Broken Dove

by Kristen Ashley

  It most definitely would be that considering he was a big guy, I wasn’t exactly tiny and us sharing that bed would mean personal mattress space would be at a minimum.

  Or possibly non-existent.

  Shit.

  I couldn’t reply as there was a knock on the door and seeing as Apollo was standing in front of it, he turned and opened it.

  A boy of about ten was standing outside. He looked up at Apollo and dipped his chin. When Apollo moved out of his way, he rushed in, his arms laden with split wood, a bucket dangling from one hand.

  “Milady,” he muttered to me and didn’t wait for my greeting. He dropped to his knees by the fireplace and started work immediately.

  Apollo didn’t get the door closed before a girl was at it, carrying a tray with a dark bottle on it, the top sealed with blue wax, and there were two simple wineglasses on it.

  “The table,” Apollo muttered to her.

  She bobbed a mini-curtsy, strode in two feet, gave me a mini-curtsy too, and then she moved to the table, making light work of depositing her tray and getting out of there.

  Before she left, however, Apollo ordered, “Water so Lady Ulfr can refresh.”

  The girl nodded briefly and took off.

  Hmm.

  The “Lady Ulfr” bit was something new (the guys had referred to me to staff as “madam”). I didn’t know how to feel about it but decided to ignore it. I ignored it mostly because what I did know how I felt about it was that it irked me at the same time I had to admit (against my will) it was kind of cool.

  I also ignored the bobbing a curtsy, something that had happened frequently along my journey from Fleuridia to Lunwyn that I had not yet gotten used to.

  Instead I noted, as I’d noted repeatedly along my journey, staff at inns didn’t get tips.

  Staff at hotels and lodges did.

  I found this slightly irritating since all of them—but by the looks of them especially the ones who worked at inns—could use the money.

  Apollo moved to the wine and had it uncorked and glasses filled by the time the boy got the fire roaring and was backing away from it.

  “Bring fuel,” Apollo commanded and the boy’s eyes lifted to him. “Enough for the evening. We’ve a long journey and need to be rested on the morrow. We don’t need to constantly be calling for wood.”

  The boy gave a nod, a truncated bow and took off, closing the door behind him.

  Apollo handed me a wineglass and I took it, asking, “Do you not know the word please?”

  He held my gaze over the rim of his wineglass as he took a sip.

  When he was done and had dropped his hand, he answered, “I do.”

  “Can I ask why you don’t use it?” I pushed.

  His body moved in a way that it was hardly moving at all but I could tell he was settling in, which I thought was a little weird, and it did this as he asked, “And what have I done to vex you, Ilsa?”

  I took a sip of my own wine that was so far from the quality of Fleuridian wine it was not funny and thus I had to fight against making a face and replied, “I’m not vexed.”

  “You’ve spoken one word to me all day, that being first thing this morning. Until we arrived at the inn. Then we make our room and you also make it clear nothing I do pleases you. Can you explain why?”

  I threw an arm out and told him, “They’re servants but they’re people. You order them around like they’re slaves and beneath your notice.”

  “They have many duties to see to from dawn until dusk, likely earlier and later, I would imagine. They don’t have time for courtesy and conversation.”

  “Everyone has time for courtesy,” I returned and added, “Achilles said please.” Thinking on it, I included, “So did Remi. As did Derrik, after, of course, I mentioned it to him.”

  This last was true. Way back in Fleuridia, I’d had to give Derrik a talking to.

  That got another eye flash and the annoyed response of, “Well, I’m not Achilles, Remi or Derrik.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” I replied.

  “And none of them are Heads of Houses,” he noted.

  “So the Head of a House has carte blanche to be discourteous and bossy?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed and he asked back, “Am I to be treated to your surly disposition the entirety of our journey?”

  “Probably,” I retorted.

  “When you’re not pretending I don’t exist, of course,” he continued.

  “Of course,” I agreed flippantly.

