Broken Dove

by Kristen Ashley

  So much for Valentine saying he wouldn’t want to be separated from me.

  I took two more quick steps toward him, calling swiftly, “Wait!”

  He settled but he didn’t look happy about it.

  “Ilsa—”

  “You can’t just bring me here and then leave me here.”

  “You’d rather be with a man who kicks you?” he asked curtly.

  “No, of course not. That’s not what I’m—”

  “You’re safe from him here. You’ll be safe from what’s happening here with my men. Then you’ll be home with the children and you can settle.”

  Oh shit.

  “Maybe we can talk about that,” I hurried to say.

  “We shall. I’ll meet your sleigh in the village outside my estate and we’ll have a discussion before you meet the children.”

  My sleigh?

  “Now, I’m away,” he murmured, turning to leave, his cape swinging out behind him and it was cool, that cape and how it moved with him, and weirdly hot at the same time.

  But I couldn’t think about how cool and hot his cape was because I was beginning to lose my temper.

  “Apollo!” I cried, taking two more steps toward him.

  But he turned back, his cape wrapping around him, his eyes leveling on me.

  When I saw what was in his eyes, I quit moving, quit talking and stared.

  He didn’t stare.

  He spoke.

  And when he did, his voice was a low, angry rumble that felt like it shook the room.

  “You know of her and yet you seem not to understand how difficult this is for me.”

  I was following, but I wasn’t.

  I mean, he was the one who brought me here.

  “Of course I understand,” I said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean—”

  Again, he didn’t let me finish.

  “Just gazing on you, it feels like brands searing into my eyes.”

  Oh God.

  That sucked. Seriously sucked. That had to kill and I felt for him. I really, really did.

  But still.

  “I understand that,” I kept my tone low and gentle, “but—”

  “You look like her. You sound like her. You even smell like her.”

  That sucked too.

  Big time.

  I pressed my lips together.

  “But you are not her,” he finished.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “But you brought me here and you knew I wouldn’t be her. And right now, it seems urgent things are happening. Things I don’t understand in a world I don’t understand and you’re responsible for bringing me into this world. Now you’re leaving me alone in it without even giving me time to ask questions, the answers to which might help me to know how to conduct myself, what I’m dealing with, both giving me a hint of peace of mind.”

  “And I explained, my men will answer.”

  “Okay, that’s great, but we have things to talk about regarding my future here and—”

  He was back to interrupting me and he did it by saying, “And I explained that as well. We will talk when you reach Lunwyn, before you come to the estate.”

  Was he crazy?

  My understanding was that would be two freaking months from now.

  “I’d like to do it now,” I requested carefully.

  “And I don’t have time now,” he denied me, not carefully.

  I took in a deep breath and held his eyes.

  Then I shared, “It’s important, Apollo.”

  “It’s important for me to get back to my children and make haste in getting them to safety. Your future here is secure. That’s all you need to know”—he paused— “for now. Now, I’m away.”

  Was he serious?

  He turned and started toward the door.

  He was serious.

  “Wait!” I called, going after him.

  He didn’t wait.

  He kept going.

  I kept following, crying, “Apollo! Hang on a second!”

  His legs were longer than mine so I had to jog to catch up.

  This I did at the front door.

  And when I did it, I made a mistake.

  I said his name and wrapped my fingers around his bicep.

  The instant I did, he pulled it forcefully from my touch, rearing back. And with my history, he did it appearing like he was preparing to strike

  Instinctively, I lifted a hand in front of my face, palm toward him, and backed up, tripping on my train but managing to right myself before I went down. I yanked it from under me and took another step back, my eyes glued to him, my body prepared for anything.

  I stopped moving back, suddenly breathing heavily. When I noticed he was not preparing to strike, I dropped my hand to press it to my chest.

  Through all this, his eyes were also glued to me but I couldn’t read them.

  And for some reason, we stood in the preposterously elegant foyer of his preposterously fabulous country house situated in the preposterously beautiful countryside of a parallel universe and we stared into each other’s eyes, not speaking. His thoughts were cloaked. Mine, I doubted, were the same.

  Then he shared his thoughts.

  And if his earlier comment was an insult that landed an invisible blow, this one delivered a kill shot.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” he whispered, his eyes locked to mine as I drew in breath. “You might get it.” He put his hand to the doorknob and finished, “And not want it.”

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  I Was Used to It

  It was safe to say I was pissed.

  It was the next morning after Apollo dealt his death blow.

  I was in another gown that was very pretty but didn’t fit me. I was bathed, watered and fed. And a maid who didn’t speak my language had just come to my room, gesturing in a way I knew I was being summoned for something.

  I’d heard horses’ hooves on the stone outside so I figured my guard was there.

  But I didn’t care.

  I hadn’t slept. Not a wink.

  This was because, at first, I was hurt.

  No.

  Wounded. Wounded was the word to describe it.

  Wounded deeply.

  I didn’t know why. I just knew I was.

  Deeply.

  Then I started to think on things and I got mad.

