Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  He’d fought that duel a thousand times in his mind since.

  “I... left him behind, and he died for it,” she said, her voice tremulous, her eyes haunted.

  “But you came back for him.”

  “Too late.”

  “You found me instead.” He traced the entry wound on the right side of his neck and the exit wound by his ear. Rage gripping him, he’d refused to die until Gilles faced justice for Bastien’s death—not that it would have mattered.

  Left there, he would have lost his life. “I should have died, but thanks to you, I didn’t.”

  She took his hand in hers. “I’m glad for it.”

  It had been difficult to be happy about surviving when his best friend had died. It had taken a long time for him to wade through the guilt, to remember Bastien as he’d been instead of how Gilles had left him.

  He put his arm around Rielle and poured some wine out for Bastien.

  Then he drank some himself. He would bear the burden of oath breaking and free himself. To love her, if she would have him.

  She gasped, staring at the cup. “Jon... your vow—”

  Broken. A shudder rode his spine, exhilaration and finality mingled.

  “Tonight, I’m swearing a new vow,” he said, peering at the wine, “to live a new life.”

  “You are?” She swallowed. Reflections of the flames danced on her trembling lower lip. “But are you—”

  “I’m certain.”

  Silence had its say as her eyes searched his, a slow but warm smile claiming her lips. Fortunate, enviable smile, master of such coveted territory.

  She raised her cup. “To new beginnings.”

  “To new beginnings.” He struck his cup to hers, then drank.

  Most Holy Terra, he’d actually done it.

  The night wind whispered past, and she shivered beside him. He set down his cup and removed his doublet, then laid it gently around her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, placing one hand upon his. It was freezing.

  He took hold of her hand and raised it to his mouth, cupping it and blowing his warm breath onto her skin.

  Her eyes widened, and her cheeks bloomed. But she didn’t pull away. She touched his lower lip and, painstakingly slow, smoothed her fingertip across, her gaze locked with his.

  With no more than a touch, she teased something awake in him, something wild and untamed that now hungered. Something he’d always caged.

  He pressed his lips to her fingers in a reverent kiss.

  Whatever lay between them slipped sight, but it lived, breathed, filled him with a tangible fullness that would not be denied. His gaze fell to her neck, where her pulse beat visibly. The same, steady throb inhabited his own body, heat flowing through him, awakening his senses.

  A group of carousers catcalled them, elbowing one another and raising their glasses in toast. Blushing, Rielle responded in kind with her cup, and he followed suit.

  But a certain selfishness wished to lay claim, surround her and banish all else, save for her breaths and his, her hands and his, her mouth and his—“Perhaps it’s time we head back.”

  She drained her cup. “You read my mind.”

  When he rose and offered her his arm, she took it and huddled close. Even through his shirt, the cold of her skin and her trembling fingers were undeniable. As they made for the inn, an autumn storm rolled in. The first drops of rain fell.

  Holding her hand, he rushed with her, careful to stay at a pace she could manage. The rain fell faster, heavier, lightning flashing in the distance moments before thunder rumbled. Everywhere, celebrants ducked under roofs, into buildings, torches hissing as they doused.

  By the time they made it to the inn, they were both soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, a sopping mess.

  They shuffled past the innkeeper and the tavern to the stairs, Rielle peeling back the wet locks of hair plastered to her rain-streaked face.

  Their room was dark but for the lambent glow from the window. Once he closed the door, her breaths, soft and quiet, became the only sound.

  She took a step, two, and reached for his shirt collar. Gentle fingers descended to the buttons and unfastened them slowly, purposefully. Droplets of water fell between them from her hair, and he smoothed the wet tresses away from her face, tucking them behind her ear.

  Lightning flashed, brightening the darkness in the room. Breathless, he lifted her chin, and she gazed up at him, chest heaving.

  Beautiful. The woman he loved was beautiful, glistening with rainwater.

