By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  He sipped a cup of steaming black tea and looked her over, his gaze meandering up her legs to her face. He set down the cup. “You do.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” She cocked her head toward the door, and her stomach growled.

  Brennan nodded to the table laden with food. “Not until you eat something. You haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’m not sure half a bowl of fish stew counts.”

  Although she wanted to jump out of her own skin, she plopped into a chair and idly dipped a point of crusty bread into her bowl of potée, pushing around pieces of bacon, carrot, and parsnips. What was food to her, when she was about to see Jon again?

  But just over a month ago, she’d been in arcanir shackles, starving, every day a fight for survival—hers and…

  And Sylvie’s.

  Freedom had come at a high cost, an unconscionable sacrifice that any good woman—and good mother—

  She winced. The long nights since House Hazael had heard her quiet sobs, collected her tears. She’d mourned, and blamed, and rued, and regretted.

  And Jon… He’d been here, didn’t know, hadn’t—

  She shook her head. “Do you think he’ll forgive me for losing our child?”

  He kept the silence for a long moment, then slid the teacup and saucer aside to his pile of cleared plates. He folded his hands on the table. “You did what was necessary to survive.”

  With a spoon, she submerged the bread in the potée and held it there.

  “If he didn’t know you were with child, then nothing good will come of telling him it’s lost.”

  She flinched. “I won’t lie to him.”

  “Sometimes a lie is kinder. He can’t change what happened. Neither can you. He’ll only feel guilty that he wasn’t there, frustrated that he couldn’t do anything, angry for revenge. But it’s done. Do you want any of that?”

  Bubbles escaped the submerged bread.

  “No,” she whispered. What she wanted from him was forgiveness, understanding. Lifting the burden weighing so heavily on her heart. What she wanted from him was selfish.

  “Then don’t tell him.”

  But it wasn’t just about forgiveness. She’d been reckless, seized the first chance of escape, and Sylvie had died because of that. Because of her.

  Perhaps some wounds never healed. Never deserved to be healed. Perhaps she didn’t deserve forgiveness at all.

  But didn’t Jon deserve to know he’d had a child? Didn’t Sylvie deserve life in her father’s memory? Not telling him would be cruel to him and Sylvie both, and selfish to the extreme.

  “If you lost a child, wouldn’t you want to know she’d existed?” she whispered. “Even if it hurt?”

  His eyes widened, amber flashing like lightning before he looked away.

  That was answer enough. She gently removed the spoon, and the bit of bread floated to the top of her bowl.

  She’d tell him. Once they dealt with Shadow, she’d tell him everything, and they’d bear the loss together, and honor Sylvie’s memory together.

  The sooner she saw him, the better. She lifted the bowl to her mouth and gulped down the soup. When she pushed back her chair, he stood, grabbed it, and pulled it out for her.

  He held out a hand and, when she took it, helped her to her feet. The city beyond the foggy window had darkened to twilight gray as the sun turned its back.

  “Let’s go.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze before he released her. “Now that you’ve silenced that growling hound you call a stomach.”

  Smiling, she reached for her cloak and put it on while Brennan gave word to his servants. Out the window, she could just barely make out the battlements and turrets of Trèstellan in the dark. She sucked in a shaky breath and shook out her jittery hands.

  It was time. Tonight, she would finally see him. She would finally see Jon.

  Chapter 46

  Brennan wrapped an arm around Rielle in the carriage. The cold had frosted to a savage freezing; even clad in the strandling-lined wool cloak he’d procured for her, she still trembled. Even his own considerably hot blood had chilled.

  These moments, enshrined from the world and time, could prove to be the last he’d have so closely with her. She was returning to the arms of the man she loved. And the king, if he had any sense, wouldn’t let her go again for any price.

  He took her leather-gloved hands in his and rubbed them. She wriggled closer and rested her head under his chin.

