Deceived

by Megan Derr

  His mood only plummeted as they continued. Three times Lazare started to ask what was wrong, only to remain silent each time. A couple of days of intimacy did not mean he had the right to intrude, and he felt very much that to speak would be taken as intrusion.

  Still, he might have very well given in the fourth time, if Maitland had not abruptly turned onto a smaller footpath. He left his horse, and Lazare was forced to do likewise, following Maitland in silence.

  They came out of the woods into a pretty field filled with wildflowers, a tiny pond shadowed by what he thought might be an apple tree.

  As they drew closer to it, he saw with a start that a gravestone was set beneath the apple tree, angled ever to face the pond.

  "What…" He trailed off, not certain he could speak. He knew all the manners of this country, so far as ordinary situations went. The nuances of them, especially in strange circumstances, eluded him. If he caused offense now, he would hate himself for a very long time.

  Silence stretched on for what seemed hours, until Maitland at last broke it, voice soft and somber. "His name was Eric. We were lovers almost a decade ago. This," Maitland motioned to the field, "was his favorite place. It's where he died, as well, and so I had him buried here." He stared at the headstone, a deep frown etched into his face, and Lazare didn't think he would notice if the King suddenly appeared and bolted stark naked through the field.

  This couldn't be… It struck him so suddenly, he blurted the words out before he could catch himself. "You mean that whole wager thing was true?"

  Maitland jerked as though shot, face going from troubled to cold in the span of a heartbeat. "You have known about the wager all this time, Highness?"

  Lazare took a step back, startled by the chill tone. "No, you—"

  "Is that why you pressed to come?" Maitland demand, voice cracking out like a whip. "I wondered, when you pressed about my pet, but foolish me—I truly thought that was your only interest."

  "Maitland—" He reached out to grasp Maitland's arm, but Maitland jerked well away, as though he found Lazare repulsive.

  "What did I say wrong?" Lazare asked, confused and hurt, all the more upset because he could hear his accent slipping. "No offense did I mean." He struggled to hold on to his grasp of the language, always the first thing to go when he lost his equilibrium.

  "Did you join the betting books, Highness? Did they tell you the whole of the sordid affair?"

  Lazare frowned. "Your lover you shot, they told. But me—"

  "Is the wager the usual twenty grand, or did it go up with Your Highness joining in? You've gotten much farther than anyone else, that is for certain."

  Lazare's temper snapped. "I did not join that wager, you wretch! They told me about it, and I stormed out, disliking they would gossip so about you to me! I did not join it, I knew nothing about it, I did not mention it because I feared it would upset you. To hells with you and your infernal country!"

  He turned and fled the clearing before Maitland could stop him, suspecting he would just punch the bastard at this point. What had he done, but confess his astonishment there might be something to the rumor? Of course he did not believe Maitland had killed anyone, but he was surprised to find there was a dead lover.

  Mounting his horse, he turned it and went back the way they had come, urging the horse to as fast a pace as he dared, seething with anger and shaking with hurt.

  Oh, he would never understand this country! He had told Mother not to send him, that one of the others would do much better. Only a few weeks and he had clearly lost the only real friend he had here, and there was no telling how much his lost friendship would adversely affect greater relations with king and country.

  These past few days had, of course, been too good to be true. He should have known.

  Perhaps he was overreacting, but that Maitland would just lash out at him without even listening—

  He had never taken it from his sisters when they got in their snits, he had not taken it from his brothers, he most certainly would not take it from a man he—

  Snarling, hearing Maitland call his name, Lazare increased his pace, blindly turning his horse down a path he didn't know just to get away and damn it all, why did they have to be on Maitland's land where he stood no chance of getting away?

  He drew the horse to a halt, panting softly, still thrumming with anger and hurt. Fine, if he couldn't get away, then he'd just punch Maitland precisely as he wanted.