  She shivered. His leather doublet rested on her shoulders, soaked like the rest of her. And he wanted to warm her, hold her until every hint of vulnerability disappeared from her eyes.

  He slipped the doublet off her shoulders. With a glance for permission, he reached for the laces of her bodice and, when she nodded, pulled the fine cords undone.

  A rustle. Paper? Something floated to the floor.

  Chapter 29

  Rielle caught Jon’s gaze and held it. Feliciano’s envelope lay on the floor. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

  He looked.

  She lunged for the envelope, but he barred her with one arm and snatched the envelope up with the other. Before she could reach for it again, he glanced inside.

  Her world froze. His face went slack, then he pressed his lips into a thin line.

  No, no, no... As he rose, his fingers closed around the envelope into a tight fist, and he turned his back to her. Her heart pounded.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice low, hoarse, pained. “Sen’a?”

  She clutched her bodice to herself and then grabbed a pillow.

  “Rielle.” Even hoarse, his tone demanded an answer.

  She wavered. “I... needed to know what happened to Olivia,” she said, “so I went to a spiritualist for answers. She’s bound in Courdeval, but alive.” When he only exhaled, she continued. “He required... payment for his knowledge.”

  “Payment,” he repeated, wooden.

  A pressure formed behind her eyes. “Resonance.”

  Silence lingered in the air for too long. He was rigid, full of a tension that displaced all else.

  She swallowed. The pressure behind her eyes turned into a blurry haze over her vision. “With sen’a.”

  Fastening his shirt and his weapons belt bearing his dagger, he withdrew.

  “I was addicted once,” she said, the words spilling out of her mouth, “but that was three years ago, and I’ve been without until today.”

  Years ago, when the embarrassment of bedding her master and Brennan’s humiliation of her had spread far and wide, the immense pleasure and resulting numbness of sen’a had presented a favorable option. It had been a clear victor compared to facing the scorn of the Tower, the guilt of Leigh’s demotion, his never-ending string of bedmates, the ridicule of society, and the painful prospect of being an outcast.

  A sharp oath later, and Jon rubbed his forehead. His shoulders were stone, his hands clenched into fists. “You used sen’a?”

  “It was his price for answers.”

  “Who?” He crushed the envelope in his fist. When she didn’t answer, he took a deep breath, but it did nothing to relax the hard edges of his face. “This spiritualist. Was it Feliciano Donati?”

  There was an intensity in him she had never before seen.

  “You know him?”

  Jon whirled to face her, coiled aggression in his taut body. The tension in his face threatened to crest into rage. Before she could ask another question, he grabbed his doublet and marched to the door and out, slamming it shut behind him. The quick drum of heavy footsteps faded down the stairs.

  Where—

  She stumbled to the window.

  He trod in the direction of the Shade. Where the resonance den was located.

  Great Divine, he was going after Feliciano Donati.

  She scrambled to the coat rack, grabbed her cloak, and raced outside, her fingers b
usy relacing her bodice.

  What had possessed him to do such a thing? If he was angry, why didn’t he direct his anger at her? It was my decision.

  She pulled her hood over her head and ran through the rain toward Donati’s. Years ago at the Tower, mages had dueled Feliciano to their detriment. Although addicted to sen’a, Feliciano was still a powerful mage with an immense anima.

  But Jon’s a paladin. Sigiled against all magic but healing. He could resist every one of Feliciano’s spells and overpower him physically with relative ease.

  But there were other mages at the resonance den.

  How many had it—

  Hadn’t Jon taken on six fully capable mages on the Tower’s property? A group of tranced mages would be unlikely to subdue him, but he’d be fighting many. Too many. Without arcanir armor.

  He still has his sigil tattoos. They’d keep him safe… wouldn’t they?

  Please be all right.

  She quickened her pace, ignoring the looks she got from passersby still about in the night.

  Finally, the gray banner came into view. Two tranced mages spilled out, clutching their limbs. She darted between them and through the doorway.

