By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)
Page 21
Why did Ihsan trust her with access to poisons?
The belladonna jar’s cover was slightly open, and she reached out to close it.
Arms closed around her body.
A flame cloak—No—the sting of arcanir—
Glass broke and books fell.
Coarse stubble brushed her cheek, and soft hair tickled her ear. She shivered.
“House rumor says I have claimed you.” Farrad. His soft, serene whisper stilled her. “The golden-haired one.”
She swallowed. “Zahib.”
He drew in a slow breath, tightening his hold. “I can’t say I have had the pleasure.”
If not for these arcanir shackles, you’d be scorched.
But there could be no magic, no argument, no combat. She needed a favor from him and, chained with no status, had no way to force his hand.
His arms breezed away. She faced him and dropped to her hands and knees. It was all she had. Perhaps if she begged his forgiveness, his mercy, Samara could be spared the lash.
“Zahib, it was all my fault. Samara had no part in it. If anyone must be punished, let it be me.” She brought her forehead so low, it nudged the tile floor. Divine, please spare me. Spare me.
He dropped to a knee. Pressed two firm fingers below her shoulder. Urged her to rise. “Your gesture is appreciated, but unnecessary.”
Unnecessary? She glanced up, wincing—would he strike her?—but he only studied her with evaluative dark eyes, raven’s wings against a midnight sky, endless, bottomless, unfathomable. “I don’t understand, Zahib.”
He rose and held out his hand, looking like a sultan in his Zeharan-red knee-length silk caftan, richly dyed and cinched in at a fit waist. Just as thiyawb declared status outside, caftans did inside, and Farrad had spared no expense.
Cautiously, she took his offered hand, her palm smoothing against his callused skin, and there was something familiar about him. She let him pull her to her feet.
“Samara is an intelligent girl,” he said, still holding her hand. “She has a soft heart, but she does not interfere like this often. She likes you. And you seem to be worth her liking.”
She bit her lip, her head throbbing. This was the man who had strangled a woman, who had killed another man before her very eyes. A killer, but… a murderer? Who was she to believe, Ihsan or Samara?
“I—thank you, Zahib,” she replied, embarrassed as her hand moistened with sweat.
With a smile, he released her.
“Samara,” she whispered. “If there is any punishment to be had, let it be mine.”
He raised a dark eyebrow and offered a bemused smile. “Are you so eager for punishment?”
“No,” she replied, fidgeting, “but if there is any… I don’t wish anyone else to suffer on my account. Especially not Samara.”
He took a step toward her, and she mirrored in retreat until her back met the wall. There was nowhere else to go. Her jaw shook, and she brought her teeth tightly together.
“You are loyal.” Gently, he neared and reached for the ribbon binding her hair and pulled it free. Curling locks of her hair around his fingers, he arranged it over her shoulder.
“I won’t have my own daughter lashed for her courage,” he said, playing with her curls. He was so near, the coolness of mint tea hinted on his breath. “But I do wish to know the truth of the rumor.”
The truth of the rumor?
“I—” House rumor says I have claimed you, he’d said. The dark skies of his gaze met hers, and she glanced away.
The truth… Did he claim her? He was letting her decide.
Her thoughts descended to her belly, and the life that grew there.
If she said no, what would happen tonight, when she eventually had to return to the slave quarters, unable to protect herself? Would the same guard return? Would another?
How many nights of uncertainty would she bear before something endangered what now mattered most?
Her turn to study Farrad. House Hazael’s Zahib in his grandfather’s stead, no one would dare cross him as Samara had demonstrated with mere mention of his name. A master duelist, he would answer any slight with deadly response.
Her heart dropped. Could she—?
His protection could ensure her child’s survival—and her own—until she could find a way to escape this place.
But could she willingly share this man’s bed, betray Jon, for the sake of her child’s safety? And her own?
Or could she gamble with both her life and her child’s for the sake of fidelity to the man she loved, here of all places, where lives came and swept away with the sand?
Before her stood her means of survival—a powerful man, whose embrace was her only viable survival strategy.
Farrad grazed her jawline with a curious finger. Her heart raced, but she ignored the tightening in her chest. There were no easy choices to be found here.
When the enemy takes your sword, you must draw your dagger. Without magic, this was the dagger left to her, if she’d but pick it up.
“Everything in this house is yours for the taking, Zahib, including me,” she said.
With a slow shake of his head, he traced her lips. “I have four wives, willingly married, and have had many a lover seek my bed. There is pleasure in free will, but none to be found in ‘taking.’ ”
She shivered. He wanted her to choose him. Of her own free will.
There was little freedom in her choices, but she did have the power to set her course here. With a trembling hand, she reached for him, brushed her palm over his Zeharan-red thiyawb, over the hardness of his abdomen, and up to the firm muscle of his chest. Strong. Powerful. Safe.
This was wrong. All wrong.
He held her gaze, unmoving as her touch explored.
Wrong.