  “Excellent,” he muttered and threw back a healthy gulp of wine before putting his glass on the table. He looked back to me and spoke on, but his face belied his words. “Please continue. It amuses me.”

  “I aim to please,” I murmured.

  “I doubt that,” he returned.

  Suddenly, I wished I’d never said anything and just ignored him completely. So we slept in the same bed. So what? We’d done it before. I would be asleep. I could ignore him there too.

  “Perhaps we can stop talking,” I requested.

  “Excellent idea,” he agreed and instantly moved to the door. “If you’d like dinner, meet me downstairs after you’ve had a moment to refresh.”

  I was hungry and I needed to eat and to do that I needed him and his money so it was exasperating but I had to say, “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  He said nothing. Just opened the door, went through it, turned, dipped his chin at me and closed it behind him.

  I stared at the door thinking that maybe I should have sucked it up and went to Karsvall.

  Imaginary children’s laughter peeled through my brain.

  No, I wouldn’t have been able to suck it up and go to Karsvall.

  I took another sip of my wine and when I was done, I muttered, sounding like a spoiled child, “Stupid malevolent witches and deposed rulers, ruining everything.”

  But they damn well had.

  My plans for me and my future.

  My brief but brilliant feeling of freedom.

  Now, I was back where I started, my life not my own but controlled by a rich and powerful man.

  There was a knock at the door so I called, “Come in.”

  The girl came in carrying a pitcher with what thankfully looked like clean drying cloths folded over her forearm.

  She moved directly to the nightstand and set it down.

  And as she left, I was sure to thank her.

  * * * * *

  Dinner was not the greatest.

  We went to a pub down the street and the not-the-greatest-part wasn’t the food.

  Unsurprisingly, without asking me my preference, Apollo ordered by stating, “Wine, red. And patty pie for the both of us.”

  I had no clue what patty pie was but it didn’t sound all that great.

  And during my time with the guys, they always asked the waiters to explain my choices so that I could make them.

  Not Apollo.

  Oh no.

  After our to-do at the inn, I wisely decided to let this go, and luckily patty pie turned out to be us each receiving our own small casserole dish filled with fluffy mashed potatoes topped with melted cheese that looked really good. Under this I discovered corn, carrots and peas in a thick delicious brown gravy. This was poured over a patty of ground beef flavored with onion. In other words, a sort of shepherd’s pie but with a meat crust.

  I dug in, finding it was way yummy, and I did this ignoring Apollo and also ignoring the looks we were getting.

  This also happened in the less fine establishments when I was with the boys. My guess was that it mostly had to do with the fact that, even though our clothing was travel-worn, it was all better quality than what most of the populace was wearing.

  In other words, no matter what country you were in, we could just say that in this world there was definitely a line between the have and have-nots.

  Here, this included Apollo wearing a dark brown thick wool turtleneck sweater that was knit exquisitely and fit his broad s
houlders and wide chest perfectly. This topped tight-fitting dark brown wool breeches and (mostly) shined, obviously fine-quality boots. The cloak he unbuckled and tossed carelessly on an unused chair at our table had, on the outside, a dark-tanned hide, and the inside was a silky lustrous dark-brown-to-black fur.

  I was wearing a soft green cashmere to-the-floor dress that skimmed my figure perfectly, had a scooped neckline and bell sleeves (which were kind of annoying when trying to eat, but lovely besides), the edges of both having very pretty, delicate pointelle stitching. It also had a thin belt knitted of the same cashmere but with silver threads in that I’d tied so it hung low on my hips.

  On my feet, I had on low-heeled but high-rising (to the mid-thigh) buff-colored suede boots lined in cream fur. My cape had a high collar, the hide on the outside a fawn color, the fur on the inside thick luscious cream. I’d taken my cape off, too, but I’d been more careful placing it beside Apollo’s on the chair.

  It must be said, of all my clothes in this world, the ones for Lunwyn were the best.

