by Hotter Edge
“Thank you,” Shadow said.
Lake nodded still not quite sure how this night would affect the rest of her life. She turned to go, but the small image of grimy hair slipping out from underneath his hood caught in her mind.
She turned back to him. “If I need you. Where can I find you?”
The boy was already walking away, his shoulders hunched. How he seemed to find every dark path, every camouflage, she had no idea.
“If I need you, I'll find you.” He continued walking.
A urging in her heart made her press the matter. “Wait. Please. If I need to get into the camp again?”
He didn't turn and if the wind hadn't carried his words to her she might not have ever heard his response. “The Market. You can find me at the tent named Black Creek Market.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Eleven
Black Creek Market. Dingy blonde hair. Could dingy blonde be white blonde? Black Creek. Vonn?
Her heart beat loud in her chest as Lake lay still in her bed. It had been two weeks since that night she'd snuck into camp and followed the boy she was sure now had been Vonn.
Two weeks of agony. Of questioning herself. Was that Vonn? Where was Hudson? Was he alive? Had he really abandon her? Lake shook her head. She couldn't get her hopes up that Hudson was really alive. If he couldn’t have helped her escape, he would've moved heaven and earth to at least make contact with her, of that she was sure. Except there was a small doubt that rubbed like the stiff leather of a new shoe. Had Hudson thought she wasn’t worth coming for? Had he decided she wasn’t worth it?
No, Lake shook her head. There was no way he would've left her, not Hudson. But if Black Creek wasn't Hudson than whom could it be?
She rolled on her back and watched the morning filter through her window. Syon had left early this morning, before the dawn had even been glimpsed. He’d be gone for a week. A week of freedom if she could keep from being suspect. The servants were still loyal to Syon. Loyalty or fear? Didn’t matter, both worked the same.
She had waited long enough. She threw off her covers and started to dress. Today she’d make her way to the market and find out once and for all, if Hudson was alive or not.
Even though the early morning sun still bathed the market stalls and make-shift tents in the soft colors of rose and pinks, the market was busy and open for business. Shop owners hailed the affluent customers in wagons as little boys ran dirty in the street looking for an easy mark. Goats bayed and a few wild dogs fought over scraps of entails before a burley shop owner kicked one and broke up the pack.
The smells of working bodies and wet, matted livestock mixed with the fragrance of potent herbs and cooking food. The smoky scent of fried apio chips sprinkled with salt and a fretwork of exotic spices hung low in the air. Colorful scarfs floated on top of a few tents indicating where the fabric merchants had set up shop. Only one tent floated a purple scarf. The deep mulberry dye used to color the silk was costly and could only be derived from the Erasthai flower that grew high in the mountainous regions. Only the very rich, basically the highest ranking Elders or black market criminals, could afford to wear the costly silk. Lake pulled the fragrant Erasthai scarf across her mouth and nose to filter out the mix of overwhelming scents.
Lake told her driver to slow down as she scoured the crowd for signs of the Black Market tent. The horses stopped in the middle of the road blocking traffic, but Lake didn't care. Others could go around. There had to be some benefit from marrying an Elder.
She was so intent at looking in the distance that she failed to see the shop tent right in front of her. Colorful displays of rare dandelion weed that made an excellent tea for edema and water retention, sat on a table at the front. Baskets of the elongated, apio root vegetable with the distinct flavor that fell somewhere between a carrot and celery. Multiple shades of legumes, each one Lake knew by name.
All of her knowledge, she’d learned at Hudson's side as they took their nightly walks through the fields. She remembered the passion that warmed his dark gaze as he became excited telling her what grew where and when. And how he would reward her with a kiss every time she’d answer correctly his questions of the best time to plant, fertilize, and harvest.
She’d taken it all in. Not because she was interested. Far from it, but because it mattered to Hudson, and she so desperately wanted to be a part of what mattered to him. So she listened and learned, and fell in love with him over the deep connection he had to the land and the quiet fortitude of a man who waited on the seasons for his livelihood.
As if the memory of rich, autumn eyes conjured them up in real life, Lake found herself captivated by a haunting gaze, she’d never been able to forget. A familiar face, slightly lined, but with the same strong angles and wide mouth. Same dark hair, but longer as it blew in the wind and brushed at the tips of his shoulders like some flirty lover. His body was bigger, no, not bigger, more defined as if the elements had whittled his form down to only the most essential.
The biggest difference from her imaginings, of course, was that the bastard was alive and well.
Chapter Twelve
The whore was married.
That wasn’t Hudson’s first thought when his gaze had locked with hers across the crowded market. No, at first his mind was simply a black, empty void. It was his heart that leapt in his chest like a fawn over a fallen log. The powerful lurch had him staggering, hand flailing for balance, breath a sharp knife in his throat. Even before he knew what he was doing, he’d half run down the street chasing after this elusive woman that he’d only ever seen on the cusp of his dreams. Even after he’d stopped and watched the wagon with a symbol of a high-ranking Elder painted on the side roll down the dirt path and out of sight, he hadn’t understood his reaction.