She stepped toward him and lifted her chin, floated up to his mouth, brushed his lips with a trembling whisper. Wrong. He threaded his fingers through her hair at the back of her head and claimed her waist with a secure arm. Wrong. His lips met hers with equal restraint, dreamlike in their slow teasing against her own. Wrong. They shared the same minty air, kissing, breathing, speaking the old language of man and woman. Wrong.
“Tell me your name,” he breathed against her mouth, “that I may know what to call this mirage.” He kissed her softly.
Tremors rattled in her arms, in her chest, everywhere, and she fought to still them.
“Thahab,” she whispered, snaking her quivering arms around his neck.
Everything about this was wrong.
No, not everything. She had spared Samara the lash.
His hold tightened.
Spared herself and her child the dangers of the slave quarter.
His body was flush against hers. Scorching.
Perhaps with some maneuvering, she could spare herself further enslavement here.
His mouth covered hers.
Secure an escape.
His tongue sought hers.
With position came power.
He broke the kiss, his gaze sweeping her face. A brush of night-black wings. A crease on his brow. Searching dark eyes.
She would find every bit of power that came with Farrad’s embrace.
“Thahab,” he repeated, savoring each syllable. He stroked her cheek and pinned her to the wall.
Chapter 22
Jon nocked an arrow, drew his sixty-pound recurve, and aimed for the center of the target two hundred yards away.
The twang of the bowstring, and the arrow hit.
Just right of center. He sighed.
A chorus of soft clapping erupted from the suitresses. No doubt succumbing to pretense as he did.
Raoul snorted.
Jon side-eyed him. “Something funny?”
Raoul straightened. “No, Your Majesty.”
The shot or the audience? Both, probably. When he’d arranged to have his bow restrung and scheduled time at the range, he hadn’t invited anyone. All he’d wanted was a quiet hour to himself.
All of that, on top of the burdens of ruling, had begged for quiet diversion.
But here they were.
Subtle hint noted, Derric.
After an attempted assassin, Derric had happily invited women from all over the kingdom to come take up the bow right here in the courtyard. Either the suitresses were well vetted or Derric was willing to risk his king’s life for the sake of courtship.
He grunted and eyed the wall of Royal Guard lining the rim of the snow-covered courtyard. Other than their palpably increased presence, talk of the attempted assassination had become scarce among the courtiers, buried by word of the Veris Ball. And even here, at the archery range, the hot topics were gowns, dances, and jewelry.
Despite the thick blanket of snow, the weather was quite mild for a winter’s morning, but he cupped his mouth and warmed his fingers.
“Cold fingers?” Raoul murmured, raising a brow.
Jon huffed under his breath. Just like old times at the monastery. “I bet you I hit center in two shots.”
“What’s on the table, sire?” Florian asked, raising a brow as he rubbed his hands together.
“How would you like it if I train inside tomorrow? Reasonably close to a hearth?” He grinned.
“Very, ridiculously much.”
Raoul grunted—it was more than he usually said. “And if you win, sire?”
Jon’s grin turned wicked. “You two teach some of these ladies to shoot,” he murmured. And take some of the pressure off me.
Florian smirked but nodded, as did Raoul, who looked like he’d just eaten a lemon.
Jon forced a smile for his audience—as was expected—and followed with a second arrow and a third.
He lowered his bow. Both hit the center, earning a louder bout of claps. He begrudgingly indulged the spectacle, turned to the group, and bowed dramatically for full effect. He raised his head.
“Ladies, I invite you all to join me and enjoy this unusually good weather with some archery,” he declared, with all the charisma he could muster. “Florian and Raoul”—he cocked his head toward them—“have graciously offered lessons.”
Excited giggles and giddy whispers spread among the ladies as they headed toward the variety of bows—shortbows, recurves, and even a couple longbows. All of the suitresses had been accounted for on the day of the parade, or he’d wonder at a few of these sharpshooters.
“Was hustling part of the training at Monas Ver, sire?” Raoul grunted, his eyes dancing.
“Call it a hobby.” He clapped Florian and Raoul each on the shoulder before they headed toward the bows.
A whisper of wind hissed—an arrow flying.
Lady Kaia Jorunsdottir of Skadden held a longbow. His eyes followed the trajectory to the target, where a heavy-grain arrow was embedded in the bull’s-eye.
He whistled under his breath. The longbow—similar to the paladins’ style—had a one-hundred-pound draw weight: Handling it was no easy task.
He stopped next to her while she nocked another arrow. Her eyes darted to him briefly and then away to her shot. As she exhaled, she loosed. Both of their gazes locked onto the arrow as it thudded into the target, just shy of the bull’s-eye.
“Good shot,” he said. Did Derric know if she had any skill with a crossbow?
Kaia turned to him. “Your Majesty is too kind.” She bowed her head. “My homeland, Skadden, is an unforgiving place. We women train in combat, or we die.”
He went rigid. Although Skadden bordered Emaurria to the north, little was known of it, since its warbands mostly fought amongst each other and very rarely ventured south. But apparently their entire population was armed to the last person.
“Then the women of Skadden are wise… and strong.” And they’d be an asset to any ruler—currently Kaia’s mother, Erle Jorun Strand, whose territory outgrew that of all the other warlords combined.
