered her in front of their family!
She’d turned to him for protection, for vindication. And he was failing her, letting her attacker mock her integrity and his ability to uphold it.
Rage boiled up to swamp his pain. When he straightened to take an aggressive position, surprise and uncertainty wiped the smugness from Stephen’s face.
Enough!
Whether fear for his safety or her own, Sylvia had to put an end to the one-sided fight. Though innocent this time, her oceans of past sins swept away that single virtuous stand. She couldn’t let this good man fall for the sake of her pride.
She'd started up from her seat before the cuff of Cale’s grip on her elbow held her fast. He didn’t look at her as he spoke low and fierce.
