Dark One's Mistress (Dark One Trilogy Book 1)

by Alien, Aldrea

  Lucias stiffened as her slipper touched the grounds. He swung to face her, his boot heel grinding in the dirt. His gaze swept up over her, then lowered to eye her gown.

  Clara felt the onset of a blush bearing down on her. She did her best to stifle the warmth to no avail. "My lord?" She bobbed the briefest of curtsies, her eyes flicking towards the wounded man. The arm appeared to be bleeding even less than it had when he first sat down. "Do you not think he requires attention?"

  Lucias spun to follow her gaze, his boots scuffing up dust, and laughed. Pleasant and rich, it nevertheless seemed to chill the air around her. Why did he shake his head so?

  "But... he'll die," she said.

  "Not here he won't. Come." Lucias beckoned the man over.

  Blood still streaked his arm, near black as the sun's heat baked it dry. Above, where there should have been a gaping wound, was naught but skin. Frowning, Clara brushed a finger over the heavily scarred arm. Another scar sat there, silvery pink as if close to the end of healing. How can it be? She'd seen a wound marring this limb. It had been there.

  Gasping, she watched the scar change colour, adopting the more flesh-toned hue of the others criss-crossing his skin. Magic. Lucias controlled the doors by it. Had bound her using the same method. Now, after ruthlessly striking them in the first place, he healed his men? And, if the previous marks were anything to be judged by, not for the first time.

  "See?" Lucias clamped a hand on the man's shoulder. "Being in the training ground ensures he's perfectly fine. Go." This last word was directed at the man as his lord propelled him towards the shadows. "Sit back down. And be sure to drink something."

  Clara watched the man obey the order without a word. They're like walking dummies to him. Better than an inert lump of wood, but just as replaceable if they happened to become... worn out. Was there nothing beyond his power?

  "Now then." Brushing the hair back from his face, he once more focused his appraising gaze on her gown before turning to the old woman who'd led her here. "Gettie, do explain to me what possessed you to dress her like this?"

  It was a nice gown, if not exactly to her tastes. The ruffles and lace on her skirts and sleeves felt overdone and the neckline dipped a little bit too far into what her mother would consider as unseemly. The women had even given her a shift to match the low cut, leaving her shoulders the barest they'd ever been outside of a washtub.

  She had to admit the effect would've been better, if the Goddess had chosen to give her Brenna's fuller figure. Even Penny, with her short stature, had more than enough in the chest region to give her a decent cleavage. Clara's apparent lack in the area seemed to have bothered the women for they'd offered her the choice of several corsets—some garish in design and others decades out of fashion—to accentuate her curves and give a little boost to her modest bosom. She'd refused. As it was, they had laced the bodice tighter than she'd have preferred.

  The old woman shuffled out into the training grounds. "I do not understand, my lord. You requested she be garbed to suit her status."

  "Yes, but just look at it. Look at what you've done to her." He sheathed his sword, his free hand waving in Clara's direction. "I believe I specifically requested it to be tasteful. Does she look at all elegant to you?"

  Not elegant? I bet you wouldn't say the same about Brenna. Then again, the buxom tart would've allowed herself to be tumbled into his bed at the first instance.

  Gettie wrung her hands. Her mouth moved silently and her head jerked from side-to-side as she tracked his pacing steps.

  "And what were you thinking with the colour? You've completely paled her skin."

  Those watery blue eyes stared at him, incomprehension creasing Gettie's face. "But black and red are my lord's favourite colours." She waved her hand over his attire. For the moment, his chest was bare, yet he still favoured the black leather pants and dark red sash. "They are the realm's colours." Gettie's indicated her own two-toned garb that covered all but her head and hands. Clara would've preferred a similar garment.

  Lucias halted. "Fair enough. But they do not suit her." A weary sigh slipped through his lips. "Do tell me, though, what is the logic behind the collar?"

  "It is what your father—" The woman fell silent as he rounded on her.

  "I care not for what my father would've done or wanted! Stop comparing me to him! I am not him!" Shaking, he ran his fingers through the sweaty mass of his hair. "I'm not him." His gaze fastened onto Clara as if he were suddenly aware of her presence. "Take it off."

  Putting a finger on the buckle at her throat, Clara paused. His glare spoke of waning patience with the world and all those in it. Perhaps, just this once, she should be completely sure of the orders he gave. "Take what off, my lord?"

