The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  That he hadn’t killed her had been a shock. Part of her wished he had, and part of her wished he hadn’t left. She’d been surprised, too, by how gently he’d held her. She’d been so certain that he’d rend her limb from limb and, despite his courtly gestures at the dinner table and in other public places, hadn’t thought him capable of anything other than roughness.

  She was sure, as well, that the guardsmen gave them funny looks as they came inside but lifting her head and verifying this for herself was too much effort so instead she squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to be elsewhere. Somewhere where no one was seeing her, fully clothed and covered with bits of hay, being carried inside in the last hour before dawn.

  Fully clothed! Isla gasped in horror, gripping the coverlet. She’d been stripped down to her chemise, a thin cotton shift that clung to her boyish form like a second skin. He must have undressed her. And now that she concentrated, a few vague memories did rise to the surface: of him kicking her door open as he held her, managing to make even that pedestrian gesture look graceful. Of him carrying her to the bed, laying her down on the coverlet, and making short work of her garments as she stared up at him through half-closed lids. He was, she’d noted, no stranger to the mysteries of a woman’s wardrobe.

  And then he’d tucked her in under the covers, much the same way Asher’s father had probably tucked him in before he’d been killed, and told her to sleep. She’d tried to protest, to tell him that what he’d done was wrong and he was an awful person and not really a person at all, but all she’d managed was a mumbled, “I hate you.”

  “I know,” he’d replied, without rancor.

  And then he was gone. Isla was fairly sure that she’d been asleep—truly asleep, this time—before the door swung fully shut behind him.

  “You shouldn’t, you know,” Rowena said scoldingly.

  Isla looked up from her folded hands. “What?”

  “Fool around with him.”

  “Why not?” Isla asked. Not that she had, of course! Or would! Of all the men—creatures—on the Gods’ green earth the last one she wanted to fool around with was that one. But even so, she was interested in Rowena’s opinion. And vaguely insulted that her sister thought she’d behaved immorally. Her sister was the prude!

  “Well.” Rowena sniffed. “Why buy the cow, and all that.”

  Isla had made this same argument to the duke last night. Still, she refuted it now. “Hopefully,” she said, “a man is marrying a woman for more than sex. He can, after all, get a prostitute for that.” And most did. Frequently. Those not wealthy enough to keep mistresses ran the risk of contracting all kinds of diseases, some of which had absolutely revolting symptoms.

  “The duke,” Rowena said, none too kindly, “is famous for patronizing prostitutes. Or didn’t you know?”

  “Actually,” Isla said, feeling worn out, “I’m fairly certain they’re mistresses.”

  Rowena’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright.” It wasn’t, but what was the point of saying so? Rowena couldn’t help herself. Or so Isla rationalized. She was feckless. But she meant well. Isla wanted to believe that, now more than ever. And perhaps, she considered, the topic was a sore spot. If Rowena believed that the sole basis of Rudolph’s interest in her was sex…that was enough to upset any woman. She stretched and, reaching for the glass she kept at her bedside, had a drink of water. She was beginning to feel almost human again.

  “He left you a present,” Rowena said, changing the subject. Her old enthusiasm was back, the previous minute’s storm clouds chased away as though they’d never been.

  “He did?” Isla’s tone was incredulous.

  “That’s how come I know you’ve definitely been fooling around. The Chivalrous Heart says that a man always gives a woman a gift after she’s…well, you know. And if their love is unrequited, but you’re getting married so that’s hardly unrequited.” Rowena sounded inordinately pleased with herself for having made this leap of logic. “Anyway, was it good?”

  Isla just stared at her.

  “You know…is it big?”

  “I’ve no idea!” Isla cried, scandalized.

  “The Chivalrous Heart refers to it as the engine of love. Do you think that’s apt? I always thought that would be the woman, since a man can hardly make love to a woman without one. Unless of course he’s making love to a man but then he wouldn’t be making love to a woman, then, now would he?”

  “What does Rudolph’s look like?” Isla countered.

