By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  Whenever she looked at him, she didn’t see hurt, pain, or past sins. She saw a man who’d sacrificed his own life to save hers. A man who’d searched for her across seas and deserts. An ally, a friend, a loved one… a good man, one who didn’t have to marry a royal, marry for the kingdom’s sake, only with Parliament’s approval.

  She raised a palm to her chest. Do I want to marry Brennan?

  Holding her breath, she dared consider the thought. Not today, not tomorrow, but… someday?

  Someday, she could wed Brennan.

  Brennan, who’d set his entire life aside for the past few months just to find her, to protect her, to help her. Who’d put her first.

  She didn’t want him to find a new bride.

  For his part, Brennan had admitted he loved her. And it was no secret to her that he wanted the curse broken.

  A lump formed in her throat. After losing her child in Xir, she couldn’t even fathom the notion of ever having another, but…

  Someday, the hurt wouldn’t be so near, the grief so keen, and maybe she could… bear his child and break his curse forever.

  She loved Jon, but she wasn’t ready to commit to abandoning Brennan. The most she could ever be to Jon would be lover, mistress. He could never marry her, but… Brennan could.

  If she had to choose between love and marriage, which was the right choice?

  Or would she someday… fall in love with Brennan?

  Her brows knitted together, she rested a hand on the parchment.

  She didn’t have to decide now.

  “Thank you for this, Jon,” she said softly, pushing it away, “but it won’t be necessary.”

  His neck corded, he gave her a bleak stare. “You and… him?”

  The lump in her throat thickened. “I… We’ll see.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You know why he wants you.”

  She leaned away. “He’s changed.”

  “ ‘Changed,’ ” he repeated bitterly. “You think he’d so quickly abandon what he was willing to kill for?”

  “It’s more than that,” she snapped. “He loves me. I won’t just—”

  Jon’s mouth went slack. “You really believe that.” The color drained from his face, and he pulled back. “No… you love him.”

  She jolted in her chair and shook her head. “I didn’t come here to talk about Brennan.”

  His eyes widened beneath furrowed eyebrows. “Are you in love with him?”

  “What right do you have to ask me that?”

  He hissed. “What a fool I’ve been,” he murmured. “You gave up on us long before you returned.”

  “How can you say that?” she whispered, voice breaking. Divine’s flaming fire, her eyes were watering again; she bit back tears.

  Glaring at her, he crossed his arms again. “The truth, you mean?”

  A small sound escaped her throat, something she didn’t recognize as her own voice. “Jon, until last night, nothing but the thought of being with you again—” Kept me going.

  The intensity of his glare faded only a measure. “Then you’d accept the papers, wouldn’t you?”

  He’d stayed here while she’d suffered, while Sylvie had died. She’d returned here to find him in bed with another woman, and now he demanded she placate his jealousy?

  She shook her head. “I came here to tell you there’s an assassin plotting to kill you.”

  He scoffed.

  She lifted her chin, holding in the pressure behind her eyes.

  Did he think she enjoyed this? No. She wouldn’t give him the fight he was baiting. “It’s Shadow, one of the Crag Company’s mage captains.”

  Jon glared at her. “The Crag Company is destroyed.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “And you know this how?” He tightened his crossed arms.

  “Shadow was the one who”—she took a fortifying breath—“abducted me the night of Spiritseve.”

  His tautness faded.

  “On the ship to Sonbahar, she told me her husband was one of the attackers I’d killed in Laurentine a decade ago. And that she was taking her vengeance. She said because I killed the man she loved, she would kill the man I…”

  He opened his mouth, but no words came.

  The silence stretched too long. Strained. “If she finds out I’ve returned, I think she’ll feel compelled to act. And she has a soulblade spelled to kill the one I love most, with just one cut.”

  “Are you sure… it’s me she’ll be after?” he asked gently. Carefully.

