by Shana Abe
She tried to disguise her reluctance to enter by acting as lookout near the opening, but soon she’d have to go in. The forest behind her stretched into clouded, icy shadows, ancient and thick, massive trunks, downy white snowflakes just beginning to fall. Before long the meager path that led them here would be obscured. She wondered if she could find it again. She wondered if she’d even need to.
Lia shivered, her arms closed over her chest, and listened to Zane roam the cavern.
“What was this for, can you tell?” he called, his voice echoing against the walls.
“Gold, I think,” she called back to him. “It feels like gold.”
He emerged to join her at the entrance, his boots grating against a sea of chipped stone. When he leaned past her to glance at the woods, the wind sucked his hair across his face.
“At least it’s not sulfur,” he said. “Come in.”
“Are you certain it’s safe?”
“No.” He shook back his hair, impatient. “Come inside.”
Inside the tunnel it wasn’t precisely warmer, but her eyes finally ceased watering. They walked slowly down the slope of the ground, just until the gloom devoured them both, until the uneven floor became a smooth deception and the loudest sound was a faint trickle of water striking a pool somewhere, caverns below. Then the thief stopped and turned and wrapped his arms around her. Gradually, her shivers subsided.
“Better?”
She closed her eyes and laughed into his cravat. “Not especially.”
His face lifted; he rested his jaw against her hair. “’Tis a small step down from St. James’s Palace, I’ll grant you.”
“Somewhat, yes.”
“Almost as drafty, though,” he added, thoughtful. “Less ostentatious décor. I wonder where this tunnel goes?”
Lia shuddered. “Let’s not find out.”
“No. Let’s not.”
She should move. She knew she should move away from him, she knew she should end this embrace and think practical thoughts, because the winter didn’t care if his heart beat warm and he was scented of snow and spice and pine woods. The winter did not care if his arms felt like safety, an anchor amid the black shadows and the white storm.
Oh, but she didn’t want to move. There was the sheepskin behind them and the horse blanket, but they didn’t comfort her as he did.
“Have you really been inside St. James’s?” she whispered.
“Once or twice.” His top hand shifted along her back, rubbing a slow circle. “I’ve enjoyed a few odds and ends the king wasn’t using, paintings, silverwork. He’s got a Michelangelo bronze of Diana stashed in a dusty corner. I’m considering it mightily for my parlor.” His hand stilled. “I’ll show you when we get back, if you like.”
It was an invitation, one perhaps he hadn’t even meant to make, because as soon as he said the words he changed; like the drift of a cloud passing over the sun, he was suddenly darker, and different. A new tension leashed his body as his arms pressed against her; the pulse in his throat became a rush against her ear.
“Amalia,” Zane said, but nothing else.
Her hand lifted, tracing his arm, the lapel of his greatcoat, her fingertips coming to rest against the sleek damask of his vest. With her eyes still closed she turned her cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in through parted lips. She drew her fingers downward, following the woven pattern of the damask over his chest to the narrow pocket near his waist. Then behind, where the heat of his body was trapped against his wool coat. She spread her fingers against his back.
He said her name again, hardly audible. His arms were still fixed around her. He felt primed as a bowstring beneath her touch.
“You do realize,” she said quietly, “that we’re going to freeze to death in here.”
The thief made a sound, not quite a chuckle. “Is that what this is? The doomed maiden, prepared to sacrifice her virtue”-she turned her face again, pressing a kiss against his shirt; he exhaled very sharply-“at the altar of practicality? How tediously noble of you.”
“You have your clichés all muddled. I’m not the maiden but a beast.”
“Well, damned if I’m the maiden.” He set her away from him with both hands at her shoulders and gave her a little shake. Even with the dark, she could see his words frosting into vapor. “Do you really think this is how-that this is what I want?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Listen to me, love. This cave is nothing. This storm is nothing. I’ve been stranded in far worse circumstances than this. We’re going to survive today, tonight, and many long nights to come. Save your noble intentions for your future husband, God bless his unwary soul. I have a plan, and a good one. You’re going to Turn and guide us out of here.”
“What?”
“Turn,” he repeated, with exaggerated patience, “to smoke. To dragon. Either. To guide us to the nearest town. And if you happen to catch sight of that Judas of a coachman along the way, you have my permission to eat him.”
“No, I…” Her hands dropped. “Did you say ‘eat him’?”
His voice gentled. “I know you can do this, Lia. I’ve seen your miracle.”
“I’ve been trying, but-” She ducked her head. “I haven’t been able to fully manage it. Not since that first time.”
“This seems like an excellent opportunity for further practice.”
When she glanced up at him, Zane offered her a smile, one she had seen him make countless times before and for countless different people: charming and impersonal, heartless as a rake. It was his professional look, without an ounce of warmth behind it.
You’re going to fail, whispered the dragon inside her. You want to fail. You want to undo the future, but you can’t.
“Forgive me,” he said. “You seem a bit cornered. But we need this very badly. And I suspect that all that’s truly holding you back is ordinary fear.”
She stood mortified, that he could read her so easily, that he could smile at her like that and her heart still ached. “Oh? Do you know so much about it?”