  Except, when he turned, Maitland was not on his heels as he had thought. No one was around. He couldn't even hear Maitland calling his name…

  Had Maitland given up so easily?

  Lazare scowled. Maitland wouldn't have given up, and even if he had—so what? Hadn't he been trying to get Maitland to leave him alone?

  Sometimes, he made no sense even to himself.

  Heaving a sigh, he took a closer look at his surroundings. "I don't suppose you know the way home?" he muttered to the horse, who did not admit to it if he did, merely stood restlessly in place.

  Calling himself a thousand different kinds of fool, for an angry snit was no excuse to get himself lost in a bloody forest, Lazare considered his options. He remembered turning off onto a small path—at some point they had lost it, but surely it must be about somewhere. Then he could simply take that back to the main paths, and find his way quite easily from there.

  Easy as that.

  Except he saw no sign of the path he had taken, and did not dare explore too far for fear of making his predicament worse. Damn it all, why must Maitland have so much bloody forest on his land?

  Lazare rubbed his forehead. Why had they both decided to handle this entire matter like children?

  A cracking sound brought his head up eagerly, and he opened his mouth to say something—anything—but what he saw was not Maitland. He froze, wondering who the group of men were, noting nervously they looked more than a little unsavory.

  Then he saw the dead deer two of them carried, and realization dawned—poachers. Damn it.

  He tightened his hands on the reins, wondering if he could simply sprint past them, but even as he made to try, one raised a flintlock and the sudden booming crack of it frightened his horse.

  Try as he might, Lazare could not stay seated, and he felt a flash of pain in his head before the world went dark.

  *~*~*

  The next time he had an argument with a lover, Lazare thought sourly, he was going to remind himself that he was the quiet, reserved, and level-headed one. No more of this running off in a fit of temper.

  At least, not when he might become lost in a forest.

  He seemed to be in some sort of utterly vile shack. Why they had not simply killed him.

  Now that he was sort of thinking again, he wondered that anyone would be stupid enough to poach on Maitland's land. Surely they ran the risk of meeting up with Ruffian? He did not know a thing about tigers, but he sensed Ruffian would more than happily dispose of anyone who invaded his territory, and surely a cat of that size must have the run of the land.

  His wrists and legs had been crudely tied. They must think him no threat whatsoever. True enough, as far as it went, but Lazare had four brothers and three sisters. So far as tying people up went, these poachers could learn a thing or two from his siblings.

  Once he was free, Lazare gingerly tested each of his limbs, wincing at his throbbing, aching head. He wondered if these men knew he was foreign, and if that would work for or against him.

  Not that he wanted to find out, particularly.

  A quick peek out a filth-crusted window showed what he had suspected—it was full dark. Stupid time to be going out and about in the forest, but if his only other option was to stay here and wait the return of the poachers…

  If he was out there, he stood a good chance of getting well away from them. He could not see them, they would not see him, and perhaps come morning he could make good a real escape.

  He not looking forward to spending a night in the forest, but
it was precisely what he deserved for being such an idiot. Hopefully he could find his way back to Maitland come the morning.

  Moving slowly, he pushed open the back door of the odd shack and took in his surroundings as best he was able.

  A bit of moonlight filtered through the trees, reflecting on a stream or something which ran behind what he thought was the back of the cabin. Nearby, he saw what might be a footpath, and took it—and screamed as he turned the corner, stumbling back, tripping, and finally wound up in a rather undignified heap on the ground.

  Bloody hells, his head hurt something fierce.

  He looked up again to see the glowing yellow eyes which had given him such a nasty start were still there. Then the eyes slunk from the shadows, and he saw it was Ruffian.

  "What are you doing here? Do not scare me so."

  Ruffian growled softly and pushed at his chest, then began to paw and tug at his clothes, tearing them horribly.

  Lazare could take a hint. Standing up, wishing the world would stop spinning for five minutes, he held his arms akimbo. "Well?"