  She pinched her lips to keep them from trembling. She did love Jon, no matter how badly she tried to feel otherwise. Shadow would have no reason to suspect anything about Brennan, and in any case, it seemed difficult, if not impossible, to kill him.

  She nodded. “And I want to help stop her, but I’ll need a plan.”

  Waiting around for Shadow to try to kill Jon again was no plan at all, but tracking her down wouldn’t be so simple either.

  “I think she’s already attempted to kill me once, then,” he said, looking away. “Olivia saved my life.”

  She smiled faintly. That sounded like Olivia, all right.

  But that meant Shadow hadn’t been idle.

  He pressed a fist to his mouth. “I’ll have to discuss it with my High Council, but instead of waiting for her to strike again, it might be best to draw her out at a time of our choosing.”

  There was logic in that. Luring her in, trapping her, at a time of their choosing. “When would that be?”

  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then sucked in a breath. “Every year, the palace hosts a Midwinter Ball, but this year, obviously, it was canceled. My advisers and I decided to host a ball for the end of the Terran spring festival of Veris.”

  “When?”

  “In five days.” He sipped his tea. “If, as you say, your return would compel her to act, then in a couple days, we’ll let it be known you’ve returned. I’ll escort you to the event, the Champion of Courdeval back from afar, as my special guest. If you’re right about her, she won’t be able to resist.”

  “Escort me?” Was this some ploy to smooth over what had happened? And Champion of Courdeval? What was that about?

  “If you can pretend not to hate me for one evening, that is.”

  “I don’t hate you,” she whispered. I love you. I love you so much it hurts.

  He eyed her doubtfully and let the silence pervade, then poured himself another cup of jasmine tea. “Where are you staying?” he asked. “Olivia wouldn’t say.”

  “Claudine’s, by the docks. I couldn’t trust staying at Couronne without word spreading of my return.”

  “Claudine’s,” Jon repeated. “Can I send you correspondence there?”

  “If you want to. I’ll let you know when I move to Couronne.”

  The Great Bell chimed two. Two in the morning. She started. When had the time flown by? She took another bite of her custard tart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

  Jon slid the teacup and saucer away. “You haven’t. I’m not even tired.” His eyes fixed on hers. “You should stay here tonight.”

  “Thank you. But I think I’ll head back to Claudine’s.” Putting on her gloves, she rose, and Jon rose with her. She reached for her cloak, but he took it for her and wrapped it about her shoulders, then leaned in to tie the front.

  Linden and woodsmoke. She breathed deeply, his scent taking her back to cool nights camped under the stars, dancing at Vindemia in Bournand, days spent abed in Melain.

  His eyebrows drawn together in determination, he made her knees buckle. She grabbed the chair for support before she made a fool of herself.

  “There,” he said quietly, his voice an octave deeper than its usual rich tenor. He swept her braid over her shoulder, his fingers lingering at her neck, his thumb stroking a delicate line from her ear. She leaned into his touch, her lips parting in a soft exhalation, and his fingers brushed along her jaw to her chin.

  He raised her mouth t
o his.

  She melted in his embrace, every ounce of strength fleeing her body, and collapsed against him, the feel of him welcoming, inviting, home; he pulled her in to him, holding her close, so close she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his heart beating against her breasts, the tautness of his stomach. His lips played against hers, coaxed, entreated, and nodding, she opened to him, welcomed him into her mouth, met his soft tongue with hers. Emboldened, he took her mouth with a rising passion, lowering her defenses with his every vigorous breath.

  Her mind slid into Bournand, into Melain, into sultry nights making love to him long after she’d spent the energies of her body, ravenous for his passion, her need insatiable, never able to get enough of him. The hours enjoying his gentle curiosity spread before her, melted into deep slumber in the loving circle of his arms and mornings when they exchanged smiles in the shy light of the rising dawn.

  Moans echoed in her head. From his quarters.

  Her blood running cold, she pushed away from him, wrapped her cloak about her, held a shaking hand between them. “Don’t.”

