“Every article of clothing must be cleaned,” he spoke softly, barely more than a whisper. “Every inch of carpet between the front door and my dressing room must be cleaned. Every wall, every painting, every sconce . . . Cleaned!” He whirled and glared at the veiled crowd spilling out of his dressing room and hovering around him like so many annoying gnats. “And once the message has been read, everything in this room must be cleaned too.”
No one spoke. They all simply nodded. A few heads turned toward the butler and though their faces were thankfully obscured, Lord Oliver could guess the expressions behind their veils. There would be no need to fire the butler. The man would leave voluntarily, or a series of unfortunate accidents would occur until he did.
Or he would be found at the bottom of some staircase with a broken neck.
Lord Oliver smiled to himself. The Orrington estate was known for having slippery stairs.
A moment later another veiled figure, this one dressed in long, black robes, appeared in the bedroom doorway. Dressed like death, Lord Oliver mused, with a voice like an angel sent down from the Lady of the Light to be his abiding servant.
“Voice,” Lord Oliver commanded, “read the scroll. It is from Lady Cecily’s,” he paused to clear his throat, “creature.”
The veiled figure took the scroll from the butler and unrolled it.
“Lord Oliver Orrington,” the Voice began.
Lord Oliver took a steadying breath. Although the forthcoming words were those of the foul beast, the Voice’s rich, velvety tones would make them seem less harsh, less displeasing, less disquieting . . . like mixing a spoonful of golden honey with the bitter afternoon tea.
“I do not appreciate the lewd attention you have been paying my wife as of late,” the Voice continued harmoniously. “You may inform her I know where she is, and I fully expect her to return home within the hour. As for you, Lord Orrington, meet me outside the west wall by the ruins of the old guard tower tomorrow at noon. You have besmirched my honor and I will have my retribution.”
The Voice fell silent.
Lord Oliver took a step back and opened his perfectly shaped mouth. No words came out. How DARE the creature send him such a violent letter with such an obvious threat of violence? He would not allow such an attack upon him or his honor to go unchallenged, even if dueling had been outlawed by the king.
“Summon the Scribe,” Lord Oliver ordered, his fine voice filled with unbound hatred. If the creature wanted a duel, then he would have it. “And summon my Champion as well.”
While the veiled mass of humanity scurried to obey his commands, Lord Oliver turned to look out the window again. Perhaps some good could come from the creature’s inarticulate demand. By not imposing any conditions on the duel besides the time and place, the creature had left the door open as to the actual combatants. In his reply, he would name his Champion as the creature’s opponent.
By tomorrow afternoon, the creature would be dead.
A faint smile widened as a plan began to take shape. After the funeral, he would invite the undoubtedly, not-so-grieving widow and . . . though the thought made him cringe . . . her mongrel spawn over for a luncheon. They would dine in the hall on the third floor, he decided, yes indeed, on the third floor.
That would be a lot of slippery stairs for Lady Cecily’s spawn to climb. A lot of slippery steps indeed!
Chapter 41
Cecily jerked awake with a splash. She’d dozed off while reclining in Devin’s tub. Much to her displeasure, the bath water was tepid. Shivering, she reached out and rang one of the silver summoning bells hanging on the wall beside her. An attractive serving girl appeared at the door. “Yes, m’lady?”
“You’ve allowed my water to grow cold,” Cecily scolded her. “Fetch me more hot water . . . and some fresh rose petals, at once.”
“Forgive me, m’lady.” The girl curtsied low. “But I was sent by my lord just now to fetch you. He desires your presence outside in the courtyard.”
“He does, does he? Very well.” Cecily stood. The serving girl quickly cast her eyes down. “Summon a dresser, and later, after lunch, have the tailor meet with me. These old garments will do for today, but I cannot continue to wear unfashionable gowns.”
“Yes, m’lady, of course,” the girl murmured, and she hurried out of the room.
