Taxing Courtship (The Hands of Destin Book 1)

by Jaycee Jarvis

  “More’s the pity,” she muttered as she pushed the coverlet off her lap. “Who knows how long he’s going to be trapped there.”

  “I’d give you more for his care, if I had any extra.”

  She stood and carefully folded the blanket. “If you are ever hard up for beans, you should convince your mother to sell some of her embroidery.” Her hand caressed the colorful stitches. “This, and the pillows, your kaftan. She’s quite the artist.”

  Ears hot, he regretted the impulse to cover her with the cloth. “I wouldn’t call it art.”

  “Her work is beautiful. Unique. Look at the detail on this flower.” She presented the folded fabric with a yellow orchid facing him. “You should encourage her to sell it at market. It would probably pay better than growing vegetables.”

  He took the cloth and tucked it under his arm. “My mother doesn’t embroider. She doesn’t have the knack for it.”

  “But the pillows, the coverlet—”

  He sighed. “They’re mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Once my grandmother gave up any hope of having a granddaughter, she decided to pass her craft down to me. My mother was always hopeless with a needle. It warmed my grandmother’s heart to have someone in the house take after her.”

  “So you made this?” Her fingers rested lightly on his cuff.

  He nodded mutely, waiting for the mockery to begin.

  Her thumb stroked the abstract blue design. “You have a gift.” Her graceful brown fingers looked delicate and soft against the pale linen of his kaftan.

  His body stirred, as he remembered how those fingers felt on his bare flesh. “It’s only a hobby.”

  “One that requires a great deal of patience, not to mention nimble fingers.” As he raised his gaze from her hand to her face, she snatched her fingers back and cleared her throat. “Your work is beautiful. You should be proud of your skill.”

  “You flatter me,” he protested, though he grinned like a monkey. Better flattery than mockery.

  “Not in the slightest, you have quite the gift.” She bent to pick up the pouches of beans.

  Panic rose in his throat at her movements. Any moment now she would take her payment and leave. He would never see her again. He licked his lips. “Would you care to barter?”

  “Barter?” She straightened. “For what?”

  “Put my nimble fingers to the test.”

  Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

  “Not like that.” His face heated. “Give me a lesson on how to pick locks and I’ll let you have a pillow or kaftan or bolt of cloth.”

  “A pillow?”

  He shrugged. “You said my mother could get a nice price for them in the marketplace. You could sell the piece instead and make a tidy profit. Unless you were flattering me.”

  She tilted her head, her eyes calculating. “Let me see your wares.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Huzzah!” Quintin could not contain his exuberance as the lock finally clicked open. He turned with a grin on his face to share his triumph with Em. Then froze as he caught sight of her curled up on the floor next to the table.

  She had fallen asleep with her head on a sitting pillow while he had been practicing with her picks. She rested so peacefully, with one hand curled under her cheek, and her dark hair shining red in the candlelight.

  Elkart sidled up to Quintin and nudged his hand.

  Quintin curled his fingers into the fur behind the waccat’s ears. His gaze did not waver from Em’s lovely face.

  Lesson over. She go.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. He smiled softly at the sleeping woman. He stood up to spread the coverlet over her. “She can go in the morning.”

  Morning? The waccat’s tail twitched. Hannah not like it.

  I’ll wake her up and send her home before Mother knows she’s here. Let her rest easy for now. Who knew where she lived in Farbank? This might be the first decent sleep she’d had in months.

  She sleep fine at her house. She smell like hot meals and soap. Probably has nicer bed than you.

  A frown marred his brow. Elkart spoke true. She smelled of fresh jasmine, not day-old sweat. He pushed aside the sliver of doubt. There was no denying the desperation in her voice or the angry face which had flashed through her mind when she thought about getting her payment. Was that man her father, who put his own gain before her happiness?

  Whatever the case may be, if he could shelter her from her daily cares for one night then he would.

  I promised I would keep her safe. That I would take care of her.

  In the morning she would be gone and out of his life forever. It almost didn’t bear thinking about.

  Chapter 12

  Warm, moist air blew against Em’s face. Half asleep, she opened her eyes to a gaping maw of sharp teeth. She screamed and jerked backward, smacking her head against a table leg. The pain brought her fully awake. Why was she lying on the floor with a waccat looming over her?

  “Hush,” Quintin hissed from a sleeping mat in the center of the shadowy room. “You don’t want to wake my mother.”

  “What time is it?” Her neck prickled as she turned away from the waccat to peer at the shuttered window. She must have fallen asleep on his floor.

  “Later than I intended.” He groaned and climbed out of his sleeping roll. When he opened the shutters, the room was bathed in pearly gray light.

  Her mouth went dry as she realized he had once again shed his kaftan and was completely bare from the waist up.

  He turned from the window to glare at his waccat, who lingered over her. The great cat turned his attention from her to his Hand, giving her the uncanny impression they were speaking mind-to-mind. Quintin frowned and planted his fists on his hips, the corded muscles in his arms flexing with the motion.