  He gave a slow, disbelieving head shake, his mouth falling open as his arms fell to his sides. “Are you—”

  She backed away toward the door, trembling. This had been a mistake. She should have just told him and left. “Don’t.”

  He held out his hands. “Tell me—”

  “Don’t touch me,” she snapped, heaving ragged breaths. “Ever again.”

  He knew she loved him and that she needed space. He knew that, and he’d ignored it. Manipulated her. She needed to leave. Now.

  With a long, pained look, he lowered his arms. “I’m sorry I—”

  “No.” She reached the door, scrabbling for the handle behind her.

  “Forgive me,” he said gravely, but she wouldn’t hear another word. Couldn’t. She threw herself out of the Grand Library and, ignoring the puzzled guards, fled.

  If she opened her heart to Jon now, even a little bit, while nothing was resolved between them, he would rend it wide open. She’d never recover.

  A mission. Until Shadow was dead, this—he—could only be a mission. Nothing more.

  Chapter 52

  Jon paced his bedchamber, raking his fingers through his hair. How had the night deteriorated so quickly?

  Rielle had recoiled from him. Recoiled.

  He dropped into a tufted armchair by the hearth and threw his head back, staring up at her portrait. A nineteen-year-old Rielle looked at him, her chin raised, smiling coyly, challenge gleaming in her sky-blue eyes. A woman in love.

  How had he misread her so disastrously? Yet again.

  When he’d wrapped her cloak about her shoulders and leaned in to fasten the closure—on account of her gloved hands—her eyes had shone, softened, darkened. She’d breathed deeply, slowly.

  She’d looked at him as she had so many times in the past. The look that had come before the best nights of his life.

  Not wanting to presume, he’d been subtle—a lingering touch at her neck as he’d swept her braid over her shoulder. She’d leaned into it. Her lips had parted. She’d exhaled softly.

  He’d traced a gentle line along her jaw, and when she hadn’t pulled away, he’d raised her chin to kiss her.

  Flooded with warmth, he melted into the armchair, gazing at the portrait. Kissing her had made him shiver with pleasure, so sensitive her slightest touch had made him breathless. And she’d settled into his embrace, pressed herself against him, leaned in when he’d held her closer.

  At the mounting urgency of his kiss, she’d nodded, opened up to him completely. She’d let him in, without hesitation. He’d taken her mouth eagerly, passionately, lovingly. A kiss.

  Terra have mercy, the world had been right again in that shining moment. His heart had raced, urging on the shifting feeling in his chest, and his hands had never left her, but they’d ached and tingled, longing for more. A longing only sated by forever.

  She’d met his eagerness, his passion, his love. Her arms had closed around him, firm palms and desirous fingers pressing into his back. She’d stepped into him, rolled her hips against him, moaned softly into his mouth.

  In that moment, he’d been certain of it: she loved him.

  And then she’d broken away. Recoiled. Pushed away from him with an anguish he’d never seen. Don’t.

  She’d held a hand between them, as if she’d feared he’d force himself on her. Don’t touch me. Ever again.

  He dropped his gaze to the fire, the consumed embers there, nearly snuffed out.

  Cold. So cold. He’d never felt so cold in his life. He rubbed his chest with the heel of a palm but hardly felt it at all.

  How had he misread her so disastrously?

  He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. She couldn’t bear his touch. Couldn’t stand him. Would never forgive him.

  He threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling at it as he raked his hand through.

  The woman in the painting smiled coyly at him. A woman in love.

  He hissed in a sharp breath. Nineteen-year-old Rielle. Three years ago.

  She had been in love. With Brennan.

  Thank you for this, Jon, she’d said, pushing the parchment away, but it won’t be necessary.

  She wanted to marry Brennan.

  Slumped in the chair, he watched the flames with morbid fascination. It had all burned. All of it.

  He wanted to lay his heart bare to her, give her everything he was and ever would be, for her to do with as she willed, for as long as he lived.

