Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  As Elayne lifted her arms around his shoulders, he pulled back and turned away, his bare feet hitting the floor lightly as he left the bed.

  * * *

  There were no books in Gian Navona’s chamber. If he had been a scholar and wizard like his bastard son, he left no sign of it in this tower haven. Elayne spent some of the long hours of the night in searching through his coffer and the cupboard, being careful to touch nothing that Allegreto had not examined and declared safe. She pulled the musty bedding from the mattress and replaced it with sheets from the cupboard. The scent of ancient herbs filled the room, their dry skeletons scattered across the carpet where they fell as she shook out the folded linen.

  A wealth of fine tapestries lay rolled in the bottom of the cupboard—winter dress for the chamber, their rope cords coiled neatly by the hand of some long-vanished servant. Elayne looked up at a row of gilded wall hooks shaped like the heads of mastiffs, running the whole length and breadth of the chamber under a ceiling painted with silver stars. Gian Navona had not spared his comfort or expense here.

  She made a pile of the old sheets. To occupy herself, she shook out Allegreto’s indigo doublet and tried to brush the dried mud and sand from the collar. She had an idea of hanging it, to ease the wrinkles, and even managed to toss one of the tapestry cords over a hook before she looked again at the stains and deemed it a hopeless task. She laid the garment over his chair instead, feeling an unfamiliar moment of housewifely enjoyment as she arranged the cloth.

  She punched and poked his felt hat into shape again, too, smiling a little as she hung it over the chair, thinking of his discolored eye and criminal look from under the pointed brim. She braided her hair when it was dry, standing well back from the sunburst mirror to see as she pinned it around her head.

  Raymond had called her a remarkable woman. She looked at the shadowy face in the glass, only able to discern the line of her nose and cheek and the shape of her eyes in the weak lamplight.

  Everyone said she resembled Lady Melanthe. But she did not see it. Perhaps their eyes were a similar color, and unusual, and that accounted for the likeness. Her godmother looked like a queen—Elayne did not think her own face and bearing were even fitting for the princess that they said she was. There was a softness to her features, a wideness to her eyes, and an upward curve to her mouth that made her appear more like to a mischievous pup. She had hoped it would disappear as she grew older, but in the dark mirror she thought she looked no more regal than Nim.

  She tried to make her face severe, and only succeeded in looking as if she were pouting. She tried to envision herself giving orders, dispensing justice. Even young Queen Anne looked more imperious.

  It was no wonder Raymond had thought her a foolish girl. No wonder Il Corvo called her naive.

  A vision of him came to her, a clear image of his body, his back to her at the edge of the lake, that moment that he stood poised before her.

  She imagined him on his knees.

  She stared at herself. And even she could see that her face changed, that the pouting mischief transformed into something...different. It was the same face, and yet it was as if the shadows grew sharper and finer, more dangerous, and the lips no longer held a curve of mischief, but some secret unspoken knowledge.

  She twisted her hands together and turned abruptly away. She did not recognize that face. It did not look like Lady Melanthe or Cara or anyone that she knew.

  He warned her to be careful of him. Well she knew it. He was simply a killer, born and bred and trained to it, as an alaunt was made to take down its prey. A wolfhound might roll and sigh under an affectionate hand in the kennel, but an hour or a moment later, it would rise to hunt again.

  She took up the tiny blossom from where she had laid it carefully by the comb as she braided her hair. It was but a fading thing now, a soft, broken star of petals. She closed her fingers on it and rolled it in her hand, crushing it until the heady scent rose up and filled her nose with sweetness.

  * * *

  In the dawn he stood by the open window embrasure, leaning his elbow on the stone wall. He looked out, his face and body lit with brightness from below, a half-silhouette in the dim room. He wore no shirt still, but black hose and boots of undressed kid softly wrinkled about his ankles and calves. The vambrace guards were strapped to his forearms. His daggers hung from the leather waist-belt, resting gently against his thighs.

