Scanlon stopped playing to look at her thoughtfully. "Are you lonely, Diesa?" he asked softly.
The question caught her off guard and she stammered her response. "I … I …" She shrugged. "In some ways I guess I am. In others, no."
He was silent for a few moments in which he gently plied the harp strings. "Would you like me to buy you a consort?" he finally asked.
Diesa’s eyes went wide and she rose, blushing furiously. "No!" she retorted. "No, M’lord, I would not!"
Scanlon looked up at her, confusion in the gray eyes. "I know of human needs, Diesa. I have studied them."
"Stop it!" she fumed. "I am not an animal! I do not have to answer to instinct! I make my own choices. If you buy me a man you will be wasting your money and my time!" She whirled and stomped away from him, anger driving her steps.
How dare he? she raged. How dare he suggest such a thing! How dare he speak to her like that? As if she were nothing more than a … than a … She dropped to the ground with a sob. A slave. Nothing more than a slave. Oh, Gods, she cried. I’ve been with him for over a month and still he enrages me. Will it ever change? Will we ever be at peace with one another? Will I ever accept my position with him?
The music began again, the notes sad and empty, and Diesa covered her ears with her hands, trying to block it out as she sobbed into the grass.
Chapter 9
* * *
A week later the group arrived at a bustling river township. Diesa was weary beyond belief and looked with longing at each inn they passed. But it was not to an inn that Scanlon led them. It was to a large white stone cottage on the fringe of town, a cottage surrounded by grassy fields and with windows facing the river. Diesa wondered if at last they had arrived at Scanlon’s home, although somehow she had envisioned he would live in much grander housing. Still, it looked comfortable and homey and she dismounted with relief in her heart. Scanlon seemed relieved as well.
"Kittellan, the stables are around back. You will see to the horses. Drake, bring the packs inside. Diesa, come." He led her into the house. It was dark and musty. Scanlon opened shutters and windows, letting the fresh early-spring air flow in.
Diesa glanced about. A fine layer of dust covered everything, although the furniture had been protected with sheets of cloth. Scanlon removed one of these and sank into a large, well worn overstuffed chair with a sigh of contentment. Diesa almost smiled.
Scanlon looked her way, amusement in his gray eyes. "As I said, even I have my weaknesses. My home, this chair, and a good glass of wine." He gestured with his hand. "There are several bottles in the kitchen. Choose one and bring it and a glass."
"Aye, M’lord." Diesa bowed and went through the doorway he’d indicated. The kitchen was large and well appointed. Diesa suddenly froze, looking from work station to work station. So this was to be her place now, her cage within a cage. She shuddered and forced herself into movement.
She found the wine easily. There were enough bottles to last through ten winters. Knowing nothing of wine, she chose the nearest bottle, found a glass, rinsed and dried it and took both to Scanlon. He had brought the hearth to flame and removed his boots to stretch his feet out to the warmth. He looked so comfortable Diesa was suddenly aware of her own fatigue. She handed him the wine, suppressing a yawn.
"M’lord?" Drake entered with the packs. "Where do you want these?"
"My room is the first door down the hall, Diesa’s second, yours and Kittellan’s, third. Give Diesa the foodstuffs."
"Aye, M’lord." Drake handed Diesa the near-empty bag of vegetables, his own dark eyes weary.
"We will take dinner in town tonight," Scanlon continued. "It has been a long day. You may retire to your rooms to rest and freshen up. Tomorrow we get this place in shape."
"Aye, M’lord," they mumbled together and Diesa followed Drake down the hall. She took her pack from the boy and stepped into her room.
It was small, holding a bed, a wardrobe and a chair. But it also had a fireplace and window, which she immediately opened. It looked out on a small vegetable garden overgrown with weeds and then beyond to the river and the ocean. Perfect, she thought, a prison with a view of freedom. With a sigh, she turned away.
She stripped the protective covers from the bed and used them to wipe away the dust in the rest of the room. There was a door in one corner of the bedroom and she realized it connected to Scanlon’s room. She tried the handle. It was locked. She hoped it stayed that way.