  She had not done his body justice when she had called him beautiful the night before. Flawless bronze skin gleamed in the pale glow of predawn light. A dusting of dark hair sprinkled over his chest and down his flat belly, narrowing to a line that disappeared into his trousers. She licked her lips. Her fingers itched to trace the line down past his hips.

  The waccat slunk away from her over to his Hand, yanking her from her salacious thoughts.

  Em scrambled to her feet. “Why didn’t you wake me last night?”

  “You were so peaceful. It seemed a kindness to let you sleep.” He ran a hand through his wavy black hair, which was loose about his shoulders. “Though you should go now, before we wake my mother.”

  She eyed her things spread out on the trunk by the window. Stepping close to him and his tempting flesh struck her as deeply unwise. “You should get dressed,” she muttered.

  His eyes widened. He moved away from the trunk to pick up a kaftan folded at the foot of his sleeping mat.

  She took his place by the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the tantalizing planes and honed muscles of his torso disappear under the voluminous folds of his clothes. Sighing with mingled relief and regret, she turned her attention to the trunk.

  Neatly laid out on its lid were her pouches of cacao, her open lockpick kit, and the embroidered length of cloth she had selected as her payment the night before.

  Her face relaxed as she beheld it. The pattern of flowers and birds was even more colorful and enchanting in the ghostly light from the window. She touched one finger to a purple flower made of clever knots, before turning her attention to the lockpick kit. She removed her oldest pick, a versatile middle-sized one Simon had given her long before she went into the business. Flipping it in her hand, she held it out handle first to Quintin.

  He slowly lowered his hands from tying back his hair, his brow knit in an expression of confusion.

  The back of her neck prickled as if someone was watch
ing her. She guessed he was testing her air defenses, but she dared not let him into her mind, not when she already felt so raw.

  She stepped over to him and slipped the pick into his hand, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “For you. To practice with.”

  His fingers closed around the tool. Before he could speak, the sound of voices drifted through a bead curtain next to the credenza.

  “Rotting hell.” His curse was no less vehement, for all that it was said in a quiet undertone. “Terin’s here. Pack up your stuff. Now.”

  She hurried back to the trunk. With practiced ease, she rolled up her lockpicks and slipped them into her chiton.

  “I don’t know if Quintin is awake yet,” a woman said clearly, the voices coming closer.

  The smaller bag of beans fit in her belt pouch.

  “The aroma of your cooking should be enough to entice a dead man to rise,” a man answered.

  The other pouch of beans followed her picks down the front of her chiton. It had no sooner nestled against her belly above her belt than a man’s head burst through the curtain.

  “What’s keeping you?” he asked before his gaze landed on Em. His classically handsome face slackened in shock as he stared at her.

  She ignored him to pull on her sandals.

  “I need to let Elkart out for a piss,” Quintin said, his voice too loud and carrying.

  She spun around to grab the folded cloth off the trunk and clutch it to her chest.

  The handsome stranger blinked and seemed to recover. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “No. I’ll be out in a moment.” Quintin waved his hands in a shooing motion.

  The man grunted and gave Em a searching look before pulling his head back through the curtain and asking Quintin’s mother a question about their impending meal.

  Quintin stepped over to the door and threw back the latch. “Stick to the hedge,” he told her in an undertone. “And clear out quickly.”

  Elkart brushed past her as she stepped out the door. The brown waccat bounded straight into the garden, dodging between the neat rows of plants and flowers to join two other great cats already cavorting on the paths.

  Em hurried around the edge of the clearing, staying as close to the berry hedge as she dared. She prayed the dark shadows hid her from anyone in the house, but there was no hiding from the waccats. She felt their gazes following her until she found the path and escaped.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Em muttered to herself as she hurried from the cottage to the trade road. Falling asleep and spending the night in Quintin’s rooms had been an unforgivable mistake. A less honorable man could easily have taken advantage of her, and she was usually too smart to trust a stranger, even if he was a Hand.

  Worse yet, it meant she had to traverse the streets of Trimble during the morning hustle and bustle while wearing her sneak clothes. Acolyte Lucy would be surprised to see her dressed this way, though her reaction would be nothing compared to what Lord Harold would do if he heard stories of his daughter dressed like a laborer.

  She lowered her head as she arrived at the trade road and joined the workers and vendors trickling into the city. She had the wild urge to cover her face with the cloth she clutched in her arms, or to at least hide her distinctive hair. She tightened her arms around the fabric. Such an action would only draw unwanted attention as she hurried through the streets of Trimble.

  When she reached her temple near the riverfront, she took the stairs two at a time, reciting the names of the gods in pairs. The crystal and glass curtain tinkled as she entered the sanctuary and breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was slipping off her sandals when Acolyte Lucy approached.

  “May the blessings of Fermena blow through your life,” she intoned. “How may I be—Lady Em! What are you doing here? And dressed like—”

  “I’ve got the beans.”

  “What?”

  Em shifted the folded cloth to under one arm and pulled the larger pouch out of her clothes. “I got the beans. We can pay the fishmonger.”

