by Jane Kindred
I took the flower and the arm he offered with it, and we began to stroll again. The sun had lowered behind the hills beyond Llys Mawr, and the garden was tinged with the lilac hue of settling dusk. “I wouldn’t say you were entirely out of line, Mr. Apted,” I murmured. “But I do think we should be getting back. I wouldn’t want my aunt to worry.”
Siors looked sidelong at me. “Then I guess I’d better steal another kiss while I still have the opportunity—and in the lull before you think better of allowing it and decide to strike me after all.” He grinned and drew me to him, and I did not pretend to protest.
My few frantic, willing sexual exchanges at All Fates with other inmates had involved no courting, and oral contact was by and large not with other mouths. There was no time for nicety. And anyone who’d wished to attempt any would have been too afraid of being branded a degenerate. Getting off quickly had been the only aim.
Siors’s kiss was nothing like those awkward encounters. His mouth at first gently nipped at mine, then became bolder, tasting me, and I opened my mouth to taste him back. A proper lady, I supposed, would never have been so quick to relent, but whom was I fooling? I was no proper lady, and I wanted Siors. He focused intently on my mouth, his breath mingling with mine and, like mine, becoming more rapid, his tongue eagerly exploring, his lips firm yet soft. I had never imagined how soft a mouth could be. It was nothing like a cock.
The hardened outline of his own beneath his trousers when he pulled away at last revealed the effect of our amorous engagement upon him. I was glad of all the layers of crinoline I wore that would keep him from noticing a similar effect upon myself.
“I’d better get you back.” His genuine reluctance was obvious in his voice and in the stormy ocean green of his eyes.
My own, I discovered in the mirror over the bureau in the foyer when we arrived, were bright and sparkling. If I thought this would go unnoticed by Sven, I was fooling myself. When Siors took his leave and left me in the drawing room, I found Sven with his pipe and a periodical for company.
One glance at me was enough. “Guess that Siors has made his intentions plain.”
I stiffened defensively. “And why shouldn’t he?”
“Didn’t say he shouldn’t.” Sven set the paper down. “Long as it doesn’t jeopardize our intentions. Keep him wanting you, but keep him at a distance. He gets too close and we might find the game shut down before we’ve collected our winnings.”
“I’m being very careful. There’s no danger of that.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Sven was jealous. There were no two ways around it. It irked me that he’d never once kissed me himself, and yet now he was jealous that someone else wished to. In truth, I wasn’t certain I had wanted him to kiss me. Being taken by him—large and rough and eager—was thrilling, but more personal intimacy would have made me uncomfortable living in such close quarters as we’d kept in Thievesward. But that didn’t stop me from feeling a bit put out that he’d never tried.
* * * * *
Siors and I took frequent walks in the garden after that, and I’m sure it was no secret to anyone in the household what we were getting up to. It was no secret either to August, who wandered at will in the garden, appearing at inconvenient times to remind me that I was stealing this affection. She said nothing to condemn my scandalous desires for my own sex, but there was no mistaking her disapproval. I doubted she still wanted Siors for herself; it was life itself she could not have and longed for.
As for me, when I wasn’t kissing Siors, I was thinking about kissing him, and dinner became an aggravating delay in satisfying the fantasies I’d indulged in throughout the day. Sven reminded me in my distraction that this was not why we were here, but I reminded him in return that I must play the part of August convincingly if we expected Emrys and “Sebastian” to let down their guard. Macsen had already done so with his strange words about the family power. I had let him think I’d dismissed it as nonsense, but he wouldn’t have mentioned it if Cousin Emrys hadn’t convinced him of its truth. Whether Emrys had manufactured the tale to lure his son into the conspiracy or whether he believed in some mystical inheritance himself, it was proof that there was some design behind his betrayal besides mere stupid greed.
