“Lena, wait! Let me explain.”
She exhaled heavily at the sound of Jace’s voice and marched on. He caught her elbow and yanked her to a stumbling stop. She glared at him, but there was something soft behind his blue eyes. A sort of fear and uncertainty.
“I’ve only known you for a few weeks, and yet, I can’t . . .” Jace studied her closely. “It’s hard for me to find the words.” His grip tightened, pinching her arm. Lena tried to pull away, and he softened his hold. His fingertips moved to her chin and lifted it, giving him better access to look at her. His eyes traced her skin, almost as if they were his fingers, caressing her with mere glances.
Lena swallowed, and tried to relax her knitted brow. Lord Jarl’s words rang in her ear. Jace was flirting with her, she realized. If she tore away now, she’d embarrass him. Or worse, make him angry. If she turned her back on him, he’d follow her. She could run, but he was faster. He was nimbler on his feet. And besides . . . she shouldn’t need to run from him. He’d saved her, after all. So why was everything inside of her squirming to retreat?
“There’s something about you,” Jace was saying. His voice halted unnaturally between each word as he struggled to explain. “Lena . . .”
They were standing so close. Too close. Jace’s sapphire eyes were fixed on her mouth. He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip.
“Jace . . .” Lena lifted her hands to his chest and carefully tried to push herself away. He resisted the shift in her hands and jerked her forward. His lips pressed against hers, swiftly and urgently. Lena parted her own lips in protest and instead felt the jab of his tongue. She shoved against him, dashing backward a step, then two. Her wide eyes met his. Heat slashed his gaze—passion? Fury? And then he smirked.
“Have you never been kissed before?”
Lena felt her body tremble as she searched for a response. Asger had kissed her with power, authority, his blind fingers navigating easily to the peaks of her breasts, and she’d liked it. Craved it, even. But that memory seemed so long ago now—belonging to another girl in another place and time.
She froze as Jace stepped toward her and reached out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Just as Jarl had done.
Smugness curved his mouth and deepened the hue of his eyes as he slid his hand into his trouser pocket and watched her. Lena had the distinct impression that he was searching for something in her panicked expression—lust, desire, innocence . . .
Whatever it was, he seemed bound and determined to find it.
“We’d better get back,” she managed to say, and gestured weakly to the door. It was all the movement she could muster. She felt as though Jace had caught her in a net, or speared her steadfastly in place. She felt like a crab impaled on a blade, unable to scurry away.
“I suppose mor will be wondering where we are,” Jace agreed with some aggravation. “And Lord Jarl.”
Lena bit back a whooshing sigh of relief. Jace offered his elbow to her, and she hesitated.
“I’ll catch up with you,” she rushed to say, though she had no intention of doing so. “I just need a few minutes. Alone. Some fresh air . . .”
Jace beamed, a victorious expression she’d rarely seen. “See you inside, then,” he murmured, and disappeared through the door, leaving her in the darkness and solitude of the star-studded night.
Lena’s shoulders collapsed. Her lungs emptied of air and filled again with icy relief.
She slipped back inside, but the candles and colors and high-spirited songs of Samhain no longer delighted her.
Jace stood on the far side of the room speaking to Lord Jarl, whose gaze caught her own. He tilted his chin in acknowledgment, and Lena felt a shiver ride along the length of her spine.
Without thinking, she clutched the delicate shell of her necklace. Javelin. What would he have said about all this? About Lord Jarl’s unwanted touches, his snide remarks? Would he have warned her of Jace’s affection? Saved her, perhaps, from that terrible kiss?
She turned to leave, wanting nothing more than to click shut the little lock on her door, to sink into her fluffy bed and sleep and sleep and sleep. She nearly bumped into Edwin, who was moving swiftly through the hall, his trembling hand outstretched, his staggering body braced against the wall. She gasped. She’d never seen Edwin walk before. Though he managed each lurching step, his expression was pained.
She dashed to his side and grabbed onto his arms with her steady hands.
“What are you doing?” she demanded over the sailors’ slurring melodies.
