A gift, once upon a time. When she’d turned nineteen, she and Leigh had planned to spend a week in Couronne, holed up in this room. He’d sent this nightgown, along with other gifts, but their plans had never come to fruition. Shortly after her birthday, Kieran had reported their relationship to Magehold, and that had been the end of it.
The nightgown had hung here, limp and lone, waiting for a night that would never come.
She grasped the hanger gently, lovingly. Tonight wouldn’t be quite what the nightgown had awaited, but it would have its night.
Jon leaned against the dresser, twirling the sprig of immortelle, a smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes. A seductive gleam.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she blurted, cradling the nightgown against her chest.
“Never,” he said, but his lips twitched.
She stalked up to him and jabbed an annoyed finger at his chest. “It’s for appearances only,” she hissed.
His smile broadened, and he pushed her finger aside with his own. “Right.”
He reached for the nightgown and let the silk slip through his fingers. “You wear colors other than white now.”
She glanced at the nightgown—the sapphire-blue nightgown—and the dress she wore. Crimson brocade.
White. She’d worn white for years. Always. Every day. Every day since… Laurentine. When had that changed? She frowned.
He stroked her bodice, tracing a gentle line up her ribs that made her shiver. “It suits you.”
The space between them heated, electrified. His gaze darkened.
She inhaled a shaky breath. “You’re too close,” she whispered.
He glanced down at the space disappearing between them, then at his hand still gripping the dresser he leaned against.
It was she who pressed into him.
Too close. Much too close.
She searched his eyes, dark blue like the waves of the Shining Sea at midnight, vast, unfathomably deep, unknowable. She pressed against the rise and fall of his chest.
Not close enough.
She rested a palm over his heart, applying pressure to the firm muscle there before letting it glide higher toward his neck, up and around the back. He closed his eyes, exhaled, moved powerfully beneath her touch.
The doors to her bedchamber opened. Footmen and kitchen maids filed in and prepared the dinner service.
She stepped away, clutching the nightgown to her chest, clenching the fine fabric. His intense eyes remained fixed on her as he drew in deep, slow breaths.
Even now, after everything—Even now, with the fate of their love on the line, he was irresistible to her.
“Your Majesty, my lady,” Davina announced, “dinner is served.”
Rielle forced a cordial smile and nodded toward the table.
Not missing a beat, Jon mirrored the expression and gracefully pushed away from the dresser, then held out his arm to her. She took it and allowed him to escort her to the table, where he pulled out a chair for her.
Once he helped her into her seat, he pushed her chair in, then sat with fluid ease.
“Is there anything else you require, Your Majesty, my lady?” Davina asked.
“No,” Jon replied, never looking away from Rielle. “That’ll be all, thank you. Please give us the room.”
Davina glanced at her and departed, along with the rest of the staff.
A quiet settled over the chamber, and Jon leaned back in his chair, watching her, fingers steepled below his chin.
She let the silence sink in, and he waited. A luxurious feast of veal loin, squab pie, fennel-seed custard, sliced cheeses, and rosewater plums filled the table, with decanters of wine varietals complementing the dishes, and a tiered tray of fruit and pastries, her favorite spiced custard tarts among them.
She looked up.
His gaze, intense and unwavering, pierced her, but he merely reclined in the dining chair, his head resting against the high back, his position loose and relaxed.
“We never really…” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We never really talked about what happened in Sonbahar.”
She went rigid. What would he do if she told him about Sincuore, about Farrad, about Sylvie, right now? Would he leave the room? Leave Couronne? Would this entire pretense collapse? Would they fail to lure Shadow to the palace the night of Veris?
“And we don’t need to.” Not this moment, anyway. There would be time enough after dealing with Shadow. A safer time. A better time.
In fact, better not to think about it at all. Better to think about other things. Like… wine. She reached for a bottle of Melletoire rosé, a pale coral hue, and poured a goblet for each of them. Rounder and fuller bodied than she had expected, it was floral on the nose, with violet notes and rose, expanding to tart sweet cherry, smoke, and a savoriness she couldn’t name.
Jon poured himself some water from the carafe and swirled it in his goblet. Water. How like his paladin days.
As the silence settled, he rested his elbows on the table and raked his fingers through his hair.
She’d seen him do it so many times, lost in thought, and she wanted to rub his shoulders, wrap her arms around his neck, and whisper that he could tell her anything. But those times had passed.
A line formed between his brows. “Why not?”
She quelled the fluttering in her chest. “Now isn’t the right time.”
“When will be the right time?” His gaze still bored into her, but she ignored him.
They ate dinner in silence, only exchanging occasional glances. She buried herself in the goblet. With time, the pain of that night would lessen; she’d live a happy life with Brennan; Jon would marry another woman; and this pain, this love, would fade, no more than a distant memory.
While he sank into his chair and sipped his water, she pushed a piece of spiced custard tart around her plate.
“And now…?” he asked lifelessly.
She breathed deep. “We go to bed.”
The prospect of going to bed with Jon had once excited her, set her heart afire, long before they’d ever made love. Being near him had been intoxicating.