Cecily grabbed the white robe hanging beside the tub and shrugged into it. It was much too large for her and the bottom edge dragged along the floor as she padded into the bedroom leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake.
Devin desired her in the courtyard, she mused. He was probably preparing a picnic lunch for the two of them like he used to do when they were first lovers. She smiled as the old memories resurfaced. They had often shared their meals outside, beneath the giant willow tree near the center of the courtyard. On occasion, after taking their meal, they would disrobe and make love beneath the willow’s thick, drooping canopy, hidden away from prying eyes and the rest of the world.
Cecily’s smile deepened as she reclined languidly on the bed. Devin’s musky scent lingered and much to her surprise and delight, the earlier passion ignited inside her again. Her nipples hardened against the inside of his robe. Thoughts of his body brought goose bumps rising across her flesh. She closed her eyes and began to fantasize, allowing her fingertips to mimic his touch, his caress, to move down her body. The face she imagined above hers was Devin’s but over his shoulder, looking on, was Amarias. Her probing fingers slid lower, lower. The young hulking giant was huge, and she began to wonder if his incredible size extended to . . .
A polite cough brought Cecily out of her lucid daydream. She pulled her hand away, sat up and casually rearranged her robe.
“M’lady,” an old, hook-nosed woman said with a slight inclination of her head. She plodded forward slowly, wheezing slightly. “You require a dresser?” She was big-boned, with a wide, wrinkled face and though physically unattractive, her clothing was impeccably tailored.
Cecily slid off the bed and paced toward Devin’s dressing room. “Yes, unfortunately I have nothing new here, and I suddenly find myself unwilling to wear something old.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, I’m a simple dresser not a magician.”
Cecily’s emerald eyes narrowed. “I can see by your clothing you are trained in the use of a needle and thread.”
The old woman crossed her thick arms under her plump, drooping breasts. “Aye, in my spare time I fix my uniform.”
“Then perhaps you could add a bit of lace or ribbon to one of these gowns or adjust the neckline. Lower is more fashionable these days.”
The woman’s shoulders rolled in a casual shrug. “Aye. I suppose.”
“Good.” Cecily gestured toward the dressing room. “Choose a gown and transform it into something breathtaking.” She spun on her bare heel and headed toward the balcony. “I need it done immediately,” she called over her shoulder. “Lord Devin is waiting.”
Cecily stepped out onto the balcony. Immediately the sticky heat of the day engulfed her freshly washed skin. Her nose wrinkled as she searched the grand courtyard for Devin. She was not fond of the excessive heat or the oppressive humidity which so often suffocated the city during the summertime, but she expected the heat then, not now in mid-spring. She shook her head. The sun should not be shining so harshly. The Lady of Light must be angry about some-
The Lady of Light! Cecily groaned. She was supposed to meet Lord Oliver Orrington for lunch today at the Fair Lady’s temple at noon! She chewed on her bottom lip. The foppish Lord had suggested the luncheon during the Spring Joust and though she frequently found his company tedious, she had agreed. At the time, she had done it to annoy Ian, but now, she would cancel. She did not wish to upset Devin or his romantic plans for their afternoon together.
Besides, she was no longer concerned with just annoying Ian any more.
Beneath her, an army of gardeners tended the immense flower gardens lining the maze-like trails which snak
ed around the rolling hills and traveled along the winding river. Though the growing season was still early, purple hyacinths, yellow daffodils, and a wide array of colorful tulips monopolized the grounds. A few magnolias lent a perfumed aroma to the heated air and Cecily was reminded of her childhood at the castle. Every spring, the flowering magnolia trees had bloomed and sweetened the stagnant air surrounding the royal keep. It was like nature’s way of pushing the last remnants of winter aside and reminding the world of new beginnings. Cecily smiled. She liked that. New beginnings.
