He bent and kissed her. It was a soft touch of his lips against her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her. Isla drew in her breath, startled. Her heart thudded against her chest, aching with the movement.
Arawn did not lift his head away. His mouth hovered just over hers. His gaze met hers.
For the first time Ilsa consciously noted how full his lips were. How dark his eyes were.
Arawn’s lips met hers once more, and this time, it was a proper kiss. He held her head as he pressed himself against her. Ilsa caught at his robe, holding herself steady, as he plundered her mouth. She was breathless and weak and her heart fluttered with desperate need.
She breathed aloud her pleasure. It emerged as a soft moan.
Arawn jerked away from her as if she had burned him.
Her heart thudding painfully again, Ilsa lifted her hand. “What is wrong?”
Arawn licked his lips. His gaze moved over her face and her body. He swallowed. She watched his throat work. “Nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse and gathered her up against him once more.
Then he lifted her and carried her to the big bed, while his mouth caressed her face and throat.
That night, Arawn did not stop kissing her, even as he took her in a stormy rage of passion. For the first time, Ilsa found herself arching and yearning for more and she realized with a startled leap of her pulse that she liked this. She wanted more of Arawn’s kisses and touches and the feel of his lips against her.
She could not keep still beneath him. Rather than dissuade him, her shifting seemed to urge him into deeper and heavier movements. Sweat beaded at his temples as he growled and drove himself into her, every muscle in his body straining.
It was a glorious night of revelation and pleasure.
Two weeks later, her courses failed to arrive.
Chapter Seventeen
This is ridiculous!” Ilsa declared to the stoutly fastened chamber door. She raised her fist and hammered on it. “Let me out! I demand you release me!”
Silence.
“I want food! Water! You cannot keep me in here!” She raised her other fist and pummeled the wood with both, making the door shiver and rattle.
She tried the handle once more, even though she knew nothing would have changed in the last two hours. The door would still be barred against her.
With a barely contained scream, she threw her shoulder at the door, with her full weight behind it. The deep booming sound she made was satisfying, although her shoulder creaked and throbbed.
Ilsa put her hand against the door, then her head. “Let me out,” she whispered, knowing no one would hear her.
Silence.
This morning after breaking her fast in the triclinium, Ilsa had told her four companions her courses had failed to arrive as usual and then sworn them to silence. “It may be nothing,” she added. “They may still occur. I would rather not raise my lord’s hopes, or anyone else’s, only to have them dashed—where are you going, Merryn?” she said sharply.
Merryn shut the chamber door behind her without answering.
Eseld considered the door for a moment, then she, too got to her feet and moved out of the room.
Rigantona and Dilas followed her with hurried footsteps.
Ilsa stared at the closed door, indignant.
Heavy scraping sounded outside the door, followed by a solid thud. The door shifted.
Ilsa could feel her mouth dropping open. Surely...no, they would not have locked her in here, would they?
She got to her feet and tried the handle. The door didn’t budge. She rattled the handle harder. Even though the latch raised, the door did not open.
Ilsa stepped back away from the door, staring at it, her heart thudding. Yes, they had barred her in here.
That had been two hours ago. She had protested and shaken and knocked upon the door in waves of determination, since. Her anger and fright and puzzlement drove her to it.
Why was she locked here? It made no sense. She had done nothing to deserve such treatment.
Another heavy scraping sounded. The door shifted under her forehead. Ilsa stepped back, staring at the door, her heart speeding along. Had she imagined the sound?
Then more scraping and the thud of heavy wood against the tiles, outside the door.
The door opened and Ilsa drew in a shaky breath as Arawn stepped in. The door closed behind him.
“Arawn! I mean…my lord! I do not underst—”
“Is it true?” His voice was strained.
Ilsa’s lips parted. She looked at him again, this time seeing the tension around his eyes and the hard line of his jaw. His hands were fisted.
The fear rushed back, filling her chest and making her shake. What had she done? “Is what true?”
“Your courses…” Faint redness touched his cheeks. He cleared his throat.
Ilsa realized she was pressing her hand to her belly. She dropped it. “That they have not occurred when they should? Yes, although I warned Merryn…did she come to you straight away?” Bitterness touched her. “I know now where their loyalties truly lie, all of them.” Oh, how she wished Gwen were here. Gwen, at least might have warned her of this. Only, Gwen laid ill in her bed and had been for days.
Arawn made a short, flat motion with his hand. “Your women are loyal to their king as they should be. They serve their kingdom, as they are required to do.”
“And now I have been reminded of it,” Ilsa finished. “Does serving their kingdom encompass locking their queen in her chamber?”
“I ordered it,” Arawn replied.
Ilsa drew in a shuddering breath. “You? But…” She pressed her hand to her belly once more. “Does the news displease you? I thought…” She bit her lip.
Arawn shook his head. “Nothing is certain yet. I am well familiar with the early stages.” His tone was dry. “If there is even a chance you carry a child, though, I would be a fool to allow the slightest risk to approach you. I am not a fool. You will remain here in this room where it is safe. The only person allowed through the door is me. The guards will bring you food and water. They will not step farther than a pace into the room. There will be guards beyond the door at all times, to keep any danger away from you.”
