Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt

by Heart of Fire. txt (lit)

  The words had risen to her lips before she could call them back.

  What an idiot she was to question this man as though he were a

  servant.

  Evidently, the king caught the insolence in her remark. His

  beautiful lips were tight and his eyes were stern. “If you’re

  wondering whether I did as you ordered me yesterday, the

  answer is yes.”

  “I did not mean to insult you, and I apologize for my words.

  Only worry about Tzirah caused them.” The king did not seem

  mollified by her apology. No, he had a heat about him, a

  shimmering of puzzlement, exasperation, and something else

  she could almost see in the air surrounding him, which he held

  perfectly under control. The combination did something strange

  to her. It made her wish to act badly in his presence.

  “And you must also realize that if you had not heeded my

  advice, Tzirah would have caused you trouble.”

  He did not deign to answer her. Sera pushed herself back

  against the carved headboard of the bed and pulled the covers

  up to her chin, tense and wary. The Outlander’s gray gaze lit

  upon her and took her in—all of her, not just her physical being.

  He took his time standing silently in the door, as a predator

  would watch his prey, waiting for the right moment to spring.

  Sera suppressed a shiver. Part of her felt reckless and excited

  by his presence. Part of her felt only fear. The man was not

  what she expected, and in this terrible world, nothing unexpected

  was good.

  “The doctor who treated your wound is waiting to see you.

  I expect that he will find you somewhat recovered from your

  ordeal.” The king stepped away from the door and leaned back

  against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and looming

  in spite of the distance between them.

  “Perhaps you will tell him to come in on your way out.”

  “I think not.”

  “Your behavior, sir, is highly irregular, even for a king.”

  The man merely raised a brow. “But that is the nicest thing

  about being king in my country. One’s behavior is never

  questioned.” Sera felt the Outlander’s gaze fix on the heat of

  her blush as it surged upward from her chest to her neck to her

  forehead. How dare he remain in her chamber during a medical

  examination, as though he had a right to be there, as though he

  owned her! Too weak to fight him, she turned her face away

  and pretended interest in the vase of flowers on her bedside

  table.

  A small, round man with a cheerful countenance and hair

  the most wonderful shade of white entered the room and smiled

  at her. He carried a black bag, and by this, Sera knew he must

  be the healer the king had mentioned.

  The little man bustled over to the bed, took her hand, and

  bent over it in a kind of bow that looked terribly formal and

  confused her even more.

  “Mademoiselle?” The healer gave her a soothing smile. “I

  am Dr. Summers, and I am very pleased to see that you are

  awake and in less pain this morning.”

  While she tried again to ignore the proprietary concentration

  emanating from the king, this Dr. Summers held her wrist

  between his thumb and forefinger and consulted his pocket

  watch. “Hmm . . . very nice, but still weaker than we would

  wish.” He carefully unwrapped the bandage and checked the

  wound. Sera glanced down at her arm and noticed that the slash

  had been neatly stitched.

  “You did that?” she asked.

  “I did, last night when I arrived,” said the doctor.

  In spite of the fact that this man, like every Outlander, had

  little power to heal a wound, she was impressed with the work

  he had done. The slash had been long and deep, she knew, and

  there was no real swelling or heat at the wound’s site.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You are a fine healer.”

  “Very kind of you, my dear. However, you must help me

  get you well. That means rest and quiet. By tonight, you must

  eat meat. As much as you can be persuaded to eat. For the blood,

  you see. To make more of it.”

  “I understand, Dr. Summers.”

  “Good. Until then, rest is the ticket. I am quite satisfied

  with your progress, but I’ll remain just to make certain that you

  are recovering according to schedule. That, and to take

  advantage of the fine fishing His Majesty has offered me.” The

  little man grinned over his shoulder at the king, whose fleeting

  smile in response lightened the darkness in his expression. Then

  it was gone, and this king was the same overwhelming force

  against which she must pit her wits.

  “If you need me for any reason, please tell the maidservant.

  Do try to rest, Mademoiselle.” The plump little doctor gave her

  an encouraging smile and left the room.

  But the king remained. Although he stood immobile, he

  again gave the impression of a large, dark cat, and she was the

  cornered mouse.

  She cleared her throat. “I am sure you have much to do this

  morning. You must not let me take up so much of your valuable

  time.”

  He gave her a smile tinged with irony, and he did not move

  from his place by the wall. “Not at all. Because of you,

  Mademoiselle, I am on holiday. I have as much time to waste

  as I wish.”

  A manservant carrying a tea tray entered the room behind

  him. The king gave a low order and the servant set down the

  tray on a table beside her bed and bowed, departing.

  The king poured out some steaming tea. After he handed

  her the cup, he pulled up a large wing back chair and sat down.

