And his headache!
Moving sent a new wave of pain shooting through his skull. No wonder his dreams had been so dark and foreboding. What had happened to him last night? He remembered . . .
His thoughts blanked. He vaguely remembered meeting with Kylpin at the tavern and then, and then . . . nothing. Just pain. Especially . . .
He ran a hand gingerly over the back of his head. There was a small lump under his hair. Had he been struck? By whom? The questions rattled around in his mind, but he was in too much pain to give any of them serious consideration. He didn’t remember getting hit.
Regardless of how it happened, his old healer, Madam Torileigh would fix him up-
Wait, no she wouldn’t. Madam Torileigh had died last year and he had balked at finding her replacement. Wynston had pestered him for months to hire on a new healer, but the thought of enduring the endless probing fingers and questions of some new earthen mage fresh from the Academy was not something he relished. Ian sighed, inhaling the salty sea air deeply and exhaling slowly. Now though, he’d have little choice.
His brow furrowed. Sea air? Scratchy sheets? Where was he?
He pried his eyelids open and found himself staring directly into the sun. “Ah!” He cringed, squinted and held a hand up to ward off the intrusive sunlight. This wasn’t right. There were no east-facing windows in any of his bedrooms. Had he slept into the afternoon? No, that couldn’t have happened! Wynston would not have allowed it!
Slowly, painfully, the unfamiliar room came into focus. It was small, about half the size of his closet at home, and rather poorly finished. A rough-hewn wooden table lay askew beside the bed and a discarded chair rested on its side up against the wall by the window. The rude sun shone mutely through the thick panes of dirty glass, revealing rows of wispy cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Dust motes floated lazily on the stagnant currents of air.
He sniffed again. There was another odor here besides the sea, something primal and pungent, but he couldn’t quite place it. His eyes raked the room again. Nothing told him how he’d gotten here, but he was certain he wanted to leave. He started to rise. Pain flared behind his eyes and forced him back down.
“I give, I give,” he muttered. “Once I am home, I will have Wynston summon a new healer.”
A mournful groan sounded beyond the foot of the bed.
Ian froze. He wasn’t alone? Slowly, holding his head, he sat up and peered over the edge of the wooden footboard. A naked woman lay face up on the plank floor between the bed and the door. A small pool of blood had congealed in the dust beneath her bruised and battered face. Ian blinked. There was something familiar about her . . .
She was the tall dark-haired woman from the bar!
Ian tossed the coarse blanket aside and tumbled out of bed. “Josephine.” He knelt beside her. “Josephine, wake up!”
Her right eye flickered open. The other was swollen shut and the skin around it was turning a brilliant shade of black and yellow.
“Keep away from me!” Her split, bleeding lips pulled back into an angry snarl.
“What happened here?” He reached for the blanket to cover her and only then did he notice his own nakedness. He hesitated, unsure who to cover first, remembered his manners and offered the blanket to her.
“I said, keep away!” She tried to move, but a chain attached to an iron ring set in the floor, was locked tightly around her left ankle and kept her in place. The skin under the chain was raw and bleeding.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t want your help. Just give me the key and go!”
Ian glanced around the room. “What key?”
“It’s around your neck.”
Ian glanced down. A small silver key was resting innocently among the dark hairs on his chest. His stomach contracted like a fist and the stabbing pain behind his eyes nearly blinded him.
“This isn’t mine.” Ian pulled the chain up and over his head.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t remember!” Josephine spat the words out. “You locked me up after you raped me.”
The key fell out of Ian’s trembling fingers. “What . . .?”
Josephine snatched the key off the floor and fumbled with the lock. Once free, she threw the chain aside and backed into the opposite corner of the room.
“What . . . what did you say?” Ian tried again.
Josephine scuttled over to a pile of discarded clothes lying under the table and began rummaging through them. “After all we’ve been through, all you had to say was you wanted it rough.” She found the sapphire dress and held it out in front of her, covering her nakedness. “But once you started beating me-”
“I did no such thing!” Ian scrambled to his feet. “I don’t know why you would make such an accusation, but I would never rape or beat a woman!”
“Really?” Josephine let the dress drop and she held her hands out away from her sides. “Are you saying I did this to myself?”
Angry red bite marks littered her neck and breasts and livid bruises marred her wrists, thighs and ribs. She turned around slowly, showing off more bruises on her back and buttocks and the dark hair behind her left ear was caked with blood and dirt.
“On my honor, I would never do such a thing to a woman!”
“Never?” Josephine cocked her head and stared pointedly at the center of his naked body. Ian looked down. Dried evidence of their joining matted his pubic hair. The blood drained from his face and spasms of nausea churned wildly in his stomach. The sharp pain behind his eyes grew sharper and it was all he could do to remain standing.
“I . . . I . . .” He swallowed the bile in his throat. “I never . . . I don’t remember anything from last night.” He stepped toward her. “You must believe me.”
“Don’t come any closer!”
Ian hesitated. A carriage had been waiting outside the Prancing Piper. He remembered that and . . . and . . . and he remembered calling out his destination and then . . . and then . . .