  Sure, one could say I didn’t want to go back to Pol and endure a life with him, walking on eggshells, taking my beatings whenever whatever was in his head would snap and he’d lose it. Then planning my escape and escaping, only to be found, beaten, dragged back and starting the process all over again and doing all this not very fun stuff until the day I died.

  That didn’t work for me. As in really didn’t work.

  But I’d been transported by a freaking witch to a freaking parallel universe by a man grieving his wife who was my twin. Then he got me, held me in his arms as I slept (and seriously, what was that all about?) and for some reason decided he didn’t want me (not that I wanted him, either, for God’s sake). And finally, he threw me to the proverbial wolves.

  Not that there were wolves, as such. The staff seemed nice, smiling, friendly, solicitous, and it wasn’t like I was in a prison with nowhere to sleep but on cold stone and nothing to eat but moldy bread and fetid water.

  But still!

  So, needless to say, this all meant I didn’t sleep. Which didn’t help with me being pissed.

  But I did force a smile at the maid and followed her, though I did it stomping and even that pissed me off because I still was barefoot so my stomping wasn’t very effective.

  I saw him when I was halfway down the stairs and, not surprisingly, he was tall, blond, built and preposterously good-looking.

  He was also wearing romance novel guy clothes.

  Exhausted and in a bad mood, this annoyed me more.

  As I descended the stairs, his eyes lifted to me and his mouth dropped open.

  He knew the oth
er Ilsa.

  Whatever.

  He snapped his mouth shut and wiped his face blank.

  I’d seen that before.

  Again.

  Whatever.

  I stomped to four feet away from him and stopped.

  “I take it you’re my guard,” I guessed.

  His eyes moved over my face, lingering on the bruise at my cheek (whatever!) before stopping on mine. “Yes, madam, myself and the seven men outside.”

  Seven men?

  That seemed like a lot which didn’t bode good things.

  I didn’t share these musings with him.

  I introduced myself, of a sort. “I take it you know I’m Ilsa.”

  “I do,” he replied.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “Derrik,” he answered.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I snapped.

  His eyes lit and his lips twitched.

  I found this a bizarre reaction, so I asked, “Is that funny?”

  “Yes, seeing as you said kind words you so obviously didn’t mean and I’m not entirely certain what I’ve done in the last three seconds to earn your ire, having done nothing but stand here and greet you,” he shared.

  Crap.

  He hadn’t done anything. I was being rude.

  I wasn’t averse to being rude if a situation warranted it, say, a telemarketer called during dinner…or ever.

  But mostly I was averse to being rude.

  Therefore, I decided to explain.

  “I’m annoyed,” I told him. “Not at you,” I added hurriedly. “At your master, or leader…or…whoever.”

  He dipped his chin and looked at me from under his brow, his voice gentling. “I am of the House of Lazarus. I trained under the House of Ulfr. Apollo and I grew close, shared a bond that was strong enough that when I would have returned to my own House, I elected to stay with him and command his men in his stead when he’s absent. I’m not in line for the Head of my House therefore it’s a good position.” He grinned and lifted his chin, not letting go of my gaze. “And the women of the House of Ulfr are more pleasing to look at and not one of them is my cousin or sister.”

  At his words, I felt my own lips twitching and surmised, “So you’re his second in command.”

  “Yes,” he affirmed.

  I decided to take this as good, Apollo leaving his second in command. I was guessing by the way this guy’s shoulders looked in his shirt, his thighs looked in his breeches, and the casual way he carried that sword at a slant in his back, he was no pushover.

  So at least the jerk gave me something.

  “Do you speak French, or…um, Fleuridian?” I asked.

  “Haltingly, but I can make myself understood”—he paused— “eventually.”

  “That’s not much of an interpreter,” I mumbled, looking at my feet.

  “I’m not an interpreter, madam, I’m charged with your safety,” he returned and I looked back at him to see he looked peeved.

  “Sorry,” I said quietly. “I just don’t speak any Fleuridian and it seems I’m going to be here a while so I was kind of hoping you or one of your guys could help out.”

  The peeved look faded and he replied, “One of the…guys can help. In fact, three of them can.”

  Finally, good news.

  I smiled.

  His eyes dropped to my mouth and pain chased its way through them before he shuttered it from me.

  Yes, he knew Ilsa.

  “You know who I am,” I whispered.

  “I do,” he agreed and his eyes may have been shuttered, but he couldn’t quite mask the vein of grief in his voice.

  “Does it hurt you to look at me?” I asked. “If so, I can—” I started to offer, beginning to take a step back but he lifted a hand, palm up toward me.

  “I cared for her. She meant much to me. Her loss is still felt by all who knew her. But you are not her. Apollo told all the men who you are and where you’re from. He warned us how this would feel. We’re prepared.”

  I took this as indication the other Ilsa was beloved by his men and thus, obviously, had been around to meet them.

  More questions flooded my brain but now was not the time to ask them.

  Then again, I was thinking there would never be a time. Not with this lot.

