by E G Manetti
Grinning at Lilian’s enthusiasm, Fletcher asks, “How is it you are so well versed in Duet design, Mistress Lilian?”
“Did I not voice it?” Lilian returns. “Lord Prelate Apollo was one of my instructors. The prelate would mix the genders and all the different body types to wring nuance from the Duet. Socraide’s Shrine Keeper thought Lord Prelate Apollo deranged.”
“I imagine so.” Nickolas smiles. “Socraide’s prelates are known for conservatism. Did Socraide’s Keeper object to participating?”
Swallowing tea, Lilian shakes her head. “She complained often, but as Lord Prelate Apollo gave all her acolytes opportunity to execute the Socraide, she tolerated his designs.”
It has taken Lilian some effort, but she is able to refer to Adelaide’s Prelate as is proper, and not the familiar ‘Apollo’ she voiced to milord.
“Were you invited to execute the Adelaide?” Fletcher asks.
“On several occasions,” Lilian acknowledges. “It is always enlightening.”
Never more so than when milord designs the Duet. Recall of that penthouse interlude has Lilian happily anticipating the coming evening.
Detecting the hint of pleasure in Lilian’s expression, Fletcher pursues the topic. “Were you ever included in the rites on Socraide Prime?”
It requires naught but a heartbeat for Fletcher to recognize he has misspoken. At his question, Lilian’s face shutters. She could be a shrine effigy for all the emotion she reveals.
I am the sum of my ancestors. Do not dwell on it. It is past. Lilian’s neutral response is devoid of emotion. “No, Master Fletcher. I had only the one visit to Socraide Prime. Shrine rites were not possible.”
“Rimon condemn me. I beg pardon, Mistress Lilian, that was ill spoken,” Fletcher apologizes. “I intended no insult.”
I am the foundation of my family. Lilian’s sensational protocol review was held on Socraide Prime. This day. It is not a time Lilian cares to recall. She also does not wish to offend the highly placed warrior who has aided her more than once. Honor is my blade and shield. “Peace, Master Fletcher. I know you intended no insult. I am oversensitive. If you will excuse me, I am expected elsewhere.”
Honor endures. Rising with the formal words, her lunch a heavy weight in her belly, Lilian collects her tray and heads for the exit. I will not fall.
“It has been two years, one forgets.” Fletcher looks at Nickolas in dismay.
“Easily forgotten by us, not so easily for Mistress Lilian.” Nickolas does not fault his friend. “Until Lilian’s expression altered, I saw no ill in the comment.”
“Master Nickolas, Master Fletcher, what is amiss? How have you distressed Lilian?” Chrys gathers his wits.
Surprised, Nickolas asks, “Are you not aware of Lilian’s protocol review?”
“Yes, of course.” Chrys frowns. “But, I don’t— Jonathan’s Justice!”
“Socraide Prime,” Rebecca hisses a breath later. “That’s where it happened.”
“Yes, Mistress Rebecca,” Nickolas says through tight lips. “It was Remus Gariten’s home and where his protocol review was held. They took Lilian there for her protocol review and Gariten’s Final Draught. She would have been incarcerated for much of the time. It would not have been pleasant for her.”
“Not pleasant for her?” Chrys echoes in horror.
“As you voice,” Fletcher says, whether to Nickolas or Chrys is unclear. “It was ill done to remind her. I know not how to redeem matters.”
The honorable warrior is at a loss. Nickolas meets his confused glance with equal consternation.
“With respect, Master Nickolas, Master Fletcher, there is naught for you to do,” Chrys says coolly. With a nod at Rebecca, Chrys rises. In the politely neutral tone of a well-trained apprentice, Chrys continues, “Mistress Rebecca and I will tend to this. If you will excuse us, we are required elsewhere.”
Nickolas’ assistance at the festival brawl and courtesy since matter little to Chrys. He cannot forget that the protégé stood and watched while Martin beat Lilian with a training sword.
With naught but a polite nod, Rebecca rises and follows Chrys, the Ravens leaving the two elite warriors with the unpleasant sense of being useless.