But the notion of lying in the same bed with him now, destroyed and hurting, made her heart turn. To be so near to him, in the very same bed, and yet worlds apart—she slumped.
“Muster some excitement, my love,” he said flatly. “Tonight’s passion will be legend.”
She mustered a half-smile.
Her head gently spinning with wine, she excused herself to change into the nightgown she’d picked out. Once she’d slipped into the silk, she found Jon by the bed, a pile of clothes neatly folded on a chair, down to his braies and his shirt, which he pulled over his head.
Nothing had quite prepared her for seeing his sculpted form again, and her gaze easily slipped into the familiarity of his carved lines, his sprawling tattoos, his scars, his artistry. He was beautiful.
As he settled into bed, she averted her eyes—nothing good would come of looking—and made her way there, gaze fixed on the bowl of luscious red apples on the nightstand.
He lifted the sheets and covers for her, and she raised a knee to the bed. The slit of her nightgown parted, and his gaze caught on her thigh. A small, violet mark on her inner thigh. One Farrad had made.
Chapter 56
Rielle winced. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” he blurted, then looked away and dropped his head in his hand, rubbing his forehead. He sighed.
She climbed into bed and covered herself, but Jon didn’t move. Divine, she hadn’t even thought to check her body for any marks. She’d never meant for Jon to find out about Farrad like this. Never meant to hurt him. “I’m sorry.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Just desserts,” he said sharply. “Where is Brennan staying? He’s all right with this farce?”
“Victoire, the Marcels’ villa in Azalée. We thought it would confuse the plan if he stayed here.” She paused. Why would it matter if Brennan was all right
with their plan?
She flinched. Jon thought Brennan was her lover? “It’s not—”
Jon hissed and shook his head. “Don’t bother.” He fell back into the pillows, staring at the bed’s white canopy.
She sat up and reached for his hand, big, warm, callused. He wouldn’t look at her.
Some truths couldn’t wait.
“Jon, after Shadow abducted me, I was imprisoned on a ship called the Siren,” she said softly.
He looked over at her, his eyebrows drawn together, and his fingers gently closed around hers.
“It was captained by a man called Sincuore. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was to be sold to the highest bidder.” Her heart clenched, and she was suddenly back in the captain’s cabin, in a scratchy dress, the rough deck under her skin, shackled to the cannon, her mouth parched while Sincuore flaunted a bottle of wine. “He drugged me and kept me in the ship’s brig. By the time my full awareness returned, I was emaciated and starving in the slave souk.”
His eyes became overbright, but he didn’t waver, didn’t say a word.
“It was dark there, and hot. All the time. The only light appeared when the overseers would come in with slaves bearing food and water, or to take away the dead, or sometimes a woman or two. I could never get more than a handful of food every day or every other day… There were other slaves, stronger than I was, and when you’re trying to survive, you lose sight of whether you’re taking that survival from someone else’s hands.”
Pushing the bedding aside, Jon slowly rose to sitting and covered their joined hands with his palm, imparting quiet support.
“I was sold as a scribe, to one of Xir’s pleasure houses. My zahibi took better care of her slaves—gave us food, water, clothing, even healing—and we somehow crossed the desert, bound in blazing-hot shackles and chains, with no shoes, no horses, no camels.” She could still feel the raw blisters around her wrists and ankles.
“I’d been bought as a scribe, but once we arrived, I realized no one was going to care about that distinction but my zahibi. It was still a pleasure house. One woman, a Sileni and stronger than I was, tried to escape. She was caught by the guards, and abused to death in the barracks.” Her voice broke, and she dragged an arm across her eyes.
Jon closed his arms around her, pulled her in, but she clenched fistfuls of the bedding.
“Every night in the slave quarter, they would come in and drag some of us off into the night. The house’s zahib did nothing to stop it, and who could even ask such a thing when there was punishment like the Sileni woman had gotten?” She leaned against his chest. “One night…” She bit back a sob. “One night, they grabbed me. They were dragging me away—”
His hold tightened, and he rested his chin on her head. Drops wet her hair, and she pulled the fisted bedding closer.
“I had a friend there, an older girl by the name of Samara, the slave-born daughter of the zahib’s grandson and heir. She held on to me, wouldn’t let go, and screamed at the guards that I was her father’s lover,” she forced out. “It was a lie, but it saved me that night. The guards never dared touch his lovers, who were better fed, better clothed, better taken care of. Who slept in his chambers, where it was safe, not the slave quarter.”
Was Samara finally free? Brennan had promised Kehani would buy Samara—she prayed it was true. She’d ask Brennan to write Kehani and ask. If not…
That night, Samara’s courage, she hadn’t deserved it. Not even a shred. “But if the guards discovered it was a lie, Samara would be punished. Even as the daughter of the zahib’s heir, she’d get lashes at the very least. And I… I knew what would happen to me,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t let her suffer for my sake. I went to her father, threw myself at his mercy, and begged him not to punish her. I asked him to punish me instead. And he asked me to be his lover.”
