He had not been as reluctant as he seemed, for his lips anticipated hers, curving to return her kiss with a sweet passion that swept over Amaya. She knew little of kissing, as it was not something the Incas did, and what she knew came from having observed Bess embracing her husband when she believed no one was looking. Those observations had made Amaya curious, as kissing was clearly enjoyable to both parties. She understood now that “enjoyable” was a pale, limp word for the lightning-sharp sensation that shot through her at the touch of his lips. Her hand closed reflexively on the nape of his neck, and she kissed him again, tentatively matching the movement of his lips with hers.
Edmund drew her closer, his hand resting on her hip, his other hand cradling her face. The gentle touch of his hand sent another thrill through her. She put her other arm around him, wanting him as close as possible, enjoying the sensation of her body pressed against his and the scratchiness of his unshaven cheek against her smooth one. She imagined someone coming up the stairs and finding them like this, and discovered she was incapable of caring what anyone else thought.
Edmund’s hand slipped from her face to her shoulder, and he drew back, prompting a noise of protest from Amaya. “We should not,” he began.
“If you apologize, I will never speak to you again,” Amaya said.
That made him smile. “Then I will not, for that is the worst threat I can imagine. But I should not take advantage of you.”
“That is worse than an apology. As if I am incapable of deciding for myself the intimacies I allow!” Amaya scowled. “If I choose to kiss you, that is my own affair.”
Edmund’s eyes widened. “I…do you know, I had never considered the matter in such a light. It is tradition, I suppose, that Englishwomen of gentle birth do not have those desires, or at any rate do not act upon them outside marriage. And by the way you turn that scowl upon me, I wish I had not said that.”
The amusement in his expression made him no longer seem a stranger, and Amaya smiled as well. “It is as well for you I am no Englishwoman, because you seemed to enjoy it.”
“I did, I assure you. But we are alone in a place where there is no one but ourselves to control our desires, and I choose not to permit kissing to lead to anything else.”
Her irritation, which had begun to wane, flared up again. “And again you speak as if you are the one who may make that decision for me,” she said hotly. “Is it because English society wishes to protect its women from themselves?”
His amusement faded, replaced by the direct, searching look that never failed to unsettle her with its intensity. “It is because I have a history of indulging in temporary pleasures of the body,” he said, “and I will not make the woman I love nothing more than one of those pleasures.”
Amaya’s breath caught. Her heart, beating strong and fast, seemed ready for her to flee, and yet she felt rooted to the floor, unable to move or turn away. Words rushed into her mouth, preventing her from speaking any of them.
Edmund took both her hands in his. “I did not believe I was capable of love,” he said, “at least, nothing that lasted beyond a night, and whether that was the fault of the women I met or, more likely, my own fault, I neither knew nor cared. But you are like no woman I have ever known, fierce and loyal and terrible in battle, and the longer I know you, the more convinced I am that you are the only woman I could spend my life with.”
He let out a heavy breath. “And now I feel a fool for opening my heart to you in such a place and time. I should not impose on you when I have no idea of your feelings for me, but I—” He let out a short laugh. “That damned tavern owner. I saw the way he looked at you, and I could think of nothing except making him disappear.”
Amaya’s hand flew up to cover a smile. She could not bear it if he believed her amusement was at his expense; it was just that the idea of her turning to the tavern owner, who was a good twenty years her senior with greasy hair and a blue-veined, bulbous nose, in desire was utterly ridiculous. But Edmund laughed too, relieving her mind that he also saw the ridiculousness in the situation.
“We need never speak of this again, if the subject is repellent to you,” he continued, releasing her hands. “I hope you will always consider me a friend, because I am that.”
Amaya regarded Edmund closely, saw how the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes belied the casual indifference he showed, and could not understand how anyone might be capable of pretending his whole heart was not caught up in her answer. Her own heart ached at the possibility that they might only be friends, that what had passed between them meant nothing. Kissing had been wonderful; she knew she desired Edmund as a woman desires a man, and that the idea of welcoming him into her bed made her giddy with anticipation; but she found she understood his reluctance to make what they felt for each other nothing more than a physical interlude.
“I do not believe,” she said slowly, feeling her way to an understanding she had never before contemplated, “that I could be happy if you were nothing but a friend. I have never loved a man before, not in the way you mean it, but I have seen love—I have seen Bess, and Elinor, and the way they look at their husbands—and I want that. I had never considered that I might find that love with you, and yet it is not a strange or unpleasant notion. And when I consider everything I have experienced since leaving Peru, I realize that you have been by my side almost since the beginning.”
Edmund smiled, but the tiny lines did not disappear. “Dare I press you to tell me what you mean by all that?”
She smiled back, and touched the corner of his eye, pressing gently to smooth the wrinkles. “I mean that if I do not love you now, I am certain I will love you soon. I hope that is not too strange an answer.”
“Not at all,” Edmund said. “No, not at all.” He put his arms around her and kissed her again. This time, his kisses were slow, and intense, and as Amaya returned his kisses, she could not help thinking that for a man intent on not taking her to his bed, he certainly kissed as if that intimacy were just a heartbeat away.