Flushed, she pressed her lips together. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
He inclined his head. Every able-bodied person in a kingdom ready to serve—no dead weight. No outside organizations to refuse orders or withhold their aid.
Beyond, Magdalena and Yumiko ably used recurve bows. Not surprising. Magdalena carried herself confidently, as warriors did. And Yumiko came from Kamerai, where archery was commonly practiced by women for sport.
Ahead, Florian demonstrated the use of the short-bow to Alessandra, Farai, Nadiyya, Salma, and Adelaide, earning oohs and ahhs. At least he was talking to someone other than him or Raoul, or any man, for that matter. Life at court was an… adjustment, to say the least, for paladins.
Melora ably used a short-bow, beaming at him as he walked past. So King Odhrán had arranged for his daughter to become an expert archer.
At the end of the line, a dark-haired woman stood, holding a recurve bow at her side, looking out in the direction of the target. Nora.
He followed her gaze outward. Two arrows lay in the snow between her and the target. She gave him a piteous shrug.
“Good morning, Lady Vauquelin,” he greeted, keeping his distance. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Derric wouldn’t have invited her. Perhaps she genuinely practiced archery?
“Good morning, Your Majesty.” She fixed him with a pleasant look, her mysterious hazel eyes not unlike her brother’s. Her dark hair fell unbound, tousled by the wind against the contrasting white fox fur of her cloak. “After all that happened yesterday, I had hoped for some diversion, but I’m afraid archery is not one of my talents,” she said with an embarrassed half laugh. “I never quite learned to shoot.”
That wasn’t unusual. Many nobles chose to educate their daughters in the arts and entertainment—singing, dancing, flower arranging, needlework, playing musical instruments—and left other skills by the wayside. He’d taught pages and squires at the monastery and could, without a doubt, get her to hit the target. She was making the same mistakes he’d seen countless times.
He approached her. “Show me your stance.”
With a heavy sigh, she turned to the target, nocked an arrow, and drew the bow. All wrong. He took a step, then paused abruptly.
“May I?” he asked, and she nodded.
He moved behind her. “Since you’re shooting a right-handed bow, you should place your left foot down range, not your right.”
She exchanged her misplaced right foot for her left but didn’t space them far enough apart.
“Shoulder-width apart for stability,” he added, and she pulled her right foot back.
“Rotate your feet parallel to the shooting line,” he whispered, and she did so. “This is the basic square stance.”
Taking a step back to view her posture, he shook his head. “Try to stand up straight.” He extended his arm and rotated her chin over her right shoulder.
“Keep your chin over the shoulder of your bow arm.” He checked lower—her hips were out of position. He gently moved them until they were tucked under her upper body.
“When setting your hips, try to flatten your lower back for even more stability.” A spicy floral scent infiltrated his nostrils. “Your center of gravity is too high. Try to relax and lower your chest and ribs down toward your stomach.”
She exhaled and did as he instructed.
He moved to push her shoulders down a bit. “Keep your shoulders down—that’s it.”
He reached around and adjusted her hold on the arrow. “Hold the shaft close to the nock behind the fletching”—he manipulated her grip—“and let it rest on the arrow rest. Then, rotate the shaft until the hens are oblique to the bow and the cock is perpendicular to it,” he explained, referring to the feathers of the fletching as he rotated the arrow.
“Now snap the nock of the arrow onto the bowstring
.” He moved her delicate hand to do the task. Setting her hand in a three-fingered grip on the fletching, he helped her fix upon the target just above nose level and moved her elbow.
He drew and loaded, anchored, moving her body to transfer the draw weight of the bow from her arms and shoulders into her back, and aimed. “As you release, your bow arm’s shoulder should remain stationary and your chest widened, as if taking a deep breath. Allow the bowstring to leave your hand and follow through.”
She loosed the arrow. As he watched it fly, the unmistakable softness of her backside pressed into him. The arrow hit the target, and she giggled.
A quick study.
She turned her head and leered at him. “I appreciate the lesson, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice low and lilting. She shot another arrow expertly, hitting the outer rim of the bull’s-eye. “Your hands-on style is quite effective.”
He raised his eyebrows. A quick study indeed… So quick, she’d learned before he’d said anything.
He’d played right into her hands.
She laughed throatily, her amusement reaching her eyes, and hid a toothy grin. “I’ll try to remember how you recommend handling the shaft.” She briefly arched a shapely eyebrow for full effect.
Chagrined, he raked his fingers through his hair, and then laughed. More than he’d laughed in over a month.
Nora Marcel Vignon was not to be trifled with—she was a master of her own game. She’d judged him well and sprung a trap tailored to his vulnerabilities.
No, he wouldn’t underestimate her at their next meeting. They exchanged a look that he imagined many a fox and hare had exchanged.
“She fancies you,” a feminine voice taunted softly.
A brazen comment. He twisted around. Nearby, Alessandra sauntered toward the bows. He gawked at her, but she kept walking, her hips swaying provocatively. Terra have mercy on any man so surrounded.