Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  “Right.” He grinned smugly, that sinful dimple of his appearing. “We’ll enjoy each other. We’ll read books by the fire. We’ll take walks—”

  She smiled dreamily, her wound forgotten beneath the cool water and Jon’s touch.

  “I’ll teach you how to use a blade—”

  “And I’ll teach you how to use magic.”

  He leaned in and winked. “Let’s not plan anything too drastic.”

  She pursed her lips and watched as he returned to his ministrations.

  “And of course, I plan to make love to you until we forget our names.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Until we forget our names? Don’t let that stop you.”

  The soft rumble of a chuckle was his reply. “Done.”

  She liked that plan. She liked it very much. But she had plans of her own, which included, at the very least, making up for a solid decade of his celibacy. Indeed, he might forget his own name, but he’d remember hers—the one he’d be calling between gasps of ecstasy. She allowed herself a mischievous smile.

  The wind stinging against the wound on her thigh interrupted her planning. Placing her hand over it, she murmured the incantation until it finally knitted shut.

  Definitely giving healing-magic lessons another shot.

  “We should head back, retire,” she said. “Early start to get to Monas Amar tomorrow.” Where they’d part ways, for who knew how long... unless he convinced the Paladin Grand Cordon to join the invasion of Courdeval tomorrow.

  He stared at her closed wound. Still fascinated by magic? She seized the moment and examined the seeping cut in his hair. Caked with blood, it bled anew. Without stitching—with threads of catgut or magic—it would continue bleeding.

  She combed her fingers through his soaked, matted hair and healed the cut. He held her gaze through the incantation, through the healing, by all signs unaffected by the pain.

  When she finished, he kissed her bare inner thigh, the soft contact sending a shiver through her body.

  Memories of Melain sparked in her mind, of squeezing her eyes shut in unbearable pleasure.

  He leaned in to kiss her thigh again, a little higher up, fixing his provocative eyes upon hers as he pressed his lips to her skin once more.

  Her heart beat faster as she watched him, dirty and blood soaked, passionate and tender, his penetrating gaze a question she answered with a bewildered nod.

  Chapter 58

  Brennan hissed and threw the brush aside. His leathers shone like a wolf’s eye in the moonlight.

  He had run out of menial tasks.

  The curse had never been content to simply force him into a beast’s form from time to time. It was intent on drawing blood. He could hear breaths—quick, shallow, deep, belabored, relaxed—and heartbeats—normal, fast, irregular—and know what those closest to him felt. He could smell them nearby or their scents on one another. He could tell when a woman he pursued took a paramour, or when Father was cheating on Mother again.

  Sometimes, he thought that this was the true curse, coexisting with humans so used to artifice, yet he with the ability to see through it as beasts did.

  With Rielle close, the Wolf in him was sated, but the man in him rattled in his cage. The scents, the sounds from the forest would not vacate his mind, repeating the torture over and over and over. Her gasps, moans, and cries of pleasure, another man eliciting them. Someone making her happy. Someone else.

  Playing nice was flaying him alive.

  Busy. He had to stay busy.

  Long after the sun set, his hands stayed moving—building, fixing, sharpening—the only peace they could muster.

  She returned with the commoner, both of them smiling, glowing, laughing, a pair of foxes thinking themselves so stealthy. They made eyes at each other through their camp chores—insufferable—and then retired to their den of a tent, whispering.

  Great Wolf spare him the annoyance, but he could hear the whole thing. His ear hadn’t yet learned its place, always seeking her damn voice. He didn’t want to hear the loving words, the soft kisses, the delicate pleas. None of it.

  Before Melain, before the duel, the sen’a hub, before all of that, it had been simpler to ignore her. But now, after the duchess’s allegation that he loved her, it was nigh impossible.

  Eyes front, he focused on the crackling of the fire, trying to overpower her noise. He added a log, his gaze lingering on the hole in his leather overcoat’s sleeve. He’d taken a dagger through the shoulder—a dagger he now called his own—but the wound had already healed.