The air in the room chilled. Ilsa’s heart thudded in her temples. “For how long?” she breathed.
Arawn moved to the door and knocked on it. “Remember the day we met, Ilsa? Remember I said I would do anything to break this curse?”
Horror spilled through her, turning her bowels to water. She sat on the table, her strength draining, and watched him leave and the door thud shut once more. She understood the answer he had not given.
He would do anything to break the curse, including keeping her captive in this room until the child was born.
Chapter Eighteen
Ilsa scraped her hands to shreds on the door. She shredded her fingernails and the flesh of her fingertips scrabbling at the screens over the high windows. The screens, which kept marauders out, also worked to keep her in.
The walls of the now tiny room were mortared stone covered with daub…not even a spoon would dig through them, if she had one. Her food arrived without implements and her knives and bow and arrows were removed.
The same day Arawn had told her she was a prisoner until she delivered a child, all four of the women she considered her companions and two armed guards came into the room and stripped it of everything which might aide her escape or present even the mildest danger to her. They even removed the table with its sharp corners and the stools with their iron legs.
The cupboard was also taken. A chest without a lid replaced it and her garments placed in it. All that remained in the room were the wall hangings, which were deemed safe enough, her bed, the chest and the two chairs she had purloined from the great hall.
Not even a lamp was left for her. Each sunset, Arawn would arrive to light the big lamp hanging from the chain in the ceiling, which was well out of her reach.
The first
night he had stepped into the room to do that service, Ilsa was still curled up in a tight ball in the corner made by the bed and the wall. She looked up, a small hope flaring and watched Arawn reach up with the taper to light the wicks, then blow the taper out.
As the warm yellow light filled the room, Arawn moved over to a chair. “Will you sit with me?” he asked.
Ilsa laughed. The sound was strained. “You treat me this way, then expect me to converse civilly with you?”
“You mistake my intentions.” His voice was low. “Everything we have done this day is only to protect you.”
“You do it to protect the child. I have no other value in this than the vessel which delivers the child. I see that now.”
Arawn’s fingers curled over the arm of the chair and dug in. “What I feel, how I feel about you doesn’t matter. It cannot matter. Do you not see that? My sympathy for…the others…it was my undoing.” He leaned forward, his arms on his knees, as if he wanted to emphasize what he was saying and make her understand. “I let them have their freedom, to live normally. Fate found them, every single one of them. Thrown from a horse. Murdered by thieves right here in the market square. Taken by the plague which took so many…oh, they were unexpected tragedies, all of them. Put together, though, they point to an absolute truth—that harm comes from unseen places. I will not risk your exposure to one of those hidden places, Ilsa.”
Ilsa shivered. “They were not all the victims of unhappy accident, though. Your first wife, the princess. She carried to full term.”
Arawn’s face shifted. Shadows filled his eyes. “She and the babe both died during the birthing, yes. If you are carrying a child, we will need to face that moment, too. I can’t change that. Accidents, though, I can keep away from you and I will, by whatever means I must.”
Ilsa did not move.
Arawn made an impatient movement with his shoulders. “In this, I cannot afford to be kind. My kingdom and the people in it demand I do no less than this. It does not mean I bear you any personal ill will. I have…grown fond of you. I would prefer your confinement be as pleasant as possible. Will you not sit and talk?”
Ilsa remained where she was.
Arawn sighed and sat back. “I suppose I would feel as you do, if I were you. Very well. Stay where you are, although it must be cold, sitting on stone as you are. I will have more rugs bought, so you may sit on the floor where you wish and still be warm.”
Ilsa wrapped her arms around her knees. She was cold, although she would not reward Arawn by moving from where she sat.
“We tested the large kettle today,” Arawn said. “That is what I was doing when word reached me of your…condition.”
Ilsa jerked. Questions pressed against her lips. What happened? Did the water-making occur even with a kettle the size of the monster they had found in the bath house? How much water had it made?
She gritted her teeth together, determined not to ask a single question or even show interest.
Arawn, though, spoke as if she had asked every single question which throbbed in her mind. The trial had been a success, although the funnel they had formed out of beaten shields was inefficient, for it heated too quickly and turned the water back to steam. Stilicho thought as Ilsa had done, that a clay funnel with a glazed interior would work better. He was consulting with potters.
Ilsa listened as Arawn described the work and resentment touched her. It should be she directing the efforts and developing the devices. It was her idea.
After he had described the trial and the outcomes, Arawn got to his feet, picked up the taper and knocked on the door. As the door was unbarred, he said, “If it were possible for you to be involved in the work, I would wish it so. Know that you have begun something which will make a difference in people’s lives and take comfort in it.”
The door opened.
Arawn gripped the edge of it. “Staying here in this room will also make a difference to a great many lives, Ilsa. This matter is beyond what you and I want.”
The next night, Arawn returned with the taper. When Ilsa heard the door being unbarred, she curled herself up on the corner of the bed, refusing to sit upon the rugs which had been installed that day as he had promised.