After a few minutes of searching the grounds, she finally spied Devin walking along the river trail with three men in tow; hulking Amarias and two well-dressed Gyunwarians. They were much too far away for her to catch their attention and she could not make out a word of their conversation, but from the looks of it the two foreigners were upset. One gestured wildly with his arms when he spoke, and the redness of his face extended all the way up to the bald spot on the top of his head. The other Gyunwarian’s body language was completely different. He walked stiffly behind Devin, his body rigid with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Cecily returned her attention to Devin. She was curious how he would handle such obviously violent men.
Devin seemed unfazed by their ill temperaments. In fact, the longer she watched him the more she realized Devin was quite at ease. He was toying with the men, she thought, like a great cat circling its cornered prey, patiently enjoying the end game as much as the hunt. She smiled at the comparison. Devin had always had a powerful grace about him, a sexual and supremely confident air which she found richly enticing.
Ian, on the other hand, had always seemed like a timid mouse cautiously moving through life, but now, she realized upon further reflection, he was more like a rat. A filthy, deceitful, conniving Gyunwarian alley rat and she could not wait until his true nature was revealed to everyone in the city.
Well, her sleek, handsome Yordician cat would put an end to all his rat-like nonsense. Ian would be publicly revealed as a fraud and an adulterer and then she would be free. Free to live the life she wanted!
Sudden movement below caught Cecily’s eye and drew her out of her daydream. The wild-gesturing man darted forward with his fists raised. Cecily gasped, but before she could finish inhaling, Amarias calmly stepped in front of Devin and caught the man’s thrown punch. Astonished by the giant’s serene quickness and strength, Cecily watched in stunned silence as Amarias bent the man’s extended arm backward and forced him down onto his knees.
Devin said something, and the rigid man fell to the ground beside his grimacing partner, clasped his hands together above his head and bent forward, pressing his forehead against the earthen path. The other man followed suit. Together, they repeatedly prostrated themselves before Devin. Cecily quickly grew bored with the groveling and turned away. Devin’s business was really none of her concern and besides, she was hungry.
Cecily paced back into the bedroom and was delighted by the coolness within. Goose bumps pricked her skin as the magically chilled air circulated through Devin’s private suite. She enjoyed picnics outside, but she wondered if Devin could be persuaded to dine up here instead. She eyed the bed and the corners of her mouth turned up. His soft mattress would be more comfortable than the hot ground outside.
“Crone!” Cecily called out. “Have you finished altering my gown yet?”
“Patience, m’lady,” the old woman responded sharply from inside the dressing room, “I am working as quickly as I can.”
“Perhaps next time, a younger woman can be sent,” Cecily replied. “Nimbler fingers are needed when speed is required.”
“If you want sloppy work, m’lady, then perhaps you will not appreciate my talent.”
“I do not care for your tone. I am a princess and a lady and-”
The old woman emerged carrying a beautiful emerald and gold gown. “I have never been liked for my tone, m’lady.” The plump woman waddled closer and held the gown out for Cecily to examine. “But I wasn’t hired for my tongue.”
“If your tongue was as talented as your needlework, you would be a fine singer.”
“If my tongue were that talented, I wouldn’t use it to sing, m’lady.”
Cecily arched an eyebrow but let the uncouth comment drop. The dresser cackled merrily and reached out for Cecily’s robe. “Let us get you dressed, m’lady. We don’t want to keep Lord Devin waiting.”
Chapter 42
Josephine crouched against the tavern’s rotting clapboards and tried to regain her composure. She swiped the salty tears streaming down her bruised cheeks away, but when she thought she had her emotions in check, an image of Lipscombe pressing down on top of her pushed to the front of her mind and she started sobbing again.
She had allowed herself to be raped!
Josephine ground her teeth as a burning blade of anger stabbed violently at her soul. It was her fault, this terror, this never-ending nightmare, it was all her fault! The blade twisted deeper inside.
And if, after all she had done, her father was not returned safely, his death would be on her head as well.
