“And what should I expect in the morning?” she asked, allowing him to help her to her feet and lead her toward the bed. “Shall I report to the kitchens or the stables?”
He looked puzzled. “Neither.” He pulled back the covers and gestured for her to climb into the bed.
She obeyed and continued. “Well...I was sent here as your slave. But looking around me and the clothes given for me to wear, I just can’t figure what my duties should be.”
“To do whatever I require,” he answered simply, tucking the coverlet around her body. “And right now, I require that you sleep.” He turned to leave, but was stopped with her hand on his arm.
“Couldn’t you just stay with me, my lord?”
He raised his eyebrow. “Of course not. It wouldn’t be appropriate…”
“Please,” she pleaded. “Just until I’ve gone to sleep.” Her eyes looked past him to the window where the wind and rain still pounded at the stone walls. “Storms frighten me so.”
He sighed, defeated by her eyes again. He looked around, pulled a chair from the other side of the room to her bedside, and sat down. “It seems that of the two of us, I am more slave to you.”
Chapter 7
Sascha’s eyes fluttered open as early morning light streamed through the window at her side. Looking out, she could see the storm had given way to a clear blue, autumn sky. The birds outside her window sang cheerfully, pulling her out of her grogginess. The chair where Lord Marek sat the night before had been put back in its place and a white box was now atop it. Throwing the covers back, she stepped onto the chilly stone floor and made her way to where the box waited. She smiled, looking around to see if anyone was watching. Finding no one, she pulled the top off to find a pile of linen and silk. She pulled the dress out of the box, marveling at how much fabric had been used to make this gown. She ran her fingertips over the carefully embroidered flowers that had been worked into the red bodice.
“Look who’s awake,” Anya chirped as she entered the room, throwing back the curtains on all the windows.
Sascha squinted. “Barely,” she mumbled. “Where did this come from?” she asked, holding the dress up for Anya to see.
The old woman stared, looking almost speechless. “Oh...well. I assume Lord Marek sent that up here.” She smiled and went to Sascha, taking the dress and holding it to her frame. It had a red silk bodice that was tight across the chest and then fell in flowing waves of white crepe to her feet. “Look how beautiful it is. We’ll get you into it right away.”
After nearly an hour of wrestling her into the gown, combing her wild hair into a respectable style, and shoving some breakfast down her throat, Sascha was ready to emerge. And she knew where her first stop would be. She grabbed the skeleton key he’d given her the night before and started down the stairs. Trying to remember the way she’d gone to the dining room, she turned down corridors, opening doors until she found the library. Once inside, she could hardly believe her eyes. Dark wood bookshelves lined every wall, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. The smell of mold and dust hung heavily in the air as she pushed the door open all the way. It squeaked with disuse. She walked slowly around the room, her fingertips trailing across the leather bindings. There were books on every topic imaginable: history, children’s tales, dragons, romances, and myths. Her eyes were wide with anticipation of what to read first.
As she reached the center of the room, Sascha noticed there was a large desk with several books piled on top of it. From the accumulation of dust on their covers, she could tell that it had been a while since those had been laid there. She opened the first one to see a woodcut of a wolf on the first of its pages. She tried to make sense of the words, but the book was written in a language she didn’t quite understand. She continued looking through the stack. Each of them seemed to be about wolves or alchemy.
She made her way across the room to where a large window seat stretched across a wide bay window. Upon the piles of pillows stacked there, someone had left their book face-down to save their place. She picked it up and brushed off the dust. The pages crackled as she turned it over in her hand, as if they would crumble to pieces at any second. She tried to close it, but the book was stuck in the open position. It must have been sitting there like that for ages. Upon closer inspection, she could see the book was a journal written in the scrolling, slanted hand of a woman.