  Growling again, the cat turned and slunk back off into the shadows, only just visible because he moved, the only sound the occasional rustling of his tail against the leaves.

  Keeping up with him taxed Lazare's strength, but when his only other option was to make a night of it in the forest, Lazare found he could keep pushing on so long as he didn't stop for more than a moment.

  Still, by the time they left the forest, the sky just barely beginning to turn gray, he was ready to fall over.

  "Lazare!"

  He jerked when he heard his name, and realized it was Maitland. A shadow separated from the dark, and then Lazare was caught up in an embrace as words spoken too low and fast to understand washed over him.

  He didn't need to understand them to catch the meaning though, and simply held fast as Maitland guided him toward the house.

  The next hour or however long it was passed in a blur, and the only thing he really remembered between being cleaned and dressed and put to bed was the soft kiss brushed across his lips before he finally fell asleep.

  *~*~*

  He was woken by Ruffian, desirous of his morning petting.

  Lazare groaned and tried to tug the blankets up over his head, but the tiger was having none of that.

  Then memories of the night returned; the very least he owed the tiger was a few scratches behind the ears. Throwing back the blankets enough to sit up properly, he reached out and petted Ruffian until his arms ached.

  Satisfied, Ruffian turned and padded back out of the room.

  Lazare hesitated. What was he to do now? Well, make his apologies, obviously. He recalled very little from the previous night, but he did know he had not quite managed that. He should also notify Maitland of the poachers, for what if they tried to catch Ruffian?

  He shoved the blankets away and started to climb from bed, but sat down heavily when the room spun just a little bit more than he would have liked.

  At least his head did not hurt as much as it had the night before. He seemed to have knocked it quite soundly, but not as bad as he might have given the circumstances.

  Fortunately, the matter of finding Maitland became academic when the man himself appeared in the doorway, bearing a breakfast tray that smelled almost as good as Maitland looked.

  Suddenly aware of his lack of clothes, and uncertain where they stood, Lazare hastily recovered the blankets, staring at them until Maitland drew close enough he had no choice but to look up.

  "I'm sorry—"

  "I must apologize—"

  They broke off, staring at each other, then smiled.

  Maitland set the breakfast try across his lap. "Highness, I must apologize. There was no excuse for my behavior. I overreacted."

  "As did I," Lazare said. "I was not trying to keep secrets or win the wager. I didn't bring it up because it was so appalling, and I stormed out of that tearoom because I was tired of them gossiping about you." He played restlessly with the things upon his tray, wanting to eat but feeling too anxious to manage it quite yet. "I swear to you, I have nothing to do with any wager."

  "I know," Maitland said quietly, covering Lazare's hands, stilling their restless movement. "I am so used to that being the sole reason anyone seeks me out, I could not believe you were different. So, I apologize, Highness."

  Lazare withdrew his hands. "I am not going to accept any apology until you cease to be so formal," he said. "Perhaps it is merely my foreign ignorance showing, but to my mind, we are well past having to be so strict in our address. Is there some reason of which I am unaware that you refuse to use my name, except…"

  A hand sank into his hair, and Lazare went easily as Maitland drew him into a long, thorough kiss. It seemed the final balm on all the aches acquired the previous night, and if he'd had any anger or displeasure left, it dissipated easy as that.

  "Lazare," Maitland said softly when they finally broke apart. "I am trying and failing to keep some sort of distance between us. If I use your given name, I'll start to think I can keep you." His thumb rubbed back and forth across Lazare's lips.

  "Keep me?" Lazare asked, rather liking the sound of that. He liked it a great deal. "Why can't you keep me?"

  Maitland looked at him, clearly startled. "Highness, you can hardly stay with me, and I cannot leave Ruffian to go with you. That aside, surely your parents want better for you than a reclusive lord who is in at least half the betting books in the city."