  "The collar," he snapped, giving her a covetous glance over his shoulder. "Although if you feel inclined to remove anything else, you are free to do so."

  Clara unbuckled the slim strap. Her neck tingled as the weight lifted. "You can have this." She flung the collar at his feet. "You'll get naught else from me." Remove more, indeed. Why she felt exposed enough standing before him and there were two distinct layers between her and the air, three if she included the bloomers hidden beneath her skirts. Any less and she might as well be naked. Here. Before the servant woman and the lord's men. Her face warmed at the image.

  Something flickered across his dark eyes. Bittersweet. Haunted. "You tried to escape again last night. Four times in the last five days. Does it not tire you to always fail?"

  She smiled to herself. Not even a full week had passed since her kidnapping, yet each attempt got her out of every room they'd locked her in. "I warned you I wouldn't stay here willingly." Although he kept the gate to freedom closed, he could not stop her seeking another way out. She would find it.

  "It surprised me to hear how easy it has been to catch you. As it did learning your technique, which is weak at best, has not shown any sign of progressing." He strode towards the waiting men, seizing the bucket one of them held. Water slopped over the edge to hit the ground with a dull hiss. His hand dipped, drawing the liquid to his face.

  Clara waited for him to finish, her mouth suddenly dry. It was the heat. Had to be. The sun sat directly above them and the walls cut off all wind. When had she last had anything to drink? Must have been an hour or two now. She would not ask for a drink.

  I'm weak? She'd fought full-grown men. Easy? How dare he think her effortless to contain. Her struggling against their hold had continued until they'd been left with little choice but to release her. One had even been brought to his knees by a calculated blow.

  "My men were given strict orders not to hurt you." Flicking water from his fingers, he faced her once again. "Yet you still could not best them."

  "Then I shall endeavour to improve my efforts." She hadn't been trying to make it easy for them.

  "Indeed. Your fighting can only be described as amateurish and pathetic. If these walls are ever breeched, I've little doubt those who seek to kill me will have no qualms in also harming you. I mean to make certain you can defend yourself should the need arise."

  "Defend," she echoed. "Like with a knife?" Escape would be far easier if she were allowed access to some weaponry. Given a blade, she could be free within the hour.

  Lucias shook his head. "Unarmed combat only." One corner of his mouth lifted for a brief moment. "Even if I trusted you with something as simple as a dagger, you'd need more training than I've time to give." Waving the men back, he beckoned her forward.

  "Surely you do not expect me to fight in this." Her dress barely let her walk freely.

  A black brow rose. His lips twitched with the shadow of a smirk. "You're wearing undergarments, are you not?"

  She folded her arms over her breasts, steadfastly attempting to ignore the panels of the gown digging into her flesh. Did he imagine her parading about in naught but petticoats? "What lies under my skirts is none of your concern."

  "I wouldn't agree there." He chuckled, the soun
d heating her cheeks. "In fact, I am very interested in what's under your skirts." His gaze, bright with amusement, ran over her, fanning the warmth across her face. "Perhaps it is for the better if you learn within the strictures you shall be living with. Now come at me. I promise I won't hurt you."

  He wouldn't hurt her, would he? Well, I'm making no such promise. If she couldn't do permanent damage here, then she could at least deter him. Do it well enough, then perhaps he'd amend his decision to keep her. She swung, her fist aiming for his face.

  Jerking out of the way, Lucias caught her arm. "No, no, no. You don't want your thumb there." Cupping her hand, he prised open her fist, unfurling the thumb from beneath the protective cocoon of her fingers. "Not unless you're looking to break it." He manipulated her digits, tucking the thumb against the bottom curl of her fingers. "There." Stepping back, he spread his arms wide. "Care to try again?"

  She frowned down at her hand, clenching it until the ragged, bitten ends of her fingernails dug into her palm. Maybe knocking him unconscious would allow her access to the gates... and freedom.

  Her gaze lifted to take in the handful of men quietly flanking their lord. What steps would they take if she did knock him out? She swung up, aiming slightly lower in imitation of the fighting on the streets. Hit his chin and he'd go down. She'd seen so many successful attempts done. It had to work.

  Once again, Lucias dodged her blow. "Better." Grabbing her by the shoulders, he swung them around. "Now put a little more force behind it." Grinning, he stepped back. "Also... Try not to overreach so much."

