Clara was accustomed to intimidation. Queen Ada had been an adept teacher.
When he was but a foot away from her, he asked, “Who did this to your face?” He could not stop himself as he put a finger along the chartreuse bruise, which bloomed like an ugly flower, beginning at her cheekbone and fanning out toward her temple.
She felt the tender touch of his finger as it glided against her cheekbone in sharp contrast to his rough treatment of her earlier. Clara wondered if had he been afraid of her before. Scared not of her but of what she represented? What was he afraid of? The melding of their peoples, as preposterous as it sounded with the Queen's involvement, would be a positive thing. She was puzzled and felt her brows knit together.
What was he doing? He saw her frown at his caress and took his hand away, a dull warmth throbbing where he had laid that small touch upon her face.
Her face smoothed.
As his hand fell away she felt like she had lost a source of comfort. It was almost, with this stranger, as it had been with Charles. But how could that be? She and Charles had spent seasons together. Many events had bred their easy familiarity. She’d had nothing with this guard, except his disregard of the rules, his rough treatment of her, and his simmering anger. She felt it boil and ripple like a fish seen through dark water.
“I wish to know: why did you take me? Why not let our peoples mingle? You have a need for propagation, and we need to be free of a life confined to the sphere.” Clara thought briefly of the ocean her father had told her about and had a sharp ache of longing for that unknown sea.
“I believe that the Captain cannot be objective where you are concerned.” He rubbed his hands together. “He has shown a degree of... subjectivity. He has lost his focus, our purpose.”
“Does he... is he?
Matthew nodded. “He wishes to have you. If your people were resistant to the idea...” He shrugged.
“They will come for me, you know.”
Matthew's eyebrows came together. “It does not matter. The Band is not afraid.”
“What of the fragment?”
“What of them?” Matthew snarled.
Ah... Clara thought, watching his fists clench. She had touched on something tender which bled. Of course the girl, Evelyn, had been taken.
“Is it Evelyn? The young girl that Bracus seeks?”
He shook his head. His expression momentarily softened then hardened again. “It is not the girl.”
Clara cocked an eyebrow.
He sighed. “Not entirely the girl. I...” He shifted. “The Band will retrieve her. But it is a personal matter between the fragment and me.”
Clara waited.
He looked at her and realized that, somehow, he had been cornered into saying more than he had intended. He did not wish to speak of his time with the fragment, of Margaret.
They looked at each other, a tiny young woman with fierce eyes and a bruised face and the warrior with a troubled heart and an abusive past.
Could he trust her? Would it matter? Why was it important that he tell her anything?
Clara saw the conflict rage within him without knowing the cause. Instinctively, against every internal warning, she said, “Please, tell me that which causes you this suffering.”
He watched her silently, searching her face for any deceit.
“The Prince. He and my mother, the Queen.”
“What?” Matthew asked, confused.
“Your question,” Clara answered. “That is who put this abuse upon my face.”
Matthew stood stunned. He had known that the Prince was a viper, as the Band had come upon him in the act of assaulting the Princess. But her mother the Queen? It made no sense.
Seeing his expression, Clara gave a harsh cough of a laugh that ended in a sob. She put her hands over her face so that she could not see him. Her shame shone as bright as the Outside sun.
Matthew’s soul churned. This tiny female had suffered abuse but not by strangers as he had within the fragment but by her own flesh and blood. He could not reason it out. But his heart, which ached for no one, ached for her. He thought that he might comfort her but did not know how. So he stood awkwardly watching her misery, powerless to help her, hating his incompetence.
Finally, Clara removed her hands. She swiped at her useless tears, embarrassed beyond words by her stupid weakness as this huge male stood staring at her, expressionless, probably bored by her tirade. She straightened.
Matthew watched her gather herself together, and felt grudging admiration. Beaten, almost raped, and kidnapped twice. And yet she regained her composure. His hands ached to hold her, but he remained where he was. There was one gift he could offer her: his trust. So he gave it.
It was a larger thing than his comfort.
“I was twelve when the Band found me starving and delirious from thirst, hunger, and neglect.” His mind wandered a million miles away.
*
Matthew lay down in the meadow, his head swimming with dizziness, flies buzzing above him, impatient for his death. He looked down at his body, the planes of it like weaponry: sharp hipbones, ribs like poles bound together with skin. His eyes rolled, dry and swollen, within their cavities. He heard a noise. He raised a hand, knowing the sound was not the fragment, hoping, as only a young boy could, that someone would help him, that he could either end forever or begin with new hope.
A shadow fell over his body and he didn’t have the strength to shield his eyes from the sun. The shadowy form seemed to realize this. A great warrior stood over him, weaponry hanging off his body like the leaves of a mighty tree. Matthew was too weak to feel fear, but his heart stuttered.
The great male crouched down in front of him, grabbing him gingerly by the wrist, firm but gentle.
He paused for a moment, head cocked. Then he spoke to someone just behind him. “He is Band.”
Matthew saw a bow shift with the man’s body and took in his weapons. Daggers at the small of his back in a complicated contraption of leather, a bow rested upon the back of his right flank, and a quiver rode near his spine. A small dagger was sheathed at his right hip and another at his ankle.