  A mage slumped in one corner. Two mages leaned against a wall, hissing and guarding dislocated shoulders.

  “By the Divine.” Breathless, she pushed in. A tranced mage—the augur—was out cold, sprawled on top of rubbish that had once been a table.

  I needn’t have worried.

  “—make quite an entrance, bello.” Feliciano’s voice, muffled from the back room.

  “Your sycophants accosted me.” Jon, venom poisoning his tenor to a bitter hiss. “I disarmed them.”

  “It seems you have learned nothing since you last meddled here. I believe I etched my displeasure into your flesh quite clearly, bello. Would you like your other eyebrow to match?”

  Other eyebrow?

  When she’d stared at the scar slashed across Jon’s eyebrow, he’d said, Broken bottle. Apparently the usual greeting when faced with meddling paladins.

  Had Feliciano been the one...?

  “You’re short of men to hold me down, mage,” Jon snarled. “But I’d love for you to try. Give me one more reason.”

  Feet frozen in place, she waited, prayed Jon would abandon this course. Feliciano had penetrated local government long ago; if Jon hurt him outside his defunct official capacity as a paladin of the Order, the connétable would see Jon punished, if not killed. At the very best, he would become a fugitive.

  “By your own Code, you can’t touch me,” Feliciano replied with his typical charm.

  “I am bound by the Code no longer.”

  A moment of quiet.

  She didn’t dare shift. Not even a mouse would dare breathe until Feliciano answered.

  “Why are you here? Who has you tied in such knots, bello?” Feliciano asked, his voice equal parts surprised and intrigued.

  The rustle of paper.

  “Not Favriella?”

  Metal scraped against wood in an abrupt sweep. A chaos of objects crashed against the floor.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood.

  “The eager fiamma came here with a question, and she purchased her answer.”

  She bit her lip. Her heart pounded so loudly they might hear it through the door.

  “She wanted it,” Feliciano spat. “You know nothing of the depths of her wanting. She desires it. She salivates for it. It stalks her every day, haunts her troubled mind, chases her. And, more than anything, she wants it to catch her. All I’ve done is help her attain her deepest desire.”

  Another cacophony beyond the door.

  No.

  She burst into Feliciano’s quarters. Before the bed, Jon held a wincing Feliciano’s arm twisted behind him, and a dagger to the back of his neck. He pressed the point into yielding flesh, a bead of blood swelling until its weight rolled down.

  “Stop!”

  If Jon killed Feliciano without lawful cause, without the protection of the Order—if, because of her—

  She couldn’t breathe.

  Jon turned to her, his snarling face possessed of a wrath she could never fathom.

  “Please.” She waited, her skin tingling.

  Divine, he would do it. He would kill him.

  She couldn’t watch Jon follow wrath to certain destruction, but she couldn’t turn away.

  There is only one thing I can say to stop him. “I wanted it.”

  Jon’s agonized gaze fell from her face to her hand.

  It’s over. He’s disgusted by me. He hates me.

  He loosened his grip on Feliciano’s arm.

  “Leave us,” Rielle said to Feliciano.

  He raised a rebellious eyebrow, but he would find no room for argument. Intensity rose between them. Then, with most of his usual Sileni repose, Feliciano lowered his eyebrow and took a deep breath.

  Jon threw him free and then sheathed his dagger with an angry flourish. Fixated, Rielle chewed her lip, heat surging under her skin. Unsettling.

  Feliciano gave Jon an irritated glare as he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. He approached her, followed by Jon’s watchful eyes, and gave her a pitying once-over before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

  Pity.

  Yes. She had yet to love a man and not have it go down in flames. Every man she allowed into her heart only broke what remained of it into smaller pieces. Jon was just the next in a long line of disasters.

  But he wouldn’t want her now, and it was better that way. I won’t be able to hurt him, and he won’t be able to hurt me.

