by Anya Bast
“It’s that, but it’s also a measure of his manliness.”
She nodded. “I suspected as much. He thinks a man should do everything for himself. Typical of a man like Byron, though not typical of a wealthy person.”
“True.” Alek nodded. Then stabbed the book with his finger. “Here we are, the rise of the Edaeii family and the decline of magick. It’s a fascinating period of Ryliskian history. We can take a look at this.”
She crowded nearer to him and looked down at the book. He was very close to her. Every day he seemed to grow closer. Now his arm was right next to hers. It was nice. Alek had a beautiful body; that was clear enough from the way it moved beneath his clothes.
She looked up at him, remembering what she’d been meaning to ask. “Alek, speaking of behaviors not typical of wealthy men, why aren’t you and Byron skinny and weak-looking?”
He looked up at her, blinking behind his glasses. “Excuse me?”
“You and Byron both come from wealthy families. It’s not as if you have to do physical labor to survive. And neither of you, as far as I know, were ever in the guard or trained as soldiers. Byron is doing a lot of work around this house, which could explain his build, but you I am especially perplexed by, since you spend all your time with books. So, by all expectations, you both shouldn’t be as”—she eyed his upper arms—“robust as you are.”
He gave a short laugh and took off his glasses, setting them aside to rub the bridge of his nose. “Your honesty can be very astringent sometimes, Lilya.”
“I’m giving you a compliment.”
“I’m glad you think we’re robust and I’m very glad you don’t think we’re . . . what did you say . . . ‘skinny and weak-looking’? The reason we’re in shape is crossball. Byron and I play it almost every week. And you probably haven’t seen it yet, but Byron has a room here in the house with equipment that helps us to stay in shape so we can compete physically. There’s a crossball team here in Ulstrat that we both play for. In fact, the Andropov family built the stadium.”
She nodded. “That makes sense. Nature is rarely so kind as to bestow bodies like yours for free. I figured there had to be a reason behind your builds.”
His lips twisted. “Yet we’re still the idle rich, playing games with our massive amounts of free time.”
“Crossball is entirely respectable. It’s a game played across all the social spectrums. I would even go so far as to say it brings the low- and high-born together.”
“I would say that as well.” He looked down at the book, and then slammed it shut. “Come on, I’ll show you the sport room.”
The room was on the same floor as the library, but the house was so huge she’d never noticed it before. The vast space was filled with machines, the likes of which she’d only ever seen in the Tinkers’ Guild. The machines were set up with pulleys and ropes, all with weights attached. She wandered around, running her fingers over the metal. Some had places to sit, others didn’t. A close examination let her see that each of the machines helped to work a different part of the anatomy.
She turned to him. “This one exercises the upper body?”
Alek nodded. “Very good. You can tell that just by looking at it?”
Turning back to the contraption, she murmured, “I’ve never seen such a wonderful thing before.”
“Byron designed and constructed all of them.”
She glanced at him, surprised.
“Yes.” He grinned. “He’s not just the idle rich, he’s got a sharp mind.”
“How did he think to do such a thing?”
“He never told you? Long ago he went to the university to study medicine. He never did become a doctor, but he was enrolled in the program for some time. While there, we began to play crossball, but we couldn’t compete against some of the other players who came from harder-working backgrounds. They were bigger and stronger than us. One day Byron read a treatise on rehabilitating the injured, written by an enterprising physician who had his patients working with weights. Byron thought that might be a solution for us in regard to playing crossball.”
She smiled and glanced at him while she wandered the room. “Hmmm, yes. I see his mind was very much on his studies.”
Alek laughed. “That’s why he left the university. He never felt the fire for study the way I do. I think he only went because his father wanted him to explore paths other than the family mining business. Byron wanted to move, do things, and invent things. So he created these. They work very well.”
“Has he ever considered submitting his designs to the Tinkers’ Guild?”
Alek frowned. “I don’t know if he’s ever considered it seriously. He’s got more money than god already.”
She walked to another machine and tugged a pulley. It was far too much weight for her to handle. “There are reasons to do things other than money. These could benefit people. He could submit his designs, have the tinkers create the equipment, and donate the money to charity.”
“Perhaps. You should present the idea to him.” He walked over and motioned to the contraption. “Would you like to try it?”
“Try it? Me?” She glanced at him and shook her head. “I’m not exactly dressed for it, and these weights are far too heavy for me.”
“They’re adjustable. Go on, sit down.” He motioned to the padded seat.
She sank onto it, feeling a little ridiculous with her skirts billowing around her legs, and took the handles at the ends of the pulleys into her hands. Behind her, Alek did something with the weights. She could hear them clanking together.
“There, that’s only three stone. You should be able to lift that.”
She extended her arms down and the weight behind her came up. Surprised and pleased, she beamed up at him. “This is fun.”
“If you’re working with these machines, you start out at a low weight—perhaps three stone—and work your way up. Little by little your muscles grow stronger.”
She slowly pulled down and let the weight draw the rope back over and over, enjoying the motion and feeling the muscles of her back working. “How much weight can you and Byron pull?”