  It was, at least, something he could do.

  He dug out Rielle’s sewing kit, and thumbing the box in his hand, he returned to the campfire, removed his overcoat, and sat. He opened the kit and gathered the supplies he’d need.

  “A paladin and a mage?” Anton asked, tied up, sitting on the ground, leaning his back against a tree. His tunic, an unusual marshy shade of green, made him almost blend in. Almost. “If that celibacy bit’s been relaxed, maybe I should join. The new armor is stylish.” He grinned. “Think a fine palace lady would be impressed? I think she would, don’t you?”

  Brennan scowled at him. “Why don’t you return to just thinking about it and shut up?”

  “You don’t want to interrogate me?”

  “Do you know anything?”

  Anton frowned. “Plenty.”

  At least it was better than listening to Rielle’s noise. “Such as...?”

  “You’re headed for the capital.”

  That much was obvious. “You’ll say anything to keep breathing.”

  Anton raised his lamb-white eyebrows. “Yes. I will. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “How fortunate that you found your conscience when you noticed which way the wind was blowing.” Conscience was convenient when the other option was death.

  Anton gaped. “Serge was threatening to disobey Gilles’ orders. The Brigands weren’t to kill the woman, not even hurt her, just disarm her and bind her with arcanir, then take her to Courdeval for safekeeping.”

  The man’s heart beat true. He wasn’t lying.

  Someone had wanted Rielle unhurt. Someone high up. Someone at Gilles’ level... or above. Perhaps even the one who had hired him.

  Someone who needed Rielle alive.

  He rose and stood above the man, who shrugged and looked away with a smug grin.

  “Got your attention now?”

  Brennan peered at the still-gaping hole in his overcoat. If the Crag Company wanted Rielle alive, it had to be because their client did. Their wealthy client. And there was only one wealthy man he could think of who might insist on Favrielle Amadour Lothaire’s survival.

  Father.

  Word of this could not survive.

  Brennan moved closer to the man. “Have you told my friends yet? They’ll be eager to learn this information.” Friends.

  “Not yet.”

  Rielle and Jon were in their tent, Leigh in his.

  The man frowned contemplatively. “Don’t suppose any of you know Archm—”

  “I’m about to turn in for the night. Did you need to...?” He cocked his head toward the forest.

  Anton raised his eyebrows. “For hours. Thought you lot were going to leave me here high and dry. Or... wet.”

  Brennan set down his overcoat—no need to mend the hole anymore. He untied Anton from the tree but kept his hands bound as he marched him into the forest. No sounds but crunching leaves, water, and the creatures of the night.

  “Got a woman?” Anton asked.

  Brennan laughed under his breath. “Any time I want.”

  Anton shook his head and kicked up a pile of leaves. “No, no. Someone special.”

  Someone special. Rielle counted. She was especially infuriating. “She’s... beyond reach. At least for now. You?”

  A wistful breath. “Oh, I wish. If yours is beyond reach, mine is the moon.”

  “Maybe you should look a little lower.” Brennan walked him right up to t
he bluff overlooking the Mor.

  A half-laugh. “Or learn to fly.” Tied hands fumbled with the marsh-green tunic and roughspun trousers.

  The waxing gibbous moon was massive in the sky tonight, a tease playing almost within reach. Her silvery kiss was mesmerizing but ghostly, will-o’-the-wisp and not lover. Never for these arms to hold. Always beyond reach.

  He took a step back, Changed his fingers to claws, watched the man’s shoulders a moment, silhouetted against the moon. Just a moment.

  He clawed off a piece of the tunic and pushed him over the edge.

  The man turned his head, a last wide-eyed look of recognition.

  Then a gasp and no more. No scream going down. Just the gasp.

  He drew the dagger and contorted to stab himself in the back with it. Exactly where he’d been stabbed the first time.

  He headed back to camp. His overcoat lay by the tree where he’d left it. He put it on and fastened it, reached across his shoulders to check that the new wound and the overcoat’s old hole aligned. They did. He stowed away Rielle’s sewing kit, just as he’d found it.