She rested her palm flat against his chest and pushed, very lightly, and Edmund kissed her a final time and drew back. Amaya brushed his hair back from his forehead and said, “Have you changed your mind, then, about physical intimacy?”
Edmund laughed. “I have not, but as you were so insistent on being permitted to have desires, I felt it only fair to indulge you.”
That made Amaya laugh as well. “Then I should retreat to my bed before I convince you otherwise.”
“You will not, because these rooms are small and the walls are thin, and I do not believe you deserve to experience that intimacy for the first time in such a setting.”
Amaya arched her eyebrows. “I said I did not know love, not that I had never lain with a man before, Edmund.”
Edmund’s own eyebrows shot up. “You have—I did not realize—”
“The people of Tawantinsuyu do not care so much about female virginity as Europeans do.” A flash of fear shot through her, that perhaps Edmund had expected her to be virginal and would think less of her for what had passed between her and Kichka. But another look at his face told her he was not upset; in fact, she almost imagined a look of relief. That could not be possible, but it did not matter.
“Perhaps you can explain it to me,” she continued. “I do not understand why it is acceptable for you to have been with many women, but not for me to lie with many men. It is not as if I will become a mother against my choice. So why—”
Edmund’s face had turned bright red. “It is not a subject for polite conversation,” he said, “and in truth I don’t know the answer. Possibly there is no answer you will find acceptable.”
Amaya sighed. So many of her questions had the same non-answer. “Then I will bid you goodnight, for we must still rise early.”
“Good night, Amaya.”
She closed the door of her tiny room and removed her clothes for sleep, though she was sure, after kissing Edmund and realizing what she felt for him, sleep woul
d elude her. She lay beneath the blanket and permitted herself a few minutes’ memory of his lips on hers. What a remarkable discovery, kissing.
After her brief indulgence, she closed her eyes and sank deep into her awareness of her sunqu, stilling each with soothing impulses. Her moments with Edmund had temporarily driven away her disquiet over what Valencia might be doing in Aranjuez, and whether their message might not be too late for the people of that city. Or were the citizens of Aranjuez in favor of Valencia’s revolution? She did not know how many people Jennet could affect, but even without her Coercion, Valencia’s words were compelling.
She soothed Sense again, calming her disordered nerves, and eventually slept.
Chapter 21
In which an audience with the king does not go as expected
They prepared to leave before dawn, eating what was left of their supplies from the first inn. The tavern owner did not make an appearance, which relieved Amaya’s mind. Now that she knew his demeanor was a result of his attraction to her, she was uncomfortable at the idea of being in his presence, despite knowing he would do nothing more embarrassing than stare.
Edmund did nothing to allude to the previous night, not even in passing or through a glance. It surprised Amaya to discover that gave her a twinge of unhappiness. She covertly watched him as he saddled his horse. He looked no different than he ever did, and yet she found herself drawn to the motion of his hands on the buckles, how well-shaped and masculine his fingers were. His brow was furrowed slightly in concentration, his lips pursed, and she remembered how it had felt to kiss him and shivered with the memory.
He glanced her way. “Surely you are not cold?”
Amaya shook her head, suddenly afraid to trust her voice. This was foolishness. She should not permit her new romantic feelings to affect her behavior to someone who was, after all else, her friend.
Edmund smiled then, a wry expression that made his mouth curve up on one side. “I feel it, too,” he said in a lower voice. “I have carried my feelings for you secretly for so long it is strange to know I need no longer hide them.”
That warmed her to her core. “How long?”
Edmund made a great show of pondering this. “Oh, since I went with you to the Treasury and you threatened to eviscerate those War Office functionaries.”
“That cannot be true,” Amaya said, laughing.
“I swear it on my life. When you called Sir Maxwell a savage—he is known to be the most upright and punctilious of men, and I could hardly stop myself from laughing at his reaction. And then I realized what it would mean to me if I were ever to lose your company.” He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “You are dear to me, just as you are, and I anticipate much joy in seeing who you will become.”
The intent, searching look was back, and this time it made Amaya’s heart beat faster with happiness. “You are dear to me as well,” she said. “You should kiss me now.”
Edmund smiled, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “We must rejoin polite society now,” he said when she protested, “and were we to engage in such displays of affection publicly, it would expose us both to censure. You must take my word for it that such would be the case, and that we would suffer for it, as I know more of that world than you. I promise nothing would please me more than to be able to kiss you whenever the mood strikes.”
Amaya scowled, but she recalled that Elinor and Bess both were circumspect in how they showed their husbands affection, and she had to admit Edmund was right.
Edmund was also right, she realized an hour later, about the need for her to ride rather than run. Riding was extremely uncomfortable, and she had already proved she could outpace the horses, but they would return to Madrid disheveled and road-grimed despite the slower pace imposed by the not fully rested horses. Their appearance would cause enough of a stir without her being even filthier than the journey on horseback would cause. So she rode, and cursed silently, using English words Edmund likely did not know she had learned from him.