  Don’t touch me. Ever again. She didn’t want him. It was over. He’d lost her.

  Could he give up pursuing her? Never try to touch her again, hold her again, kiss her again?

  He gazed at the portrait once more. Despite her words, he’d seen the love in her eyes, felt it in her embrace, in her kiss. This was a different Rielle than four months ago. He’d hurt her with Aless—and gods, he still had to tell her about Nora, and Manon—but that wasn’t all.

  What had happened to her in Sonbahar?

  She’d told him very little… that Shadow had abducted her, that she’d been on a ship to Sonbahar.

  An enemy wouldn’t have sent Rielle to another country to go free.

  She’d been sold.

  He dropped his head in his hands, raking fingers through his hair.

  Her shaking hand between them, as if she’d feared he’d force himself on her. Don’t touch me. Ever again.

  A hollow ached in his throat. Terra have mercy—

  What terrors had she suffered in bondage?

  Heavy, cold shackles. Dark, cramped quarters. Shouts and rough hands. Hits, lashes, pain, pain, pain.

  A silenced voice. A dead voice. A caged will. A broken will. The woman who’d stared Flame in the eye and fought him herself, who’d plunged a shard of glass into her flesh for his sake—his love, his forever, unrelenting and fierce—

  Chained.

  Clothes and shoes and dignity stripped away. Brands and blurted prices. Wrists held down. Barked orders. Compliance or agony.

  He covered his mouth with a clenched fist, his entire body going rigid, his gaze unwavering from the embers. Even now, even after everything, all he wanted was to go to her, plead with her to tell him everything, to unburden herself, and to let him help her in any way he could.

  I’m most helpful to her here, leaving her be. That was the reality, painful as it was. This plan to catch Shadow would, at least, give him a chance to see her, perhaps lift her spirits a little, if he didn’t stumble in the attempt.

  He rested his chin on his hand, stroking the day’s growth there with a thumb. He breathed a long sigh, blinking heavily.

  That anguished face… He could never hurt her like that again. No matter how willing she seemed, he’d never touch her with love again, ever. Not unless she initiated.

  But if, as he hoped, she sought him out, if she invited him back into her life—he’d accept whatever
terms she had, praise the gods for his good fortune, and love her for what remained of his life and beyond.

  Brennan lay in bed, his face buried in Rielle’s hair, smelling of her usual rose oil and her own scent. The early morning rays peeked through the drapes.

  She’d rushed into his quarters in the middle of the night, answered none of his questions, and curled up in bed. When he’d cautiously lain next to her, she’d wriggled closer until her back rested against his side, and had fallen asleep.

  Sometime during the night, she’d moved to rest her cheek on his chest, where she lay now.

  She loved him. He loved her. She loved another man more. But she slept right here in his arms.

  She’d trusted Jon. Loved him. And he’d abused that trust, hurt her deeply. And now she needed to put herself back together.

  He understood that. But this was the most confusing relationship he’d ever had in his life. What was it that she wanted of him?

  He had to get her out of the palace, away from Jon, somewhere she could think clearly, breathe. While she was here, seeing Jon again, she was under his influence; while he plied her with charm and favors, she’d never realize how flawed his love had been, how weak he was, how bound by his new role, that he’d never be able to put her first. That even if all this had happened again, the king still wouldn’t have come for her.

  That influence was strong. Overwhelming.

  And I can’t even breathe a word of it to her, or she’ll just think it jealousy.

  No, she had to come to the realization herself, and abandon her feelings for the king. It was the only way.

  A lock of hair lay over her eyes, and he stroked it away. If she didn’t know what she wanted of him—or worse, if she wanted nothing—asking her would only force her to realize it.

  Even if this was an illusion, a mistake, he didn’t want it to end.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and her palm slid across his abdomen, slowly with increasing firmness. He shivered, and she looked up at him, blinked sluggishly.

  “Divine!” she gasped, extricating herself from him and sitting up. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You are always welcome.” To everything I have. To everything I am.