In the two months she had been with him he had never tried to consummate his ownership of her. But now, away from the grind of the trail, she wondered if he would do so. She frowned, again burying that strange memory that so often tried to surface. She moved her bed to block the door. It would probably make him angry but she didn’t care. She would not go to his bed without making known her thoughts on the matter.
"Diesa?" Kittellan’s voice preceded him into the room. "Scanlon had me draw water for a bath. You’re to go first."
"Aye, he’ll want us all glowing and showy for his friends to see," Diesa mumbled, anger clouding her words. "Come gather round, everyone! View Lord Scanlon’s new possessions. See how well they behave. Like whipped puppies they are! All except this one, this heathen of a girl. She’s a mouth on her but I’ll tame her yet, make her …"
"Diesa!" Kittellan stopped her. He crossed the room and took her by the shoulders. "You may like it here. Give it a chance at least. It’s beautiful."
"A prison is a prison, no matter how much beauty it exudes," Diesa said. "And we are but prisoners, Kittellan." She touched at the leather strip he still wore around his wrist. "Have you forgotten, Kitt? Free spirit?"
Kittellan smiled softly and fluffed her short dark curls. "No, I haven’t forgotten." He kissed her forehead. "Go to your bath, Diesa. I’ll see you at dinner."
He left and she sighed. Kittellan just couldn’t understand, he who had lived his whole life as a servant of one type or another. To him, this situation was to be exulted in, was near perfect. And why not? Diesa thought. He was doing the work he was trained for, he had a lover to spend his free time with, and his master rarely punished him. When he was punished, it was usually in defense of her. Gods, she scowled, it’s a wonder he still talks to me at all.
She snatched some clean clothes from her pack and stepped into the hallway. There were three other doors besides hers and Scanlon’s. She knew the one next to hers on the right belonged to the boys’ room, but she wasn’t sure which door across the hall was the bathing room. She picked one and stepped inside.
It was another bedroom and she was about to retreat when a sparkle of light caught her attention. The early afternoon sun crept through the unlatched shutters and touched at something gold and shiny on the dresser. Diesa approached it slowly. It was a circlet made of heavy gold with gems embedded all around. Diesa turned it over in her hands, puzzled. A crown? She put it down and scanned the other things on the dresser. There were a number of rings, chains, loose stones and several small metal boxes. Diesa ran her hand across the wood of the dresser, removing the dust, then gasped in awe.
The dark wood was beautiful! Swirls of red that seemed to glow of their own accord, that swirled like so many fingers of flame. She cleaned away more of the dust, running her fingers gently across the smooth finish and the heavy gold handles. In all of her life she had never seen anything so beautiful.
She looked at the mirror hanging above, saw her reflection and grimaced. Two months on the road had indeed taken their toll. She looked pale and haggard with dark circles under her green eyes. Gone was her smooth caramel coloring, replaced by a pasty pallor that spoke of sickness and death. She shuddered and brushed her hair away from her face. Her gaze settled on the crown again and, impulsively, she picked it up and settled it on her head. It glittered and sparkled and for just a moment, she became Diesa de Tyronmen, Princess of Omerron.
A sudden sharp pain lanced through her and she gasped, whirling. Scanlon stood in the doorway, his lips tight
, fury in his eyes. He strode across the room and snatched the crown from her head. "Explain yourself!" he demanded.
"I … I was looking for the bathing room," Diesa stammered, realizing how pathetic that sounded. "I’m sorry, M’lord. I made a mistake."
"You certainly did!" he snapped. He glanced at the dresser and the spot she had cleaned, then back at her. "Since you seem in the mood to clean, please continue to do so. This room will be spotless before you go to dinner. And if it is not, you will do it again!"
He started to set the crown down, then turned instead and strode from the room, clutching it in his hand, bellowing at Drake and Kittellan to take their baths.