  He lounged back in the chair, crossing his booted legs at

  the ankles and resting his chin on his steepled hands as he studied

  her. His intense scrutiny made her feel like a troublesome puzzle.

  His long, dark eyelashes fringed his eyes, hiding his thoughts

  effectively. The flowered porcelain teacup shook slightly in her

  hand. She put it down on the table, never taking her eyes from

  the Outlander.

  “All night I have been asking myself, who are you? A

  woman who speaks three languages elegantly. A woman who

  owns a horse more valuable than a king’s treasure. A Hill woman

  with golden hair and skin so soft and fine you can see the veins

  through it.”

  He rose abruptly to his feet and walked to the window. The

  sunlight played upon his neat black hair, turning it almost auburn

  at the tips. “Maybe you’re a spy, but then, who sent you?

  Certainly not Iman Hadar, for to pay you would have been a

  waste of his money. I suspect he was in league with the

  Brotherhood, and my death, not knowledge of my plans for the

  future, was his purpose.” He began to pace, restless, it seemed

  to Sera, as though needing to think aloud with his body as well

  as his mind.

  “And if you were a spy—French, or British—why sacrifice

  yourself for me? My country would be weaker without me.”

  She realized with a shock of recognition that he was now

  spea
king in French. “Je ne suis pas une agente de Napoleon.”

  He made no outward movement of surprise and slipped into

  English. “Nor of the Prince Regent?”

  “That libertine?” she scoffed, answering him in kind.

  “Of course, were you indeed a spy, what better way to catch

  me off guard than to save my life and admit to speaking—just

  how many languages are at your disposal?”

  “Eight. I have a small talent for mimicry.”

  “Mimicry.” He raised his brows and slanted her a hint of a

  smile. “Laurentia is a rich prize, as well as a southern entryway

  to Russia. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter ultimately whether I or

  some other ruled Laurentia. Napoleon’s forces, flush with victory

  in Russia, would be formidable for anyone.”

  The king swung around to face her so quickly, she almost

  gasped. “Why did you throw yourself at the assassin? Why did

  you take the knife meant for me?”

  She shook her head. “How can you ask such a question?

  All life is precious. I could do no other thing, even though I

  wished to.”

  He was looking at her now with the most comical

  expression—disbelief at war with shock. He gave a bark of

  laughter. “You’re either too good to be true, or the cleverest liar

  I have yet met. You give me an example of behavior only a

  saint would follow and then you tell me you didn’t wish to follow

  it, yourself. Why not?”

  She could only answer him honestly—there was no other

  way she knew. “I wanted to escape that prison, and I could have

  while they…But I couldn’t leave you unprotected. Even when

  I told myself to go, I couldn’t.” Sera looked down at her hands,

  unable to explain her actions even to her own satisfaction.

  He studied her with that unflagging concentration that made

  her want to run and hide in a corner.

  “No, you couldn’t. Spy or unfortunate, I would like to thank

  you properly, but I don’t even know your name.”

  “Sera,” she said, giving him that much. “I don’t know your

  name, either.”

  “My name is Nicholas Rostov,” he said. “I don’t know

  whether they informed you at the summer palace. I am king of

  Laurentia.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “They

  told me,” she said bitterly. “When they—they . . ..” The king

  stared at her. His nostrils flared slightly, his eyes focused on her

  with an intensity that seemed to burn. Then he gave her a brief,

  curt nod.

  “You need rest. I’ll return later. Perhaps by then you’ll be

  ready to tell me just who you are, and what you were doing in

  Jehanna that got you captured in the first place.”

  As soon as Nicholas Rostov quit the room, Sera slumped

  against the pillows, weak with relief. She was in a terrible state.

  She had almost lied to this king in Iman Hadar’s palace when

  she felt his body’s need for her. She could not lie, but she could

  not tell the truth, either. To do so would be to endanger all of

  the Hills. How could she hold strong against that man with his

  piercing gray stare and his imperial frown? His rare smiles were

  worse, tugging at her defenses. She must give him a little, but

  not too much. She must reveal only what she had to. Sera shut

  her eyes, but her thoughts were whirling too quickly to find

  rest. What was she to do? How was she to find the thief? How

  was she to get back home without a Hill cloak to mask her?

  Why did she ever leave the safety of the Hills in the first place?

  ***

  Nicholas leaned against the pasture fence and watched the

  chestnut horse gallop in the near field. As Sera had promised

  several days ago, the stallion was calm. He exhibited a rather

  distant arrogance with the other mounts grazing near him, and

  none of the Laurentian horses approached him. They seemed to

  know he was far too fine for them.

  With a bribe of apples in his jacket pocket, Nicholas leaped

  the fence and approached the stallion. Wind Rider wheeled and

  galloped away before he could get within twenty yards of the

  horse.