  Rowena hit her with a pillow. Things between them were, Isla consoled herself as she struggled out of bed, fine after all. Which pleased her. With all the changes going on in her life right now, she didn’t think she could bear losing the tight-knit bond she had with her sister. Her best friend.

  “It’s huge!” Rowena cried, making a face. “The biggest one there is.”

  “Rose says size doesn’t matter,” Isla pointed out, “but, rather, whether the man in question knows what to do with it. I guess Rand’s is rather large but he’s so bad at sex that none of the dairymaids care and all of them refuse to bed with him. She tried to tell me about Hart’s but I made her stop.” Isla wrinkled her nose. “That’s a mental image I can never un-see.”

  “You have to open your present now.”

  Isla struggled into her clothes. She’d just have to forgo a bath today; the day was more than half over, anyway. Rowena helped her slip a shift over her head and lace up the older and less attractive of her two kirtles. Isla didn’t have many clothes—most women didn’t—and so had to be creative when it came to dressing herself. She was well able to make the same five pieces of clothing look like five or six different ensembles over the course of a week, and she’d been working on a new kirtle and shift when the duke came.

  “I’m surprised,” she said dryly, hunting in her hope chest for her stockings, “that you didn’t open it for me.”

  “I would have,” Rowena said perfectly seriously, “except I was worried that there might be a curse.” She gestured to the table near the fireplace. “It’s over there, on the table. Rose brought it in this morning, with strict instructions not to wake you. She was very excited.” Rowena tittered. “She wanted to know what was in it, and I told her a venomous snake.”

  “You didn’t!” Poor Rose.

  “I told her that if she lifted the top off the box it’d bite her and she’d die writhing in agony.”

  “You’re vicious!” Isla teased, laughing.

  Rowena grinned. She followed her sister as Isla approached the table, seeing there a plain wooden box of the sort that expensive slippers came in. The craftsmanship was simple but excellent, the sides connected with perfectly even finger joints. It was the same rough size as a shoe box, too, maybe a little larger. Biting her lip in an unconscious expression of anxiety, she placed her hands carefully on the sides and lifted off the top.

  The first thing she saw was the note: written on a scrap of vellum, the single line had been formed in a spidery, perfect hand. To the girl who is beautiful, inside and out. She stared at the scrap, unsure of what to think.

  Rowena snatched it from her, having forgotten all about curses. “Oh!” she cried. “This is so romantic!”

  Inside the first box nestled a smaller, more ornate box; this one was overlaid with a complex pattern of cedar, ebony, and what appeared to be ivory. Isla had never seen ivory up close, but she’d read about it in books like so many other things. She ran her fingers over the intricate work, admiring the obvious effort that had gone into the perfect geometric design.

  “That’s beautiful,” Rowena sighed.

  Lifting it out onto the table, Isla opened it. Again, she removed the top. And then she gasped. Inside, the box had been divided into three square sections and in each of the sections sat a glass bottle. Real glass! Isla lifted one out, examining it. The glass had been tinted cranberry; the craftsmanship was beyond exquisite. She lifted the stopper and held it to her nose: attar of roses. Th
e scent was unmistakable. The second bottle was the same woodsy, spicy scent she’d smelled on the duke: sandalwood. And the third was the most exotic of all: amber, cloves and cinnamon.

  Carefully replacing each bottle, she stared down at the box. The box alone was a master craftsman’s wages for a year. Or more. Altogether, the ensemble in front of her represented a small fortune. She sat down on her chair, overwhelmed and unsure of what to do.

  “Wow,” Rowena said, seating herself on the hearth bench. A fire blazed merrily behind her. “That must have been some night.”

  “It was,” Isla said quietly.

  “I knew it!” Rowena sounded disgustingly triumphant.

  Isla didn’t bother trying to explain that no, she and the duke hadn’t done anything so prosaic. He’d invaded her mind and forced her to tell him things she’d never told anyone. Had never dreamed that she ever would tell anyone. The awful truth was, she’d been under his spell for hours and she didn’t actually remember everything she’d told him. There were so many dark parts of herself, parts she hid because she was terrified of what people would think of her if she revealed the truth about how she thought and what she felt. Isla wasn’t a proper woman and never had been—her only saving grace was that no one knew just how improper she was. She’d always believed herself hideous, inside as well as out. And now, once again, this man was telling her that she was beautiful.