* * * * *
As I had with Macsen, Siors and I went riding when the weather permitted, though Siors, considerately, stayed far from the lake. Instead of wearing my riding trousers, I succumbed to custom and remained in my gowns so there would be no awkward erections to hide, but sidesaddle was impossible, and Siors was a bit scandalized that I would let my petticoat show under my hitched-up skirt in order to ride naturally.
The climate of Cantre’r Gwaelod was perpetually damp, but the weather had been warming lately, allowing us more frequent rain-free days. Siors suggested we pack a picnic lunch one afternoon and ride out to the heights—or what passed for them in the Lowland Hundred. I idly wondered as we rode, if all the realm was lowland, where indeed were there true heights? There were many such things about the world I’d wondered as a child but later had little time to dwell upon, spending the wealth of mine surviving All Fates.
We rode up to the top of the plateau overlooking the coast, and on this rare, clear day, with the marine layer of fog temporarily lifted, we could see the rocky causeways that jutted into the surf dividing the shoreline at semi-regular intervals all the way out to where they disappeared into the sea.
“Where do you suppose they were meant to go?” I asked as we dismounted.
Siors caught me by the waist to help me down as I swung my leg over the horse’s rump, letting me fall back against him into the circle of his arms. “Where who were meant to go?”
“The causeways.” I turned in his arms, resting mine on his shoulders and hooking my gloved hands behind his neck. “They ought to be going from one place to cross to someplace else. But they don’t. They go into the sea.”
Siors nibbled at my ear. “You of all people must know the legend.”
Ticklish, I shrugged involuntarily, willing down my always-ready desire. “That Cantre’r Gwaelod once belonged to a much larger realm until the spirit of the well forsook her duty and let the lowlands flood until we sank beneath the peat. Yes, of course I know it. But if we sank, how is it we’re above water? It’s absurd.”
“Perhaps it’s all upside down. The sky’s the sea, the sea the sky.” He laughed at my exasperated expression. “I think we have better things to do than worry about legends.”
I smiled winsomely. “Like enjoy the lovely picnic Cook packed up for us.” I turned as Siors released me to tug at the clasp on my saddlebag.
“Yes, the picnic too.” Siors’s voice held amusement. He fetched a blanket from his bag and laid it out on the heather while I unearthed the packets of cheese and crisp bread and sliced apples Cook had bundled up for us. Siors took them from me and set them aside, tugging me by the hand to sit down with him on the blanket. “We’ll have plenty of time to eat. Right now I want to nibble at you.”
He slipped his arm around my waist and pressed himself close to me, kissing me more aggressively than he had before. I was so caught up in the breathless thrill of it that I forgot I was not supposed to be myself, allowing him too close. His hand wandered over me as we reclined against the blanket, his lips against my throat, and I was too engrossed in the pleasure of his touch to stop him when his hand rested between my thighs.
It took me a moment to realize why he’d gone still. “Siors—”
He pulled back his hand and let go of me, sitting up with a stony expression.
“I can explain,” I began absurdly.
“You can explain why you have a prick between your legs?” The words burst out of him with fury as he leapt to his feet, and I sat up, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
“Don’t be angry.”
“You sick son of a bitch.” He turned his bac
k to me, pacing by the grazing horses, and I started to speak but was stunned into silence when Siors whirled and charged at me with something in his upraised hand.
“Siors—” My protest was cut short by a stinging blow across the face from his belt, looped in his fist. I raised my hand to my cheek in shock, feeling blood, which seemed to incense Siors, like a bull seeing red.
He kicked me in the stomach to keep me down, and blows rained down on the top of my head when I doubled over with a groan, until the crop struck the side of my head and cuffed my ear so hard that I could only hear a dull, leathery thump as the blows began to fall against my shoulder.
“Get the hell away from her!” The furious roar wasn’t Siors. I clutched my head, dizzy, as Siors paused and turned toward the intruder onto our aborted picnic.
“From her?” Siors roared back. “It’s some pervert pretending to be August!”
I looked up, trying to focus as Macsen charged toward us up the hill.
“I said get the hell away from my sister!”