»◊«
Trevelyan has worried for some time that Lilian’s burdens might break her. Malcon’s report filled him with unease. If it were any other than Lilian, Trevelyan might well dismiss it as the oversensitivity of one newly trained in stealth. As it is, Lilian’s experiences with violence and assault, along with the continued hostility she endures, give him pause. He can tell by Lucius’ frown he is not alone in his concern.
“Lilian has said naught of this to me.” Lucius spears Trevelyan with an intent gaze.
“Nor Rebecca,” Trevelyan offers. At the information that Lilian has not shared her worry with her closest confidant, Lucius’ countenance lightens. “According to Malcon, she was not certain of her observations.”
“Is it her imagination?” Lucius leans in. “Is she starting at shadows?”
“Not necessarily.” Trevelyan holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “It is not uncommon for those newly skilled in stealth to be extra sensitive. Lilian has proven remarkably adept at the discipline. Were matters other, she would make an extraordinary assassin.”
“Think you she has drawn the attention of the guild?” Lucius’ tone sharpens. Although most believe the assassins’ guild a myth, Lucius and Trevelyan know better.
“It is possible,” Trevelyan says slowly. “Tiger would know.”
“The Third System guild primus would certainly know,” Lucius agrees, his expression dark. Not all murders are murder for hire, and the assassins’ guild does not commit all hired murders, only the most difficult, the victims often of high rank and well protected. The guild never fails to complete a contract, and its members never reveal its secrets, victims, or clients. They often recruit those in desperate straits. There is one other possibility. “Tiger will also know if any hunt Lilian.”
“Do you think that likely?” Trevelyan starts. “She is despised by many, but most assume she will fail at her trial and receive the Final Draught.”
“That any would fund a guild contract for Lilian is but a remote possibility,” Lucius replies.
“I will send Malcon to discover what Tiger knows,” Trevelyan offers before ordered. “I would be surprised if there is a true threat, but it will be better to know.”
“And if it is naught, then we will know,” Lucius concludes.
“The most likely case is that it is but the normal progression of one training in stealth,” Trevelyan returns. “Possibly aggravated by her already excessive vigilance.”
“Lilian has cause to start at shadows,” Lucius remarks, sinking back into his chair at the conference table. “Chin and I are both concerned that her trials have strained her reserves to breaking.”
“They would have broken another,” Trevelyan agrees. “Is there aught to be done? She needs respite.”
To Trevelyan’s surprise, Lucius nods in agreement. “She is overburdened. The Fortuna trip will provide opportunity to minimize her assignments and provide respite without any noticing.”
“It is a month away,” Trevelyan returns. “Until then?”
“I will do what I can.” Lucius sighs. “The terms of her sentence limit me.”
»◊«
“Peace, Chrys. I regret I was so overset,” Lilian says softly with a warning nod toward the Grim Twins. “I know Master Fletcher intended no insult.”
She should have expected that Chrys and Rebecca would follow her after her hasty exit from their midday meal. She would have preferred to avoid the discussion.
“I did not know they incarcerated you.” Rebecca ignores the Grim Twins. They are Trevelyan’s operatives, and her seigneur will not fault any of the Ravens for this. “It must have been horrible.”
At Lilian’s tight expression, Chrys reaches out, only to close his fist before completing the proh
ibited contact. Chrys’ experience offers him little understanding of such a trial. Exchanging a helpless glance with Rebecca, Chrys says, “We do not intend to pry. If there is aught we may offer, you need only speak.”
“There is naught to be said,” Lilian returns tightly. “By definition, a protocol review is not pleasant.”
In the front worksites, the male Grim Twin gives a strangled cough. ‘Not pleasant’ is a gross understatement for days of harsh and humiliating interrogation.
“Master Fletcher is truly sorry,” Rebecca speaks into the growing silence.
“Master Fletcher is not at fault,” Lilian concedes. “Truly, there is naught to be done but to release it to the Shades.”
“Can you?” Chrys questions, eyes filled with sympathy.
Her friends’ concern is a balm to Lilian’s lacerated spirit. Resolutely, Lilian forces the dark memories back into their mental cage. “I succeeded until Seigneur Thorvald was compelled to keep us overnight after Martin assaulted me in the Archives. I will succeed again. I do regret that I caused you concern. May we turn to our assignments? I find this topic unpleasant.”