  Great Wolf, it was a foolish ruse, holding her here, holding her close, a deception that quieted the clamoring fear in his chest. He would lose this. He would lose her. The king would never let another man hold her like this ever again.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  And she… She had finally taken down her walls, allowed herself to be vulnerable with him, accepted him into her heart. Let him in. The duchess of Melain had been right. Love her. Love those she loves.

  He’d told Rielle not to concern herself with him. Given her cause to think he’d made peace with it all. She’d believed him, or this nearness of hers would have been bitter. Bittersweet. No matter what she believed, her nearness would always be welcome, in some way. Welcome, but unlikely ever again.

  He’d regained her trust, her love, her friendship. He’d regained nearly all he’d stupidly lost. Only to lose her to Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle.

  He puffed a warm breath on her hooded head, and she moaned softly.

  There was nothing to do but either continue vying for her favor or lose her gracefully.

  He wanted her to love him, to choose him. Even looking at her now, he saw her wearing a Maerleth Tainn signet ring, her belly full with his child and heir. The woman he loved. His wife. Mother to his children. The daydream’s beauty dazzled with enough shine to keep him captivated for a lifetime.

  The carriage jostled.

  A daydream was all it could ever be.

  He’d made it clear he wanted her. If she’d wanted him enough in return, there had been the entire trip from Xir for her to make it known. But she hadn’t. And wouldn’t.

  If he continued vying for her, he’d only force her to push him away. If she loved Jon, she wouldn’t tolerate a threat to that love. She’d push away another suitor.

  But she wouldn’t push away a friend. No, as her friend, he could stay close to her. Never as close as he wanted, but closer than he could be if he pursued her overtly. He rested his chin lightly on her head. As a friend, he could keep her in his life; he could stay in hers. He’d watch over her from a distance, keep their monthly meetings. And someday—perhaps someday—she might break his curse.

  Yes, he would gracefully abandon pursuit of Rielle. He would let her go. But in the absence of the flame of requited love, hope would still provide a glimmer of light. And he could subsist on its radiance.

  The carriage stopped. They had to be at the Noble Gate to Trèstellan Palace. He’d fulfilled his vow to the king, and to himself. He’d brought her home.

  He pulled aside the curtain and presented his documents to the guards.

  They glanced at the interior and let him through. “Welcome back to Emaurria, Your Lordship.”

  He nodded. “My thanks. May the night be kind to you.”

  “And to you, Your Lordship.”

  The carriage rolled to speed again, hurtling toward the palace. He reached for his waistcoat’s pocket, where he’d left the folded and sealed message Rielle would take to the king. It read simply, Found her in Xir. She couldn’t wait to see you.

  The carriage pulled to a halt, jostling as the footmen dismounted and opened the doors.

  He rubbed Rielle’s arm through her cloak. “We’re here,” he whispered, the words a reluctant rasp. It had ended too soon. All too soon.

  Shivering, she smiled up at him. “Good. I can’t wait to get out of this cold. It’s as if the world will never be warm again.”

  “It will.” For you. I promise. He exited and assisted her out of the carriage.

  Despi
te the freezing air, he breathed in deeply, staring at the white stone palace walls and the ornately carved door before them. Nowhere else to go but through.

  Every hair on Rielle’s body stood on end while she waited for Brennan and his household to settle him into his quarters. Apparently, the Royal Guard needed to be certain a noble was in residence before they allowed his messenger access to the king.

  At least they were being careful with his life, trying to shield him from potential assassins.

  But once the Royal Household and the Royal Guard knew Brennan had returned, no one would doubt his liveried messenger moving about the palace with a message being his seal, even to the king’s own quarters.

  Warmth flowed through her body. For four months, she hadn’t seen the man she loved. But tonight… She stood, nerves electrifying her body.

  While the servants flitted about Brennan’s luxurious quarters, she paced, tapping the wax-sealed parchment against her palm. As soon as Brennan’s chamberlain returned with word, she would go.