Then as if a sword was drawn across an overfilled wineskin, memories burst forth with a violent crash inside his head. Images whooshed toward the black spaces in his mind like rushing water filling holes.
This was his Lake. His wife. This woman was why he’d tattooed a female’s name on his chest because at one time, she’d meant everything to him. He remembered she’d meant more than his next breath. Meant more than his farm, house, even more than his men's lives. He had planned his days around her smiles. He’d woken each morning happy and fell asleep each night thinking he was the luckiest son-of-a-gun alive.
And yet, there was evidence, plain as day, that she hadn’t felt the same.
Hudson wasn’t stupid. He recognized the signs of a personal driver, team of nice horses, special logo painted on the sturdy wood of the wagon. He recognized the deep, purple scarf that was draped over his wife's pretty little head, so that the sun wouldn't freckle her delicate skin and the odors wouldn’t bother her gentle senses.
He'd show her delicate.
The range of his emotions scared him. His heart seemed to go from the heady heights of joy only to nosedive to the hell-like depths of jealousy. In one moment he was soaring through the clouds, only in the next to go plummeting to the earth.
He had pieced together what might have happened the night Lake was taken. Vonn had told him that Lake was taken as a prisoner. That she was held against her will, but there’d been no signs of his wife being treated as a prisoner or a servant. There’d been no chains or guards. No, Lake seemed quite content to enjoy the freedoms of a rich man’s wife by spending the day shopping. No wonder her face looked as if she had seen a ghost. It would be really hard to explain to husband number two why husband number one was still alive. If he wasn’t mistaken, adultery was still a beheading offense.
But it was worse. His beautiful, loving wife hadn’t just spread her legs for any man. No, any man Hudson might…might have been able to see past the burning rage of jealousy that filled his gut and strangled his throat. After all, being a single wasn’t really an option for a woman. And if she had found some shred of happiness, after all he now remembered she’d been through, then he’d have to suck it up and be the bigg
er man.
But no. No! She’d given herself to an Elder. An Elder! The same people who’d killed her parents, burned his home, slaughtered his men, and left him for dead.
Why had she done it? It had been two years, yes, but two years was nothing compared to the love he had for her. If it was him, he would’ve waited a lifetime. Forever.
He knew why he hadn’t gone after her. He’d had a brain injury, for goddess’s sake. He hadn’t remembered what she meant to him. How much he had—who was he kidding—still loved her. What was her excuse? Had she’d forgotten him so quickly? That hadn’t seemed like the Lake he remembered, but how much could he trust his faulty memory? All he had to go on was the evidence before him.
Could she have been forced into the marriage? But for what purpose? Why would an Elder marry a prisoner? And if so, then why not come to him when they recognized each other? No, instead she’d looked him straight in the eye, then coldly turned her back and rode away with her head, high and protected, in that pretty little scarf of hers.
Maybe she’d done it for comfort? He’d lost everything. All he could provide now was a dirty little room on the outskirts of the city. Maybe she’d gotten sick of eking it out as a farmer’s wife, sleeping with a husband who got his hands dirty for a living.
The thought made him sick, hallowed him out like he was less of a man. He had given everything, gladly would’ve given his life, and she had turned away as if he meant nothing to her.
Anger scorched his insides as his fingers dug at the tattoo on his chest. No, he’d put his Mark on her, and he’d put her Mark on him. He'd get her back. Of that, he had no doubt. He'd done it before when she’d left him for the Rebellion, he'd especially do it again after she’d left him for another man.
If she was foolish enough to think her riches and high walls would protect her, she had another husband coming.
Chapter Thirteen
Lake didn't remember the trip back from the market. She thought she remembered telling her driver that she’d fallen ill. One look at her face and the driver didn't question. She stumbled from the wagon and into the house with her hand over her mouth, sparing a look for no one.
Once in her room, she fell to her knees. Buried her face in the trailing edge of her bed sheets, but even that wasn't enough.
Something black and rolling pitched in her stomach like a violent storm just waiting to get out. Thunder clouds swarmed in her brain, and her eyes burned like lightning bolts from the sky.
Hudson was alive!
At first, the knowledge had filled her with such great joy that she’d felt dizzy. The missing piece inside had found a home, and for the first time in a long while, she’d felt complete.
Then the realization that he’d been alive this whole time split her as if someone had taken an axe to her soul. Alive! He’d been alive and well, while she'd been trapped inside this hell. Trapped and trying to keep their child safe and herself from going insane.
A scream clawed itself up from the pit of her stomach. Its icy fingers inflicting pain as it inched its way up her throat.
She stuffed the blanket into her mouth, trying to block the pain. But when a scream seemed to originate so deep that her bones shook with the force and her veins burned with the current, no amount of cloth would be enough.
How could Hudson do this to her? It had taken everything she had to trust him. She’d painstakingly stitched together every last bit of good and hope she’d had left so she could kindle her love into a powerful flame for Hudson. She’d overcome all her fears and had given herself over to loving him liked she'd never loved anyone before. She’d trusted him. And she never should have.
I will find you.
Liar.
Trust me, Lake, I’ll come for you.
Bastard.
He’d left her all alone, pregnant with their child.
