He had once before.
There was a sound at her window and Reonne knew she was no longer alone. She turned, pulling her robes close as she searched her room. She almost missed him, he stood so utterly still. Only one arm and one leg could be seen in the shadows of the far corner, which was enough to let her know she was looking at a sizable man.
Her first thought was that Elsie had finally put a contract out against her life.
"Assassin?" She demanded.
"If I had wanted you dead you would not be breathing." His voice was like silk, smooth and alluring.
"What is it you want?"
"An agreement."
"What sort of an agreement?" Reonne glanced at the window, calculating his odds against escape if she called out for one of her guards.
"I will show you where the Heir Apparent has been hiding," he said. "I will show you where she has trained but I will not give you her alias. Your powers of observation should manage to show you that much."
"Why give me one piece and not the other?" Reonne stepped closer to her fireplace. It warmed the back of her legs and she took note of how close the fire-poker was. If need be, she could protect herself with that.
"I will need some insurance that you do not betray me," he said.
"And why would you do this?"
"I have a price, naturally."
"I'm not certain the Delgora coffers can accommodate you," Reonne shifted toward the poker.
He laughed then, light glinting off his teeth for a moment. "I do not want money."
"Name your price then."
"There are two things," he finally moved forward. Reonne had been in the presence of several frightening people in her life but this man surpassed them all. There was a crazed look to him, a half-held temper that she could sense. "The first thing I want is immunity from your Dellidus."
"I do not know anything about a Dellidus."
"Attempt not to insult my intelligence, Vicaress."
She swallowed hard and wished that one of her guards would make a customary check at her door. After a moment she nodded her acceptance.
"The second is Lord Feverrette," he said the name with a growl that made the hair on her arms go stiff. "He is mine and mine alone. Do we understand each other?"
Reonne nodded again, hating herself for being so frightened. Though she was the sixth born in a noble house that had long since forgotten her existence, Magic had not seen fit to bless her with Talent. This gave her intruder a very distinct advantage over her. She had seen the Talented in action and knew exactly what he could do.
He moved to the window and leapt out in one fluid motion. She didn't hear his body hit the ground in spite of the fact that they were on the second floor of the manor. With a shudder that pulled through her entire body, Reonne moved away from the fireplace and to the window.
There was no sign of him, no evidence that he had ever been there.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As was the usual routine for traveling to Winter Tournament, Elsie was afforded one of the ship's private cabins. Each stateroom was equipped with two beds, quaint but comfortable, decorated in earthy tones that made a direct contrast to the bright spill of ocean colors from the small window. Under normal circumstances Elsie would have been required to have a roommate, but Leona had insisted on this arrangement five years ago when a crewmember accidentally sloshed a bucket full of mop water over the gown Elsie had been working on. It turned into an advantageous mistake and one that Elsie thanked the Fates for every day since. She had absolute privacy so she was able to sew and weave with her Magic without anyone noticing.
Heaving a sigh she took note of the fabrics in front of her. Dorian - Feverrette, her mind corrected - had conceded to let Leona choose the colors for him so she was looking at a good smattering of shades now. There was black voile of cotton that appealed to her. It was light enough that she could envision a shirt, long sleeves with an easy collar. Feverrette didn't much care for cravats, she'd noticed. He was always tugging on his and trying to get it out of the way.
She could make a waistcoat for him using the velvet that Leona had spotted. It had come at a shameless price but would be well worth it in the end. Especially with its rich, navy-blue color, she thought. There would be plenty of material left from that to make a suitable gown for Leona. She'd need to find appropriate buttons to match, however.
Elsie glared at the trunks sitting on the unoccupied bed, noticing that the one she needed was piled beneath three others. With several curses about Leona's extravagant style, she began shifting the trunks. At one point she smashed a finger between the second and first trunks, the spike of pain making her yelp. She'd been moving the third and final trunk, spurred by growing frustration and anger, when the door to her cabin opened. It latched closed before she had shoved the unwanted trunk aside and turned to greet the newcomer.
Only the newcomer was Feverrette, and her mind faltered.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I've come for my measurements."
"You could have sent them through Gremor. I ask again, what are you doing here?"
He took a deep breath and gave the door a longing look. "I came to apologize. What I said on the pier was ... inappropriate."
"Oh, you don't know that for sure," Elsie turned away from him, opening the trunk she'd just unburied. "What with Artimus flapping his mouth the way he did ... never mind that he was trying to kill you, of course ... the man obviously had your best interests in mind when he called me a whore."
"Why did he?"
Fishing through the trunk she found a small bag that she knew contained her silver buttons. She just hoped she had enough of the same patterned buttons to match the coat. Straightening, she closed the trunk again and faced Dorian.
"You've apologized and now you wish to interrogate?" she felt a surge of satisfaction at being able to fight him. Or maybe it was just his proximity and her Talent was trying to seduce her into his arms again. It was maddening not knowing which feelings to trust. "Do yourself a favor, just stick with the apology and leave."