»◊«
Socraide’s Sword! As Lucius feared, another shade from Lilian’s past has brought her distress. That it was unintended is immaterial. He detests the shuttered expression that Lilian uses to hide her wounds. As Lilian crosses the penthouse reception salon, Lucius rapidly reviews his plans for the evening. Allowing a glimmer of mischief to enter his stern mien, Lucius states, “Your suit displeases me.”
The mischief in milord’s eyes, coupled with the harsh command, jerks Lilian from her internal turmoil and into the moment. Game time.
Her eyes fixed on milord, Lilian shrugs out of her jacket, gracefully dropping it and her slate satchel on an occasional table. Milord’s black eyes are hooded, his tall frame garbed in naught but trousers and an open tunic that reveals the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. Lilian’s breath catches in anticipation as she works the fasteners of her blouse.
Milord crosses his arms and his chin rises. She needs to move more quickly. The black silk finds the back of the chair as Lilian releases her skirt to the floor. Without pausing, she leaves it in a heap and continues forward garbed in naught but her shoes and the delicate scraps of teal silk and lace that shield her breasts and sex.
Reaching milord, Lilian tosses her head, setting the long waves of her dark red hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back.
The heat in milord’s eyes rises even as his lips twitch at her overtly provocative movement. Milord enjoys her hair loose, and Lilian enjoys milord’s pleasure.
Silently, milord reaches out and combs his fingers through her heavy locks. Milord’s fingers glide from her hair to swirl across her shoulder and then to her collarbone, the sensual caress firing nerve endings and leaving a frisson of desire in its wake. Milord’s strong fingers stroke the column of her neck as his thumb plays with the hollow. Milord’s dark eyes are intent. Promising. Milord’s hand cups her face, the heat and strength comforting. Leeching away the stress that Lilian has refused to acknowledge.
With a sigh, Lilian leans into the caressing palm, awaiting milord’s will.
Milord leans in; his breath is warm and heady as he brushes her lips with his. “Shower and await me on the bed. You have fifteen minutes.”
»◊«
Hot water sprays Lilian from every angle, the pressure from the multiple jets as soothing as the heat. The stress of the day circles the drain with the residue of the citrusy cleansing products Lilian prefers. Stepping from the shower, Lilian halts the spray with a gesture and reaches for a wondrously plush towel. Blotting her skin dry, Lilian enjoys the splendor of milord’s marble and chrome cleansing chamber, the tub bigger than her bed at home. Dropping her towel into the launderer’s cabinet, Lilian reaches for her favorite lotion, sighing with sensuous pleasure at the light citrus and floral scent. For daily use, Lilian has unscented oil of decent quality to keep her skin pleasing for milord. It is paltry compared to the luxury of what milord provides.
In the warm, steamy heat of the freshening closet, Lilian is content to think of naught but milord and the coming passion. In milord’s penthouse, Lilian is safe. Safe from insult and assault. Safe from unwitting transgressions against often unfathomable apprentice custom. Safe in milord’s embrace.
Pulling her hair free from its topknot, Lilian reaches into a drawer for her favorite brush. Swiping it through her damp hair, Lilian creates the silky fall of dark red hair that so pleases milord. Loosely knotting a pale blue wrap around her waist, Lilian enters milord’s bedchamber.
The soft music of strings and pipes greets her, the lavish furnishings barely discernable shadows in the dim chamber. The only light is the soft glow over milord’s bed on its raised dais. The pale silk sheets are invitingly smooth, the pillows carefully arranged at the elaborately carved headboard. Floor to ceiling windows display a star-scattered night sky that meets the lights of the Great Crevasse in a seamless expanse, creating the illusion that the chamber is floating on the edge of the abyss. Although Lilian has become somewhat accustomed to the view, she continues to find it disquieting. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she turns from the windows to mount the dais and climb onto the great bed.
As she curls her knees under her in the manner milord prefers, the objects spread on a pillow catch Lilian’s attention: a teal silk scarf and a coil of blue glass beads. Eyeing the blindfold with trepidation, Lilian reaches a single finger to the beads. Cold and smooth. What does he?