  “You wanted it?” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  She wouldn’t have to let him in, share all her secrets, bare herself to him in all her fragile vulnerability and hope he didn’t shatter her. Better they keep their armor—she her secrecy and he his distance.

  “To learn whether Olivia lived, yes.”

  He raised his gaze to hers. “That’s not the same.”

  The sea-blue of his eyes stormed, wild, untamed. He had come here to thrash a sen’a baron, and whatever had possessed him to abandon the Code was an indelible part of him now. Fire.

  That much had changed... But had anything else? He disapproved of her way of life, her magic, her. He was disgusted by sen’a. By trancers. By her. “Does it matter?”

  He took a step toward her, the turbulence in his gaze unrelenting. “Rielle, I—”

  Didn’t he know that he could have been killed? And for what? To punish someone else for her choices? And she could have come here to find him—to find him—

  She stalked to him, brimming with fury. “What were you thinking, throwing your life away? A resonance den full of mages? You could have died!”

  She curled her fingers into her palm, but he took her wrist.

  His eyes met hers, intense, unblinking. “I’m in love with you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “But—”

  “I broke my vows. I chose a new life. I chose you.”

  His vows were broken. He’d drunk wine tonight. He didn’t just desire her; he loved her.

  Fureur, pain, loss—“Jon, I bring hurt to all who love me.”

  He closed the distance between them and drew her against him. “Then give me memories to live in when the hurt comes.”

  Her knees weakened. A trembling fear wove through her, fear of hurting him and of being hurt by him, fear she’d long carried about love. But faced with the warm, firm reality of his embrace and the passion in his eyes, it faltered. He still burned, battle ready and raging beneath her touch, his chest hot despite the layers of rain-soaked leather and cotton. But he burned with different purpose now. His embrace awakened every part of her. Yes.

  He lowered his hot mouth to hers. A fiery bloom of sensation consumed her fear and doubt until it burned away, met her hunger with his ferocity. Every rebellious thought standing in opposition to him wavered, swayed, knelt. His lips pressed against her own before teasing her lower lip between h
is, sending a shiver down her spine. Shaking the last discordant notes from her body, letting her be no more than who she was here, in his arms. A true self, a bare self... a scared self. He buried his fingers in her hair and knotted it, held her gently and coaxed her walls to fall open to him.

  And her mouth, and every part of her, did open to him.

  When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, her heart threatened to burst. Inhaling the heady scent of him—leather, rain, woodsmoke—she wrapped her arms around his back, willing him closer, deeper. And he explored her with slow, reverent hands, with a madding patience that only stoked the fire raging beneath her skin. He traced a line down her back—it came alive at his touch—and to the curve of her backside, palming her flesh.

  She rotated her hips against his, could have cried at the ache of waiting.

  A groan into her mouth, and he lifted her; she wrapped her legs around him and closed her arms around his neck. It was all happening in an instant, but she didn’t care. She cared for nothing but the feel of him against her. Him. Her. Here. Now. Step by painstaking step, she edged him to the bed.

  He braced an arm and a knee upon it and lowered her to the softness, his breaths heavy, long, deep.

  Her mouth never leaving his, she unfastened her cloak and slipped out of her damp bodice. Beneath it, she wore a corset, and he followed the line of its busk with spellbound fingers.

  “You know I’ve never—” The rawness of his rasp on her hot skin made her shiver.

  “You’re about to,” she said, returning the words he’d given her at the festival.

  His eyes widened, but his gaze turned dark with desire before he brought his mouth down to hers once more. She wrapped her wanting arms around his neck, squeezed his hips between her thighs. She wanted him. Now.

  His firm hands planed down her back to her waist and over her backside, fingertips testing the firmness of her flesh as he gripped her, at last lowering a palm that encouraged her hips.

  She set about unfastening his shirt with trembling fingers. He hissed in a breath above her; she would elicit many more before the night was through.