His eyes flitted to the great male above him and he smiled down at Matthew. “Where do ye hail from, lad?”
Matthew opened his mouth to answer but was too parched to form words. The male saw his problem., “Bracus, fetch me the flask. His heart beat is steady, but not for long. If we had not arrived...”
“Yes, father,” a young voice came from behind him.
Suddenly, a second shadow crossed the first, and Matthew was looking into the face of a male he instinctively knew was the same as him.
Finally, Matthew belonged.
Beleaguered, starving, thirsty, and near death, he had come home. These were his people. He gave a weak smile, drank the water from the large male's cupped hand, and then passed out.
*
Clara listened to Matthew quietly tell of his recovery by the Band. Why, she asked, had he been with the fragment? Why had they beaten him, starved him, treated him so terribly?
“Why does your mother beat you?”
“I do not know.” Clara’s eyes filled with unshed tears. She realized, perhaps for the first time, that she wished her mother loved her.
Matthew saw the loneliness and fear rise in her eyes like a poisonous tide and could have struck himself for being so insensitive.
He tried to salvage things. “I think it may be because I was different, and they knew that. I was threatening to them, their way.” He thought carefully about his next statement. “You may also be a threat to your mother.”
“The Queen,” Clara corrected automatically.
Matthew inclined his head in acknowledgment, watching her distance herself from the familial tie.
“I do not threaten her. She is in ultimate control.” Clara swept her hand around the forest, visualizing it as her kingdom.
Matthew saw the marks on her throat from his fingers. They were reddening, just shy of bruising, and he
was ashamed.
Clara saw him flick his eyes at her throat and back to her face, his uncomfortable expression. She narrowed her eyes. What was he thinking?
She asked the next question instead, the most obvious one. “What is this fragment?”
His eyes became hooded and dark. “They are a people bent on taking. They take whatever they can, from whomever they can, use it until it is no longer worthwhile, then discard it. Like locusts.”
Clara stared at him, watching his fists clench. The cords on his neck stood out, and his huge hands bunched into fists the size of her old reticule.
“Bracus said that they kidnap women for forced breeding.”
Matthew nodded once.
So it was true. Suddenly, Clara became acutely aware that it was just she and Matthew. Here in the forest, they were quite vulnerable.
Matthew saw the emotions pass over her face and knew what she was thinking.
“Fear not. They would not dare try to take you.”
Clara watched his posture change, becoming more. He would be something for them to fight against.
“They have no Band?”
Matthew shook his head. “No. My existence with them...” He shrugged. “We do not know why I was with them. Bracus has speculated...” He turned away from her.
He felt her approach, her warmth a solid thing, worming its way underneath his skin.
“What?” she asked softly.
“That they may have come upon my mother...” He breathed out in a rush, his face hotter than he could stand. “And they kept me for a slave of sorts.”
Oh, how horrible. They might have taken him while he and his mother were outside the protection of their clan.
And he had been raised a slave.
Clara was a hair's breadth from his back. She reached out to the broadness of it, the fine fibers of the tunic having small bumps where the linen and cotton mixed.
He had suffered as she had. They actually knew each other well, she realized, at least in the ways that mattered.
She pressed her palm on his back. His spine formed a shallow canal between muscles that bunched and intersected, running from huge shoulders to a tapering waist where diminutive swords lay crisscrossed. But Clara was unafraid. His treatment of her was that of someone who did not know, could not know, kindness, concern... care. How could one show compassion when one had never known it? The Band would include him but would not be nurturers.
She laid her head in the middle of his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. Silently, she lent her compassion to him, wanting him to know that she forgave him his treatment, to understand he had a friend.
He felt her heat seep into his body. It slid to his extremities. With a low groan, he turned in one smooth motion and grabbed her upper arms, his hands completely encircling them and drew her to him until their chests were crushed together.
Clara felt him pull her against him in a spine-tingling rush of desire that swept over her in a heated wash. She was powerless to remind herself that this must not happen, that he was not of the sphere. The fragment raged about them, waiting to take the unprotected. His own Band sought them even now. Instead, she fell into his embrace like a woman lost, a bottle in the ocean swept to sea.
Matthew put a hand underneath her chin, cupping it loosely, his fingertips moving up the length of it, gliding until they swept beyond her temple, carving pathways through her hair. He grasped it tightly, and she gasped. He held her there and gazed into her eyes. He did not want to force her, but he could not seem to help his actions, resisting as long as he could. He felt that his whole life had been preparation for this moment with this woman.
Matthew let the question fill his eyes. She saw it and gave a very slight nod. He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Clara was shocked by the softness of his kiss. For all his size and mannerisms, she thought his kiss would be an onslaught. But it was not. It was soft, a velvet feather. With pressure and movement, his lips lifted, sought, connected, and explored. When he took her lower lip in his teeth, capturing it there, he nibbled on it then sucked it into his mouth softly. His tongue explored the inside of her mouth delicately then with increasing passion, and Clara was lost, her body afire. Clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline, she pressed her body harder into his, her hands sliding up around his neck.