  "The message came?" Elayne asked, from within a nest of pillows and fragrant linen. She had put off the white robe when she went to sleep, and lay naked now within the sheets, a strange and delicate feeling. She had been in a bed unclothed only once before. In his bed. She could feel every place where the linen touched her.

  He looked over his shoulder. "Not yet," he said. "But word came to Gerolamo to expect us to arrive here." He gave a soft derisive snort. "Morosini took his good time."

  She hugged a pillow to her, watching him. She had not slept much, and when she had, she had dreamed of playing morra in a dark lake where the water would not let her move her fingers.

  The leather buckled to his arms gave him the look of a fighter. He leaned at ease on the wall, his hand propped behind his head. Against the pale skin beneath his arm, against the smooth taut muscle, the sight of the dark gauntlet straps made heat rise in her throat.

  He turned onto his shoulders and crossed his arms, resting his foot up against the wall. "So we will wait. Though I fear there is little to provide diversion here. I brought food and drink, if you want it."

  She did not want food or drink. She wanted him.

  "I thought of a game," she said, turning onto the pillow on her stomach, keeping the coverings up over her to her neck.

  He lowered his chin, looking at her from across the chamber. "Another game?"

  Elayne nipped a bit of sheet over her nose. "By chance it is more of a story than a game." She pulled the sheet down a little, just enough to clear her mouth. "It is like...feigning the people in a tale."

  "Is it?" he said.

  "Yes." She lifted her head, resting on her elbows. "An amusement, to pass the time. You said you delight in games. This is a game of human character."

  His mouth curved up a little. "You remember that."

  She rolled over, examining one of her fingernails, the sheet draped over her arms and breasts. "My game...it is something like a play. I have one part, and you have another."

  "What parts are these?"

  She gave him a sidelong look, holding the sheet up to her throat. "I thought in haps I would feign to be a great queen."

  He smiled openly then, tilting his head aside. "Not a minor one?"

  "A great queen." She flushed. She sat full up against the pillow. "Like to the Queen of Sheba. All-powerful, with many lands."

  "I see," he said dryly. "And no doubt Your Majesty requires a humble servant to serve you in this game."

  "Oh, no," she murmured. She slipped down a little in the bed. "I do not require a servant."

  His glance drifted downward, along her body beneath the bedcovers. "A Solomon, to share your throne?"

  She shook her head. "No," she said.

  "A lover?" he asked.

  Elayne drew breath more quickly. "I am told you are a manslayer, not a gallant."

  "It is true, my lady." He bowed his head.

  "Then haps you will play the part of a warrior." She looked up at him. "A prince."

  "Will I?"

  She caught the covers in her hands and sat up fully, holding them to her breasts. "Aye. A warrior and a prince, I think. From a far land, that has been—" She hesitated, burying her hands into the bedsheet. "Conquered."

  A long silence followed her words. She did not look at him; she could not. She blinked rapidly, aware that there was an excited blur of moisture in her eyes, as if she had just heard some terrifying tale of goblins and hauntings. Her body seemed to grow warm all over, sensitive to every touch of the linen.

  "Brought—" She cleared her throat. "Um—brought
before me as a prisoner," she said in a failing voice, when he did not answer. She leaned over her knees, hiding her face.

  "Do you think I would abase myself?" he asked.

  She looked up. He watched her from the dimness, obscured now against the growing light in the window. She could not see his expression clearly. Only his bare muscular arm crossed over the other, strapped in leather.

  "I don’t know," she said unsteadily. "It is play."

  He made a soft laugh. "I fear you do no justice to the role of a great ruler—with that squeaking voice, and fortified among pillows. As your defeated enemy, I am not much impressed."

  She drew herself up. The disadvantage of her nakedness was palpable between them. The white robe lay across the foot of the bed.

  With a regal move, she threw aside the bedcoverings. She folded her knees in the most graceful and queenly manner she could contrive and took up the robe as she rose. She imagined a host of handmaids and pulled it on with proud leisure, not deigning to close it from neck to toe, but only fastening one button across her breasts. She looked up, but still she could not discern his face against the glare.