  In the morning, he’d say the man had pulled a dagger and stabbed him, then fell in the altercation. He’d tried to save the man—he crumpled the shred of marsh-green fabric in his hand—but hadn’t been able to.

  No one else would know about Father’s involvement with the Crag. No one would ever have the evidence to put the Marcels on the chopping block. He raised his chin and flexed his neck.

  The man hadn’t deserved to die. But against the lives of Mother, Nora, Caitlin, and Una, his life was a paltry sum. Yet Father had gambled with them all.

  Never again. He was done cleaning up Father’s messes. It was time to put an end to the scheming for the crown, once and for all. After they retook Courdeval, he’d talk some sense into the old man.

  He closed his eyes, letting the song of the night in once more. The renewed silence drew his hearing back to Rielle’s tent, but he resisted, listening to the other sounds of the autumn night—the soft breath of the horses, an owl hooting, the wind rustling through dried foliage, the river splashing in the distance.

  Blood oozing from his wound, he bedded down in his tent. He shut his eyes and imagined the Change. At least tonight, he’d lose himself in the forest of dreams, forget about the bandit, Father, the commoner, Rielle. Everything.

  Chapter 59

  Jon clenched his fists and invaded Brennan’s space. “He tried to kill you? You expect us to believe that?”

  Rielle stepped in his path, planted her hands on his chest, and pushed him back. “Jon, please—”

  Brennan shook his head and sighed. “Believe me or don’t. I wouldn’t go out of my way to kill him any more than I would an insect.”

  “Right. Because that’s all commoners are to you. Insects.”

  Brennan shrugged.

  “No one believes you.” He reached for Faithkeeper. The narcissistic, conceited—

  “I believe him!” Rielle shouted.

  She—

  “He was no threat to us. There was no reason for him to kill the man. We didn’t check him for weapons—”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What, so you take his side?”

  She beat a palm against his chest. “He’s not the one shouting in a—rage.”

  A rage.

  A jealous rage. He took a step back, and her pushing hands sent her tumbling right into him. “Why don’t you just say it, Rielle?”

  She straightened and crossed her arms. “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have started one.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  They’d spoken last night about many things, but none of the ones they’d needed to resolve. Certainly not about Brennan.

  “It’s not even dawn yet. Do you really want to spend this morning fighting?” She drew her eyebrows together, summoning that little crease that was designed to make him answer with whatever she wanted to hear.

  She’d used it last night, too. And—he had to admit—they’d spent the night doing far more enjoyable things than fighting.

  A tent flap flew open, and Leigh stormed out, half-dressed, his long white hair unbound and disheveled. “Why is there shouting before the sun is up?”

  Jon jabbed a thumb in Brennan’s direction. “Because he murdered the prisoner.”

  Leigh threw his hair back from his face and nodded at Brennan. “Well done. I like to travel light.”

  Rielle shook her head, and Brennan bowed his—at least he offered the pretense of remorse.

  With a long inhalation, Jon turned and headed for the horses. They’d lost their only source of information on Gilles, the Crag, and the siege, and no one else seemed to care. Rielle was too busy defending Brennan to concern herself with the advantage they’d lost.

  Were they insane, or was he?

  He did his share packing up the camp. Rielle avoided him, only meeting his gaze quickly when she tucked Shadow’s soulblade in her boot. And looked away just as quickly.

  He sighed. Maybe the death of one bandit could be set aside, at least today.

  Today he would finally arrive at Monas Amar. Finally turn in his arcanir. Finally look the Paladin Grand Cordon in the eye, formally end his service to the Order, and ask every single question that had been haunting him.

  And then do his all to persuade the Paladin Grand Cordon to join the fight against Gilles. Finally get justice for Bastien.

  The death of one bandit could be set aside. At least today.

  He said a prayer for the man before they departed. Terra willing, he’d fare better in the Lone than he had here.