"You're not exactly innocent in this altercation, you know." His eyes narrowed, and she wondered how she'd thought of them as steel before. Steel was a pretty color that he didn't deserve. Drab iron gray was better. "You put me in a box."
His voice held no small amount of accusation, and she had to hold back a smile. Then she thought better of it, smiling as sweet as she could. "Actually, it was a trunk. Forvant makes them," she made her way to her bed. "He does a marvelous job of it. The revenue from each piece is nothing to be scoffed at."
"I was not looking at the craftsmanship," Feverrette was fighting for a civil tone, she could tell. "And you are avoiding the question."
"No, I'm ignoring the question because you have no right to ask it." Elsie sat on the bed and opened her bag of buttons, spilling them out over the maroon comforter. "It's a pity you didn't notice the trunk, though. I was hoping to tell him something complimentary. His nerves are hurt because of your escape."
There was a brief silence, and she began to separate the silver buttons from the various other colors. When he didn't speak she continued, keeping a conversational and light tone in an effort to goad him some more. The man really was too easy to upset.
"Though he is a bit in awe of you," she said. "Leaping across the Wild as you did. You're lucky to be alive."
"It was a near thing," he responded in the same tone. "If I'd had another choice I would have taken it."
"You could have remained in safety."
"I am many things, Madame, but a coward isn't one of them." He leaned against the door. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"
"Can't think of a reason why I should."
"Look, Artimus would not have said something like that just to barb at me. He must have been attacking you. Why?"
"Lord Feverrette ... "
His hand struck the side of her door, rattling wood with his force and startling her o
ut of her train of thought. "My name," he said with belying calm, "is Dorian."
She met his eyes then. There was a sort of powerful look about him as he watched her, relentless in his pursuit of answers. Elsie imagined that if she could see their Talents at that moment, they would be doing another kind of battle for domination. And then her mind flashed to that moment in the ruins. That moment where he bared the truth of his past in front of her, risking derision and repugnance on her part. Elsie hadn't appreciated what that moment meant to him at the time. As she faced the same risk she fully comprehended the trust he had laid before her.
Trust, she thought.
Fates! How could she? He'd alluded to her being a whore. He'd called her reckless with the lives of the people she was trying to protect. She barely knew him.
Her Talent urged her forward. The man had caused such an upheaval in her life, in her carefully laid plans of vengeance, yet her magic practically pushed her toward him. A quiet sort of pain settled itself in her chest when she looked at him, standing solid and unmovable in her doorway. He was not leaving until he had answers, she knew that much. And now that she thought about it she had no other allies in the Witch-Born circle with Artimus trying to kill him.
"A very long time ago," she lowered her eyes to the bag of buttons, "I fancied myself in love with Artimus. He'd been my teacher for many years, my protector of sorts. Somewhere in the middle of the training I imagined he had begun to feel the same for me. I was very wrong."
Dorian crouched in front of the door, his brow pinched in concern as he tried to keep eye contact with her. "What happened?"
She gave him a look, "What do you think happened?"
He frowned in response.
"Did you think he was incapable of loving a woman?" Elsie smirked, battling against the memory of betrayal. "Well, I wouldn't call it love. In our one intimate encounter he was more angry than passionate."
"That detail I didn't need," Dorian snapped. "Tell me what happened to end it."
"My final lesson."
"Forgive me, but I do not know how the Bedim train."
"The final lesson is also a passage of rites. If you survive whatever your mentor places before you then you are a Bedim Knight. If," she stressed the word and gave him a sad smile, "you survive." Elsie gave up on her buttons and let her eyes stray to a spot on the floor, unwilling to look at him during her speech.
It was a lot harder to confess than she had imagined it would be. Since the night everything had happened she hadn't uttered a word of it to anyone. Elsie knew now that her silence was more an act of shame than it was protecting anything. Bryva would not have judged her for the events that had transpired. "I completed a contract against a local farmer, a man who was not exactly adored by the populace so my conscious didn't have a problem with the assassination. Artimus knew my escape route and set an ambush."
Dorian was unnervingly silent. The next bit she stated matter-of-factly, attempting to keep it short and simple to avoid any sympathy he might undergo. She might have been protecting him from learning about his former friend's full plunge into the Bedim world or she might have been trying to stop him from pitying her. She had chosen the Bedim path after all, what had happened was no one's fault but her own.
"I was beaten and tortured until I agreed to a contract binding me to Artimus," Elsie squirmed a bit. She knew what his next question would be even as she prayed he wouldn't ask it.
"Bound in what way?" His voice was more cautious than curious.
Taking a slow, controlled breath, she lifted her gaze, "A promise of marriage."
"Fates," Dorian whispered and pushed a hand through his hair.
"Do you know," she ignored his comment. "In a twisted sort of way I thought he had done it for my own safety? In spite of the pain, in spite of the betrayal, I still thought he felt something for me."