She had seen men die. She’d seen them suffer under cruel injuries that had taken a leg or a vital piece of their insides. Now all of that seemed almost kind in comparison to what she was going to do to the man who’d once Marked her back as well as her heart.
***
Lake woke with a start as some unknown hand covered her mouth.
“Shh. Don't you scream.”
In a flash, she recognized the hand and the voice. She’d known he would come. She'd been prepared. Scream? Oh, no, screaming was the last thing she was going to do. If she called out, the guards would come to her room with their swords, and within moments, Hudson would be dead.
A blade through his tattoo would be too good for him. When he died, she wanted her face to be the last thing he saw, her name the last word he’d plead.
Lake nodded to distract him as she reached under pillow and grabbed hold of the leather handle to her weapon. She cautioned herself and waited until her eyes adjusted to the cold moonlight that cast her room in a vengeful light.
“I should kill you in this bed,” Hudson’s whisper was loud in her ear. “It's what you deserve, sleeping with the enemy.”
He should kill her? For what? Surviving?
His scent tickled memories she fought to push down. His harsh breathing reminded her of a whole other activity, but the white sliver of teeth that he flashed was nothing like she was used to.
The handle of the blade was cool and familiar in her palm. Underneath his hand she smiled. Her gaze traveled his darkened form as she searched out her mark.
With a quickness forged in revenge, she pulled out her long blade and plunged it deep into his body.
Expecting bone and sinew, she was surprised at how easy her sword passed through.
She'd pushed hard enough to plunge her blade deep, and instead had only shredded his dark robe. She swung again, but she'd lost the element of surprise. Hudson darted out of the way. He was quick. She'd known that. She’d underestimated him numerous times before, but not today.
“I can’t believe you were actually trying to kill me. You’ve lost your mind!” he said, disbelief thick in his voice.
Lake sprung out of bed fully clothed—tight, fitting dark pants and shirt. She hid her smile at her first real look at him. She’d been prepared for a fight, but he—loose, fitting clothes, hair long and flowing—hadn't been.
“You’re the one who’s crazy if you think you’re getting out of here any other way than my sword in your gut and your body rolled in my quilt.” Her heart hammered against her ribcage. Rage making her strong. She thrust several times, testing to see where his weakness was. “Where's your weapon? Or were you thinking I would just lie there as you strangled me?”
He dodged out of the way. “That was one fantasy.”
The sound of mockery in his voice grated on her. And to think, there’d been a time she'd thought his charm was endearing. She turned her body sideways presenting a smaller target and thrust out at him. “Where's your sword?”
He laughed, but with more disdain than humor. “I left my knife buried in the back of some poor watchman. Stupid me, I didn't think I would need to bring a weapon to my wife's bed.”
“Yes, stupid you. That's fine. I like to make you sweat.”
And she did, with each parry she watched him jump and dodge. He was quickly running out of space, but he was agile, she'd give him that. He angled himself toward the bed, jumped and rolled to a landing on the other side. He quickly looked down at the dresser, picked up a hair brush, and threw it. She ducked and came back up, eyes rolling. “Really?”
He smiled over the wooden chair he’d gotten a hold of. “I'm a desperate man.”
“A dead man.”
He slammed the chair to the ground then used his foot to break off a leg. “Sorry to disappoint, Little Dove, but I’ve got a weapon now.”
Her teeth slid on edge. Did he think this was all a joke? “What? Are you going to club me to death?”
He notched one eyebrow, head tilted to one side. “Another one of my fantasies. If you're a good girl we could act them all out tonight.”
Anger churned her stomac
h and she thrust too far leaving her open to attack. With the chair leg he wacked her hand. Her sword clattered across the room. She stilled, her heart caught on a panicked moment.
His teeth flashed white. “Look who's desperate now.”
She made a lunge toward her weapon. He was right behind her. With a loud oomph he fell on top of her. She threw a quick jab back with her elbow and made contact.
He swore and rolled to cover his face.
That was all she needed. She scurried across the floor like a mouse from a cat. The blade’s handle kissing her fingertips.
From the corner of her eye she saw a boot flash. A solid kick to her ribs. She rolled with the hit, but couldn't stop the groan. Bastard could've broken a rib.
She stared up at him from the floor. He looked a mess. His hair flowed around his shoulders like a damn girl's, but his face held nothing feminine. Blood smeared his cheek where her elbow had caught him. A large red bump was already forming.
His hand pressed to his face. His upper lip curled in a snarl. “Stupid witch. I think you broke my cheek. Here I am trying to save you, and I end up getting an elbow to the face for my effort.”
“Save me? Save me!” She scrambled to her feet. “What happened to I'll come for you, Lake. Trust me, Lake. I will find you, Lake?” her voice over dramatic as she imitated Hudson. “I needed saving two years ago. Today...today is too late. Today, I want to cut out your heart and watch you bleed.”
“My, such blood thirst. Maybe I should’ve had you cool your heels and made you wait a few more years.”
He was a dead man. She’d make sure of it.
She made a move toward her blade. He made a move toward her throat.
There was a loud rap at the door. They both froze. “Mistress Elder, are you all right? Do you need our assistance?”