  Arms crossed and clad in impeccable black velvet, Brennan leaned against the window frame in his bedchamber, eyes fixed on the city. “Have you ever seen it this cold before?”

  “Never.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Strange.”

  The cold was unusual, but weather could be unpredictable. An elementalist could have been responsible for a chill here and there, but over all of Courdeval for so long? And to what end?

  The door opened, and she jumped. Finally.

  A kitchen maid brought in a tray with a decanter of red wine, along with goblets, bread, butter, some cold cuts, and jam. “Sorry, Your Lordship. It’s after dinner. I can have Chef fix you a hot meal, if you like?”

  Rielle deflated.

  Brennan smiled warmly and inclined his head. “My thanks. Another decanter of wine, and I’ll be fine for tonight.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.” The maid bowed and exited.

  Rielle buttered a piece of warm bread, her mouth watering. At the inn, she’d neglected to eat more than a few sips of potée, despite Brennan’s urging. Too nervous to eat. But here, there was nothing to do but wait and eat.

  As the comforting flavors danced on her tongue, she could have whimpered. Emaurrian partial rye and fresh, unsalted butter. It had been so long. So very long.

  “That good?” Brennan asked from the window, an amused lilt playing in his voice.

  “That good.” She popped another piece in her mouth. Just like old times at the Tower. She’d always eaten well there—perhaps a little too well. She laughed under her breath.

  “Well”—he walked over and poured himself a goblet of wine—“you’ll need about three loaves a night for a few weeks to look like yourself again.”

  Pursing her lips, she kicked out at him, but he evaded. “I wasn’t that large!”

  “Soft,” he whispered, his hazel eyes darker than usual. “You were soft.” He poured her some wine.

  As she reached for it, she examined her bony hands and wrists, her thin arms. Sonbahar had taken a lot. Starvation could do that to a person. “Don’t worry. Bread, butter, and I are quite fond of each other, and I expect we’ll spend a lot of time together”—she took a drink—“with our good friend, wine.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, huffing a half-laugh into his goblet, then grabbed some bread himself, piling cuts of smoked duck atop it. “You need to bolster your strength. Does your... ‘friendship’ extend to smoked duck?”

  Having finished her third slice of bread, she licked the butter off her thumb and helped herself to some meat. “Well, there’s no such thing as too many friends, is there?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat, eyebrows raised.

  A gentle rap sounded at the door.

  “Yes?” he called.

  His chamberlain entered. “My lord, the Royal Guard and the Royal Household have been notified of your arrival, as requested.”

  Brennan stared at his goblet, swirling it slowly. “And the king?”

  “In his quarters, my lord.”

  Brennan took a drink. “Thank you, Gerard.”

  “My lord.” Gerard bowed and quietly shut the door.

  Then…

  Frozen, she raised her eyes to Brennan’s. “Does that mean…?”

  He nodded and drank again. “Yes. You can go to him now, if you wish.”

  Jon. She could finally see Jon.

  She leaped from her chair and gulped down the rest of her wine, then darted to the mirror to check her face, hair, and teeth. It wouldn’t do to see him for the first time in months with butter smudged on her face or crumbs in her hair. She smoothed some stray curls, tucking them back into her braid, and ran her index finger over each eyebrow. Her teeth, since washing them at the inn, were clean.

  “Quit worrying,” Brennan murmured into his goblet. “You look fine.” He gulped some wine. “As fine as you can, anyway, before your angles round out again—”

  She glared at him, but he only grinned back crookedly. Trying to set her at ease? She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you for everything, Brennan. I don’t know if I’d be here without you.”

  He swallowed a mouthful of wine and patted her shoulder. “Go.”

  After dropping a kiss on his cheek, she dashed to the door and out.

  She walked through the halls with the letter in hand, her official documents from Brennan tucked into her shirt. With every step, her heart pounded harder and harder, until it became an ominous drum thumping in her ears, a march guiding her footfalls. She would see him again. In minutes.