He stood again, his face scrunching up with a mix of emotions that were becoming too familiar to her. There was irritation that was easy to see with the twitch of his left eye. Then there was remorse, though she couldn't determine what that was for. And then there was anger. No, she thought, fury. His left hand held tight into a fist as he maintained control of himself. The swell of the boat forced him to brace himself on the ceiling with one hand. Elsie took the moment to scoot around him, snatching her tape measure from where it had been sitting at the foot of her bed. With the confession in the open and the growing silence, she needed to do something, anything, to keep her mind off the incessant urgings of her Talent. He gave her a lazy half-smile as though he could read her mind, which only made things worse.
"Stand with your arms stretched to the sides, please." Elsie found a professional tone and lifted her chin, determined to maintain some form of emotional distance.
Dorian did as he was asked, watching her as she began to measure his arms, chest, waist. Everywhere she moved his eyes followed her. She became acutely aware of the subtle scent of his soap, something pleasant, almost powdery, and very male. His shirt was worn, which made it soft and thin to the touch so she could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. Her fingers felt the curve of shoulders, the sure and strong set of his chest. When she measured his waist her knuckles brushed against the flat of his stomach and it became a pure force of will to keep from falling against him.
"Blast it all!" she muttered. "I can't do this."
She stood up, prepared to move away from him but his arm caught her around the waist and pulled her close. His mouth fixed onto hers before she could protest, lips caressing her own in such a way that she had little desire to fight. She felt his other hand behind her neck, tilting her head so that he could deepen the kiss. His tongue licked into her mouth, possessed her and she dropped the tape measure. Then she was against the cabin wall, his body pressed against hers.
Her skin tingled where his hands began to explore. Everything was heat and candle light, blurred in her vision as she closed her eyes and fell into his kiss. Her fingers dove into his hair, pulling and urging him still closer as he hooked her knees and lifted until she was dependent on the wall and his body. The kiss stopped for a moment and they both panted for breath, swallowing nothing but lust and need instead of air.
His lips found hers again, gentle this time, coaxing and daring her as his hand slid her gown up and over her knee.
"Fates," he whispered against her ear and gave a quiet groan.
A knock sounded at her door, startling them both.
"Nessa?" Bryva's voice came muffled through the cabin door.
"A moment," Elsie called back. Then, to Dorian, "I ... "
He put a finger on her mouth to silence her. "I've decided that we need a long, serious discussion."
"About?"
He double-checked himself before pulling her into another kiss. "About your affect on me, Madame," he smiled against her mouth before reaching for the door.
He left her with a proper bow, stepping past Bryva and out of her cabin. Elsie didn't try to hide the grin as her friend entered the room. With a nosy and demanding cock of her eyebrow Bryva shut the door behind her, "What was that all about?"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time they came to port in Lorant, Dorian had managed to find at least seven reasonable excuses to visit Elsie in her private cabin. Most of the excuses had to do with the tailoring part of Elsie's nature, and he became grateful that on most occasions this topic bored Gremor to no end. The older man was prone to seasickness anyway, so he'd spent most of the trip laid up in his hammock below decks. Leona sat in on the first portion of his visits, though he had a suspicion that was mostly out of boredom. As much as the girl liked the clothing that Elsie made for her, she had no real interest in how they were made.
Elsie was enough of a distraction, in fact, that he had almost forgotten where the ship was taking them. To his great misfortune, he found himself standing on the pier in Lorant, staring out at the harbor and shrinking away from the gusts of bitter wind that assailed them from the north. The
banners for Winter Tournament were half-frozen against the weather, a sharp contrast to the tropical warmth he had left behind in Delgora.
Taking a deep, refreshing breath Dorian reminded himself as to why he preferred the northern mountains of Magnellum. As beautiful as Delgora was there was simply no hiding from the sticky heat. The frigidness of the air in Lorant made him smile, which was quickly diminished when he caught sight of Lady Leona as she hurried from the gang plank of their ship. The woman was bundled in furs to the point where he could only make out the shape of her. Her face was hidden under scarves, and her hands were thrust into the sleeves of her coat.
The noticeable climate change would likely cause some of the Delgora party to fall ill. Dorian envisioned the next few weeks being full of healing them, which would force him to remain inside the Delgora House and keep out of sight from the rest of the Tournament, which would greatly aid to his own comfort.
No one in Lorant needed to know he had come to Tournament. Hopefully Leona would be too busy with her Hemic Knight to really care if he lurked about the house rather than venture into town.
"Sal?" a familiar voice called from the street.
Dorian winced, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to hide under his hood. He turned away from the street and caught sight of Elsie as she was disembarking from the Brietta. She did not have the luxury of furs to protect her from the wind, just a heavy cloak that she pinched tight around her throat. Her mouth was pursed in such a way that he could see she was uncomfortable. She made her way to Leona's side, who had paused to look at him.
"Saldorian Feverrette?" the voice repeated, and by its proximity Dorian knew he could not avoid the conversation.
He turned to find his friend Winslow Agoston had walked directly onto the pier and was approaching them with an urgent stride. The lithe, tall form could only barely blot out the sight of another man walking just behind him, trying to keep up. Dorian knew without seeing him that it would be Bartholomew Kelemen. The two had been nigh inseparable since childhood, and there was a strange sort of comfort in the fact that this had not changed.
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