  Isla glanced over at her sister, almost not catching the look that flashed across Rowena’s face. There was jealousy there and…something else, something Isla couldn’t name. But, seeing that Isla was looking at her, her expression once again smoothed into a blandly cheerful mask. “You should give him something in return.”

  “I have nothing to give.”

  “Oh, wait!” Rowena tapped her lower lip, ostentatiously pretending to think. “I forgot! You already have!” She made a face, sticking her tongue out, and she was once again the sister that Isla had always known. The cheerful, feckless girl who admired Isla and loved Rudolph and who wanted nothing more than to move to the manor next door and populate it with children. Isla smiled back.

  The fire popped and hissed in the background. Mica mewed softly in her sleep and stretched.

  “We can share,” Isla offered tentatively. Rowena was always trying to ply her with cosmetics, but Isla had no desire to rub her skin with toxins. Not even a little bit. And besides, her raven black hair and vellum white skin needed very little in the way of embellishment.

  “No,” Rowena said with mock indifference. “I don’t think I want any enchanted potions.” She smiled, showing that she was teasing. “Besides,” she said more truthfully, “I don’t think it would be fair to Rudolph.” And on that score, Rowena spoke wisdom. Any man who felt the need to wear a padded codpiece of such outrageous dimensions couldn’t be all that secure in his masculinity—or his buying power. Rudolph’s family was, especially by local standards, well to do. But few men in the realm commanded the same kind of wealth as the duke. Rudolph shouldn’t feel competitive over the fact that he, for instance, couldn’t buy any such thing as a casket containing three of the costliest perfumes on earth, but he undoubtedly would.

  “I understand,” Isla said. And she did.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Piper moved through the glen, her hooves crunching on the leaves underfoot.

  Isla had had a difficult time leaving, finding herself challenged by one of the guards. After an afternoon spent with Rowena—Rudolph, too, was absent on some sort of business—Isla had eaten a small dinner in her room and passed out in an exhausted sleep. The following morning, she’d woken up feeling almost refreshed and had decided to make the most of her remaining freedom by doing several things. First among them was visiting Cariad, while she still had leave to do so. Even if she only had a few days before the duke came back—and the truth was, she wasn’t entirely sure when he was coming back or where, indeed, he’d gone—she was damn well going to make them count.

  The guard at the gate seemed to be under the impression that Isla might not have leave to do so. He looked up at her, squinting into the sun. His rough, seamed face was nut brown from a life spent outdoors and looked like it’d been moisturized with dirt. He was one of the older guardsmen, and seemed a decent enough sort. although Isla didn’t know him very well. As a young, unmarried woman, she hadn’t mixed overmuch with her father’s guardsmen—who were on their best behavior around her anyhow—and knew most of what she knew about them from Hart.

  “The duke might not like it,” he said hesitantly.

  “I see.” Isla suppressed a rush of annoyance. She’d always been calm by nature, but over the past week or so she’d been uncharacteristically volatile. Things bothered her that shouldn’t have or, at least, that never had before. Where was the even-tempered girl she knew? She shook her head slightly, to clear it. She didn’t know what was wrong with her and honestly preferred not to speculate. Everything had started the day that man rode in. That repellent man.

  “Has the duke said anything?” she asked innocently.

  The guardsman didn’t respond at first. She waited, unwilling to be put off. And, as she did so, she wondered idly where Hart was. She’d seen no sign of him since dinner the night before last, before her…encounter with the duke. That Hart had made himself scarce was in and of itself no cause for alarm; he sometimes left and spent the night with his mistress in the village. But now a new thought occurred to Isla: maybe Hart had gone with the duke!

  “No,” the guardsman admitted reluctantly. “He hasn’t said no word.”