Arawn sat in the chair once more, without asking her to sit with him. He told her the news of the day—of Gwen’s recovery and progress in the water-making devices. The new gown Elaine had worn to supper last night and his wonder over what she might wear tonight.
Ilsa asked no questions and did not speak.
On the third night when the door opened, Arawn was followed into the room by Stilicho and two slaves, carrying trays and large cushions. While Ilsa watched from the far side of the bed and Arawn stood with his arms crossed, the slaves put the cushions on the floor between the two chairs, where the table had once sat. The trays were placed on top.
There were bowls and platters of food sitting on the trays, most of them still steaming from the kitchen. The aromas made Ilsa’s mouth water.
Stilicho gave Ilsa a warm smile. He waved the slaves out of the room. The door shut behind them and Arawn unfolded his arms. “The guards tell me you have refused to eat today.”
It was true. She’d had no appetite. The day had passed in a blur, her boredom turning her thoughts into a miasmic sludge and draining her of all energy. She had spent the day on the bed, her eyes closed, in a state of mindlessness which helped pass the time.
Arawn sat in his usual chair. “You must eat, Ilsa. If you do not, I will be forced to make you eat and I would rather not do that.”
Ilsa didn’t move. It was no longer a matter of defiance. She didn’t have the will needed to shift her limbs.
Arawn bent and selected a piece of herbed chicken. The chicken was already sliced, she noted dully. Not even Arawn would risk carrying an eating knife into this room.
He carried the piece of chicken over to the bed and held it out to her. “Here.”
Ilsa simply looked at him.
“Open your mouth.” He raised a brow. “I can make you do it, if I must.”
She opened her mouth. He dropped the morsel inside. Ilsa chewed, her mouth flooding as the rich herbs and flavorful meat registered. It was very good. Her stomach rumbled.
Arawn went back to his chair and sat. “Come and eat, if you want more.” He leaned and selected a bowl with fried vegetables and lifted it to his lap and ate.
Ilsa’s belly cramped hard. She eased herself from the bed. Every movement was painful, for she had been sitting in this curled up position for a long time. With stiff limbs, she moved over to the other chair and lowered herself into it.
“Take more of the chicken,” Arawn suggested.
It was an effort. She reached and selected a slice of the white meat and ate it. It was as good as the first mouthful. She swallowed and reached for more, movement coming easier, this time.
Her hunger kept her eating long after Arawn halted and sat back and watched, with a small smile. She didn’t care if he was amused by her. She was ravenous.
When she was full, she burped and covered her mouth, shocked at the sound.
Arawn nodded. “That’s better.”
Ilsa lifted her feet to the front of the chair, put her arms around her knees and hid her face. It felt as if she had given in. Yet the food had been so good.
Arawn gripped her wrist and detached her hand from her knee. He pressed a wine cup into her hand until her fingers curled around it.
Then he sat down and told her about his day. When he was finished, he departed.
He left the food behind, though.
The next morning, as dawn light filled the grid in the window, Ilsa was woken by the door opening. She sat up, pulling the covers up against her, and watched as Arawn, Stilicho and the same two slaves moved into the room. Last night’s dishes were removed and bowls of shellfish stew and stewed peaches from the summer were laid out beside cups of mulled wine which steamed enticingly.
Arawn sat in his chair as the door close
d. He waved toward the other chair, then ate.
Ilsa did not think she could possibly be hungry after last night’s huge meal. Yet her belly rumbled, anyway. She rose from the bed and put on the fur robe over her undertunic. She bent to the trays sitting on the cushions and picked a slice of peach from the thick syrup and tried it. It was tart and warm.
Ilsa sank to the rug, which put the trays at the same height a table would reach, if she were sitting upon a bench. She reached for the wine and drank. She also selected a bowl of the shellfish stew. It had chunks she could select with her fingers, thickly coated with the sauce. It was delicious.
“We will test the clay funnel today,” Arawn told her.
Ilsa glanced at him, startled. A dozen questions occurred to her. Instead of asking them, she drank the wine, washing away the taste of shellfish with the rich, thick flavor of the herbed wine.
“I fully expect the trial will be a success,” Arawn added. “I’m selecting tutors to show the people who live here in Lorient how to operate the devices. When they understand the process, they will be sent to nearby villages to show the people there. Those villages, in turn, can teach the villages around them.”
Ilsa pressed her lips together. Because he had not told her, the question surged from her. “Will a device be taken to Brandérion?”
Arawn’s smile was small. “Your family’s village? Yes. They will be among the first.”
Ilsa relaxed.
Arawn got to his feet. “I must go. There is much to do, today.”
He returned when the sun was at its highest and held out a pastry filled with aromatic lamb and vegetables, wrapped in a cloth to protect fingers from the heat. “The trial was a success. The potters will make more funnels, as many as they can manage, as quickly as possible.”
He left Ilsa sitting on the rug beside the trays, eating the pastry.
The following days fell into the same pattern. Arawn would arrive, bearing food and news, for every meal. He would share the news, then leave to go about his day.
One morning, he put aside the hunk of bread he had been dipping in stew and said, “You have a comb, do you not?” His gaze was on her hair.
Once and Future Hearts Box One Page 33