Rounding another corner, he saw two doors with Sanguire guards posted outside. Both had brassards indicating the Agrun Nam, but the first one had a strip of aquamarine cord stitched into it—Nijmege’s color. Valmont tucked his chin and approached the closest man. “I’m here to see Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege. Please tell her I’m here.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Valmont glanced sharply left and right, empty except for them and the guard down the corridor. “Is there a line?” He reached out with his mind to tap against the man’s barriers. The guard was strong, yes, and a few hundred years old, but no match if Valmont really wanted to get in and do harm. “Tell her I’m here while I’m still being polite about it. If she wishes me to go, I’ll go.”
The guard flushed, glancing at his companion several doors away. It didn’t matter that Valmont had spoken quietly, they were all Sanguire and his words had easily carried. With a frown he murmured into his microphone.
While they awaited a response, Valmont eyed the other guard. His brassard had a small gold star rather than the aquamarine cord, indicating that he worked for Bentoncourt. As soon as Valmont was inside, Bentoncourt would know he’d been here. Well, let him wonder, then. Movement drew his attention back as Nijmege’s door opened.
A Human servant held the door wide, bowing and gesturing. “My Gasan will see you now.”
Valmont affected a delighted tone. “Why thank you!” He smirked at the door guard, enjoying the grinding jaw as he stepped past. He was ushered into the sitting room where Nijmege stood glaring at him.
Neither of them spoke until the servant was dismissed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I wanted to talk to you. Can’t old friends sit down and chat anymore?” Valmont moved closer but didn’t take a seat without invitation. Annoying his mentor’s widow wasn’t his goal, no matter how entertaining the prospect.
“We’re not friends.” Nijmege studied him, a haughty sneer on her face. “You’ve betrayed me, just as you’ve betrayed others in the past. I don’t think you’d know how to be a friend.”
Her words struck him hard, reminding him of the last time he’d sold out a friend, murdering her at the command of this woman and the Agrun Nam. It wasn’t easy, but he refused the bait. “Perhaps not. But I’ll muddle through.”
She blinked, unprepared for his refusal to take up her challenge. He couldn’t blame her. Normally they’d trade words and insults until one or the other marched off in a huff. Wary, she waved a hand at a chair. “Sit down.”
“Thank you.” Valmont hovered until she did the same across from him. “I trust you’re settling in well?”
She scowled. “I am.”
“Good, good.” He stared out the window, seeing the river and southwest Portland in the distance. He’d come here to talk to Nijmege yet couldn’t find the words to begin. For centuries she’d been ill-humored, ever peevish that her role in Elisibet’s death hadn’t been more tangible. Now he was reminded of the bitter woman he’d succored, the woman whose grief had driven her to push a treasonous statute against her monarch. Perhaps spending time with Whiskey wasn’t a good thing after all. It seemed her influence had made him overemotional. Compassion was both a strength and a weakness.
“Well?” Nijmege demanded, interrupting his thoughts. “Why are you here? Begging for your little mistress?”
“Actually, she doesn’t know I’m here.” Valmont gestured toward the door and the guard beyond. “At least until it’s reported that I signed in downstairs.”
With an unpleasant smile, Nijmege leaned forward. “Won’t she be suspicious of your visit, then? Will she think you’re scheming behind her back to assassinate her as you’ve done in the past?”
The words struck him with discomfort, igniting the guilt he’d carried for centuries about his role in Elisibet’s death. Tamping down the emotion, he shook his head. “I think she’ll understand why I came here once I tell her the reason.”
His deflection again confounded her and she straightened in her seat, peering at him imperiously. “Speak up, then. I haven’t all day.”
“What will it take to convince you to leave this path of retribution, Bertrada?” He scooted forward, settled on the edge of his armchair with his elbows on his knees. “Elisibet is dead and has been for hundreds of years. Whiskey isn’t Elisibet.”
“How can you say that?” She stood, walking away to put some distance between them. Spinning around, she glared. “Don’t you hear that honeyed voice, see her mannerisms? She is Elisibet regardless of her true age! She’s proof that Mahar’s Prophecy is true.”