  She swept forward a few steps and sat down in the large chair, placing her hands on the arms. "Let me see you," she said. "Come into the light."

  For a moment she did not think he would. Then he moved, one step that swung him away from the wall into the growing sunlight, standing with his legs apart and his arms still crossed, a little curl of scorn on his lips.

  He made a very good likeness of an enemy prince. But he did not appear conquered, not at all, though his eye was blackened and his shoulders bore scratches and bruises like fading battle marks. With some effort, Elayne kept her face composed. She found it necessary to imagine guards—a number of them. She met his faint smile with a narrow look.

  "You are insolent," she said. "Lower your hands."

  He looked down at her. His glance drifted in clear boldness to where the robe opened to reveal a curve of her bare thigh and knee. Elayne stared at him, unblinking. Guards, she reminded herself. If she were a queen, there would be guards enough to cause him to do what she pleased. She leaned back in her chair with a casual move, careless of the robe, not taking her eyes from his. No challenge, no contest; a simple assumption that he must obey. It was a game, though it did not entirely seem so.

  He drew a slow breath. Then he gave a low toneless laugh and raised his look to the wall above her head, uncrossing his arms, his hands not quite at his side, but open, resting lightly on his thighs. It was the stance of a man who might draw his weapons in an instant.

  "Disarm," she said.

  His faint smile of contempt vanished. He glanced at her. A long moment passed, with a new guardedness in his look. Elayne felt the tiny hairs on her neck and arms rise. He was truly splendid, standing half-naked like a royal savage, gazing at her now as if she were a stranger to him.

  "Do you fear me so much that you must have your blades at ready?" she murmured.

  He put his hand to the buckle of his waist-belt. Then he dropped it away and shook his head just slightly.

  "Perchance you are afraid to play this game," she said.

  He turned back his head and gave a raw laugh. "Aye. I am. Hell-cat."

  She stood, walking to him, and put her hand on his chest. She felt him draw a deep uneven breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them when she passed her fingers over his nipple.

  "You are insolent again," she said. "Disarm."

  He seemed taller than he ever had to her, standing so close—tall and barbaric and unpredictable. She gave his nipple a sharp flick.

  He drew air between his teeth. He reached again for the buckle and pulled the leather loose, standing straight, staring over her head. As the belt came free, Elayne caught it in her hand. He resisted for an instant, and then let it go.

  He stood looking beyond her, utterly still.

  She let her gaze pass over him, from his waist to his hips and up again to his chest and shoulders and throat. She could see that beneath his breeches there was a thickening in his body, a growing readiness. Another prickling wave of sensation raised the secret tender places on her skin. It made her feel warm and damp beneath the robe. She paused, drinking in the sight of him. He was such a pleasure to look upon. And hers. Her captive, her prisoner—she lost herself in the fantasy of it, that he was under her command; entirely at her will.

  She dropped the waist-belt on the table and touched him again, reaching up to his shoulder, running her palm down his arm. He turned his forearm up and moved his hand abruptly, as if to reach for the vambrace strap and release it.

  "No," she said. She slipped her fingertip just under the leather, tracing the well-fitted edge. His skin was firm and silky at once, the blue veins showing on his inner wrist. She rested her fingers there, feeling his hard pulse. "No. Wear these. I like them."

  She lifted his hand between hers. He submitted to it, his lashes lowered, making no resistance as she spread his fingers and explored the perfect masculine shape of his hand. The metal bands on the arm guards gleamed dully. His third blade, bone-handled, lay in a tight leather sheath inside the length of his forearm. When she put her hand over the hilt, her fingers slipped easily into spaces molded for them.

  He made a warning sound in his throat, not quite a word. Elayne closed her hand and drew the knife, looking up at him slantwise. "Is it poisoned?" she asked coolly.

  He breathed deeply, his eyes on the blade. All distance was gone from his look. "No," he said.

  She nodded down toward the others. "Only the left-hand dagger."

