Poison, Lies, and No-Win Choices

by Brenna Lyons

  “Alana?” Benjamin whispered against her lips.

  “Slowly,” she invited.

  Chapter Five

  “Mi’lady,” the guard prompted gently, offering his hand to help her to her feet.

  Sira took it and stepped out of the vehicle with a wince. Her exhaustion made the cloak she was wrapped in feel as if it weighed as much as a sack of grain. She looked at the house, sighing. How would she explain this to her parents?

  She startled in the realization that the guard was peering at her, seemingly memorizing every expression. Sira averted her eyes, afraid to postulate on what he was thinking about her.

  He led her up the path, using his larger body to block as much of the wind as he could. The move was so solicitous, it nearly made her laugh aloud. He was protecting her to the door, but she’d likely be under house arrest for the rest of her life, once he took his leave.

  The door flew open, and her father rushed out. He motioned the guard away and pulled Sira to his body. His hand stroked at her hair, and he murmured his assurances that she was home.

  She shivered at the welcome, wishing it would last. But once he learned the sad truth of her stay at the Bride Ball, his attitude was certain to change.

  “The message arrived?” the guard asked.

  “It did. It did, indeed.”

  Sira leaned into her father’s chest, too tired to make much sense of the conversation.

  “The doctor should be here soon.”

  “He’s inside.”

  She tried to roust herself from her stupor to question that. What doctor was here? Why was he?

  He brought the move to an end by lifting Sira and carrying her into the house. The guard followed, shutting the door behind them.

  “Must you stay?” her father complained.

  “I am ordered to take word back to His Majesty immediately. My apologies for the intrusion.”

  “Then stay here. My younger daughter will fetch you a drink.”

  Sira held to her father’s shirt, her attempt to open her eyes ending in a dizzying rush that rolled her empty stomach. She buried her face in his chest, feeling weak, spent.

  She sighed at the bed beneath her, trying to sink closer to sleep. It was a wish destined to go ungranted, it seemed. Voices buzzed around her, growing louder.

  “Go, Vic,” her mother ordered.

  “She’s my daughter,” he protested.

  “Do you think she wants you to see this?”

  “See what?” Sira mumbled, opening eyes that focused unreliably, so the tableau of her worried parents faded in and out.

  “It is best that you wait outside,” another voice suggested calmly.

  Sira turned to him, startling at the sight of a strange man staring down at her. She straightened the cloak, well aware that her costume still lay beneath.

  The man’s kind, blue eyes narrowed, and he ran a hand through his thinning, gray hair.

  “Don’t look at her,” her father ordered, sounding nearly panicked.

  “I must look at her.” The voice was soothing. The tone was light, hinting at a joke unspoken.

  “Who are you?” she managed, her tongue thick and her eyes drooping. For some reason, Sira felt as if she was the one that had been drugged, but not with an aphrodisiac. It felt as if she’d been given a sleeping potion.

  “My name is Doctor Philip Wheatstand.”

  The doctor... “Why...” Sira closed her eyes, trying to make her overtaxed brain function.

  “Go, Vic,” her mother ordered again.

  Her father grumbled something unintelligible and then walked away.

  “Good,” Wheatstand breathed. “Now, let’s get her out of these clothes.”

  Sira forced her eyes open, her breathing going ragged at the hands closing on her. “No.” Why were they doing this? She’d told Hein Matthew she didn’t require a doctor. “He didn’t... I told him he didn’t.”

  The doctor took a step back. “I see what he means,” he whispered, seemingly troubled. “Young lady, you must understand. I am charged with examining you. If you would like, your mother can help you remove your clothing and wrap you in the cloak or a quilt, but I must examine all of you. Do you understand me?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want this. I don’t need it. He held me. That was all he did.” It was hard to catch her breath.

  “There are charges... You know about that?” he asked.

  “The aphrodisiac. Yes, I know.”

  “How severe the punishment for those that used it will be based, in part at least, on what I find. This is necessary.”