Valmont rose, taking only one step toward her. “Which gives even more reason why you need to lay this farcical retaliation to rest! If she’s proof of Mahar’s Prophecy, then she’ll live despite anything you do. She has a destiny to fulfill.”
Nijmege rewarded him with a nasty grin. “I’ve heard that the people here bandied about that theory. You assume she’s invincible because of her destiny.” She crooked her fingers in air quotes. Dropping her hands, she cocked her head. “Did it ever occur to you that a dead martyr has far more reach than a living one?”
Whiskey’s aunt had brought up the supposition that Whiskey couldn’t fail by virtue of the prophecies from various nations. None of them mentioned her dying as a necessary requirement for uniting the Sanguire people, and Whiskey had run with the idea. The significance of Nijmege’s threat hit Valmont physically, crystallizing his senses. Though nothing in the myths and legends said such a thing, that didn’t mean it wasn’t feasible. He shook with a sudden adrenaline rush, his canines automatically unsheathing in his mouth. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Pleased she’d surprised him, she bared her fangs with a laugh. “I can’t believe that not one of you on that illustrious board of directors considered this.”
Valmont tucked his chin, forcing himself to relax, his teeth to sheathe. Killing Nijmege would be a pleasure, but that would leave Whiskey without his experience or skills. If Nijmege’s guards didn’t kill him before he got out of this suite, he’d be subject to European law and given a death sentence. If The Davis Group fought it, there’d be no treaty with the European Sanguire and possibly even open war. Taking a deep breath, he studied Nijmege, perversely enjoying her confusion when he didn’t attack. “Look what happened to Judas Iscariot. Are you willing to go down in history as the woman who killed our hope?”
She tucked her own chin, the smile gone from her face. “Gladly.”
There was no talking to her. He knew that now. Shaking his head, he gave her a slight bow. “My apologies for disturbing you, Aga Maskim Sañar Nijmege. I’ll see myself out.” Expressions of confusion and pain flickered across her face, reminding him of the woman he had once known. They quickly disappeared, her hawk-like visage returning to the stoniness it had held since the death of her lover, Nahib. The Bertrada I once knew died then. How could I have missed that?
With profound sorrow he left her standing in her suite, quietly closing the door behind him. The guard outside watched with wariness as Valmont paused, glancing down the hall to Bentoncourt’s suite. The guard there was different, indicating the first had gone to report Nijmege’s visitor. Valmont couldn’t dredge up the interest to wonder what was being said and debated if he should visit Bentoncourt next. No, Lionel already knows.
Valmont squared his shoulders and left the floor. At the security desk, he signed out of the building with little fanfare, taking the skywalk back to The Davis Group headquarters and his automobile. There was nothing to be done at this point, nothing that hadn’t already been said, no one who needed warning. He had harbored the notion he would be able to convince Nijmege, but finally accepted the fact that such a thing was impossible. Unless Whiskey appointed him Defender of the Crown, he could do nothing to champion her against Nijmege’s threat.
By the end of the year, one or the other of them would be dead.
Chapter Twelve
Margaure
the quietly closed the bedroom door, leaning back against it to survey the room and its occupant. The room was large—more a suite than a simple bedroom—as befitted a woman of Whiskey’s station. Well appointed, it boasted heavy wood furnishings, plenty of closet space and its own small sitting area. Had there been time during the hasty renovations, Margaurethe would have installed a fireplace as well. Unfortunately, she’d needed a secure base of operations more than the comfort of a crackling fire in the Ninsumgal’s bedchambers. Perhaps she could arrange to have one installed in the future when the precarious political sessions were over.
Never one to display puritan attitudes in privacy, Whiskey had already shed her silk shirt, tossing it at an armchair. She sank onto a chaise lounge to unlace her boots, still wearing a camisole. Margaurethe watched her from the door, enjoying this moment of vulnerability to which only she was privy. Whiskey’s pale hair glowed golden under the nearby lamplight, and her dragons writhed along her arm as she worked the boot off her foot.