“We’re both at two hundred sixty stone at the moment.”
The pulleys slipped out of her hands and the weight slammed down on the others with a clank. “That’s more than twice what I weigh!”
Alek grinned. “We’re very serious about crossball.”
“Maybe I can watch you play sometime.”
“We have a game coming up soon, so I’m sure you’ll be able to.” He peered at the pulley ropes. “They’re tangled. Let me fix it.” He leaned in near her, so close she could feel his body heat and inhale the scent that was wholly Alek—a mixture of his aftershave and a touch of tobacco, which he enjoyed in the evenings after dinner.
She reached up and slid her hand around his neck. He immediately stilled. Leaning in, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. He smelled so good, almost as good as Byron.
When she opened her eyes, she found him looking at her intently. His eyes were dark and full of want. This was probably the way his eyes had looked that night in the garden, when he’d kissed her so savagely. Barely banked lust shone on his face, from need long repressed.
He kissed her, bringing his mouth close to hers and barely brushing his lips over hers. It was soft, just a tasting, more like the kiss in the kitchen than the one in the garden. His breath felt hot against her lips and she felt him shiver against her.
His arms came around her and he pulled her off the machine, laying her on the carpeted floor. Propped on one elbow beside her, he stared down into her face for a long moment. His expression seemed tormented—as if he wanted to resist her, but couldn’t. It was flattering, yet perplexing. Was it the mysterious woman in his past that caused so much emotional tumult in him?
Lilya wished this woman would butt out because she wanted Alek to kiss her.
Finally he lost whatever internal battle he fought and lowered his head to hers. This time his mout
h came down harder on hers, hungrier. His lips slipped over hers, searching, becoming more demanding.
She responded, her hands coming up to twine through his hair and cup his face. His body came down over her, his thigh easing between her legs with a rustle of the fabric of her skirts. His mouth, hot and demanding, slanted across her lips and forced them open so he could slip his tongue within.
Her hands slid over his upper arms, across his back. She loved the sensation of the hard curves of his body under her hands and the warmth of his skin. Yet she sensed resistance in him. He’d sealed his mouth to hers, but he held his body away as if he endeavored to maintain control. He wasn’t succeeding. She also sensed he was only a breath away from giving in to what he wanted to take from her.
This war that raged so violently within him perplexed her. What was it that held him back? What internal dialogue took place in his head that kept him from giving in to the primal urges that all men possessed? Lilya felt that if she was to help him, she needed to force him past that barrier.
Why she wanted to help him remained a mystery. It was Byron, she supposed. He’d asked and that was enough.
She moved under Alek, wrapping her arms more firmly around him as he sought to part her lips and slip between them. His tongue brushed hers hungrily and he made a low sound in the back of his throat that made her body warm. Soon all concerns of Alek’s resistance and her desire to help him were washed away in a flood of rising need.
All of a sudden, he pushed up and away from her in one powerful move. He stood and whirled away, giving her his back. Breathing hard, Lilya pushed up on her elbows. “Alek?”
He didn’t answer her.
She pushed to her feet and walked to him. Reaching out, she almost placed her hand on his shoulder, but stopped herself at the last moment. “Alek, what’s wrong? Please talk to me.”
He turned and walked past her, toward the door. “Byron should be back soon. It will be time for dinner.”
Then he was gone.
Dinner was as bad as Alek had said it would be.
Lilya swallowed a bite of something that resembled shepherd’s pie, but tasted nothing like it. There were vegetables, she was fairly certain. Maybe bits of meat? “Mmm, good.”
“Don’t lie, Lilya,” said Alek with a good natured smile. He seemed to be back to his old self after the incident in the sport room.
“I’m not lying. It’s . . . very interesting.” She coughed. “Texturewise.”
Byron gave her an arch look. “Do you know what it is?”
She looked down at her fork as if it might tell her. “Uhm.”
“It’s beef stew.” He grimaced at his own plate. “It’s not very good, is it? Alek’s right, cooking is not my strong point. I should have let someone else make dinner.”
Lilya set her fork beside her plate. “Cooking may not be your strongest skill, but Alek showed me today that you’re very good at inventing things.”
“He showed you the sport room? Well, apparently need really is the mother of invention.” He shrugged. “I needed something like those machines, so I created them.”
“Don’t be so modest.”
He pushed his food around the plate. “I’d rather be a good cook.”
“I’d be happy to teach you. Cooking is a simple pleasure of mine. Once I arrived at the Temple of Dreams and was able to prepare meals in the kitchen, I found a certain freedom there.” She smiled. “Loving to eat was a big part of it. I hadn’t had that kind of access to food since, well . . . ever. I gained ten pounds the first year I was there and never lost it. Yet I gladly traded a portion of my figure for a constantly stocked larder. It was quite a change for me.”
“And a lovely ten pounds they are too,” Alek interjected. He seemed jovial tonight. Such a contrast to the torment she’d glimpsed in him earlier. It had to be an act.
Byron took a bite and grimaced, forcing himself to chew and swallow. “Yes, I would love to learn how to cook.” He glanced at Alek. “But I don’t know how much time you’ll have to teach me.”
