Despite his urgent need to tear her dress off, spread her thighs, and take her on the floor, he would use persuasion. He didn’t want a bitter, angry woman sleeping in his house, wherever that might be, for the next year. As she leaned over to take fresh, steaming rolls out of the oven, her ripe breasts spilled over her low-cut dress. He swallowed and hoped he could hold out long enough to achieve her willing capitulation.
He pulled one of the chairs out from the table and waited for his trout to swim into the net. “Milady?”
The witch’s eyes narrowed. Arms crossed, expression baleful, she moved in front of him and sat as gingerly as if the chair held hot coals.
He leaned in, blew across her nape, and smiled as she shuddered.
Small successes bred large ones. He didn’t know exactly how she figured into his plot for freedom from the queen, yet, but she was a tasty morsel. He settled into the opposite chair. The odor from the food rose. Logan gripped the seat of his chair and shook. It was all he could do not to rip a leg off, stuff it into his salivating mouth, and fill the pit of his starvation with its succulence.
“Are you all right?” The witch stared at him from across the small table.
He blew out a breath and released the chair. “I’m fine.”
There was plenty of food. He was no longer in prison. No longer at the mercy of a vindictive queen and her minions. There was time for all of his appetites.
He filled the witch’s plate with small, choice morsels of food. Perfectly roasted chicken. Tiny, crisp asparagus. Hot, soft rolls dripping with fresh butter. He ate in appreciative silence, forcing himself to pick up the knife and cut each piece before laying it back on the edge of the plate and carrying the food on the fork to his mouth. The first day out of hiebernieth, he’d learned if he bolted his food down, it bolted back up.
The witch ate fast, sneaking quick peeks at him from under loosened strands of long dark hair. As if she, too, had been in prison and if she didn’t shovel all the food in now, he’d steal her share.
“I like the jar of flowers on the table.” His smile was rewarded with a nervous one of her own that fled almost as fast as it had appeared. The flowers touched him as something distinctly feminine, something he’d never had much of. “You’ve accomplished much more in an afternoon than I thought possible without magic.”
“Whenever I needed something today, I found it,” she said, her words slow and grudging. “Even empty cabinets became full when I looked for something.”
“Ah. That’s good. I knew Rinnal wouldn’t have let this place go completely downhill.”
“The spell here feels old, set in its ways.”
“Explain.” He paused, fork in mid-air, holding a bite of green, buttery asparagus just over his plate. Proving to himself that, if he wanted to, he could put the food down and walk away.
She spoke. He ripped his attention from the waiting bite and listened.
“Well… I found a broom simply by wishing I had one, then opening the broom closet. The same thing with clean sheets and towels, but when I tried wishing for a vacuum cleaner, all I got was a different type of broom!” The surprising bell of her laugh rang out like a mid-winter sleigh jingling through the deep snow, stealing all thoughts of food and replacing them with long forgotten memories.
Her laugh died away and she went back to eating, adding defensively, “I still had to make the beds.”
“You’ve worked hard.”
She nodded, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she chewed.
“It shows, lass. The place is clean. Smells better, too.” He quirked his lips up and grinned at her, encouraged when she returned his smile with a fleeting one of her own before ducking her head, and returning her attention to her plate.
His stomach protested too much food, too fast. He stopped eating, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. The tight bodice of the silk dress lifted her full breasts high, creating a deep cleavage for the lantern light to play in the shadows and his body reacted. He pushed his plate back. He planned on pleasuring her all night, he would eat later and seduce her now.
“How’s the forest?” she asked, through lips sheened with grease from the chicken. He got distracted from her question picturing how they would feel wrapped around his length, sliding up and down while his hand fisted in her silky, black hair.
“Logan?”
“I scouted out the area, though I didn’t find much,” he told her. “My uncles like their privacy and have kept this area clear of squatters.”
“Where were you last night?” Her mouth snapped closed, as if she begrudged the concern implicated in the question.
He picked up his glass of water, sipped, and delayed answering while he considered how much he should reveal. “I was busy making sure the queen will not look for you. She now believes you to be dead. I believe, if we can keep you from her notice, you’ll be safe.”
“I’m safe.” She played with her food, pushing the asparagus back and forth in the congealed butter with her fork, her gaze focused on her plate. “What about the rest of my family? Are my cousins and aunt safe? Will she turn to them next?”
“I don’t think anything will keep the queen from eliminating the MacElvys.” Her eyes flew up to his and he found himself apologizing. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re saying that I’m safe, but my family is dead?”
“I’m saying I cannot do anything about it.”
“I don’t believe you. Look at you.” She dropped the fork, stood up, and leaned her palms on the edge of the small table until he could look nowhere else but her flashing, green eyes. “You have more magic, more power than what’s left of my family combined. In fact, I would bet you have more magic than if there were twenty or thirty of us left. You know the queen. You have family, and I’m willing to bet they’re all at least as powerful as you. And yet…”
She leaned in close, her chest heaving with anger. He glanced down and could see straight down her bodice. He gritted his teeth and kept his hands still, half listening, but all he could think of was sliding his hand between her breasts, pulling each one out until he could see her nipples, and rolling the tight buds between his fingers.