  But as we silently drank our wine and ate our food, me avoiding Apollo’s eyes, him, I didn’t know since I wasn’t looking at him, I noticed that here, the attention we were getting wasn’t the fact that we were of the obviously-rare-in-these-parts upper-crust.

  No.

  As I surreptitiously glanced around, I realized it was something else.

  When I caught eyes on me, before they looked away, I saw surprise in some faces. Extreme curiosity in others. Unease in a few.

  And I knew.

  We were a day away from her home, but I had a not-vague feeling that they knew who Apollo was, and worse, they’d seen him with the other Ilsa. An Ilsa who was supposed to be dead.

  An Ilsa who looked exactly like me.

  I had not noticed this on the way into Lunwyn. Then again, the men kept me sheltered and there were so many of them about, all of them big, it would have been difficult to note looks like this.

  Or maybe I was so engaged with them, I just didn’t notice.

  But with both Apollo and I giving each other the silent treatment, I had nothing to do but notice.

  My meal finished, I saw his hand raise the wine bottle to my glass and he poured.

  I took in a deep breath, and with it calm and control. Only then did I lift my eyes to Apollo.

  He was also done with his food. As I watched, he refreshed his glass and set the bottle down. Then he twisted his chair a bit from the table and sat back. After that, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his feet at the ankle. He nabbed his wineglass, held it before him in both hands and tipped his chin down.

  Then he settled.

  He appeared to be contemplating his boots.

  And it appeared this contemplation was brooding.

  Hmm.

  He must have felt my eyes because, before I could look away, he turned his head to me.

  “The men, they call you Maddie,” he announced.

  I briefly considered ignoring him, but for reasons unknown to me, I didn’t.

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “I explained the story we’re telling about you being here,” he stated and I fought looking around to see if anyone was close enough to hear as I nodded. “Obviously, you’ll need a name that’s not Ilsa. Is this what you wish to be called?”

  Instantly and strangely, his question lightened something in my chest. It was as if my lungs were twisted but I’d lived with it so long, I didn’t even notice it was making it hard for me to breathe.

  And just as instantly as that relief settled through my chest, it occurred to me why.

  Right there, in that restaurant and for the foreseeable future, I was back where I started, depending on and thus controlled by a handsome, wealthy, powerful man.

  But that didn’t mean my life wasn’t new.

  I’d never given much thought to my name, after, of course, I grew up. It was unusual and growing up with an unusual name, kids sometimes being mean, well, it sucked.

  After that, it was just a name. A name my parents gave to me and after I screwed up royally and married Pol, it was the only thing I had left of them.

  But I’d screwed up royally. And when it finally dawned on me that I was in a very bad situation and it was getting worse, I’d left Pol.

  And my father had told me not to come crying back to him when I figured it out.

  Of course, when I figured it out and needed safe haven, I went crying back to him.

  Literally.

  He shut the door in my face.

  Twice.

  And he, and Mom, had hung up on me. And they’d done it so many times, I’d lost count.

  Who did that to their daughter?

  I’d fucked up, definitely.

  But to shut me out forever just because I fell in love with the wrong man and made a stupid, headstrong decision at the age of twenty-three?

  “Ilsa?” Apollo prompted and I jumped, coming out of my thoughts and looking to him.

  “Do you have the name Madeleine in this world?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Then that’s who I’ll be. Madeleine. Maddie,” I declared, and his brows drew slightly together and his gaze grew more intense as I did it.

  I knew why.

  It was a declaration. Firm. Definite. Inflexible.

  It didn’t exactly need to be that strong a declaration.

  But it absolutely was.

  Once I’d made it, I wanted to cheer. To get up and dance. For some reason, it felt like I’d slithered out of old tired worn-out skin and been born anew and I had so much energy and excitement bubbling inside me, it was hard to keep my seat.