  “Prepared or not, I’ll try to keep myself to myself,” I told him.

  “That’s not nec—”

  “Please,” I said softly. “I can imagine how this feels for you. If you’d do me the kindness of trying to imagine how it feels for me, simply standing here talking and breathing causing people to re-experience grief. It doesn’t feel nice and, not to be rude or anything, I’d rather not be around it.”

  He took in a short breath and nodded.

  “Can you tell me one thing before I leave you be?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he answered.

  “The staff in this house,”—I swept a hand out— “did they know her?”

  “Apollo acquired this house after she left us, madam,” he shared.

  I nodded.

  That I also decided to take as good, not to mention indication that the clothes I was wearing were most likely not hers.

  Then, feeling awkward, I stammered, “I’ll, uh…I don’t know how long what needs to happen will take or what I need to…well, acquire, but I’m assuming someone will be able to communicate to you when I’m ready for us to leave.”

  “Yes, they’ll tell us and I’ll share it with you so you have plenty of time to prepare.”

  I nodded.

  He took a step back, indicating the door behind him with his hand. “The men are outside. Would you give them the honor of meeting them?”

  I shook my head. “Not now. Please?”

  “Of course,” he replied, his voice gentle.

  “Thank you.” I swallowed. “I’ll just…” Another sweep of my arm, indicating the stairs.

  But I trailed off because I had no clue what I’d just do.

  I hadn’t looked at all of the books in the library, but the ones I looked at were in a language I couldn’t read. There was no TV. There was nothing around us but what appeared to be a barn, a small square building with smoke coming out the top and nothing else. Not even a formal garden to wander through.

  I was alone with nothing to do. Those who I could speak to knew and loved the other me so I couldn’t be around them without causing them pain. The ones who didn’t know her didn’t understand me.

  I didn’t have anything to do or anyone to share my time with.

  This was sad and it sucked.

  It had always sucked.

  But there was one thing about it.

  I was used to it.

  “I’ll just…be going,” I finished.

  Derrik nodded.

  I gave him a small smile.

  Then I went.

  * * * * *

  I was lying on the lounge in my preposterously fabulous bedroom lamenting my plight as I’d been doing all day, when I heard it.

  It was dark, late, I was fatigued but I couldn’t sleep because I was sad, pissed and worried.

  But the noise sounded like what I guessed a horse and carriage would sound like on a stone road and I was curious to see if I was right. Not to mention, curious at what a horse and carriage looked like.

  So I pushed myself up and made my way to the French doors.

  I was wearing a nightgown, of which I now had three, all my own (I knew this because I’d tried them all on and they all fit). It was a satin the deep purple hue of blackberries and it fell to my ankles. It also had a panel of same-color lace that started narrow under my arm and got wider as it followed the length of the gown to the hem.

  In other words, it was the shit.

  That said, it was bedroom-only wear, the curtains were sheer and several of the lamps in the room had been lit, giving the entire room a soft glow that would mean, if you were outside, you could see in.

  Therefore, I approached the French doors care
fully, coming at them from the side, pulling the sheers open a few inches and peering out.

  The outside was ablaze too (or, as ablaze as you could get without electricity). I could see a woman alighting from a black, covered carriage; the man in rough clothing the wardrobe people for a movie would dress a peasant in at the seat in front, not bothering to help her down.

  But I didn’t have time for the man.

  I was staring at the woman.

  She had dark hair swept up in an elaborate updo of big curls. I could only see her profile but I could tell her makeup was far from light. In fact, it was borderline gaudy. Her gown was ostentatious, if seemingly well-made. It wasn’t borderline over the top, it just was. And her cleavage was—no other word for it—indecent. Last, she was wearing a lot of jewelry which pushed gaudy to tawdry.

  Regardless of all this, she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Breathtaking. Her looks so lush, her curves so abundant, she was a knockout.

  What the hell? Who was she?

  She moved to the curving steps that led up to the house just as a tall, broad-shouldered man I’d never seen before with burnished, dark red hair came out of the house and walked down the steps. Not surprisingly, he was in romance hero clothes. I couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head, and he approached her directly.

  I watched them have a conversation, her gesturing, him shaking his head.

  Her head tipped to the side, she smiled a coquettish smile and said something that made him dig in his pocket. He pulled out a small pouch, opened it, and got something out, placing it in her upturned palm which she instantly closed.

  My breath stuttered.

  Holy cow.

  Her eyes lifted to my window, her face wistful and I stopped breathing altogether when her eyes met mine. The wistfulness left her expression and a knowing catty smile curved her mouth.

  She lifted her hand and gave me a finger wave.

  I quickly stepped away from the window and deep-breathed.

  “Holy cow,” I whispered.

  Here and in my world, hell, anywhere, I knew what she was.

  I knew.

  She was a prostitute and she was here for Apollo.

  She’d also been here before and the activities they’d engaged in, she’d liked (a woman didn’t get wistful for nothing).

  And they’d done them in this room.