  Lazare kissed him, breaking away only when the breakfast tray rattled ominously. "I am the youngest of eight children. My mother sent me over here in a continuing effort to get rid of her children to obtain some peace and quiet while she carries on with her third husband and occasionally her ex-second husband. I promise you, so long as I do not force our countries to go to war, or empty the family coffers, she does not care what I do. Anyway, my brother has taken up with a musician, of all things. By comparison, you are positively perfect."

  "I see," Maitland said, gold eyes bright with amusement. "Well, it is good to know I am respectable enough, if only by comparison."

  "Oh, be quiet," Lazare said, rolling his eyes and finally reaching for the food with an actual desire to eat. He ate a warm scone with rather less dignity than a prince should show, but it made those gold eyes he loved so begin to burn, so he really did not care much about the lack of dignity.

  Maitland leaned forward as he finished, licking strawberry jam from Lazare's lips with such thoroughness Lazare could not shove the breakfast tray away fast enough.

  "I am sorry we so thoroughly botched yesterday," he said some time later, aching head returning but it was a price he would happily pay over and over again.

  "I would say the matter is resolved," Maitland said with dry amusement.

  "Still, you obviously were going to tell me something that was important to you," Lazare said. "I am sorry to have ruined that, especially since at the time it seemed I had quite violated your trust."

  Maitland shrugged, or at least tried to shrug, given he was stretched out on the bed with Lazare still draped mostly on top of him. "The betting books all say that I killed him in a duel. Everyone is dying to know if that is true, if I fired a fatal shot."

  "You do not have to tell me," Lazare said quietly. "That is not why I mentioned it."

  Maitland kissed his nose. "I wanted to tell you, and only partly because you had nothing to do with the stupid wager. I knew you would hear about it before long; I do not want you thinking me a murderer."

  "I never thought you were," Lazare replied. "That was why I stormed off, as I said. I could not tolerate them speaking of you so."

  You are far too kind," Maitland said. "Did you know, I almost refused to come out of seclusion to be your man of affairs? The King chose me because he knew I was not given to the same nonsense as the others, in addition to being fluent in your language and familiar with your culture. I nearly refused, but my friend Bartholomew persuaded me. He clai
med I needed to do something with myself before I became as difficult as my tiger."

  Lazare laughed. "Ruffian is scarcely what I would call difficult."

  Maitland snorted. "Just wait. He earned that name for a reason."

  "Mm," Lazare said, stealing another kiss.

  "Challenging one another to a duel was a game between us," Maitland said abruptly, and Lazare took a moment to catch up with the shift in conversation. "We always did it when we were arguing, and thought the matter was getting ridiculous." He smiled faintly. "Yesterday was hardly the first time I have acted before thinking, it is why I prefer to be quiet and keep to myself."

  Lazare returned the smile, but did not reply.

  "He killed himself," Maitland said, smile fading away, head turning away to stare out across the bedroom. "His family has long had a long history of mental instability, and it was painfully obvious he was following in those footsteps. He was ten years my senior, and I unfortunately was too young to know how to handle matters when everything got suddenly worse. I came here to stop him, when I realized what he was about, but I arrived too late. Rumors of course managed to fly that he had been shot, and I had done the shooting…"

  "I am sorry," Lazare said quietly, not even trying to understand what that must be like. The look in Maitland's eyes was more than enough for him to catch an inkling of it. He kissed Maitland deeply, holding tightly, sorry not only for the terrible, tragic death but all that Maitland had put up with since that night.

  "It's long past," Maitland said quietly, easing slightly. He dredged up a faint smile. "Now that you know, they will have all lost the damned wager."

  Lazare shook his head. "I would wager to say that if we do not return soon to the city, it is our own lives we shall be worrying about."

  "I sent a note to the King saying we would be returning a day or two late."

  "My mother is going to kill me," Lazare muttered, but then Maitland did something with his hand that made him utterly incapable of thinking about his mother. "Speaking of wagers, I bet that one of us will not be capable of leaving this bed come tomorrow morning, and it will not be me."