She loved watching Whiskey, adored the sight of her as she slept or ate or played with her pack mates. Even when anger twisted her beautiful face, when ire sparked her black eyes, Margaurethe couldn’t help but be enamored. At first she thought it was due to Elisibet’s long absence from her life, a dysfunctional failing that gave her a predisposition to submit herself to Whiskey. She had yearned for the return of her lover for so long…The internal sound of laughter lilted through her mind. Her relationship with Whiskey could hardly be categorized as “submitting.” They’d had some explosive arguments over the months they’d been together, more so than Margaurethe had ever experienced with Elisibet. At first, she had worried that these outbursts would ruin any chance of friendship between them. Their arguments had made them stronger, however, something she’d never taken into account. Would the past have been different if she’d opposed Elisibet more frequently and vehemently?
Whiskey dropped her second boot to the floor and stood. She noted Margaurethe still at the door and cocked her head. “Minn’ast?”
Margaurethe set aside useless thoughts of history and smiled, walking toward her future. Strong arms wrapped around her waist as she caressed Whiskey’s back. “I love you, m’cara.”
“I love you too.”
Their difference in height was more pronounced now that Whiskey was barefoot. She leaned into the hug, easily laying her head on Margaurethe’s shoulder. They stood still for long moments, savoring their closeness. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved this afternoon.”
Whiskey stiffened, leaning back to stare into her eyes. “You don’t have to apologize—”
Margaurethe placed a finger upon her lips to hush her. “I do. You were right. I became distracted and lost focus. I’ve spent so many years preparing for this potential meeting that I’d forgotten our goal.” Whiskey looked like she wanted to argue more, but Margaurethe smiled, replacing her finger with her lips. Blood and roses swelled along her senses as the warm lips beneath hers became pliant and accepting.
After several glorious minutes Whiskey sighed and pulled away. “Apology accepted then.”
Smiling, Margaurethe brought her hand up to caress the side of Whiskey’s face with her knuckles. “Thank you. I realize I made you doubt yourself, doubt my belief in you. I want you to know that no matter what happens, no matter how I might rant or rail or scowl, I do believe in you and your strength and foresight.” She ducked in for another kiss. “I’m an old woman. I sometimes forget.” The comment did as she intended, causing Whiskey to laugh. Her smile widened.
“Old woman, my ass.” Whiskey tucked mahogany hair behind Margaurethe’s ear. “You don’t look a day over five hundred, minn’ast.”
Margaurethe chuckled, modestly shrugging her shoulders. “I work out.”
They enjoyed the levity, not having many opportunities for playfulness these days. Whiskey held Margaurethe close, one hand burying itself in Margaurethe’s hair. “I’m sorry too. Sometimes I can’t help but act like a temperamental two-year-old whining about an early bedtime.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, m’cara,” Margaurethe soothed, gently rocking them. “You’re a youngling. It’s expected.”
“I’m Ninsumgal.”
The pronouncement sent shivers along Margaurethe’s spine. It was rare that Whiskey used the term so forcefully in reference to herself. She’d grown into her role as time went on but still had issues regarding her position and Elisibet’s past. Margaurethe forced herself to pay attention as Whiskey continued to speak.
“I can’t afford the luxury of using my age as an excuse for my mistakes. Elisibet did in the beginning. I remember several times she purposely chose to hide behind her youth to act like an ass, to get what she wanted. I don’t want to be like that. I can’t make those sorts of mistakes.”
Margaurethe stepped back, studying Whiskey with concern. “We all make mistakes, love.” She tapped Whiskey’s nose as dark eyes rolled in exasperation. “Sometimes they have a significant impact on others, yes, but you can’t go into this demanding perfection of yourself. It will destroy you, destroy your soul.” Her lover appeared unconvinced, reminding her of the primary difference between Whiskey and Elisibet—Whiskey had a streak of empathy that heightened her insecurities, causing her to castigate herself for her perceived failings, real and imagined. According to Whiskey, Elisibet had held similar insecurities but not the human nature to comprehend them, preferring to tamp her weaknesses down into the depths of her soul where they festered and grew ill-begotten fruit. “Besides, you are far too honorable to use your youth as an excuse. That alone makes you different from Elisibet.”