“More than you’d think.”
“You’re naught but a human man. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
He lifted a brow, still smiling. “Liar.”
“Cutpurse.”
“Runaway.”
“Swindler!”
“Coward,” he said softly, and she jerked back.
“Bastard!”
“Undoubtedly true.” He made a short bow. “But do begin. I’d rather not spend my last day watching your pretty nose freeze black.”
She glowered at him, feeling the cold air, and the sharp walls, and the sad, small songs of whatever minerals lay yet buried beneath them.
“I’d like the sheepskin, if you please,” Lia said, rigidly polite. “It’s easier to concentrate when I’m seated.”
The bow he offered her now was polished enough for the king and all his court. He took up the skin and laid it out for her with a flourish.
“Your very wish, my lady wife,” murmured the thief.
Her hair. Her right hand. Her foot.
Her pump and worsted stocking fell off and she kept them off, because every time she slipped them back on they only fell off again when her foot went to smoke. It was snowing now in earnest beyond the tunnel entrance, a dotted field of pearled light. When they weren’t actual fumes, her toes were very cold, even beneath her skirts.
“Relax,” advised Zane, seated across from her with his back against the wall. His coat was buttoned up to his chin; his hands were pushed deep into his pockets. He’d recovered his cocked hat at the campsite and had it pulled down low on his head. “Don’t consider it so much. Pretend that you’re floating in a calm Caribbean sea-”
“I cannot swim.”
“Floating along on a midsummer breeze. A butterfly given wings. Everything is effortless.”
“So say you,” she muttered, rubbing her nose. “It might be easier if you didn’t stare so.”
“Am I staring?
I beg your pardon. It’s just that I find the process…”
“Freakish?” she suggested, tart. “Unnerving?”
“…amazing,” he finished, and deliberately aimed his gaze down at the rocky floor. “Like you.”
She nearly sighed but didn’t want to waste the warmth. “Was that a compliment?”
“Sorry,” he said meekly, without looking up. “Sometimes it happens. I’ll try to contain myself.”
Lia felt her lips flatten. Frustration welled up in her once more-it wasn’t working, she couldn’t do it, nothing helped-and when her breath hissed out, a small plume of flame ignited in the air, landing upon the sleeve of his coat.
He leapt to his feet, agile as a dancer, slapping out the flame. For the long, astonished minute that followed, they only stared at each other, he standing, she seated, his fingers clasped over the stench of scorched wool.
Zane recovered first. He held out his sleeve to examine it; his voice was even. “I really thought that part of the dragon legend was embellishment.”
“So did I.” She rose, finding her shoe. “I don’t know anyone else who-no one from the tribe has ever…”
“Can you do it again?”
She wiped quickly at her eyes with the heel of her palm, glancing up at him from over her fingers.
There was his smile again, a dangerous thing, handsome and sharp and brutally sensual. “Lia.” He crossed to the entrance of the tunnel, where leaves and twigs had blown into corners, and began to toss them all together into a heap. “Do it again.”
“I don’t know,” she wavered, eyeing his pile. The wind shifted, scattering snowflakes along the base.
“Fine. Don’t know.” He came back to her, took her face between his hands, and kissed her hard on the lips.
She barely felt it at first. She was cold, her mouth was cold, and so was he. He felt like a wall against her. And then he felt like unshaven whiskers. But then…oh, then something between them softened, and his lips became velvet, and her entire being began to warm and sting. She stood on her toes to meet him better, and his arms wrapped around her in a fierce squeeze before letting go.
“There,” he said, breathless. “Now. Do it now.”
She did not take the time to be angry. With her blood still stinging she looked away from him, toward the stack of debris.
Lia thought, Fire.
And when she blew a little breath the flame came once more, floating down to the paper foliage, exploding into light. The snow melted instantly, water, gas, wispy pale filaments that twined upward into nothing.
Zane gazed at the fire, at the pine needles and leaves curling black.
“Well done,” he said.
She sank to her knees. He went behind her, crouching down with an arm sliding loose around her neck, and held his lips, chaste, against her flushed cheek.
He did not sleep. He tried. God knew he should be accustomed to the sensations by now: her soft body, her cool fragrance. How her hands tended to wrap over his forearms during the night, her fingers digging in; the small, pretty noises she made as she dreamed.
Her fire was burning well. He’d gathered as much fuel from the tunnel as he could find and then ventured outside for damp tree branches, just to see them through the night.
The branches burned more slowly. They also gave off more smoke; it bubbled at the ceiling before being siphoned off in long white fangs down into the mines below.
The floor was an unholy bed of chips and edges, but he’d done his best to secure her comfort. She slept atop the sheepskin-it was only big enough for one-and the horse blanket was wrapped all the way around her, with just the tail folding over him. He’d lied to her and said he was warm enough from the fire.
Zane followed the shadows shifting and dancing along the jagged tunnel walls as he considered the resources they had left.
The blanket. The sheepskin.
The garments they wore.
His boots, and in them the stack of coins he’d transferred from the valise the night before; he was too canny to store their cash very far away.
His greatcoat, and the bank vouchers from the Marquess of Langford tucked in a pocket.