  They chanced a route with Brennan at the lead, and hours passed without incident. After a long day’s ride, the stone battlements of Monas Amar came into view at last, a square-toothed edge against a pink twilit sky. A Terran fort, the largest in Emaurria, it protected the monastery within, currently home to hundreds of priests and thousands of paladins, his brothers. Tents spilled over into a faubourg outside the stone walls to surround the fort.

  Rielle stared toward it, that persuasive crease summoned once more. Perhaps she should convince the Paladin Grand Cordon to join the battle.

  He rode close. “We didn’t fight today, did we?”

  She eyed him peripherally, then a little smile emerged. “No... We cuddled all morning, laughed and grinned, and weren’t angry or upset about a single thing. At all.”

  He chuckled under his breath. “We have the same memory, then, so it must be true.”

  That little smile of hers brightened, but as she stared into the distance, it faded.

  “I’ll find you in Courdeval. I promise.”

  She looked away and nodded. “I know.”

  Her voice was too high. Thin. She wasn’t really assured.

  It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be able to dispute reality when he showed up in Courdeval later.

  They neared the path into Monas Amar, and they all dismounted. Leigh gave him a respectful nod—a gesture he returned.

  “You were as annoying as any paladin the night we met,” Leigh said, clapping him on the shoulder over his pauldron, “but in time, you became slightly less annoying.”

  Jon raised an eyebrow. “Take care, Leigh.”

  From beside his destrier, Brennan observed the leave-taking with an apathetic eye. Good riddance. With any luck, they’d never meet again.

  Jon turned to Rielle and took her hand in his, raised it to his lips in a whisper of contact, a soft kiss, and shot her a playful grin. “This isn’t goodbye.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “The paladins will join the battle, and I’ll find you in it.”

  She intertwined her fingers with his, smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Forced smile.

  She raised her hands to her neck and unfastened a silver chain, at the end of it—a signet ring. Her Laurentine signet ring. She held it out to him.

  “I can’t accept this.” He shook his head.

  “Just kee
p it until we meet again.”

  This was her assurance, then. What she needed in order to believe what he’d already told her.

  He accepted it and fastened it around his neck, cupped the side of her face. “You’ll have it back tonight.” He leaned in, tracing her mouth with his thumb.

  Her breath slowed, wavered, then he tipped her chin up and kissed her, the softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth awakening memories of the night before, and every other time he’d held her in his arms. And that night in the forest pool when he should have but hadn’t.

  She melted into him, and he caught her, held her tight, pressed a kiss to her forehead and inhaled her hair, faraway roses and her own intoxicating scent.

  Someone cleared his throat—Brennan—and she pulled away. Jon stroked her cheek softly, and they shared one last smile before he accepted the horses’ reins; he’d stable them at the monastery.

  “One last thing,” he said with a wry dimpled grin, “watch your step, witch. You never know what you might find underfoot.”

  The unspoken word gleamed in her sparkling eyes. Turtle.

  Her pinched lips did nothing to keep the smile from her eyes.

  After a final nod, he led the horses toward the monastery.

  Among the sea of white tents, his blasphemous deep-gray armor and blue cloak earned him bizarre looks from paladins and priests. The camp itself teemed with activity, paladins sharpening swords, training, and transporting supplies while the priests tended refugees, offered blessings, led prayers.

  Ready to retake the capital from the Crag Company. From Gilles. Once the general’s wrists were in shackles, a new life awaited.

  His shoulders hardened as he walked toward the command tent.

  A paladin commander halted him, a stout hulk of a man. Commander Noren. “Report.”

  Jon stood to attention, brought his right hand to his heart in salute, and bowed. “Sir Jonathan Ver, eighth rank, Monas Ver First Company, sent by High Priest Derric Lazare of Monas Ver to see the Paladin Grand Cordon regarding my discharge.”

  Noren’s eyes widened, looking him over, his armor, Faithkeeper, his face. He gestured to two paladins behind him, who approached and accepted the horses. “Jonathan Ver?”