A secretive look had just passed between the men. “What’s going on?”
Alek stood. “We have something to show you. A present.”
“A present?” She couldn’t keep the pleasure off her face or from her voice. Men often gave her things, mostly jewelry boxes, colorful baubles, or flowers. However, instinctively she knew that Alek and Byron would be offering her something much more meaningful. She couldn’t wait to see what it might be.
She followed Byron and Alek out of the room. They traveled up to the second floor, where her room was located. Just down from her door, they led her into another chamber, one that was situated on the far corner of the house. The walls of the room were painted white and two large windows on the corner walls overlooked the grounds. As in all the rooms of such a huge, unheated house, a fireplace dominated one wall. A white sheet covered the hardwood floor and near the largest of the windows sat a blank canvas. On the table near the easel stood a table filled with paints and brushes.
Standing inside the doorway, she took in the scene. When it all registered, she pressed her hands to her mouth, swallowing hard against an abrupt rush of emotion. In a flash she was ten again, walking into the kitchen of her father’s house to find a tattered, half-broken secondhand easel, sheets of expensive paper, partially used paints, and a few cheap tufty brushes that must have taken her father a year to save enough money to buy.
A rush of grief that had long since been buried bubbled to the surface and she had to turn her head away and close her eyes for a moment to prevent herself from completely giving in to it. She could feel the pressure of the men’s gazes on her. Sweet Joshui, she missed her father so much. The pain of his loss never went away; she’d only learned to push it down and away so she could function.
“Lilya? We can take it away if that’s your wish. We never meant to upset you.” Byron’s voice sounded confused and concerned. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t move or respond for another few moments, trying to gain a handle on her sudden, explosive rush of emotion. When she felt certain she wasn’t about to completely break down in embarrassing sobbing tears, she opened her eyes and flew into Byron’s arms.
He enveloped her tightly and she held on to him, burying her face in the curve of his neck. “Don’t you dare take it away.” Her voice came out hoarse from the tears she was forcing back. She hated to cry. “I love it.”
She held on to him for a moment longer, then launched herself into Alek’s arms. He seemed surprised by her gesture and it took him a moment to return her hug, but when he did, it was fierce. “Thank you,” she managed to push out.
He kissed her temple. “We didn’t know it would mean so much to you.”
Taking a deep breath and clearing her throat, she backed away from them. “Seeing that easel and those paints brought back a memory, that’s all. The memory reminded me of a loss. It’s been a long time since someone has gifted me with my heart’s desire.”
Byron walked to the easel. “When Alek told me about what you said you would’ve done with your life had things not gone in the other direction, I knew we had to create this space for you. The light is very good in here and you have this wonderful view of the grounds for inspiration. I hope it’s adequate.”
“It’s more than adequate. It’s incredible. Thank you both so very much.”
Byron stepped toward her, the look on his face serious and his blue eyes intent on her face. Somehow she’d managed not to let any tears fall. “You can consider this your space not just for the remainder of your visit”—he paused—“but for the rest of your life. I will always keep it for you. You are welcome to come here and use it anytime you wish.”
The smile left her face and her words left too. She had no idea how to respond to his gesture. “Are you certain you want that? What if you marry one day, Byron? Your wife may not want a courtesan coming for visits.”
Byron marrying. The thought of it sent a pang throu
gh her.
“I will never marry and you will always be welcome here.”
She pressed her lips together, studying him fiercely. It was what she wanted to hear, of course, but life had taught her that she rarely got what she wanted. Things changed. Byron might very well meet a woman in the future and fall in love. That would break her heart to watch.
No, she would never return her after these three weeks were up. She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Byron took Alek’s arm and led him out. “We’ll give you some privacy to get started.”
After they’d gone, Lilya stepped up to the blank canvas and stared at it, cold fear making a fist in her stomach. What sort of new mark should she make on that pristine piece of paper? It felt more important than simply a challenge of creativity. It felt like a fresh start.
Twelve
Alek looked up when Lilya slid in next to him at the table in the library that was now strewn with books and papers. Over the last few days, he’d been more focused on finding interesting tidbits from history to teach Lilya than he had been on his own studies. It was the first time in a long while that he’d been distracted from his work.
To complete his degree, he needed to write what amounted to an entire book on the ramifications of the Meteo-Orusian War of 1230, yet that endeavor had been tossed aside in his quest to please her. Her comment that he made history amusing to learn had clearly gone straight to his ego. More important, he was worried about disappointing her. A disconcerting reaction indeed.
She smiled at him, her face freshly scrubbed and rosy from her bath. “Morning.”
The scent of her soap wafted toward him and he had to stop himself from inhaling deeply. He wondered if she’d spent her night in Byron’s bed, and he found himself unaccountably annoyed by the possibility. He had no claim over her. No right to be annoyed.
“Morning. Have you eaten?”
“Yes. A sweet biscuit with butter and a cup of coffee. Byron may not be able to bake, but his cook certainly can. I’m well fed and ready to learn.” She picked up the book they’d been working from.