His picks, in the same pocket.
His dagger.
His new knife.
Her new knife-or so he hoped. Now that he mulled it over, he didn’t recall asking her if she still wore it.
The silver flask.
His hat, her cloak, their gloves-and her. Lia. The girl who breathed fire.
But she was no longer a girl. She’d told him so more than once, and for all he wished to God he’d never noticed it, she was right. Lia was a woman. More than that. She was plush and heavy in his arms, she was grace and smoke and temptation, and Zane was wretchedly certain he must be mired in some unnumbered level of hell to be forced to hold her like this every night and bound not to act upon his instincts. Whatever he had done to deserve this torment-and he had done a great many unpleasant things-he was deeply, sincerely, soul-scrapingly sorry now.
She shifted a little, murmuring in her sleep. Without disturbing her he drew up a lock of her hair, very gently, and held it pressed to his face.
He might never see London again. He might never see his home, or taste plum cake, or sip brandy from the best smugglers in Cornwall in front of his carved agate mantel. He might never slide through St. Giles or steal through Pall Mall, inhale the distinctive odor of coal lanterns and whale oil, feel the thrill of an opening lock, or the shimmer of raw silk over his hands. He might never see Lia safe again.
He scowled up at the shadows. Sorry, as it turned out, really didn’t help.
His fingers released her hair. He placed his arm over his eyes and commanded himself to go to sleep.
He would wake her. He would say something clever, like: “I have a theory about love, as it relates to itches and distractions.”
And her brows would raise in that skeptical, enticing way she had, waiting.
“Scratch the itch, the distraction is gone.”
“Is that what I am, an itch?”
“More like a rash. But I’m willing to scratch. If you are.”
Dream-Lia would say to him, “That is surely one of the least seductive things a man has ever dared utter to a woman.”
“Well,” he would reply, still clever, “but you’ve been cloistered away at your little school, haven’t you? How many men could you have known? Perhaps we’re all like this.”
“God forbid.”
“Aye. One of me, one of you.” He’d run a finger over her shell-pink lips. “It’s really all that’s required.”
And then he would kiss her. Softly, deeply, using his lips and tongue and all the artful guiles he knew. And even though she wasn’t a woman, not really, she would kiss him back. She would make that sweet little moan in her throat, the one that was just the right pitch to send him spilling over the edge of reason…
He dropped his arm. He turned his head to stare up at the ceiling until his eyes teared and the rock crests and smoke all hazed into gray.
“No,” the real Amalia breathed, still in her sleep. “No, Zane.”
Zane sighed. Very carefully, very slowly, he leaned up on an elbow to examine her face.
Firelight flattered her. She didn’t need flattering. She was too beautiful as it was-but with the gold-amber light she became something searingly, magically fragile, the fleeting brilliance of a sunbeam slicing through a cloudburst.
Wife, he thought, and this time the word washed over him with a sensation surprisingly akin to desolation.
She wasn’t his. She could never be his.
“Will you?” she whispered, still asleep. “Zane?”
“Yes,” he said, and almost from outside of himself saw his fingers stroke back the few bright strands that clung to her brow. “Yes, Lia. I’m here.”
It’s only to comfort her.
But it wasn’t. Even as he moved he knew that it wasn’t, another lie, another tally against his soul. His mouth brush
ed her temple, her cheekbone, her jaw. The loosened strands of her hair caught against his lips and the stubble on his cheek.
Someday, one way or another, they would part ways; they would have no choice. And bastard that he was, he still knew what he meant to have happen next.
It wasn’t an itch. It was a sickness. It was poison blazing through him, thinking of her all the time, watching her, touching her, wanting and wanting and wanting until his mind went black.
She turned her face to meet his, her hand lifting from his arm.
He took her mouth that easily. He exhaled all his doubts, let them sift from his body as he placed his lips over hers. And it was just as he’d imagined it, a million fevered times over. It was honey and desperate relief, only better, because her arm came up and hooked around his shoulders, and her chest expanded with his name.
He rolled her on her back. He smelled the cool must of rocks and earth and her, and the smoke from the fire twirling above them. He thought he might still be dreaming-except that when she kissed him she arched taut against him, her legs opening, as if she’d been awake all along and only waiting for him to give in.
He knew all the secrets of her gown. He knew the creamy flesh of her shoulders, the rise of her throat, the poem of her jugular. He knew the dip of her waist, the hard, delicious pink of her nipples. He knew these things as if he knew her, every inch of her, because in the feverish dark depths of his dreams he truly did.
She wore no corset. It was easy to loosen her bodice. Easy to pull the stomacher from her waist, to drag his mouth over the satin of her breasts, over the frill of chemise, to close his teeth around her nipple and tug and suckle until the silk was wet and clinging.
She was panting. She turned her head and smoothed her palms across his hair and back, urging him closer. She was adrift in her gown, a warm body cocooned amid feminine ribbons and petticoats, her skirts bunched at her hips, her knees rising.
He felt beyond himself. He felt for the first time in his adult life a shadow of fear in his heart-fear for her, for what he actually wanted from her-and for himself, for what he might do.