It’s been months since we heard of Cianan’s imminent arrival at Monkshood. I fear that he is lost to us now. Since coming here, I’ve had the most disturbing dreams of my husband. They always begin the same. We’re lying in bed and I can feel his kisses…
Sascha put the book down, blushing deeply. She suddenly felt as if she were hiding in a closet, watching someone’s most intimate moments. That book was obviously Lady Isabella’s and not meant for her eyes, though she wanted nothing more than to continue reading her description of Lord Marek’s kisses. She heard the door behind her creak open, and she quickly hid the diary in the folds of her gown.
“Hello?” she called out.
“Hello,” Marek answered, coming around the corner of the bookcase. She nervously turned in her place, trying desperately to keep the book hidden. When he’d said she could take a book, she was sure he didn’t mean this one. “You’re up early.”
“Yes,” she replied, receiving a raised eyebrow before adding, “my lord. I was excited to explore the library.”
He nodded and sat on the armrest of the couch opposite her. “Is the dress to your liking?”
“Oh, yes. It’s very beautiful,” she replied, running her fingertips over the embroidery on the sleeve. “It’s a little extravagant for a slave. You didn’t have to…”
“Don’t tell me what I have to do or don’t have to do. I thought the dress would be a little more comfortable than the hand-me-downs in your room. The seamstress will be here today to resize things and make new clothes for you.” He picked up a book beside him and flipped idly through the pages. “I’m having guests, and you’ll need to look presentable.”
After a few moments, Sascha mustered up the courage to speak again. “What do you want with me, Lord Marek?”
“Pardon?” he asked, not looking up from the book.
“I’m obviously not being made to do things like scrub floors or cook. So what is it that you want me for that you insisted that I be taken from my home and brought to you?”
“Would you rather I had killed your former master?” he asked, his eyes becoming stormy and dangerous. “Because I had every right. He stole from me.”
“A flower? You would have killed a man over a flower?”
He stood up fast and started toward her. “Obviously I didn’t. I don’t generally take sport in killing groveling weaklings. Not that it would be your affair if I did.”
His hard words toward her former master ignited her rage. Before she could stop herself, she was standing to face him, nose to nose. “Thaddeus Longwillow is a good man. Perhaps you mistake kindness for weakness. You would be willing to kill him or take his property over something so trivial? Perhaps it is you who is weak.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied through gritted teeth, pushing his hands through his hair. “And you would be wise to remember your place, girl.”
“And what place is that? To sup at your table and pretend to be your dead wife?”
Without pause or warning, he struck her hard across the cheek, sending her sprawling. “Do not speak of her again.” He stared down at her coldly. “Your life is only worth the price I put upon it. Take care that you don’t become too expensive.”
She stared up at him, shocked at his sudden violence. She tasted the bitter, metallic flavor of blood on her lip and wiped at it with her hand. “My lord…” she started, her voice trembling with tears and anger.
“You asked what your place at Monkshood was. Your place is to do as I bid you. If you can’t handle that, I can assure you that the punishments are swift and severe. Even for
one so favored as you.” He dropped a handkerchief in her lap as he turned to leave. “Clean yourself up.”
****
Sascha sat in the window seat staring out at the courtyard and across to the cliffs. She’d plotted many escapes over the last few hours since the incident in the library. Her cheekbone ached where he’d struck her, and she could feel that it was a little swollen and bruised. That coupled with the fact that she’d been crying off and on all afternoon had made her face red and puffy. It wasn’t so much that he’d hit her. She was a slave and that just came with the territory. Even her kind and beloved Mr. Longwillow had slapped her for minor infractions. But something about Marek’s anger was heartbreaking. Or maybe it was just because the rage had been so sudden. He’d been so kind and gentle toward her the night before. The harsh master he’d been today just didn’t seem right. For her part, she had knowingly provoked him. The man obviously grieved for his lost love. Once again, her mouth had gotten ahead of her brain.
She looked at the bedside table and peered at the journal she’d smuggled into her room. Before leaving the library, she’d hidden it carefully in her dress and brought it here. Rising from her place, she went to the book, running her fingertips over the leather binding. A rose had been stamped into the cover along with a small crest that bore the head of a wolf and a fiery sword. The same crest she’d seen emblazoned on the gate. Marek’s crest.