Matthew was desperate for more of her touch, and when her hands dug into his shoulders as encircled his neck, he lifted her right off the ground. She held onto him. His kisses rained down like rose petals on her throat, her face. Everywhere skin was, he worshiped it with his mouth.
She felt him move her until her back was against the same tree she had cowered against earlier. The rough bark bit slightly as his body covered hers completely. Those large hands pressed her body against his, one hand exploring her ribcage and waist and the other holding her against the trunk.
Matthew became aware of far-off noises, and broke off his attentions. His breath came in quick gasps. Senses sharpening, he looked down on her. Clara's eyes were pools of turquoise in a face flushed a deep pink. The marks of abuse faded, and in their place, he saw lips that were swollen from kisses instead of fists.
Damn.
He wanted her. Need sang in his body like a finely tuned instrument. But his senses had roared to life, and that meant threats were near. Ignoring his Band's directives could not negate the deeply honed instincts he had been born with.
“What?” Clara asked, languid and drowsy in his embrace.
“Someone draws near.” Matthew gently lowered her down, pulling her tight against his chest, his hand stroking her hair, his eyes scanning the distance.
He heard horses but not Band. Fragment? He pushed Clara behind him. “Stay behind me, no matter what occurs. Do not leave my side.”
Clara felt sick. It was too many things, one on top of the other. She put her hand on the tree but met his gaze, nodding.
Satisfied, Matthew turned away from her. Releasing his daggers from the small of his back, his hands swung around to the front of his body, his stance widening as the thundering of the horses hooves neared. Matthew lowered into a crouch.
Clara watched Matthew move in front of her and take the small swords from their sheaths. Their singing metal sound made her ears ring. She finally heard the approaching horses and knew that her life would be changing yet again. She badly wished to move up behind Matthew, out of sight and hidden behind him.
But if there were to be a fight, she would be in the way, so she stood where she was. Vulnerability was her burden to carry.
****
Charles and Clarence waited until the two savages were gone and the others back inside the gate.
“She is not here. You heard those savages. She has escaped...”
“Or been taken,” Clarence said.
Charles nodded.
“We follow them. Where they lead, we shall follow, and the Princess will be there.”
Charles palmed his jaw thoughtfully. “They went to the trouble to acquire her, and then she slips between their fingers?” His fingers clenched then splayed. He shook his head. Something was amiss. The savages seemed far too astute and instinctual to allow such a thing.
“Agreed, but our path is laid before us, Charles. Whatever may have happened, it matters not. She is still in danger, true?”
“Yes.”
They followed. For Clara.
****
Queen Ada sent Henry ahead to the huge complex surrounded by an intimidating natural fence made of the huge timbers that were so prevalent in this strange place.
It had not been without argument.
“Queen Ada, I implore you. We must behave in a friendly and peaceful way, not lurk about as if we mean harm.”
“We do mean harm, Henry. I do not wish to make peace with the savages. I wish to take what is mine, return to the sphere, and have the betrothal go forward so that we may ally the kingdoms.”
He sighed. She was stupidly stubborn. “M
y Queen, I will spy for you but I do not feel it is to our benefit.”
“Duly noted. Now go.” She smiled at him without warmth, uncapping her wine flask.
Henry eyed the flask and tried again. “Queen Ada, what of food? When was the last time you took a meal? Some cheese perhaps?”
She glowered at him, and he unflinchingly held her gaze.
“Fine.” She made a disgusted noise in her throat. “You, guard.”
“Yes, my Queen?”
She spoke to him but looked directly at Henry, “Ready some cheese with grapes.” She spat the last word sarcastically. Henry was sure it was for his benefit. “So this worrisome nagging will discontinue.”
“Post haste, my Queen.”
Henry heard him rustling for the food.
“Satisfied?” she said, her question both a challenge and a statement.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, my Queen,” Henry said with resignation.
She smiled at his discomfiture. Whatever made others uncomfortable seemed to please her.
She was a hateful example of humanity.
He turned away and left her and the other guards in the deepest part of the woods, making his way toward a fence constructed of huge logs that had their tops sharpened to dangerous points.
As he approached, he became aware of raised voices. He crouched down behind wild ferns with serrated fronds. The low branches of the evergreen trees almost caressed their tops. He could not be seen. Yet one of the huge savages turned in his direction, his nostrils flaring, his hand hovering over the hilt of a dirk that hung at his hip.
But a short older man with a barrel chest and a bald head gained his attention, and he was distracted. However, it was what they said that made the breath still in Henry's body.
“But know this. I want that Princess back here, standing in front of me, unharmed. Do you understand?”
More words were exchanged. Henry heard only snippets. Somehow, they had kidnapped the Princess then lost her? To whom? Henry was more mystified than ever. This was no longer a simple acquisition mission. They had grossly underestimated the sophistication of the savages, wrongly assumed a state of primitiveness. He closed his eyes for a moment, despairing. Gaining Clara for the sphere was now no longer a mere directive from the Queen.
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