Nothing more. Just blackness.
“Your clothes are over there.” Josephine pointed.
Bewildered, Ian turned and spied his clothes lying in a heap by the wall. He pulled on his trousers. The front was ripped as were the leather ties.
“You couldn’t undo the knot fast enough.”
Ian let the ties drop. He reached for his silk shirt and heard her wince as she lifted her dress over her head.
“I can help you with that.”
“No!”
Ian finished dressing in silence. His shirt was torn, and his vest was nearly ripped in half, but his bruised knuckles gave him a moment’s pause. After pulling on his boots, he slumped on the edge of the bed and stared at the backs of his hands in disbelief. They were red and swollen and a couple of the knuckles were already starting to scab. What had he done after leaving the tavern last night?
Josephine was still trying to arrange her sapphire dress so that it covered herself. The once beautiful gown was ruined, torn beyond repair.
“I suppose I did that too?”
Josephine’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t think this act of forgetfulness is working with me, Ian. I know you too well.”
Ian shook his head, wincing. “I just met you yesterday afternoon at the Prancing Piper!”
“What are you saying? We’ve been lovers for months. I’ve done everything you have ever asked . . . until last night.” He saw the vein in her neck pulse. “And then when I refused, you decided to rape me to teach me a lesson.”
Ian looked down at his hands again. Was he going insane? His head throbbed. Could he have raped her without knowing it? He went over the events from last night in his mind again. After Kylpin had left, he had walked through the tavern, stepped outside, moved toward the waiting carriage, and then . . .
Blackness. All he could remember was a blinding pain. His next memory was the squawking of the sea gulls just moments ago.
“You said we’ve been lovers for months?”
&nbs
p; “Ian, you know this all to be true,” Josephine replied stiffly.
She was either lying or confused, or he was suffering from some strange memory loss. He would have laughed if not for the seriousness of her accusations. Despite their strained relationship, he would never betray Cecily. To do so would destroy their marriage completely, hurt Tyran, and begin anew the hostilities between their countries. It just wasn’t something he would do, and yet . . .
Ian glanced down at the front of his torn trousers and shook his head again. There had to be a logical explanation for all this, but he couldn’t think of one.
“And that was why you gave me the box and letter yesterday?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And last night, we had sex?”
“You beat and raped me.” Josephine stalked around the room and thrust her hand out. “And you still owe me my fee.”
“I owe you a fee?”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. “You told me last night after kicking me in the ribs I wasn’t your lover, I was your whore.” Her open blue eye seethed. “Whores get paid.”
“My money was in my cloak.”
Josephine headed for the door. “It’s downstairs in your warehouse. You left it there when we first came in.”
“My warehouse burnt down yesterday.”
Josephine shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. We’ve been meeting here for months.” She pulled the door open. “Coming?”
Utterly confused, Ian simply nodded and followed her out onto a wooden landing. It overlooked a large warehouse floor filled with hundreds of crates.
“I’ve never seen this place before.”
“You can drop the act, Ian,” Josephine called over her shoulder as she scrambled down the narrow stairs. “As long as you pay, I have no intention of telling anyone what you did to me.”
Ian descended at a slower pace. His head swirled. Perhaps this was all some sort of strange nightmare brought on by the terrible events recently.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Josephine was already riffling through his cloak.
“I’ll get the money for you,” he said, reaching for the garment.
She jerked it away. “Don’t touch me!”
Ian held up his hands and took a step back. “Have it your way.” The pain in his head swelled again and he grasped the handrail to steady himself. “Take what you think is fair.”
Josephine regarded him coldly. “Let’s start with everything I find.”
Ian nodded. A few notes drawn on the royal bank would still be in there. It was a considerable sum, but she could have it all. He didn’t care. Someone had beaten her badly and despite her accusations he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
“The pockets are empty.”
The nightmare continued.
“Apparently I’ve been robbed,” Ian muttered. “I don’t remember that either.”
Josephine ripped through each pocket again. “You still need to pay me!” With a frustrated cry she threw the cloak aside. “Or . . . or I will tell your wife.”
Ian patted the air trying to calm her. Over her shoulder, he noticed the symbol on the crates and his brow furrowed. All were labeled with the same symbol, a profile of a rearing black dragon, pawing the air with its mighty claws while its wings were drawn back as if preparing to fly.
It was his family crest and the symbol Kylpin used to denote the crates destined for his warehouse! Was this his missing cargo? Maybe, despite the unfortunate start to his morning, his overall luck was changing!
“I can’t wait all day,” Josephine growled. Her face was a mask of anger.
If these were his crates, he should be able to find something among them to appease her. To keep her quiet. Grabbing the crowbar hanging on the wall by the stairs, Ian hurried to the nearest crate. “Let’s see what we have in here.”
He pried off the lid and pushed the packing straw aside. A dozen Scylthian Dulons lay inside. This wasn’t what he had in mind.
“I can’t use a sword like that.”
“I know,” he snapped, a bit of frustration slipping out.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Ian. Not after last night.”