They had made better time than she realized, because the stones of Madrid’s many buildings appeared on the horizon a mere hour after the sun did. Upon seeing them, Amaya’s discomfort vanished with the anticipation of delivering their message. She did not know to whom they must speak, or who would know best how to relay their message to the king, and hoped Edmund had a plan. The delay of the previous day’s journey chafed at her, tainting even the memory of her time with Edmund. Surely Valencia, even with Jennet’s Coercion, could not have taken Aranjuez so soon, but her impatient heart could not believe it.
They rode through the streets more rapidly than was likely safe, passing open-air markets thronged with people and dodging pedestrians who seemed certain they and not the horses had the right of way. Amaya, focusing on the need not to run anyone over, did not realize they had reached the Palacio Real until her horse’s hooves clattered on the great stone plaza in front of the enormous palace.
Edmund came to a halt and dismounted before they could progress further. He glanced around and beckoned to a grimy urchin who regarded their horses with open-mouthed awe, tossing the lad a coin. “Watch them, and I will give you another on our return,” he said, thrusting his reins into the child’s hand. “Come, Amaya.”
Amaya dismounted and grabbed hold of the saddle to steady herself. She opened her mouth to ask if they should take the saddlebags, but Edmund strode across the plaza without looking back. It was not as if they were carrying anything they cared about. She handed her reins to the lad and hurried after Edmund.
Edmund had already reached the front door and was confronting the guards as she ran to join him. “We must see the Count of Álava at once,” he said in Spanish. “It is a matter of national importance.”
The guards did not acknowledge him. They continued to stare straight ahead. But Amaya saw one moisten his lips with his tongue, a nervous gesture she hoped meant he was listening.
“I know there are other guards within,” Edmund said. “Simply have them send word to Don Martín. We are members of the English diplomatic party and he will verify our identities.”
Now the guards glanced nervously at Amaya, then at each other, the merest twitch of the eyes without turning their heads. The same guard touched his lips with his tongue, but still said nothing.
Amaya’s impatience surged. She dropped the reins and stepped forward, extending a hand to touch the first guard’s throat. A command to his Sense sent a pulse through his nerves, making him collapse, paralyzed. Before the second guard could do more than gape, she did the same to him.
Edmund looked as astonished as the guard had. “You killed him,” he said, his voice faint. “You touched him, and—”
“He is paralyzed only,” Amaya said. “It will pass soon, and he will not suffer further.” She stepped over the guards’ bodies and opened the door.
Edmund followed her. “I did not realize you were capable of that,” he said. “A single touch? It is astonishing.”
She glanced over her shoulder, hurrying her pace. “Any Extraordinary Shaper can do it. I am not exceptional. I am surprised you did not know it.”
Edmund shook his head, but said no more.
They ran up the marble steps, passing more guards whose slow reactions irritated Amaya. Their responsibility was to prevent intruders from attacking the king or his officers, and yet all they could do was stare as Amaya and Edmund, two people as villainous-looking as any enemy might be, rushed past them toward their king. If they had been jaguar warriors, their lives would have been forfeit.
Once past the marble stairs and through one of the red-curtained doorways, Amaya was utterly lost. All the halls with their fabric hangings and gilded moldings looked the same; the decorative urns and statuary did nothing to show her where in the palace she was. Edmund, however, ran as if he had a direction in mind. When a familiar wide opening appeared in the distance, Amaya’s relief eased her worries that they might simply run through the corridors of the Palacio Real, wishing they had El
inor’s proposed spool of thread.
The throne room was as full of men in formal dress as ever. They all turned at Edmund and Amaya’s abrupt entrance. Edmund, breathing rather heavily, said, “I wish to speak to the Count of Álava. It is most urgent that I see him immediately.”
“Who permitted you entrance?” demanded an elderly man whose white hair reminded Amaya of Fernándo. He was taller than her grandfather, though, and his face was a mass of wrinkles like an unmade bed. “You will leave immediately.”
“I am Mr. Edmund Hanley, a member of the Earl of Enderleigh’s diplomatic party, and I bear urgent news for the king,” Edmund said, not wavering. “I am not entitled to speak to the king directly, but a royal steward may convey my message. I repeat, I must speak with Don Martín immediately.”
The elderly man looked as if he wanted to protest, but another man, this one younger and slimmer, stepped forward, holding up a hand. “You may give me the message, and I will pass it along,” he said.
“Forgive me, but this news must not be made public until the king has heard it.” Edmund had regained his breath and now looked as composed as if he were dressed as finely as the many hangers-on. “Please send for Don Martín immediately.”
The man regarded Edmund closely for a long moment in which Amaya assessed the room and concluded she could not incapacitate everyone before the guards would be upon her. Finally, the man said, “You will wait here,” and left through one of the side doors.
Edmund and Amaya looked at each other, then at the waiting men. None of them seemed inclined to go back to the conversations they had been having; all of them stared at Edmund and Amaya as if they were rare species of birds that had somehow fluttered their way into the palace and were now flaunting their plumage and demanding acknowledgement. Amaya said, in English, “Why the Count of Álava?”
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