  “Wary fellow, aren’t you?” Nicholas left the treats on the

  ground within the fence. Only when he left the field did Wind

  Rider approach the little offering and eat.

  Andre walked to his side, watching the stallion nibble at

  the apples.

  “Like horse, like rider,” said Nicholas.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Both are fearful and intensely private. Is she a spy or a

  casualty of war, Andre? Where does she come from? Why was

  she captured and sold? Who were her parents? I’ve been trying

  to figure it out.” Indeed, these questions kept him awake the

  first night at the dacha, watching her as she finally fell into a

  peaceful sleep. Had it not been for the laudanum and its vivid,

  drug-induced dreams, he would never have learned about the

  demons haunting her.

  He was a fool to take her home, to keep her in the palace

  where she might endanger Laurentia.

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “Why am I risking the

  country’s welfare, eh?”

  “Because if she’s a spy, you want to know her contacts and

  sources,” Andre said. “And if she’s not, you want to protect

  her.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of all that,” he said. “Whatever she is, I

  owe her my life. I keep asking myself, why didn’t she run when

  she had the chance? Certainly it wasn’t because of my amiable

  temperament.”

  “Come, now, Nikki. Surely you are not going to puzzle over

  this little courtesan any longer. Although she is incredibly

  beautiful.” Andre looked at him closely. “With all your other

  ruminations, you have noticed that, have you not?”

  “Naturally. I’m not totally oblivious to feminine charm.”

  “Particularly when it’s displayed so generously.” Andre’s

  lips curved in what could only be considered a smirk.

  “Leave off,” muttered Nicholas.

  “Rather protective, aren’t you? And short-tempered, to

  boot,” Andre said as Nicholas turned away from him and began

  to walk back to the dacha. “There’s only one solution for what

  rides you, my friend, and I suggest you take it as soon as the

  lady is recovered from her wound.”

  “I don’t know that I can solve this puzzle in so short a time,”

  Nicholas said. “The men I’m sending to gather information

  won’t report back to me for a while.”

  “I was speaking of a solution to the more obvious problem,

  Nikki.” Andre’s face wore an uncustomary look of complete

  seriousness. “Take your foundling to your bed as soon as

  possible. Ease your need for her. Then let her go home, wherever

  that is.”

  “She deserves better,” said Nicholas. “And she’s more than

  you think.”

  “You really do have a bad case of it, my friend,” said Andre.

  “No. Do you remember when we were eight, and we decided

  to climb the old oak in the park?”

  “Yes,
of course. And you said we couldn’t, that there was

  something wrong. When I asked you why, you said you just

  felt it. And then that great limb fell from the oak that very

  afternoon. It was rotted clear through.” Andre rubbed his fingers

  through his hair. “I thought then that to know such a thing before

  it happened, you must have the Sight.”

  “Indeed. I didn’t see it, Andre. I simply felt a strange prickle

  at the back of my neck when I looked at that tree. The same one

  I felt just before the messengers arrived at Oxford to tell me my

  father was dead.” Nicholas kicked at the ground with the toe of

  his boot. “I felt it the other night, when I held her on the long

  trip from Jehanna. This time, it’s telling me to keep her. And I

  must pay attention to it, until I know who she is, and why she’s

  somehow mixed up with Laurentia’s welfare. Until I do, she

  stays with me.”

  Andre let out a low whistle. “This is very strange, Nikki.

  And you’re certain this ‘prickle’ is in your neck and not another

  part of your anatomy?”

  “Go to hell,” Nicholas said, but he couldn’t keep his lips

  from quirking upward.

  Later that day in his rustic study, Nicholas nodded to a young

  lieutenant who folded a sheet of paper and placed it carefully

  inside his dark blue jacket. “I’ll start out at once, Your Majesty.”

  “Very good, Carlsohnn. As soon as you receive any

  information about Miss Sera, send word to Montanyard by

  courier. Interview the families near the Hills, either in Jehanna

  or in Beaureve. Young Oblomov has already left for the foothills

  of Arkadia. And don’t neglect the nobility.”

  Sera’s nature was too ladylike to indicate low station. There

  might be a family frantically searching for her. But to own a

  horse like that chestnut, to speak eight languages fluently, and

  to instruct a king with cool confidence were the trademarks of

  something more than just a chit from a noble family. Who the

  hell was she?

  The lieutenant saluted smartly and quit the room. Nicholas

  walked to the oak wall lined with bookshelves. He picked up a

  small figurine, a little Minoan earth goddess his father had

  brought back to Laurentia after a state visit to Crete. He had

  loved it as a boy, had felt the secret thrill of seeing a woman’s