Ian whirled around ready to shout his innocence again, but the desperate look on her face trapped his tongue behind his teeth. He could protest all he wanted, but he still carried the dried evidence of their shared sex in his pants.
Turning back without saying a word, he quickly opened the next crate. Another dozen Dulons. What was Kylpin doing shipping all these weapons? The third crate contained two dozen Ulons, short, curved, single-bladed weapons used by the younger, less-talented native warriors.
“Are all these crates filled with weapons?” Josephine asked.
“They shouldn’t be . . .” Ian pried open a fourth crate and stared.
“Oh my!” Josephine gasped beside him.
The crate was filled with thousands of brilliant colored gemstones; sapphires, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, some the size of a pea, others the size of his fist. Ian glanced around the warehouse at all the other crates. Were the rest filled with gemstones or weapons?
Josephine knelt and held her shaking hands out over the sparkling bed of gems. “He never said anything . . .” Her hand snaked out and she grabbed a sapphire about the size of a chicken’s egg. “I want this,” she murmured. She held the sapphire up to the filtered light unable to take her eyes off the glimmering stone.
“Take it,” Ian said. He felt a strange allure toward the stone too, but he resisted the urge to snatch it out of her hands. “Take it, with my sincerest apologies for whatever happened last night.”
Josephine pulled her gaze from the stone and looked at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. Ian thought he saw tears well in her eyes, but he wasn’t sure.
“You are giving this to me?”
He nodded. “It’s the least I can do for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
She stared at him dumbstruck.
“Do you want more?” He placed the lid at an angle against the side of the crate. He waved a hand over the gems. “Please, help yourself.”
“I . . .”
He ripped a section of his already torn sleeve off and held it out to her. “You could put a few pieces in that and tie them up safely.”
Ian watched as she hesitantly picked out a couple of smaller gems and secured them in his makeshift handkerchief. When she was done, he stepped past her and hammered the lid closed again, ignoring the temptation to take any gems for himself. Each blow rang sharply in his head. When he was done, he found her still staring at him.
“I don’t know . . .” she started softly, and then abruptly her face hardened and the angry mask returned. This time though, the expression looked less real and before he could stop her, she brushed past him and ran for the door.
“Josephine, wait . . .”
He gave chase and caught her just inside the doorway. She spun around and slapped him across the cheek.
“Don’t touch me!” she wailed, almost in tears. “Please, don’t touch me ever again!”
She ripped free, threw the door open and dashed outside. Ian followed her out onto the docks, but the sudden brilliance of the morning sun blinded him. He lost her momentarily in the bustling commotion and then found her again, running north, dodging fishermen and sailors and darting around stacked crates and barrels. He thought about continuing the chase, but the crippling pain flared behind his eyes again and he changed his mind.
Besides, what more was there for him to say to her?
Ian went back to the warehouse. The door had closed behind him. He tried the handle. It was locked. He patted his pockets. No key. Considering how his morning was developing, he wasn’t surprised.
He took a deep steadying breath and surveyed the docks around him wondering where exactly he was. A line of carriages stood at the far north end of the nearby pier waiting for the debarking of a large passenger ship. To the south, a row of fishing boats
was heading east out to sea, no doubt sailing toward the prime fishing grounds near the Splintered Isles. He figured he was a few miles north of the pier Kylpin had docked the Serenity at yesterday.
Ian glanced back at the warehouse. It was a newer building, three-stories high, and freshly whitewashed. A small black dragon decorated the door. It was his crest alright, but he’d never been inside the building before. He ran a hand through his tangled black hair. Cecily had insisted he buy another warehouse for months, years, but had she purchased the warehouse without his knowledge? And if so, why would she have kept it a secret? And why had Zerick and Mason turned against him? And why had Josephine accused him of rape? And what was with all those weapons, and gems? Did any of these events have anything to do with Lord Ragget? Or Lord Orrington? Or . . . or . . . or . . .
Ian grabbed his head with both hands and groaned. Once the questions had started, the floodgates had opened, and he wasn’t certain which was worse, the number of questions making him dizzy or the lack of answers making him sick. In either case, he realized nothing could be done about any of them until after he returned home, bathed, and changed clothes. He would need a clear head before he tackled these problems and he would start by talking to Wynston. The old man was always willing to impart his wisdom and offer advice, especially when asked.
Ian worked at straightening his torn clothes but try as he might, he couldn’t really look presentable. His cloak would have helped, but he’d left it inside the warehouse and every entrance into the warehouse was locked. Damn it! Without the cloak, he looked like a common beggar. He’d never get a ride up the hill dressed in these rags. With a sigh, he started walking toward the line of carriages, hoping he’d be proven wrong.
The morning sun promised another hot spring day and he was sweating profusely as he neared the row. He could only imagine the impression he was making. Abruptly, the first driver cracked his whip and the carriage rumbled away.
Ian grimaced and turned to the second driver in line. “Weatherall Estate,” he called out, trying to sound cheerful.
The man cast a sleepy eye down at him. “You’re not from the passenger ship. Piss off.”
Stolen Dagger Page 15