  The unusual cold had permeated the castle walls, the hearths and sconces doing little to keep it at bay. She puffed warm air into her hands from time to time, reminding them of heat once more. They’d thaw. Probably.

  Although she was liveried in Tregarde’s crimson and gold, the Royal Guard—paladins, judging by their behavior—stopped her more frequently the closer she approached the king’s quarters. She found herself nodding through each conversation, repeating the same few words, and taking visual cues about how to respond as her heart, its anticipation, and its longing drowned out all else. How many more faces, how many more moving lips and demanding hands would she have to engage before finally seeing him?

  With a forced smile, she tore herself away from yet another guard.

  At last, the tall double doors to the king’s chambers were in sight. As she approached the guards posted outside, she beamed and murmured a cheerful excuse that it was her first time at the palace while they inspected Brennan’s seal.

  She stared at the ornate doors, and for a moment, they disappeared: Jon would stand on the other side, looking back at her with relief and love and joy. He’d take her into his arms and say he’d waited four long months for this moment.

  Divine, she’d missed him. His smile, his warmth, his teasing. Had he looked out at the sky, night after night, with longing, as she had? Had he held their most precious moments together close to his heart, as she had? Had he lain awake every evening until he pictured the face of his lover, as she had?

  One of the guards asked her a question, and she watched the unyielding lines of his face as he spoke; she couldn’t hear a word. Her heart, beating so loudly in her ears, began to slowly quiet, but some strange mix of sounds…

  “…an official correspondence, but…” The guard’s lips kept moving.

  From behind the doors, breaths, loud and ragged—

  “…not possible…”

  A woman’s moans—

  Not possible.

  “…to wait or leave the correspondence with…”

  A man’s voice she… knew, but it couldn’t be—

  “…but His Majesty is currently… indisposed,” the guard finished, lowering his gaze.

  His Majesty…

  Jon.

  It couldn’t be.

  It just couldn’t.

  The sounds assailed her from the room in a fierce series of blows that only began with her ears, e
very moment harder, heavier, harsher, filling her up, pushing aside everything else, crushing all inside, leaving no room for—

  No room—

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She gasped, trying to catch her breath as the mess inside fought its way out. A million stars exploding, a sky collapsing—

  “Mademoiselle?” the guard asked with some concern. “Would you like to wait or leave the correspondence with me?”

  From the other side of the doors, the woman cried out his name.

  She tried to swallow the lump in her throat and noticed a nearby tapping sound; her head lowered until she was faced with her own foot, shaking erratically—anxiously.

  Not another minute. She couldn’t stand here another minute.

  Get away. She had to get away.

  Wordlessly, she handed the letter to the guard, forced a quick smile, and spun to leave, the hall ahead a blur.

  She walked, trying to shut out everything, but the unwanted sounds continued—whether from the room or in her head—and they chased her every speeding step.

  Keep walking. Just keep walking.

  She tried to stay upright, staring at the blurry end of the hallway. Her exit from this torture. With every movement, the emptiness in her chest widened.

  A few more steps. Only a few more.

  Once she rounded the corner, she braced herself against the wall, bringing a hand to her chest as if to hold it together, but to no avail—it would break, it would crumble, and it would unravel the very fiber that held her together.

  The gasps, the cries, the moans—her legs moved faster. Away. One foot in front of the other, she ran, muffling her mouth with one determined palm.

  She had to escape, had to forget—

  Great Divine, how she wished now to never have done this, never to have hoped—

  She stumbled and fell to a knee. It had been foolish. All of it.

  Pushing off the floor, she ran, ran, and ran, her feet taking her as far from him as they could. Passersby balked, but she didn’t care. She ran until her legs turned leaden, too heavy to keep moving, to keep fighting.

  Finally, a door—the door—Brennan’s door.

  But why had she come to his quarters, of all places? What words of comfort would he offer? Wouldn’t he rejoice in this, of all things?