The world spun around her, tilting improperly, canting to such a staggering degree she couldn’t imagine it ever being right again. This pale mockery of her existence seemed terribly wrong and her very identity, which only days before had been so strongly in place, seemed ill-fitted and capable at any moment of slipping off and leaving her naked. Unprotected. Lost. She was not the woman she had been forced to become. A victim of cruelty. A victim of rape.
A victim!
And yet, that was exactly who she was now. There was no going back. There was no changing what had happened. She could not reverse the flow of time and heed her father’s warning the night of his kidnap.
But what if she had acted more quickly? If only she had thrown the door open and squeezed the trigger without hesitation . . .
She shook her head to clear away the doubt. What was done was done and all she could hope for now was the safe return of her father.
Because without her father, the sacrifices she had made would be for naught. She had traded her life for his and that knowledge alone was all she had to sustain herself. The guilt, the anger, the frustration, the unending rage . . . she swallowed hard . . . if she were able to fall into her father’s arms knowing he was safe, she would endure it all again.
Josephine dabbed at her cheeks with the back of her sleeve and pulled herself to her feet, wincing at the tingling pain dancing along her cramped leg muscles. She needed to return home. She needed to know her father lived.
She needed to know she had done the right thing.
Avoiding the more dangerous alleyways, she hurried homeward, shivering despite the heat. The rawness between her legs was a constant reminder she was no longer a virgin. Her bruised face hardened into a furious mask.
Lipscombe had taken that from her as well.
“Save yourself, Jo.”
Josephine whirled around at the faint whisper but the dismal alleyway behind her was empty. It had sounded like her father’s voice and she half expected to see him moving toward her with his familiar, stiff-legged stride. He had broken his leg as a boy and it had never healed properly, but he had managed to find a way to walk again. He had adapted.
That was often his advice to her while she was growing up. Adapt.
Being half-Gyunwarian, she had borne the brunt of many taunts and every time she had returned home her father would simply say, “Adapt.” But how could she adapt to an identity thrust upon her in such a way? She didn’t want this life. Lipscombe had entered their lives and-
The foul image of Lipscombe spreading her bare legs and laughing manically pushed forward again. She could see him, driving into her without care, biting her breasts with his horrid, yellow teeth, his twitching eye so close to her face she could hear the moist, squishy noise it made each time the damaged orb rolled around in its scarred socket.
And she had let him do it!
&
nbsp; She should have fought back. Last year, she had learned how to fight for a show, The Lady of Shadows. She’d played the lead role of a young Fallerian maiden-turned-Sentinel who had traveled a great distance to bring magical order to a rogue nation. It was an old play, based on a true story and during its run it had been a resounding success. The nightly ritual of painting her skin gold and pinning her hair up beneath the long white wig had been a chore, but it was nothing compared to the months she’d spent prior to that learning how to fight with her fists, her feet and a pair of twin knives.
She should have used that knowledge to fight Lipscombe last night. And before that, she should have acted quicker and stopped Pervis. Instead, she’d hesitated each time and each time the situation had worsened!
The seemingly endless cycle of guilt just refused to quit. Josephine wanted to scream. She wanted to scream so badly at the world, at herself, at Lipscombe, at Pervis, but a part of her knew if she started screaming, she would never stop. She would scream until her throat gave out, and then she would continue to scream soundlessly until she went mad.
Or until the human predators prowling the alleyways found her and ended her pain.
Josephine shivered and pulled the tattered remains of her dress around herself. No, she would not allow that to happen too. She would not allow them to find her that way. Her jaw tightened. She would not, could not, become a victim again. She was done with that role! She would not play it again!
Never again!
The burning sun was nearly overhead when Josephine reached Little Ryerton. The small Gyunwarian district tucked into the center of Belyne was busy as usual, with many of the narrow streets clogged with coaches, hand-carts and midday pedestrians. The rich smell of venison cooking over an open fire permeated the air and reminded her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Josephine checked her pockets for a coin or two, but the only items of value she had were the gems inside the makeshift sack and she wouldn’t waste them on a bit of salted meat.
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