“Did you not hear me?” Siors turned and grabbed me by the bodice of my dress, yanking me up onto my feet, and the front of my gown tore, revealing the corset, now unfortunately askew. “This is not your sister.”
Macsen reached us and swung at Siors, boxing him clean across the jaw. Siors let go of me with an oath and stumbled back.
Macsen advanced on him. “Of course she’s my sister, you miserable peasant. And if you lay another hand on her, I will beat you into the ground where you stand.”
I made an effort at surreptitiously tucking myself back together while Siors gaped at Macsen, rubbing his jaw.
Macsen’s eyes were dark with rage, though his gaze was only for Siors. “Get the hell off my land. If you set foot on the grounds of Llys Mawr again, you will be hanged on the spot, and if I hear so much as a word of slander against August has passed your lips in Cantre’r Gwaelod, I will have you horsewhipped.”
Siors was speechless, as was I. Without another word, my erstwhile suitor mounted his horse, turned her about and rode away.
Macsen picked up the blanket from the ground and draped it around my shoulders. “Are you all right? You’re not. You’re bleeding.”
I shivered in the fog rolling over the hill. “Why are you defending me?”
“I’m the earl of Cantre’r Gwaelod,” he snapped. “What else should I do? Let a mongrel like Apted not only molest my sister but beat her like a dog without consequence?”
“Oh, shut up, Macsen. You know I’m not August.”
His eyes glinted dangerously, and I thought he might box me as he had Siors. “If you are not August, then I am not Sebastian. And I will fight any man to the death who claims I am not Sebastian.” It was a clear warning that he did not intend to lose his title, even to the true lord of Cantre’r Gwaelod—whatever the cost.
* * * * *
The ride back to the manor was slow going, and the rain had returned by the time we arrived. Macsen delivered me dripping, bruised and disheveled into Abigail’s care. The commotion in the foyer brought Sven from his room at the top of the stairs, and he charged down them, looking ready to lay Macsen flat.
I put out my hand to block him. “It wasn’t him.”
Sven stopped short with a look of confusion. “You aren’t going to tell me you took a fall from your horse. I know the marks of a strap when I see them.”
Macsen raised his brow. “Do you beat many people in your occupation, Dr. Rees?”
Sven’s cheeks colored above his beard. “I’ve delivered a strapping or two to a knave who deserved it. And if the lady here hadn’t spoken for your honor, I’d have been happy to deliver one to you.”
Macsen’s amusement turned to anger with the speed of lightning. “You are aware you’re speaking to the lord of Cantre’r Gwaelod.”
With an audible sigh, Abigail turned me firmly toward the stairs. “Miss August needs seeing to.”
Sven took the hint and followed after a sullen “Good day to you, milord.”
Water dripped from the blanket still wrapped around me onto the red-carpeted stairs, leaving dark stains as if I were dripping blood. In my room before the mirror as I allowed Abigail to undress me, I was startled by my reflection. With my dark hair damp and hanging about my face, I looked even more like August, though of course older.
As the stays loosened and I took in a full inhalation, I gasped at a sharp pain in my side. Siors had caught me in the ribs with his boot and had almost certainly bruised them, if not broken one. The outward bruising was visible as the corset came away.
“Do you mean to tell me what happened?” Sven growled as I winced at Abigail’s probing touch.
“I let Siors get a little too close.”
“Dammit, Sly. I warned you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. You were right. And I’m a fool. I hope you’re happy.”
“Course I’m not happy.” Though he did look a bit grimly smug. “He’ll spoil everything. Or has he already told Sebastian?”
“Stop badgering him,” Abigail interrupted. “He needs to rest.” She’d fetched a sleeping gown from the wardrobe, and she held it bunched in her fists. “Arms up.”
“I’m not a child,” I protested, but did as she said. “Sebastian saw it happen.” I spoke haltingly from within the gown as Abigail lowered it over my head, my upstretched arms accentuating the ache in my ribs. “Or saw the result of it, anyway,” I amended as my head cleared the collar. “He actually came to my rescue. Which was highly embarrassing.”