“I’m here to read fortunes, lass,” Edwin answered breathlessly. “Soren Emil was just in my room, bidding me good evening. I thought I had waited too late.”
“Soren left?” Lena asked faintly, eyes picking through the crowd again. There was no sign of him anywhere. Had he truly gone? Had Jace angered him so?
Her violet eyes flew to Jace once more, her stomach twisting with disappointment and disgust. I’d be dead without him, she reminded herself, but would she? Just because he’d rescued her didn’t mean she wouldn’t have rescued herself eventually.
“’Tis alright,” Edwin was saying. “Just as long as I’m not too late.”
Lena guided him to one of the nearby dining tables, where she watched him sort his three piles of cards. A few curious guests came to sit before him, grinning among themselves. Cards were picked and flipped. Fortunes told, most of them harmless and vague. Men and women surrendered their coin and left the table giggling.
Lena had nearly recovered her good spirits when she felt someone looming at her shoulder. She turned and came face-to-face with Lord Jarl. His piercing black gaze bore into her, like fangs grazing against her very soul.
Lena glanced at the staircase and he smiled.
“Retiring so early?” he asked. “The celebrations are hardly over.”
“I’m afraid I’ve had a long day.”
“Ah yes.” Cunning slicked over his tone. “Strolling along the shore with Mr. Emil at sunrise. Kissing Mr. Wyatt beneath the light of the moon.” He raised a brow and lazily adjusted the sleeve of his jacket, which was as richly black as obsidian. “You’re quite the enchantress, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t . . . I’m not,” Lena stammered.
“It’s good for the lad to experience a woman’s attention,” Lord Jarl interjected. “I encourage it. Especially if he’s to be my heir. He’ll need to experience all he can, so that he knows what it is to find a good wife later.”
A wife. Lena lowered her eyes to her hands as she quickly tried to gather her thoughts.
“But I will warn you, little pearl . . .” Lord Jarl’s voice was taunting as he stroked the line of her jaw. He dipped his fingertips to the conch between her breasts, brushed his thumb lovingly over the pink spiraled shell. “A merrow out of the water is more valuable than in.”
Lena’s eyes grew wide. She faltered backward and whipped up her hands to cover the shell. Amusement glittered in Lord Jarl’s gaze as he watched her.
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re speaking of,” she managed to whisper.
“No need to deceive me, child. It’s well known—the story of your merrow queen. Of the clever man who slaughtered her, drank her blood.” His lip curled into a snarl, and his voice dropped low into the recesses of his throat. “A consolation prize,” he growled. “What he really wanted was her shell.”
He seemed to remember himself suddenly. His lips flattened to a frown. He smoothed the invisible wrinkles from his waistcoat.
“Do they speak of it, I wonder?” he continued, resuming his darkly melodic tone. “Down below?”
Lena retreated another step and found herself pressed against the wall. Her fingers tightened around the shell. Its warmth stirred to life against the skin of her palm. Lord Jarl inched toward her.
“So much power coursing through your veins, wrapped around your pretty neck.” His gaze flitted over his shoulder, to where Edwin sat, unawares, shuffling and restacking his cards. Then,
to the bustling masses of people dancing all around them. People who would hear her, Lena realized, if she screamed. Lord Jarl must have suffered the same realization. He sighed, mild irritation passing over his eyes.
“Leave me alone,” Lena threatened, voice wavering, “Or I’ll make a scene.”
“As you wish, my pearl.” His voice was horrifically cheerful, sickeningly sweet. He lifted his eyes to the top of the staircase, angling his gaze toward Lena’s chambers.
Her pulse gaped over a beat. Would he come after her again, when she was most vulnerable? When she was asleep?
“Perhaps Mr. Wyatt will experience more of you this evening,” Lord Jarl mused. Lena lifted her fingertips to her mouth. recalling Jace’s kiss. What more could he mean? She nearly asked him. The question stuck in her throat, and he chuckled.
“Rest assured, Lena,” he crooned, “That boy will do anything for me.”
26
“I didn’t see you slip off to your room last night,” Jace commented softly over a plate of lightly toasted bread and butter.