Jon’s breathing stopped as he went rigid against her. “Rielle,” he said, softly, hoarsely.
“I knew,” she blurted out before he could say anything more, “what my choices were. Refuse him, possibly face punishment, and see those guards again that night in the slave quarter. And maybe every night after that. Or agree. Be protected from the guards, have a better chance of survival while I waited for—” For you to save me. She swallowed. “Jon, Divine help me, but I said yes.”
The tears broke free, and despite everything, she cried into his chest, curled in to him, and his hands trembled as they stroked over her back, carefully, cautiously. Tears soaked into the top of her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. And she felt him shake his head above her.
“No, I am,” he rasped, his voice broken, raw. “You said ‘choices.’ No, Rielle,” he whispered, “to survive, you only had one choice. And it was no choice at all.”
She’d known that, even then, and yet all of it had felt like a betrayal of their love, of him. But now she nodded faintly against his skin, and he softly caressed her hair.
I did it save our baby, she wanted to say to him. And I’d do it again if I had to, if only I had her back. But how much more… how much more could he stand to hear?
“It was some weeks after that when he told me I’d have to serve in the pleasure house. An important guest had requested a fair-haired, fair-skinned woman, and I was the only one of age,” she said. “I was distraught, but what choice did I have, if the zahib’s heir didn’t even have one? But when I arrived, it was Brennan. He’d found me.”
Jon froze, his entire body still as stone.
“What was expected to happen… he pretended to, with me. As part of it, we kissed, disrobed, but we didn’t have sex,” she said carefully.
“Then he was… honorable,” he said, some of that stillness fading. “Decent.”
“The more he helped me, the more he surprised me. After the guards left, he told me all about everyone, and gave me your letter.” Her voice lilted at its mention. “Brennan wanted to break me out. But even if he succeeded, the zahib would know who’d done it. We’d be tracked back to Emaurria easily. And by then, I already had a plan. The zahib’s granddaughter plotted to kill her brother, and I had access to him. She promised me false arcanir shackles in exchange for killing him. I agreed.”
“Is that… how you escaped?”
“Yes. It came at great cost,” she bit out, “but I’d rather we discuss that after Shadow has been dealt with.”
He pulled away, just enough to raise her chin and meet her gaze. Even in the dark, his eyes had a dullness to them, something defeated, something broken. “What you suffered there,” he said, searching her eyes, “none of it should have happened. I should have come for you, and I’ll never forgive myself for silencing my heart.”
There was a part of her that burned, a molten anger that never wanted to forgive him for abandoning her. But as she looked at him now, defeated, broken, having suffered for his choice, it cooled a measure. She laid a hand on his cheek, the skin of her palm brushing against the coarseness of his jaw, and he closed his eyes, leaned into it, covered her hand with his.
“Even if you’d gone in search of me,” she whispered, “there’s no certainty you would’ve found me. And you might not have been able to do anything. Your kingdom would have paid the price, and coming after me might not have made a difference. So… I forgive you. And I want you to forgive yourself, Jon.”
A crease etched between his eyebrows as he bowed his head, hissing in a sharp breath. He slowly drew her palm down to his chest, over his heart. “It would have mattered… here.”
His heartbeat throbbed into her hand, like months of guilt, pain, and grief, like a bridge built in the past, across the Bay of Amar from Courdeval to Xir, where his wish met hers, and they saw each other clearly across the distance of time, space, and feeling.
Months of tears broke free. “Jon,” she rasped.
When he looked at her, his own eyes glistening, she leaned in and kissed him.
His lips met hers, warm, soft in the quiet night, the only so
unds mounting breaths and wanting kisses as she wrapped her arms around him. The sting of anguish became the fire of romance from days past, from the Red Room in Melain, and the salt of his tears and hers was the sweat of passion, of a long night of lovemaking. Memory pulsed in her blood, and his mouth opened to hers as she climbed into his lap.
Her tongue claimed his in gentle embrace, pushed for more and more and more as strong arms closed around her, as he rose to meet her desire with his own. She pressed against him, against his hardness, and he hissed a breath, resting his forehead on hers as she slowly moved against him.
“Rielle,” he breathed, his voice deep, low, raw. “I think—”
“Shh,” she whispered, raising his mouth back up to hers. “Don’t think,” she murmured against his lips between kisses. “Make me forget.”
She pushed into him, urging him onto the pillows, but he resisted, despite every sign of his eager body.
His mouth broke away from hers, and breathing raggedly, he cupped her face. “We can’t. Not before—”
“Why not?” Maybe this was what they needed, a night together to remind themselves of what they meant to each other, a night of passion, and maybe it would fade the wounds between them. She slipped the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, but he caught them.
“This is hard enough already,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut a moment. “I want nothing more than to take you right now—”
Good, then that’s what they both wanted.
“But I can’t. Not without telling you the truth. All of it.”
Rielle shifted away from Jon, looking him over. “What truth?”
He rubbed his forehead, then raked his fingers through his hair, once, again. Touching her shoulder, he gently urged her to sit next to him, and she did, wrapping her arms around herself. “I betrayed you—”
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 59