Diesa stared after him, bewildered by his actions, by the look of overwhelming grief that had crossed his face. Never had she seen such a look of emptiness in the gray eyes. It tore at her heart and soul. She touched lightly at her head where the crown had rested. What could it mean? Somehow she didn’t think his anger was simply because she had touched valuable property. No, there was something deeper here, something that went well beyond a worry over a slave and theft. Besides, if he was worried about her thieving him, he certainly wouldn’t have left her in this room. She shook her head, dropped her clean clothes and wearily set to work. It took her the rest of the afternoon to clean the dust from all of the ornately carved furniture, and all of the baubles found on the dresser, night stand and hearth table. Scanlon seemed to have no shortage of precious jewelry, although he treated it as if it were common metal and rock. It was not stored nor carefully wrapped. It was simply lying about as if he had tossed it wherever convenient. As if he didn’t care. But Diesa did, and made sure to replace every item in exactly the same location. She would give him no reason to accuse her of anything.
But just as she was about to finish, disaster struck. She crawled up on the bed to reach the middle of the ornately carved headboard, and her foot brushed against a small serving table, accidentally knocking a box of loose gems to the floor. With a gasp of alarm, she scrambled to retrieve the sapphires, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, topaz and garnets from where they had fallen on the thick rug. She wondered if Scanlon knew how many gems were in the box. Certainly he did. And if even one was missing, he would no doubt blame her. She lifted the bedskirts letting the waning daylight underneath the bed, and squirmed beneath it, running her hands over the floor. It was there that she found the box. A small, plain-looking tin box was wedged between the mattress and the boards near the wall. She pulled the tiny box free and, lying on her stomach, opened it, curiosity getting the better of her.
Inside the box were two rings, nestled in red velvet. They were plain bands of silver with strange words etched on the inside. One was smaller than the other and Diesa knew she was looking at marriage bands. Scanlon’s? If so, where was his wife? And why, of all the riches in the room, were these the only ones hidden? It was as if they alone had value. Diesa carefully closed the box and returned it to its hiding place, then crawled out and painfully stood up. She looked at the loose gems sparkling in her hand. Just this much would secure her passage aboard a ship and a life of luxury in a new world. She wondered if Scanlon would miss them, wondered if he would come after her.
"I would," he said suddenly from the doorway. "Because then not only would you be a runaway slave, you’d be a thief."
Diesa returned the stones to the box and closed it with trembling hands. "Forgive me, M’lord," she said evenly. "The trapped often have desperate thoughts."
Scanlon surveyed the room, then brought his gaze back to her. "The room is satisfactory. You may prepare for dinner. You have thirty minutes."
"M’lord, by your leave," Diesa said, using Kittellan’s words. "I would prefer to stay here and rest. I’m really not hungry and will most likely fall asleep in my plate, which would only bring embarrassment on M’lord."
Scanlon actually smiled at that. "Then, by all means, you will join us. It is not often that I get entertainment with my meals. Go."
Diesa bowed, bit back a scathing remark, picked up her clothes and went to the bathing room. The water was cold and had been used by both Kittellan and Drake, but Diesa didn’t care. She plunged in, quickly soaped and rinsed, and leapt out. But the floor was wet and she went down with a painful thud and a yelp. The door immediately crashed open and Scanlon burst in, gray eyes wide with alarm, as if he had been hovering just outside. Dazed, both by the fall and the elf’s reaction, Diesa accepted his help up. He wrapped her in a soft, thick drying cloth as tenderly as a mother her babe.
"Are you all right?" he asked softly.
Diesa nodded, staring at him in astonishment. "My backside will remember the incident, I’m sure, but that’s all," she mumbled.
"Perhaps I was wrong, Diesa," Scanlon said, his voice gentle. "If you are so weary you cannot even get out of the tub without falling, then you should stay here and rest. I will send Kittellan into town for some dinner."
Diesa was speechless as he guided her back to her room and her bed. He lit a fire in the hearth with a touch, then handed her a clean nightshirt, which she donned under his watchful eye, before crawling beneath the covers.