  She nodded, glancing to her mother for signs of anger. There were none. If anything, Mother looked as weary as Sira felt.

  “I’ll help you change, if you wish,” she offered, a strained smile pulling up at her lips.

  Sira hesitated and then nodded. In her current state, it might well take her five times the normal to disrobe. She glanced toward the doctor, and he turned his back, giving her privacy...for the moment.

  It was slow-going, even with help, mainly because Mother moved cautiously, as if afraid Sira would break at the slightest jarring. At last, she offered a quilt. Sira shook her head, pulling the cloak around her. It smelled of Hein Matthew, and no matter the misunderstanding that morning, Sira found his scent a comfort.

  “Doctor,” her mother prompted him.

  He turned, panning his assessing eyes over her. “I will go slowly and explain what I am about to do,” he soothed her.

  Sira took a calming breath, praying it would be over quickly.

  Wheatstand settled one knee on the edge of the mattress, leaning over her. “I’m going to check for injuries...just your face and neck.”

  “Go on,” she managed in a strangled whisper.

  His hands pushed at her mussed hair, and his head swiveled to take in every detail. His fingertips pressed at a tender spot beneath her jawline, and Sira winced. He stopped and tipped her chin up, peering at it.

  Memories of Hein Matthew nipping at her sent a pleasant heat through her that she found disconcerting. “It was—”

  “Shhh,” Wheatstand soothed her. “There is no need to explain it.”

  Sira didn’t nod her agreement.

  “Your arms, please.”

  She slipped them out, pressing the cloak to her chest. He turned them this way and that, noting several bruises on the insides of her upper arms. Wheatstand took his time, examining her hands, her fingernails, in particular. Sira found herself squirming under his inspection.

  Wheatstand released her arm, standing straight. “Your chest...please, mi’lady.”

  Her heart pounded so hard it made her head spin faster.

  “Sira?” her mother asked. “Sirana?” A hand touched her throat. “Doctor?”

  In a flash, he was in motion, as was Sira, scrambling the opposite direction. She teetered on the edge of the bed, her mother wrapping her arms around her to keep Sira from falling off. Sira buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, seeking escape, well aware that the cloak was gaping open, exposing her to Wheatstand’s eyes.

  “Allergies?” the old doctor asked in a low voice.

  “No,” her mother replied.

  A sharp pinch at her thigh forced a cry of fear from her. Then it was gone. Sira held to her mother, pleading for her to make the doctor go as she had Father. Her muscles relaxed in a wave of warm fluid. Hands lowered her to the bed.

  “Is she sleeping?” Mother asked, as she would have when Kiri was a napping babe.

  “No. It’s mild. If she wishes to, Sirana can open her eyes. I fear... I believe she has no wish to.”

  Mother stroked at her hair, humming a lullaby.

  Hands roamed her chest and abdomen, touching her breasts much less expertly than Matthew had. The sensation of being bathed followed, hot cloths stroking her intimately, much as she’d stroked him.

  Fingers pressed at a sore spot on her inner thigh, and Sira turned her head away, grimacing. Incoherent sound
s in her mother’s voice flew at her, making the sense of unreality more acute.

  Something breached her, and Sira tried to shut her legs, babbling out something incoherent, even to her. Her body wouldn’t respond to her commands. It ached. It felt tight...whatever breached her too big. A twinge of pain cut through the fog, then a second, and she screamed. Hands held her shoulders to the bed.

  “Stop,” she begged, gulping in air. “Plea...please, stop.”

  Then the offending object was gone, and she collapsed to the pillows, her teeth chattering in the sudden cold.

  “Cover her. Keep her warm,” the doctor ordered. “Sirana, I need to take a blood test to determine—”

  “No,” she managed. “No more.”

  “As you wish.”

  The weight of the quilt on her was a comfort. Sira slipped closer to sleep.

  “Is there damage?” her mother asked.