  Lucy took the pouch, though her face was a study of skepticism. “I shouldn’t ask where these came from, should I?”

  “It would be a long story,” Em agreed, “and as you’ve noted, I need to change.”

  Leaving Lucy shaking her head behind her, Em skirted the tree and altar at the center of the sanctuary to enter a short hallway hidden behind the tree. She ducked through a simple bead curtain into one of two private chambers at the back of the building.

  “Lady Maria? Is that you?” a shaky voice asked from a narrow pallet pushed against one wall.

  “It’s Lady Em, wise mystic.” She crossed the room to stand next to the bed and smile down at the old woman.

  “Lady Em. Foolish me, I keep forgetting.” Mystic Patricia captured Em’s hand with her knobby fingers. “You look more like your mother every day.”

  “You are too kind.” She patted Patricia’s hand with care. The mystic’s skin felt as thin and fragile as dried leaves.

  Patricia squinted, her face wrinkling like a walnut. “What are you doing dressed so strange, my lady?”

  “I need to put a few things away, and then I’m going to meditate in the steamroom.” Em pulled away from her mother’s old nurse to open a trunk on the opposite wall. The trunk held her spare clothes, a bed roll, and any other odds and ends she might need at Aerynet.

  Quintin’s cloth spilled across her lap as she knelt next to the trunk. The fabric itself was unremarkable, a length of undyed linen, stiff and a little scratchy to the touch. His needlework was what transformed it into something special. She traced the wing of a bird so detailed it seemed ready to fly around the room. She could imagine Quintin creating those tiny colorful stitches, a line between his brow as his deft fingers applied the needle.

  Em’s hands tightened, clenching the cloth. She would never see him again. Impossible.

  “I’ve brought you some tea,” Lucy announced as she stepped into the room.

  Em started, embarrassed to be caught mooning over a bunch of stitches. While the two holy women chatted behind her, Em buried the cloth at the bottom of the trunk. She had told Quintin the truth when she had said his work would fetch a good price at market, though she hoped to avoid selling it. The beautiful piece would be a fitting gift for the Novenary, better than what she usually managed for the Allgoday tribute, if only she could hang on to it during the coming year. While her heart ached a little at the thought of giving it to a stranger who might not appreciate it, the sacrifice was small on the scale of what she did for Aerynet.

  Dwelling on her temple duties, she pulled a set of fresh clothes out of the trunk. A warm yellow accented with green, the kaftan and trousers were very different from the camouflaging grays and browns of her sneak clothes. Though informal enough to make her father frown, the kaftan was respectable and should deflect any awkward questions.

  She removed the smaller pouch of beans from her work belt before storing her picks and other tools. She closed the lid and gave Lucy a nod. “I need to speak with you. I’m going to meditate in the steamroom. Please come get me when you are available.”

  The steamroom, a narrow chamber tucked between Lucy’s and Patricia’s rooms, had been designed for more intimate communion with the Goddess. Lined with balsa wood and other airy materials, it was supposed to help air talents focus their gifts, though as far as Em knew it had not been used by an outsider for generations. Lucy did not frequent the room much, for she needed Em’s help heating the stones to create the steam that gave the room its name.

  Em shed her sneak clothes behind a carved privacy screen in the tiny antechamber to the steamroom. She left her garments folded on the floor with the pouch of beans nestled on top.

  Her skin pricked as she closed the folding door. Enclosed dark spaces often gave
her a nervous turn, though the steamroom was less disturbing than most. Warped by time and moisture, the thin door no longer closed completely and couldn’t be locked, leaving a clear escape route she found comforting.

  She knelt next to a cold brazier and plunged her hands into the pile of porous lava rocks in the bowl, then bowed her head and prayed to the balanced trio of Goddesses, asking them to help her fill the rocks with heat and life. The rocks slowly warmed until it was uncomfortable to keep her hands buried in them.

  Focusing on heat, she pulled her hands from the brazier and cupped them over the top of the pile. Once she judged the rocks hot enough, she poured tepid water over them. A billowing cloud of steam rose into the room.

  Em breathed in the odorless steam and frowned. They had stopped adding costly perfumes and scents to the water years ago, though the plain vapor did little to honor the Goddess. In less than two weeks, the cycle would change and Fermena would begin her ascension. While Em had only turned nine at the last year of Fermena, she could remember the temple festooned with feathers and sporting a new coat of paint for the occasion. Her stomach twisted at the thought of how much more subdued the transformation would be this year.

  She clasped her hands together and beseeched the Goddess to give her the wisdom and cunning to honor her properly, now and always.

  The door squeaked as Lucy opened it. “Shall I join you, my lady?”

  “We can speak in the antechamber.” With one last prayer, Em left the hot, humid room. She picked up the pouch and opened it. Her nostrils wrinkled at the bitter smell of dried cacao. She pulled out one smooth brown bean and gave it to Lucy. “Take this to the devotees of Marana for your brother.”

  The acolyte rubbed the bean with her fingers. “You are too kind.”