She continued to talk.
“And yet you sit there and tell me in that oh-so-superior accent of yours that you can’t do anything. What are you? A eunuch? No-balls the elf lord?”
It stung. He knew better, knew he was being manipulated by a human, someone almost three hundred years younger than him. A mere babe in his world, and it still stung.
He looked across the table at his green-eyed witch and realized that she wasn’t going to let this go. He was never going to be able to relax with her and enjoy his release from the queen’s prison until she was satisfied about her family. Damn.
He leaned back, playing with his knife. “I don’t know about your family.”
“Not good enough.” She straightened up and stood, arms crossed like a fishwife guarding the catch.
“You’re safer if the queen thinks you’re dead. Better yet, you’d be safer if she thought all the MacElvy’s were dead.”
“Do you think the queen will forget about them?” Her eyes brightened and her stance relaxed a tiny bit. “She’s been after us for so long maybe my supposed death will satisfy her.”
“Sit down.” He couldn’t concentrate with her this close. He needed her back across the table with the temptation of her easy-to-lift skirt well out of the way. “I’ve never seen the queen so out of control. She’s almost eliminated an entire tribe of gypsies. Why?” He shook his head. “It’s bizarre.” The memory of the queen shrieking at him was vivid. “There are seven gypsy tribes, why would she want to kill only the MacElvy’s? What did your tribe do?”
“My tribe has done nothing. We’ve been trying to figure this out for twenty years, ever since she first started the killings. I can’t believe this.” She slumped back into her chair. “I thought by now I would have some information and instead, I’m trapped into a year of wor
king for you. I should have gone with my cousins and aunt in the van, at least then I would be free to help them do something.” Her face contorted with the effort of holding back tears.
Logan pictured a whole year of fighting about her family. He knew enough about women to understand she wasn’t going to let this go. It didn’t even approach his fantasy of sexual servitude, or even a quick fuck.
The sooner he solved this problem, the sooner he could enjoy his release. She knew something, or she was vital to gaining some piece of information he could use to gain leverage on the queen or use to find the prince. He could feel it in his bones. There was a reason fate had stayed his hand, a reason he had spared her. She was the key to his freedom, he simply had to unlock the puzzle.
He ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept for over twenty four hours and was exhausted from keeping her safe. Now he would have to deal with the whole damn family before he got what he wanted.
“Think hard,” he said. “There must be something you can remember; some snippet of information that would tell you why the queen has it in for all the MacElvys.”
“There was a rumor, a few years back,” she said, “An important elven lady who dared to stay in contact with our tribe and act as liaison. She tried to negotiate a truce, but the queen would have none of it. All she could figure out was that the queen had had some sort of message or communication that told her we must be a threat.”
“Who was it? Do you have a name? What did she look like? I know, or at least I knew, many who frequented the queen’s court. If it’s someone I can trust, I might be able to get the information we seek.” He decided to dribble in a little honesty, get some mileage out of his problems with the queen. “I believe the queen will call me in to find the rest of your family. Without knowing why she wants this done, I’m reluctant to kill them.”
“I thought you were her huntsman? I thought you had to do her bidding.”
“I am. I was. But I’m not a butcher.” He glanced away from her open face. “It’s not a simple subject. How much do you know about fae and the court? How much do you know about me?”
“Not much. Everyone knows the stories about the faeries and the Dark Huntsman.” She shivered. “They aren’t bedtime stories.”
He knew the stories. Nefarious tales of the fae leaving changelings in the place of rosy-cheeked babes. Or tales of the seduction and corruption of someone’s lover. Kidnapping, torture, defilement of innocents. The stories of the Huntsman were just as immoral, just as sinister, and just as haunting.
She stared at him with those deep green eyes and he wondered what she saw. He’d been told he was handsome by human standards. Did she see a handsome, black-haired man who smiled and charmed like any human male? Or did she see the infamous Dark Huntsman?
No matter if she did.
He was older, smarter, and more experienced than she was prepared for. And he wanted her tonight with a lonely man’s fierce, hungry desperation.
“The Huntsman is a title, not any one person. Many of my ancestors have held it over thousands of years. I’ve been cursed with it, and the queen’s attention, for only a short while. There’s some truth to your tales. Over the years, the Huntsmen have been ruthless.” He calculated how much to tell her to win her trust. How much of himself could he expose, and still leave out the dark things.
“I have some experience with the queen,” he said, “I’ve run some of her errands, been a part of some of her hunts. But she asks too much of a man.” Memories of the queen and court and the debacle that had landed him here darkened his voice. “About fifteen years ago, she asked me to betray my liege, her son. I refused, and she threw me in a hole Underhill.” That last scene of the queen and the betrayal she’d asked of him inundated him.
His muscles tensed. The lantern light flickered and the room grew shadowed.
Trina’s eyes rounded. “How long were you there?” she asked, her voice near a whisper. “In prison, I mean. How long has it been since she let you out?” She wrapped her arms around her torso and her breasts pushed up high, spilling over the neck of the low-cut gown in a welcome distraction from the scenes of suspicion and blood.
“She kept me fifteen years in the oubliette.”