  “It was a rough ride for a first time,” Wheatstand surmised. “Physically, she will heal. I fear the hardest wrongs to right will be the mental scars.”

  He paused. “There are other decisions she may have to make, but not today. She’s too scattered to make a rational answer to anything right now.”

  Sira wanted to ask what he meant, but her mouth no longer followed the commands of her muddled mind. In moments, sweet darkness took her.

  * * * *

  Matthew looked up at the knock, his heart sinking at the sight of the elder Wheatstand. “How bad?” he asked. The expression on Philip’s face was assurance enough that he’d been right to send the old man to Sira and allow his son Douglas to handle the examination on Matthew.

  Wheatstand took his time, settling in the chair across from Matthew with a weary sigh. “I thank the Goddess you were not responsible for your actions,” he summarized. “I thank Her that we can prove it...and you should thank Her, too.”

  Matthew found forming words a physical impossibility. His breathing was harsh in his own ears. Dear Goddess, what have I done?

  “Had you been, and had she chosen to call charges down, I would have no choice but to supply my honest assessment of it. As it is...” He faltered.

  “I...” He buried his face in his hands, visions he hoped were fabrications taunting him. Sira screaming... Matthew thrusting hard into her, while she did. “It was rape then?”

  “I cannot state it, but the evidence is consistent, in many ways. Had she come to me claiming it, I would agree it was plausible.”

  Matthew raised his head, posing the question with a look.

  Wheatstand sighed. “There are bruises...on her arms, where you held her down; there’s no question she told the truth about it. And that you guessed at the scratches correctly; there are signs of it on her. There are others...” He hesitated, shooting a weary look skyward. “If I was to guess, I would say you bit her.”

  His stomach rebelled, and Matthew was abruptly thankful he hadn’t eaten at Douglas’s suggestion that he do so. “A love bite, I hope?” But he knew it wasn’t. Wheatstand wouldn’t have considered that of note.

  “No... A bite, but a small one, as if you caught only a few of your teeth in her. I can barely see the scrape of them in the bruise.”

  Matthew groaned. “Can this get worse?”

  The doctor didn’t answer that, lending to his greatest fears being realized.

  “What else? What else did I do?” he asked bluntly.

  “There is a bruise on the inside of her thigh.”

  “From? Can you tell?”

  “Were I to guess, I would say...perhaps...”

  “What?” Why couldn’t the man simply say it?

  “This is only a possibility, but it is consistent with a man forcing a woman’s legs apart...or attempting to do so.”

  Matthew’s mouth went dry, and the foul taste of bile rose up strong. “And...the rest? Did I? Did I cause her pain?”

  Wheatstand pulled out a flask and drank deeply. He didn’t meet Matthew’s eyes. He didn’t speak.

  “Did I rape her?” he demanded.

  “She says ‘no,’ but the swelling and bruising, the tearing...”

  “Tears? She had...” His stomach warned that he would have no appetite for weeks, if he’d heard it correctly.

  “Small ones, and I’ve treated them. Thank the Goddess I’d already— I had to sedate her to examine her, so the treatment was not as traumatic as it might have been. She tried—”

  “To run from you,” Matthew finished for him.

  Wheatstand nodded, taking another swig of the alcohol. “She shies from touch, from meeting the eyes of men, those she knows and those she doesn’t. She wouldn’t even allow the blood tests to...establish her cycle.”

  “Rape,” Matthew forced out. There was little question now that it had been. “Then that is what we have to report it as.” Damn what people said about him. He’d accept their scorn, rightly or wrongly applied to him.

  “I already have. There was little choice but to do it.”

  His jaw tightened. “I hope they rot.”

  * * * *

  Sira straightened, her limbs aching, though she was just waking from sleep. Her bladder demanded attention, urgent attention at that. Though she’d like to stay tucked under the quilts, it was time to rise and take care of her needs.

  The room felt unnaturally cool, and she pulled on a robe over her sleeping gown. Though it was light out, the house was silent and still. She considered calling out to someone, then decided to toilet first.