“But did he know why Siors attacked you?” Sven pressed.
“It was fairly obvious at the time, but, yes, Siors elaborated.” I climbed into bed at Abigail’s prompting.
“Guess the jig’s up, then.” Sven uttered the phrase, one of the many I’d encountered only in Thievesward cant, with a scowl. The “jig” was up, all right, but not the one Sven thought.
“Perhaps not.” It was time for me to come clean. There were too many layers of deception for me to keep track of. Sven was looking at me questioningly. “Sebastian may be aware that I’m not his sister, but I also have something on him.” I met Sven’s eyes. “He’s not Sebastian.”
Sven’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What do you mean, he’s not Sebastian? And how would you know?”
I swallowed. “Because I am.” My face felt hot, as if I’d been caught doing something shameful. “The night I escaped All Fates and you told me the earl had come of age, I realized my life would be in danger if I told you the truth. They locked me up after August drowned, claiming I’d murdered her—which I did not, I swear to you—and I had no idea they’d put someone else in my place until you told me. I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Sven shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. Knew there was something off about you. And you were playing your role too damn well. So who is he? Do you have any idea?”
“He’s Emrys’s bastard son, Macsen.”
Sven whistled between his teeth. “Well, that certainly makes things interesting.” He was pensive a moment. “But maybe this works in our favor.”
“I think it does. Macsen seems quite determined to maintain the fiction that I’m his sister. I suppose he realizes that if I’m revealed as the real Sebastian, his jig is up. Even if I’m sent back to All Fates, he’ll be exposed as a fraud.”
“You told him who you were?”
“Of course not. But he must know. I’ve made it quite clear to him that I know things only August and I could be aware of. Who else could I be?”
Sven shrugged in acknowledgment and paced to the window. “He tells his ruddy father and you may find yourself joining August in the bog.” He glanced back at me. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be unfeeling.”
I smiled to let him know I hadn’t taken it that way. “You’re here. I’m counting on you to keep me from landing in bogs.”
He returned my smile somewhat grudgingly. “I’ll do my best.”
Abigail’s ministrations to the abrasions on my face drew my attention, and I gritted my teeth while she dabbed at them with a cloth soaked in spirits from the flask she kept in her pocket. “That’s what you get for being foolhardy,” she said without pity. “I’m afraid you’ve lost your pretty looks for a bit. And no corset for you until those ribs heal up.”
“How long will that take?” asked Sven.
“Some physician,” I said, trying to distract myself from the sting of Abigail’s cloth and failing.
“A few weeks at least,” Abigail answered. “Maybe a month.”
“A month? How am I to go without a corset for a month?” The jig would certainly be up if I had to go about in a dress with nothing to shape me beneath it.
“We’ll tell everyone you’re laid up with pneumonia. You keep to your bed, and no one will be the wiser.”
I didn’t relish the idea of lying in bed for a month. “Macsen will know I don’t have pneumonia.”
“Yes, and he’ll know you don’t have a pair of tits, either, sweetie.” I cringed at her bluntness, and Sven laughed. “You explain about the corset, and I imagine if he wants to continue to play his game, he’ll go along with it.”
The question was, what exactly was Macsen’s game and how did he expect me to figure into it? I was a threat to his place, and he had to know I wouldn’t tolerate his usurping mine indefinitely. I might find myself in the bog with August yet.
* * * * *
Macsen himself resolved the question later that evening. Unexpectedly, he brought my bedtime drink. Abigail had made me as presentable as possible—though why I cared whether Macsen found me presentable was beyond my reasoning.
“To what do I owe the honor of your presence, dear brother?” My greeting held all the false saccharine affection I could muster as I accepted the mug of hot tea and brandy from him.
Macsen closed the door to my suite, standing beside it a moment with his hand on the cut crystal knob as though listening for footsteps before turning back to me. He pulled up my bedside chair and sat. “I have some terms to discuss with you.”