  His left hand opened and closed, as if he could feel the hilt of it. He never took his eyes from the knife she held. "Aye."

  "I remember," she said, taking a step back. "Do not move." She picked up the waist-belt and walked apart from him, taking his weapons away the whole width of the chamber. When she was on the far side of the bed, she turned and stopped, watching him.

  He stood still, but he flexed his hands with a motion that showed all through his body, as if he pressed against a great weight. The muscles in his shoulders and neck grew taut. He swallowed, staring at the empty space before him. "Elena," he said hoarsely. "Take care."

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. Take care with the blades, perchance he meant, but a fine sweat had broken out over his skin. She could see it in the morning light streaming now from the window. It was as if she held his very life and heart in her hands, in these glimmering shafts of steel.

  She was well-cautious with the daggers, placing the bone-handled knife gently on his father’s coffer and leaving the others sheathed as she slid them free from the belt. His girdle was plain, made of fine strong hide, dark and well-worn, the inside lined with kidskin as soft as a lady’s glove and stitched in small even seams. The leather was still pliable with the heat of his body. She curved it around her fist, pleased by the feel of it next to her skin.

  She walked slowly back to him.

  He turned his head. "What have you done with them?" he asked sharply.

  "Whatever I like," she said, holding her hands behind her.

  "Hell-cat." His voice held a fierce warning, though he stood rooted in the place she had left him.

  She looked aside at him speculatively. "I am your queen now, warrior," she said softly. She clasped her hands modestly in front of her, the belt entwined and dangling from her fingers.

  He glanced down at her hands. For an instant there was something like relief in his face, and then the curl of derision came again to his mouth. But she could see the pulse beating hard in his throat.

  "I will do what I please," she said in a quiet voice. "With your weapons. With you."

  There was the shadow of the nightmare beast in his expression, the hollow stare of an animal caged, as if he would have his daggers and be upon her but for invisible bars between them. Somewhere far deep inside, she was frightened—appalled—at what she did, but overlying it was the dark game between them, that dep
th of pleasure, the thing that kept him standing imprisoned before her without any bonds at all.

  "Put your hands behind your back," she said.

  He turned his head a little aside. "Elena," he said low, "this is dangerous. This is too...difficult."

  "Shall I go, then?" she asked. "I can leave you."

  "No!" he said quickly.

  "Then do not tell me what is too difficult." She walked beside him. "Come, I will make it easier." With a light touch she drew his wrist behind his back, thrilling to the faint angry sound he made while his shaft answered with a swell of desire. "Sweet warrior," she whispered, lifting his hair and kissing his back, running her tongue over the tight muscles between his shoulder blades. "So well-made. I wish to make best use of my vanquished foe."

  "Ah...damn you," he said, shuddering as she drew his other hand into place.

  "You are impudent." She used the end of the belt against him, a light slap like a tutor with an unruly student. But the leather had a solidity that magnified the flick of her wrist. It struck his skin and the inside of his wrist with a crack that made them both jerk.

  Elayne drew back. She stood an arm’s length behind him, startled. She’d felt the sting of punishment across her own hands often enough as a child—Cara had never had the heart to do it herself, but Elayne’s strict Italian duenna had known just how to apply the rod, for the little good it ever seemed to do in recalling Elayne to proper behavior. She wet her lips.

  He held his hands crossed behind him in rigid fists, the tendons and muscles standing all along his arms. She walked beside him. A slow drop of sweat made a trail below his ear. He stared straight at the wall before him, his member straining hard at the black cloth and lacing.

  She lifted the belt softly, tracing the inside tip of it down his arm, barely touching him. He flinched. And she could not help herself; she loved him when he stood so, like a man braving fire and Hell, and then made that tiny spontaneous jerk under her touch.

  She turned the belt and snapped the outside leather hard against his skin. His chin came up. He stood sweating and taut, like a stallion worked into obedience that might yet explode at any moment. Yet it excited him—he was full and stiff, heavy with desire. She put her hand on him gently, outlining his shape. He sucked in his breath and took a step backward.