"Are you sure you’re all right?" he asked again. She nodded and he scanned her mind. Apparently satisfied, he turned and left.
Diesa stared at the closed door in absolute bewilderment. Try to understand Scanlon, Kittellan had said. How could she understand someone who could hold such fury and biting sarcasm one moment, and such love and concern the next? She grimaced. Love? Scanlon had asked to earn her love. Kittellan had claimed the elf loved her. Could it be possible? Could elves love? Her thoughts went to the two silver bands. Had Scanlon loved before? Had he lost that love? Or had she left him? Had his heart suffered the same pain as Diesa’s? She shook her head and went to sleep.
She was wakened several hours later with a light kiss on the forehead. She gave a contented sigh, opened her eyes and started, expecting not Kittellan but Scanlon. Kittellan chuckled and set down her dinner tray beside her. "Pleasant dreams, love?"
"Sort of," Diesa mumbled, not wanting to admit even to herself that Scanlon had figured prominently in those dreams. She looked at the covered dinner. "I suppose that’s meat," she grumbled, sitting up.
"Fish to be precise." Kittellan removed the cover and the aroma filled the room.
Diesa’s eyes went wide as her stomach did an unexpected turn and Kittellan whipped the domed cover in front of her just in time. He waited until she finished retching, then took everything away, placing it near the door. He pushed open the window and although the night air was cold, the freshness of it did much to restore Diesa’s color.
"Now what was the cause of all that?" Kittellan asked, feeling of her forehead. "You’ve no fever and the fish was a mild white. I chose it myself."
"Please," Diesa begged, "don’t even talk about it."
Kittellan frowned, and sat down on the bed beside her. He looked at her for a long time then voiced his thoughts. "I can’t ignore it this time, Diesa. Scanlon must know. It may be nothing more than a passing thing and you’ll be up and well by tomorrow, but I’ll not bring his wrath down on you again by concealing your illness."
"Or on you," Diesa said. "Then tell him, but I’ll not hold my breath waiting for sympathy."
"You have mine, love." Kittellan smiled, rose, kissed her and left, taking the offensive tray with him.
A few moments later Scanlon strode into the room, his expression neither angry nor sympathetic. He looked simply purposeful, and he handed her a small bag of herbs. "Take a pinch now," he instructed, "and in the mornings before you get out of bed."
She took the bag. "Then you know what’s wrong with me?"
"Yes. It isn’t serious and will be resolved in time. Good night." He turned and left as purposefully as he had come in. Diesa frowned, took a pinch of the herb and went back to sleep.
* * *
Over the next several months they settled into a comfortable routine. Kittellan still went hunting in the
surrounding lands, as Scanlon preferred to procure his own game. Drake had been assigned to the care of the horses and stables and Diesa the garden. In addition, Drake also helped in the kitchen, while Kittellan made any repairs to the buildings that Scanlon deemed necessary. Scanlon, for his part, spent a good deal of time either in town or in the privacy of his den, the one room Diesa and the boys were not allowed to enter. His tension had calmed considerably since their arrival and Diesa attributed it to being home and in comfortable, familiar surroundings.
The herbs he had given her for the nausea worked well as long as she remembered to take them. She had forgotten only twice and had spent the morning throwing up and the rest of the day lightheaded and queasy. And contrary to what she had expected, Scanlon had not been angry, merely annoyed at her forgetfulness and sympathetic with her discomfort. By now, Diesa had figured out what ailed her and the thought sent chills of both excitement and trepidation through her.
She was with child; Kittellan’s child. Or so she prayed. Scanlon had told her he had destroyed the child conceived through her rape. She had to believe that or go mad. And now she understood Scanlon’s insistence on her including meat in her diet and eating better in general. It also explained his concern for her fall in the bathing room the night of their arrival. It was as if he were the proud, protective father-to-be himself. And in a way, Diesa guessed that was true. After all, it had been Scanlon who had arranged for that night to take place, the night of lovemaking that had brought her to this point. This was as much his child as hers and Kittellan’s.
FREE SPIRIT Page 11