Lena shifted her sleepy gaze to his inquisitive eyes. She forced a shrug, and chewed her bottom lip. “I was . . . tired.”
“You weren’t the only one,” Jace chuckled. He glanced around the dining hall, which was nearly empty. Most of the sailors were still in their beds sleeping off their many pints of mead. Those that had stumbled out for breakfast were quietly moaning over their sausages and tea.
Mrs. Wyatt sank into the seat beside her son. It was the first time she’d joined them for breakfast. Perhaps she, too, was feeling the effects of the previous night’s festivities. She lifted a slice of toasted bread to her lips and glanced at Lena hesitantly.
“Edwin is feeling ill today. I think it’s best we leave him alone until midafternoon.”
“Did he exhaust himself spouting nonsense to nitwits?”
Mrs. Wyatt heaved a sigh and didn’t deign to reply.
“His friend left something behind,” she said instead, and lifted a long, slender tube from her skirts. “Fancies himself a musician now, it seems.”
Lena narrowed her eyes on the object—a pipe, perhaps, like those the band had played the night before? Though this one was made of tarnished silver instead of wood.
She’d found something strikingly similar once, buried just beneath a thin blanket of sand on the ocean floor. Javelin had insisted it was some sort of human weapon, something used to kill merrows, something vicious. He’d pried it out of her hands, shoved it back into the sand, and dragged her away.
How silly, Lena thought, and nearly giggled. It hadn’t been a weapon at all, but something used to make beautiful music.
“A flute?” Jace muttered and rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. Soren Emil.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Wyatt took another bite of her bread. “Now I’ll have to carve an hour out of my day to bring it back to him.”
Eagerness leaped into Lena’s heart. She hadn’t seen enough of Soren last night, and Jace . . . she’d seen entirely too much of him.
“I’ll take it to the Bror Boghandel today, to return it,” she offered. Mrs. Wyatt raised her brow with surprise.
“I’d appreciate that Lena,” she said, nodding blandly, though her smile betrayed her relief.
Lena hid her own smile behind a bite of buttered bread. She missed the flavors of the sea; the mornings spent with Javelin and Carrick tearing into fresh crab meat.
She could see them now—Javelin readying his pack for a day of trading or scavenging. Her father, hovering near the threshold of their cavern, his unseeing eyes scanning the world above, seeing darkness even as he stared at the bright, glittering stain of the sun.
She stiffened her lip and rose from her seat.
“Are you going right now?” Jace’s voice was high-pitched with irritation. Lena pinched her lips together and nodded. “It’s too early,” he argued. “The shop will still be closed.”
“Nonsense, he lives there,” Mrs. Wyatt interrupted, lowering her brow curiously at her son.
“Shouldn’t you have someone go with you?” Jace insisted, shaking his head.
“I’ve gone by myself before,” Lena replied. She lifted her plate. Jace snatched it from her hands and slammed it back down. The dish clattered against the table.
“Jace!” Mrs. Wyatt exclaimed, but Lena said nothing. Though her body jolted with shock, her mind was . . . unsurprised.
“I’m telling you to wait,” Jace demanded. His eyes were rich with insistence. Lena clenched her jaw tightly, resisting the urge to inform him—in no uncertain terms—that he had no right to tell her what she could or couldn’t do. Perhaps his kiss had been a way to lay claim on her. To . . . get his hook in her, as Lord Jarl had stated. Like she was some brainless fish to be caught on a line.
Ridiculous. She met his heated stare and narrowed her eyes. Once, she’d belonged to her father and brother, just as they had belonged to her. Love had bound the three of them together. But now . . . Now she belonged to no one, least of all Jace.
Her gaze passed to Mrs. Wyatt, who was staring at her son, slack-jawed and stunned. For her sake, Lena bit back the malice on her tongue.
“I’d rather go to the village sooner, so that I can return in time to tend to Edwin,” she explained. “Lord Jarl is expecting you this morning, is he not? You’ll be late to meet him if you walk me to Soren’s shop.” She spoke slowly, each word clipped.
“I don’t see why he can’t just come pick up his own damn flute,” Jace retorted.