Fifteen years in the dark, nightmarish dreaming of hiebernieth while his prince disappeared and the worlds spun on without him. Fifteen years while he’d been grateful to be forgotten by the queen.
“Two days ago, the queen said she would release me if I ran an errand for her.” He caught her gaze. “The errand was to kill you.”
A slew of emotions flew across her expressive face as she worked through the implications. She would never survive at court with a face like that. Someone like her would be devoured. Unless she had a protector.
It was a novel idea, and surprisingly welcome. To take on the role of protector instead of slaughterer…
“Why didn’t you kill me? Fifteen years in an oubliette and I would think you’d do anything. How did you survive?”
“It wasn’t pleasant.” She waited for more while he thought of how to explain hiebernieth. The slow of time, the endless dreams, the nightmares. How it could drive some mad, and drive others to desperation.
“Have you ever wondered how Djinn survive being in their bottles for thousands of years? Well, let’s just say that the high fae are able to endure it in a similar way. We have our powers to help make time pass. And it was Underhill. As for whether or not she’ll imprison me again, I can only do my best to avoid that. Odds are, she’ll just kill me.”
That wasn’t true. The queen would make him pay if she found out his betrayal. It was time to lay the bait, time to negotiate another bargain. Trina’s information for his further protection.
“I’ve risked much for you, my witch, but I can see you’ll never rest ‘til we’ve done something about the rest of your family. Let’s forget about what the queen will do to me and focus on solving your family’s riddle. Tell me what else you know of the fae who tried to help your family. What do you remember?”
“Not much. I was very young at the time. I’d just lost my parents and went to live with my cousins. That was when we still didn’t know how bad it was going to be. When my uncle was still alive.”
She got up and began to clear. Depositing leftovers into bowls, she leaned over to place them in the small old-fashioned icebox. Her short skirt swayed with her body’s movements, outlined her hips, and brushed her thighs. He shifted in his chair, clenching his hands into fists so he wouldn’t snatch her up and pull her into his lap. Push her skirt up and run his finger under the thong that he knew was all she wore under her skirt.
“Well, do you know anyone who might know who it was? I don’t want to contact your family, but is there anyone else who might be able to help?”
“I think my aunt found out at one of the Great Meets we have every few years. All the gypsy tribes send representatives to hash out treaties on territories and feuds, and to arrange marriages.” She leaned over and ran a cloth over the table, sharing another blood-stealing view of her breasts. “I haven’t been recently, but that’s where I’ve seen a few of your kind. They party with the humans when they aren’t acting as liaisons for the court. Or they come for services that we can render.”
“I remember the meets. I’ve been to a few. Lots of business mixed with pleasure. If there’s one coming up soon, I’ll go and dig up some information on this woman.”
“That’s a fantastic idea. We have to go!”
“Not you. If the queen finds out you’re alive, she’ll kill you, and then me. If you recall, she thinks you’re already dead by my hand.”
“Everyone thinks I’m dead. Instead of helping my family, I’m stuck here cleaning for you. I’m tired and dirty and there’s no shower!”
Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes. One slid out, freed. Then another. Suddenly, they were everywhere, rushing down in a bewildering torrent.
Logan’s breath hitched to a halt.
H
e could feel her pain. Every tear etched inside his heart, where he hadn’t felt anything since he was small and hiding from his father.
She was falling apart into tiny, fragmented pieces and he had to stop it before the pain in his chest took him with her.
Chapter Seven
Logan stood, pushing away from the table, rising panic constricting his chest. He had no idea what to do, but he crossed the few feet to Trina and wrapped his arms around her, hoping it would be enough to stop her tears and ease his stress. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. He tightened his embrace with each of her hitching breaths in an attempt to contain her misery. Still she cried. And the responding pain in his chest swelled.
Then she went limp and started wailing huge sounds of distress that rang in his super sensitive ears and left him even more bewildered. Her whole body racked with emotion as he held her, afraid to hang on, but even more afraid to let go and watch her fracture.
“Whist. It’s all right.” He whispered, tucking her tiny feminine frame under his chin and rocking her slowly, like a boat on the night sea. Her shaking misery put off his arousal and sharpened his distress to a near impossible edge.
He couldn’t remember comforting a woman before. They were for pleasure, not this terrible feeling of anxious helplessness. He cursed silently and held on as she clung to him and cried, pouring everything out onto him as he rubbed her back in the soothing circular motions he would use to calm a frightened animal. His shirt became soaked with her warm tears, and finally, he accepted that he’d have to wait for what he needed. The witch was too upset for any seduction.
Trina’s crying became less of a deluge and more of a sprinkle. She tugged out of Logan’s hold, her tears drying on her skin, her eyes hot and sore. Behind the bewildered, out-of-his-depth expression, she thought she detected something that resembled a painful form of caring.
This man was the faerie queen’s executioner. He would have killed her had she not taken his forced bargain of near slavery. And now he smoothed the last of her drying tears from her hot cheeks, stepped behind her, and used oddly gentle hands to unfasten her hair.
The Dark Huntsman: A Fantasy Romance of The Black Court (Tales of The Black Court Book 1) Page 9