  The walk down the corridor was a puzzle to her. Every muscle and joint in her body protested. Her arms were sore, her legs, even her stomach. Was she sick?

  Sira stumbled, catching herself against the wall, shaking her head to clear it. Her vision shimmied and jumped alarmingly.

  She felt drugged. She felt—

  Sira grasped at the door jamb, the memories of the last day returning in a rush. She was drugged, and she was sore...with good reason.

  The toilet beckoned, and she staggered toward it, shutting the door with one hand while she braced herself up against the sink with the other. She dragged her sleeping gown up and settled on the chilled seat, relieving herself in a rush.

  The pain assaulted her a moment later, and she whimpered, crossing her arms over her stomach, rocking forward in an attempt to weather it. Goddess, but who knew she would hurt this much? The idea of patting herself dry brought a shiver of dread, but there was little choice.

  A tentative knock sounded at the door. “Sira?” her mother called out. “Do you need me?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. This was mortifying, in the extreme.

  She swallowed down her pride and admitted to herself that she needed help. “In a moment,” she replied. She needed help to rise. That much was certain, but she wanted to clean herself first.

  Sira patted at her tender body with the tissue, half-swallowing a sob.

  “Sira? May I enter?”

  She dropped the tissue in the bowl, then spread her sleeping gown over her knees. “Come in.”

  Her mother opened the door, silently assessing. “Have you finished?” she asked.

  Sira nodded. Her head spun at that movement, and she pressed a hand to it, hoping to right the world.

  Getting Sira back on her feet was easier with two than with one, as she’d hoped it would be. Her mother guided her back to her room, settling Sira beneath the quilts. That accomplished, she started speaking.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She wanted to answer in the affirmative, but her stomach was less certain. “A little,” she managed.

  “Soup and bread, then.”

  Sira made to rise, but her mother pushed back gently. They stared at each other, Sira’s heart pounding in conflicting emotions.

  “Doctor Wheatstand’s orders,” she offered.

  “He won’t...” Sira managed. “He won’t want to... Not again.”

  Mother sat on the edge of the bed with a sad smile. “No. Unless you worsen, I believe h
e’s done his job. You have medicines to take that will help in healing.”

  Chapter Six

  Matthew stared at the note, conflicting emotions pulling at him. He’d read it ten times. He would probably read it another hundred, searching for clues to her feelings that weren’t there.

  He closed his eyes, seeing the words in her flowing script.

  My courses came on schedule. As promised, I’m sending word.

  Take care, and may the Goddess watch over you.

  Sira

  Conflicting emotions made his newly-righted stomach roil as if the poison held him tight again.

  She hadn’t caught from their night together.

  On some level, that relieved him. Sira wouldn’t be forced to choose between bearing a child conceived that way and terminating one. Many of the dirt-nobles and lowborns considered termination for any reason against the Goddess’s wishes. The idea of her carrying for religious reasons was enough to make him heartsick. Knowing she didn’t carry meant that one less worry.

  A rebellious streak screamed that she hadn’t caught. His reasons for it were impossible to unravel.

  It could be that he wished something good would come of it. A new life that she might rejoice in—and he might, if she were willing to share such a wonder with him—would give a positive bent to the thing. It would mean there was a meaning, no matter how the Goddess had managed to affect such a miracle.

  Further good would come in the monetary aid he could lend to such a child. Offering Sira money for her suffering was a poor attempt at righting this wrong, he knew, though the money would ease her life in general. If she carried, it would be within the realm of believability that he would claim the child and support it. He could provide Sira with servants and comforts he dared not offer under other circumstances.

  Or, maybe it was his continuing madness clouding the issue. It had been a little over a week, and he still dreamed of her. He’d hoped the dreams would end when the drug left him completely, but they hadn’t.

  No. I didn’t hope it.

  Had the dreams been of his attack on her, he would have done so, but they had been dreams of himself and Sira in slow, heated embraces, engaging in kisses that warmed the sheets.