“He’s a busy man,” Mrs. Wyatt interrupted. “And besides, he’s a good friend of your grandfather’s. Perhaps the only friend he has left. We owe him a great debt of kindness. Lena is doing us a favor.”
“I can’t imagine running that shoddy bookstore is a very demanding job,” Jace jabbed. “Everyone steers clear of that place. Everyone knows Emil’s father was crazy, and so is he.”
Lena had to bite down on her lip to keep from shouting. Coppery droplets of blood coursed over her tongue. There was a great coil of fury roaring to life in the pit of her stomach. How could Jace say such things about Soren Emil? She grasped for patience, but it was fleeting, so she shifted her focus to Mrs. Wyatt instead. The woman appeared to be torn between scolding her son and gaping at him in utter disbelief.
“I’ll pick up another book for Edwin while I’m there,” she said quietly. “Perhaps a new story will make him feel better.”
“Great,” Jace snorted. He rolled his eyes and shoved a large piece of bread between his lips. “Go then.”
His remarks were taunting. Lena studied him for a moment more, desperate to put him in his place. She stifled the urge, though it pained her, and crossed to the front door.
“Wait, Lena!” Mrs. Wyatt hurried away from the table, shaking off the astonished haze that had settled over her face. She lifted a long, heavy cloak from an iron hook on the wall.
“It’s brisk out this morning,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” Behind the practical notes of her tone, Lena sensed a silent apology.
“Thank you,” she said. She wrapped herself in the warm, fur-lined fabric and stepped out into the cold.
Though the sun was high in the frigid sky, the village had only just begun to wake. The streets were barren, most of the vendors absent from their carts. Birds chirped happily, gathering on treat-laden doorsteps to feast.
Lena found herself holding her breath as she pushed through the door of the Bror Boghandel. From the back of the shop, she could hear the distant sound of boots thumping over the wooden floor.
“Good morn—” Soren began, but paused when he caught sight of Lena in the doorway, her back bathed by sunlight, a chilly breeze rustling her hair.
“Sorry.” She tugged the door shut behind her, not wanting to let in the cold.
“Hello, Lena.” Soren tilted his head curiously. Lena’s cheeks warmed at the surprise reflected in his emerald eyes. “What brings you to the shop so early? Not another book orde
r, I hope. The world is sorely lacking in literature for the unseeing, but Edwin’s determined to read every book he can before he goes.”
His smile was contagious. Lena felt the corners of her mouth tug up as she retrieved the thin flute from the pocket of her dress. “Is this yours?” she asked him. “Mrs. Wyatt thought you might have left it at the inn last night.”
“Ah, yes.” Color drifted over his cheeks. “I never got a chance to show you how poorly I play.”
“To show . . . me?” Lena repeated.
“Almost as poorly as I dance,” Soren shrugged. “On second thought, you’re probably lucky I left when I did. Otherwise, you’d have sore feet this morning, and a headache.” He chuckled. Lena flicked her gaze away. She did have a headache, but it had nothing to do with Soren Emil. In fact, just being here, in his company, was causing the throb of her temples to ease away.
“Thank you,” Soren said. He strode forward and slipped the flute out of her hand. He held it to the light, admiring the metallic bruises of fingerprints. “Do you know how to play?”
Lena shook her head, remembering the lovely sounds of last night’s music. “I’d like to learn,” she decided, and nodded shyly to the instrument. “I’d love to hear it.”
“Well,” Soren conceded, “At the risk of scaring you off . . .” He lifted the flute to his lips, pursed his mouth above the mouthpiece and blew gently, fluttering his fingers over a series of holes.
Lena closed her eyes as his wordless song filled the room. With each breath, Soren sent new notes into the air. Music oscillated all around them like silken fins rippling against tranquil waters. Lena felt a sob rising in her chest, but it was warm, rich with joy, as if, for once, it would be a pleasure to simply weep.
The soft tune came to an end, and Lena opened her eyes mid-sway. She hadn’t even noticed her body drifting along with the music, her head gently rocking from side to side.
Between the Sea and Stars Page 17