“Do you like them?” Milord’s husky tones send tingles along Lilian’s spine, jerking her attention from the beads.
“They are lovely, milord,” Lilian offers correctly, her gaze drawn to the hard expanse of milord’s chest, framed in the scarlet silk of the loosely tied robe.
“By dark of night, you will express that differently,” milord promises, holding out a small snifter half full of deep green liquor.
“Two moon brandy, milord?” Lilian questions, cupping the small glass in her palm. Warm to the touch, the liquid gives off a heavy, heady scent of cinnamon and fruit.
“Are you familiar with it?” Milord joins her on the bed.
“Only by reputation,” Lilian admits, taking a cautious sip, the warm liquid sweet, smooth, and rich with cinnamon. Extraordinarily expensive, the potent intoxicant and aphrodisiac is brewed from mountain berries that can only be harvested during the sevenday each year when Metricelli Prime’s two moons reach their zenith.
“What think you?” Milord smiles, raising his glass to his lips.
“It is very sweet,” Lilian replies cautiously. She has never had much of a taste for sweets. “Pleasant, not at all as if it is intoxicating.”
“I assure you, it is.” Milord reaches to stroke the tip of one breast, the light caress causing the areola to pebble. “Drink it all.”
Obediently, Lilian raises the small glass to her lips and swallows the contents.
Taking Lilian’s empty glass, milord places it on the side table along with his half-full snifter. In a smooth movement, he pulls her into his embrace, his mouth descending. Milord’s tongue invades, stroking and teasing. Tasting of liquor, cinnamon, and milord. Eagerly, Lilian wraps her arms around milord, arching into the muscular torso, relishing the contact with her breasts. Milord eases away, the kiss ending, leaving her aching and light-headed.
“Give me your wrap.”
Wrap? Lilian struggles for understanding, focused on milord’s lips. Wishing for further kisses.
“Your wrap,” milord insists, giving the knot a playful tug.
The wrap, of course. She should be unclad. With a graceful movement, Lilian releases the knot. The glide of the silky fabric against her nude skin is lovely. Unusually so. Lilian’s movement slows as she savors the erotic sensation. With a soft sigh, her skin tingling from the light stroking of the silk, Lilian hands the cloth to milord. Milord’s gaze holds anticipation, his eyes dark with a desire that kindle
s an answering desire in Lilian. She moves sinuously on the bed, enjoying the stretching of her muscles and the softness of the sheets, warm from her body.
“Just so,” milord says huskily. “I thought you would enjoy the brandy.”
“Yes, milord,” Lilian agrees, arching her back suggestively, eager for milord’s touch, the lingering taste pleasant on her tongue. Even more pleasant on milord’s tongue.
“Is it?” milord says, pulling her close, one hand cupping her head as his mouth descends once more. It is as if he heard her thought. Or did she speak it?
Milord’s mouth captures hers, hot, demanding, carnal. Lilian’s senses swim under the onslaught. Even more than milord’s soul-searing passion, Lilian yearns to surrender to the intimacy of milord’s kiss. All too soon, milord pulls away, cradling Lilian against his shoulder as he traces her swollen lips with his finger. “How do you feel?”
“Nice.” Lilian smiles up into milord’s compelling visage. She cannot resist the temptation to reach up and stroke milord’s stern lips.
“Nice?” Milord’s eyes crinkle as he nibbles the tip of her finger.
“Good,” Lilian mumbles absently, far more interested in the pleasant tingle milord’s teeth are creating on her finger and the echo in her breasts and between her legs. Arching her breasts toward milord in what she hopes is an inviting manner, Lilian is barely aware that her thighs are falling open in a second invitation.
“So I see,” milord replies cryptically, releasing her finger.
“See what, milord?” Lilian turns her head to gaze about the dark chamber.
“I see that the brandy is having its intended effect,” milord says, dragging the teal silk blindfold along her collarbone.
Tipping her head in a vain attempt to follow the blindfold, Lilian complains, “Milord, I do not understand.”
“Peace, woman.” Milord turns Lilian in his embrace, easing her onto her back. “The brandy should relax you and open you to sensation.”