The pronouncement startled Whiskey as Margaurethe had hoped. “You don’t often say things like that about her.”
“No, I don’t.” She sighed, closing her eyes to search for the words. “You know I loved her dearly. I have no doubt that she loved me in return. Ours was a passion that burned bright, singeing everything in our hearts and souls. Her death devastated me, and it took me a long time to recover.” She peered into Whiskey’s face, finding her hand and holding it tight between them. “But what I have with you is so much stronger, it has a depth that Elisibet and I never enjoyed. I don’t like hearing ill of her, that will never change, but as I experience our love,” and she squeezed Whiskey’s hand, “I realize what was missing then. Elisibet lacked something, something that you do not, and it colored her every deed and thought.”
Whiskey whispered, “Sympathy.”
“Compassion,” Margaurethe corrected. Tears stung her eyes at her heart’s confession, but she smiled. “Valmont was both right and wrong. You will usher in the Sanguire Golden Age, but it won’t be the best thing said of you. You offer so much more than that. You’re an example of the heights to which our people can strive. Strong leadership, kind-hearted and level-headed. We should all be so lucky to have you in our lives.”
Smiling and misty-eyed, Whiskey kissed the back of Margaurethe’s hand still clutching hers. “Thank you,” she whispered. After a sniffle, she gave a slight shake of her head. “I know you believe that even though I don’t. It still means a lot to me to hear it.”
Margaurethe understood that this was merely one battle in the ongoing war with her lover’s misgivings. Rather than push onward with another volley, she chose a tactical retreat. Whiskey had an obstinate streak that clashed brilliantly with hers at the most inopportune times. Better to withdraw, sowing a seed of certainty in Whiskey’s doubting mind. Changing tactics, she bent in for a kiss, releasing Whiskey’s hand to cup her cheek instead. Slow embers of arousal grew higher as their lips parted. With a husky voice, she whispered, “Surprisingly enough, we have another evening to ourselves. Shall we make the best of it while we can?”
Whiskey’s smile became provocative, her hands drifting across Margaurethe’s back to slide along her sides and hips. “What do you have in mind?”
Margaurethe glanced at the bathroom. “I have it on good authority that the Ninsumgal has
a glorious whirlpool bathtub.”
“I like the way you think.” Following her gaze, Whiskey laughed. “Do you think the Ninsumgal will mind if we use her bath salts?” She turned back and stole a kiss, promptly moving her lips along Margaurethe’s jawline and toward her ear. “I bet she won’t.”
The gruff whisper combined with a sharp nip at her earlobe made Margaurethe gasp, her desire burning hotter. She reached out with her mind, bathing in the aroma of roses as Whiskey gathered her, body and soul. “Mmmm, m’cara. I’m sure she won’t mind at all.”
As they drifted into the bathroom, Margaurethe counted herself lucky to have found her true love not once, but twice within her lifetime.
* * *
Seated on the edge of the bed, Margaurethe watched the gentle rise and fall of Whiskey’s chest. An hour before dawn, the young woman still slept in the carefree manner of youth, her consciousness trusted to Morpheus’s realm as she wandered the hinterlands of the dream world. She smelled of warmth and sleep and mortality, causing Margaurethe’s heart to ache with a love so deep, she thought she would drown.
She’d never witnessed Elisibet in such a state, even when waking beside her. Her first lover’s protective shell had wrapped completely about her soul, no matter her level of awareness. Elisibet hadn’t needed protecting, hadn’t wanted it. Those rare times, in the beginning, when Margaurethe had given in to her need to wrap Elisibet in a blanket of security had always ended disastrously. It was as if in order to deny her weakness, to prove her strength, the Ninsumgal had gone out of her way to contrive insult from one person or another, engineering a reason to punish them in the most drastic way possible. She’d had an uncanny sense of people, always going for their weakest points whether it was as simple an act as public humiliation or as horrible as peeling skin from muscle with excruciating leisure. It hadn’t taken long for Margaurethe to cease displaying her protective nature.
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