She crawled across the freshly made bed and opened the journal. She saw a heavy handwriting that scrawled across the first page. Sascha wrinkled her brow and flipped a few pages ahead. The scripts didn’t match. “Lord Marek,” she whispered, drawing her fingertips across the rough papyrus, tracing each of his letters.
To my dearest Bella on the day of our marriage. At long last, you are to be mine forever. Please accept these pages to keep your thoughts for you alone. I can only pray that I may, occasionally, play a part.
“It was a wedding gift,” she murmured, blushing hotly again. She knew that reading this was wrong, but she was so curious about Marek, despite his shortcomings. She couldn’t talk herself into putting the journal away, so she continued to Bella’s first entry.
I’ve never been so happy, yet so afraid in all of my nineteen years. In minutes I will walk down the aisle and become Lady Isabella Caoimhe Marek. Cianan stole away into my room this morning to give me his gift, this magnificent journal. I’ve always longed for one, but my father, being a mere farmer, could never afford such an extravagance. Cianan is so good to me and I know he’ll be a loving husband. I know that some disapprove of our match, for he is a captain in King Sebastian’s army and I’m but a poor farmer’s daughter. But our love is meant to be. I only hope that I can be a worthy spouse to such a great man.
As I write this, my hands are positively shaking at the thought of our finally being together as husband and wife. Of course, we’ve kissed, and I’ve even submitted to some of Cianan’s more intimate caresses, but never have we been together in the way of a married couple. When I confided this to my chambermaid, she took it upon herself to give me the details, sparing nothing for modesty’s sake. She says that given Cianan’s knighthood, he will be well-versed in the erotic arts. I believe it to be true, as many of his compatriots have come back from the wars with Syban slaves. If that’s true, then how will a simple, naive girl such as me measure up? Keelah also mentioned that Cianan’s stature hinted that our first encounter as man and wife might be painful for me and that I should expect to bleed. When I gasped in terror, she laughed, reassuring me that after the first time I would take great pleasure in the act itself. I can only hope that Cianan will take into account the delicacy of my body.
“Good heavens, Sascha!” Anya exclaimed, jerking her out of Bella’s thoughts jarringly. “What on earth happened to you?” Rushing over to her, she reached out to touch the bruising at the crest of Sascha’s cheekbone. “Does it hurt?” she asked when Sascha flinched.
“Only when I touch it,” she stammered, shoving the diary under the pillows before Anya could recognize it.
Anya sighed with a knowing look. “Oh dear,” she said. “Well, we’d better get that swelling down. Lord Marek is to be visited by the Lord Governor of Yarik and his entourage.” She said this last part with a roll of her eyes.
Sascha sank back against the pillows broodingly. “I don’t care. Let Lord whoever-he-is see how Lord Marek treats his slaves. I’ll wear my bruises proudly.”
“You mustn’t talk that way, Sascha. I’m certain that his temper got the better of him.” Anya disappeared into the bath and began rummaging around. “I have just the thing to fix that up.”
“You don’t seem too excited about this visit,” Sascha observed. “Is he a friend of Lord Marek?”
“Yes,” Anya answered from the bath. “They fought together in the Outlands.”
“And you don’t care for him.”
“Not really, no. I don’t really approve of his lifestyle.” Anya emerged from the bath with a basin of water, some towels, and a small bottle of some sort of powder. “But it’s not my place to judge.” She sat down and began mixing the powder with just enough water to make a paste.
Sascha wrinkled her nose at the crude odor of the resulting salve. “What is it that you do not approve of?”
“He keeps slaves.”
Sascha laughed. “So does Lord Marek,” she replied, pointing to herself.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Anya didn’t reply, but began smoothing the sticky substance over the bruise on Sascha’s cheek. “Ioin has a harem of Syban. Pleasure slaves from the Outlands. He insists on traveling with them.”