  “Madeleine,” he murmured, again capturing my attention, and his rich deep voice smoothing over that beautiful name sent a shiver sliding up my back.

  Crap.

  Maybe I should have picked Agnes.

  On that thought, he surprised me by remarking, “You’ve noted they knew her here.”

  I rolled my lips together and nodded.

  “She was here often. I’ve also been to this village more than once over the years,” he continued and that confused me.

  It confused me because it inferred she had been here without him.

  Pol never let me go anywhere without him.

  Apollo was not Pol, but it wasn’t easy getting places here and it wasn’t like this village was around the corner and she could just hop in a sleigh, come here for tea and be back for dinner.

  Since he seemed okay talking about her, I ventured, “Did she come from around here?”

  “We lived most of the year at Karsvall.”

  That didn’t un-confuse me.

  “Are you saying she’d travel without you?”

  “Frequently,” he replied, and that surprised me.

  He looked away, took a sip from his wine and again contemplated his boots but he kept talking.

  “I’ve many enterprises, and due to them, travel widely. Sometimes, she would come with me. Sometimes, she’d stay here. Usually, when she stayed here, it was because there was someone in need of her care. And she would travel from Karsvall somewhat broadly in order to do that, a days’ ride away. Even three days’ ride.”

  Curiosity at his words pushed me to ask, “Someone in her care?”

  He again looked at me. “She was a physician.”

  Oh boy.

  Dear, departed, pined for, beloved, fabulous Ilsa was a doctor in this world.

  I had a Bachelor of Arts degree with a major in medieval history. My last job was as a salesperson in the handbag and accessories department of an exclusive department store. Other than that, I hadn’t worked, or done much of anything, for nearly twelve years.

  I felt something lodge in my throat and forced around it, “That’s…um, impressive.”

  He looked back to his boots and murmured, “She was, indeed, that.”

  I took a sip of wine and looked anywhere but him, not liking what I was feeling
. Also not entirely understanding it, but definitely knowing I didn’t like it. It wasn’t pain, but it still felt like an ache.

  He seemed unwilling to move in order to, say, go back to the hotel and put me out of the misery of this conversation.

  And I felt uncomfortable sitting there staring at the floor so I asked conversationally, “Is it usual for a woman in this world to be a doctor?”

  “No,” he told his boots. “A midwife, yes. An herbalist. A plant healer. Even an apothecary. But a physician, no.”

  I nodded even if he wasn’t looking at me.

  He said nothing.

  “Uh…just saying, I thought you mentioned Ulfr women didn’t work,” I noted.

  “I’ll amend that,” he again told his boots. “She worked, and she was dedicated to her work, but she didn’t get paid.”

  A doctor who didn’t seek payment?

  I thought it but I didn’t ask it.

  He didn’t share further.

  I took another sip of my wine, thinking of Ilsa gallivanting across the snow, doing good deeds as I leaned back in my chair and tried not to focus on anyone giving me strange looks, on Apollo, on anything (including Ilsa doing good deeds) as I worried my lip.

  Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore so I looked back to him and saw his profile had set back to broody.

  He was thinking of his dear, departed, pined for, beloved, fabulous, benevolent Ilsa.

  Shit, maybe I should have sucked it up and gone to spend time with his kids.

  Pulling it together, I decided a change of subject was in order.

  To do that, I asked, “What are your enterprises?”

  “Oil,” he answered his boots immediately, then turned his head and looked at me. “The House of Ulfr owns vast tracks of land. Under some of it, oil was found. The oil used in lamps.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled, thinking that if this was the case, although it might not be as highly sought after in his world as in mine, it still was probably still highly sought after.

  No wonder he seemed loaded.

  “And other land has gas,” he carried on.

  Yes, loaded.

  He continued. “We’re behind Fleuridia in equipping buildings and homes with gas lights and heat, but we’re quickly catching up. The House of Ulfr also owns controlling interest in the largest firm that’s doing that work.”