  “Then,” Isla said, aiming for cheer but with an edge to her tone that she couldn’t quite erase, “I’ll do as I see fit.” When the guardsman still didn’t move, she added, “he’s my lord, not yours. And as far as I know, my father has given you no instruction on my comings and goings either.”

  With this logic, the man couldn’t argue. Still grumbling, he let her pass.

  Cantering down the—road was a generous term for the pebble-strewn track—Isla pondered her situation. Less than a week ago, she’d regarded the possibility of such an encounter with abject horror. Now, she found herself nothing so much as annoyed at the distraction. What had changed?

  She hadn’t, as far as she was aware, been infused with some new species of courage. No, she decided, the unglamorous truth was that after what had happened to her over the past few days nothing would ever be scary again. Because in comparison, nothing was scary. She’d agreed to marry a man she hated, who she thought had plans to kill her and perhaps torture her first, she’d discovered the existence of demons and been glamoured by one. She felt like he’d ripped her in two and studied her from the inside out—she still felt like that, days later, still felt the residue of his mind in hers and his fingers on the back of her head and….

  And she was confused. She found him both loathsome and intriguing at the same time. He was the only man—only person—who’d ever paid attention to her, who’d told her she was beautiful. She didn’t know what his game was, what he wanted from her. A demon wasn’t a man; he didn’t love, didn’t need, the way a man did. Despite his claims.

  A gust of wind blew across the road, ruffling her cloak and pulling strands of hair free from her bun and bringing her the faintest scent of her own perfume. She’d decided that morning, after her bath, that she loved sandalwood. The warm, woodsy scent made her think of being outdoors and being free, and of her specimen-collecting walks and long talks with Cariad. She wondered if Cariad would be surprised to see her.

  To the girl who is beautiful, inside and out. She flushed. To have him…do that to her and then…the gift had been the gift of a lover. Rowena certainly thought so. Hart already thought they were lovers! And what else would he think, seeing her traipsing around carrying the man’s clothes like some forgotten harlot? Being invaded like that certainly hadn’t felt like any love she’d read about. Then again, the women who lived at the manor all said that their first time was awful. Isla smiled to herse
lf, pleased that, even now, she hadn’t lost her sense of humor.

  Were the casket and its contents an apology? A token of thanks? One of the ten thousand tender-hearted gestures discussed in Rowena’s favorite book? Or was it, as Isla had been wondering since she first opened the box, an acknowledgment of their conversation about bathing? Rowena had called her a prude, but there was something overtly sexual about perfume…an editorial comment on Tristan’s part, perhaps?

  She stopped herself. She couldn’t let her mind wander down these channels; apart from everything else, she was afraid of what she might find. That Tristan Mountbatten was trying to manipulate her into something was obvious; that he wanted her to think of it as love, or at least interest, was equally obvious. But she hadn’t forgotten their very first conversation, when he’d told her that she’d overstayed her welcome; and she hadn’t forgotten his statement that while he cared nothing for her, if she gave in and let him have his way with her…if you weren’t so frigid, darling, you might enjoy yourself more.

  She refused to be anyone’s pawn.

  Dismounting in the small clearing in front of Cariad’s cottage, she secured Piper to a tree and left the mare to munch contentedly on a tuft of clover that grew by the base. Piper was a good horse; Isla hoped she got to take her north, when she left.

  Leaving was very real now, although timeframes hadn’t been discussed—at least not with her. No one discussed the particulars of a woman’s marriage with the woman. She was, after all, the least relevant party to the transaction. So long as her plumbing was in decent working order and her hideousness not so insupportable that it couldn’t be overcome with strong drink, she was more or less left in a corner and ignored until such time as her would-be groom chose to claim her. Engagements, if they could be called that, ranged anywhere from a few weeks to—depending on the age of the prospective bride—a few years.

  Cariad stood in the open door, waiting, her ageless countenance expressionless. Isla approached her slowly, feeling unaccountably awkward. Their previous parting had felt like goodbye, and yet here she was. Moreover, while Cariad could never be accused of overt enthusiasm, on this morning she struck Isla as even more unpleasant than usual. The feeling of unwelcome, of mistrust, seemed to radiate from the very air around them.