Sascha’s eyes widened, but all she could say was, “Oh.”
“Other than that, he’s an odious, crude man. I’ve never understood Cianan’s friendship with him. Always competing with one another. It’s childish. And his visits are always never-ending. ” She finished smoothing the healing paste over Sascha’s wound and sat back. “There now. You’ll be right as rain in an hour or so.”
Sascha winced as the salve began to work. “What is that anyway?”
“Just an old weed that grows out in the forest. My own mother taught me to use it for healing.” She batted Sascha’s hands away from it as she reached up to scratch. “Don’t touch it. It has to hurt if it’s to heal.” She smiled at Sascha’s face, fixed in a pout. “Come on, love. Let’s get you into a new gown for dinner.”
The door behind them opened and both women turned with a start. Marek entered the room without announcement. “Leave us, please,” he said to Anya shortly, who bowed and gathered her basin, trepidation evident on her face.
“What is it that you require of me, my lord?” Sascha asked, turning away from him, embarrassed that he should see her looking so ridiculous with the paste clinging to her cheek.
Putting a gentle hand under her chin, he turned her face toward him. “Just that you look at me while I’m speaking to you,” he said with no timbre of anger. For a moment, he said nothing, instead examining the bruising on her cheekbone. He touched it tentatively with his fingertip and she cringed, though the pain had already begun to fade with the healing salve. He dropped his hand immediately, giving her a guilty look. “Sascha, I…” He seemed to be stammering over his words, and she could tell it was most unnerving to him. “I came up to…”
“To tell me that you’re having a guest. Yes, my lord. Anya told me.”
“Not just that,” he replied, turning away from her and pacing toward the balcony windows. He sighed and stared out at the late afternoon sun slowly falling below the horizon. Whatever he was going to say, it was obviously very difficult for him. After a long time, he turned back to her. “I came to beg your pardon for my behavior earlier.”
“It’s not necessary…” Sascha started.
“Yes it is,” he replied, cutting her off. “I should never have lost my temper like that. It was inappropriate and I’m sorry. You just have to understand that I’m not real
ly used to much company.”
“You really don’t have to explain yourself, my lord.” She looked down at her hands, examining the lines carefully in an attempt to escape his gaze. “I’m here as your slave. You do as you see fit with me—”
“No. Though you are my slave, I don’t lash out in anger. For that, I apologize. My wife, Bella—”
“You really don’t have to explain any of this to me.” Sascha sighed, rising from the bed and pulling the pins from her hair. “It is not my place to accept apologies, or require them. You asked that I not speak of her, so I won’t. It’s done.”
He started to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. He stood silently, watching Sascha pick at the tangles of braids at her nape. She fiddled with one of the pins, unable to pull it from her hair, and only succeeded in stabbing herself in the thumb. “Ouch...damn it...” she grumbled, seemingly almost unaware of Marek’s presence behind her.
“Let me help you,” Marek said, crossing to her. Before she could protest, his hands were in her thick raven hair. “It’s tangled in this bit,” he said, his voice becoming gravelly.
“That’s really not necessary, master,” she replied, reaching back to stop him and instead brushing her fingers against his. He pretended not to notice and pulled at the tangle. She could feel the heat of his body pressed close behind her, his breath against her neck. She could barely breathe as his fingertips slid over her scalp and got tangled in the soft curls at the nape of her neck.
“There. That’s the last one,” he rasped, handing her the pin.
Sascha turned around, staring up at him as she took the pin. “Thank you, my lord.” She was struck at the beauty of his face again, seeing him up close. His eyes seemed to pierce through her, knowing every secret thought that ran through her mind. It made her nervous and she tried to back away, but only succeeded in jostling the vanity behind her. The hard line of his jaw, so much in contrast with the sleek contour of his cheekbone, tensed as he looked down at her. “Is there anything else you would ask of me?”
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