  Clara rushed at him, thumping at his chest and stomach with equal force.

  He took most of her punches, grunting as they landed, only moving to deflect whatever blows she aimed higher or lower than his torso. "So easy." His arms wrapped around her, drawing them closer together. The musky scent of drying sweat clogged her nose. "One could believe you want to be caught."

  She pushed against him, wriggling to get free of his grip. Nothing gave. She might as well have been trying to shove down a wall.

  "I wonder..." He pulled her closer, crushing her to his chest. Cupping her chin, he tilted her head back. "What else will you allow?" His eyes, dark enough in the noon light to be called black, lightened a shade towards brown as his head shadowed her face. "A kiss?" His lips neared hers, parting to let his hot breath caress her skin.

  Shivering, she stopped trying to fight him. If he wanted to take her now, she'd no say in the matter. Nothing she did would be enough to keep him away. Her fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. Given a blade... Her knee came up. His hold on her loosened and the sword came free.

  She scurried back from him, gripping the weapon tightly in both hands. The blade glittered in the light. It was heavier than she'd imagined. She could lift it. Barely.

  "And what shall you do now?" Lucias asked, all trace of humour evaporating. He straightened, his hand pressed to his lower gut. Her aim had been off. "Run me through if you think it wise, I'll still heal." He gestured with his other hand. Behind him, the men drew their weapons. "By then, they will have subdued you."

  "You won't always be in the training grounds." She'd entered his chambers before, unwittingly yes, but she could do it again. Preferably whilst he slept and not surrounded by his men. "And I'll never stop trying to escape this place." Given a blade... "I could kill you. Anytime." She could. As easy as any other man. Easier even. No one would know she'd done it until the next morning. She could be far from here by then.

  His eyes narrowed. The sword wobbled in her hands, slipping from her grip to float across the space. "No, you won't." He returned the weapon to its sheath, the hiss of its passage deafening.

  Clara ground her teeth together, fiercely resisting the urge to scream as it came bubbling from deep inside. "You don't think I've the stomach for it?" The air around her hardened, pinning her arms to her sides. More magic. Dear Goddess, why did he bother with this pretence of courteousness when he'd such power at hand?

  Lucias stood before her, his left hand holding tightly onto his sword hilt. "Oh, you've the stomach alright." The unseen restraints released an arm. He took up her hand before she'd a chance to move and gently kissed the back of it. "Just not the heart."

  Chapter Seven

  Rough stone scraped across Clara's knuckles, mindlessly grating off a layer of skin. Cursing under her breath, she jerked her hand back to suck at the barked flesh. Chips of stone and dirt coated her lips. She spat them out.

  This had to be the way. She'd walked it several times to be sure. Walls couldn't move on their own. Especially not in the dingy old servants' passages. It'd be no help to anybody at all to let them get lost down here. Why, a person could wander for hours before they were found, maybe even days. With naught but the cold stone around you.

  She reached out, her hand slapping against the brickwork. Could someone have bricked it over whilst she'd been locked in her chambers for the last three days? It wouldn't matter. If this route was blocked, she'd find another way.

  Her fingers danced along the stone, feeling for the mortar between the bricks. Hard to tell between something being fresh and wet or merely old and damp. Squinting, she peered into the darkness, hoping to see anything different.

  It wasn't moonless-sky dark, which at least had a lighter edge to the skyline. This was the sort of blackness the night could only dream of being. The kind where you weren't quite sure if the hand you knew you'd just waved before your face had actually been there. This was a place where you were wise to bring a reliable lantern and a dozen or so matches to boot.

  Above came the mournful groan of the main gate opening.

  Of course, she'd gone right at the previous junction. This was the left turn. How could she have let herself get a step behind? One wrong turn now and she'd miss her chance.

  Putting her back to the wall, she marched off into the dark, steadily counting her steps as she went... ten... eleven. Up the second flight of stairs she came to, then another left at the top and onwards until the last barrier to freedom stood before her. Naught but a simple, wooden door.

  Clara peered through a knothole. People with torches bustled about, tending to their business in the eerie single-mindedness she'd come to expect from servants of the Great Lord. Not far now. She pushed open the door, the hinges giving a tiny peep of protest. The sound was all too easily lost in the clatter outside.

  Little shivers of glee tickled down her spine. Too easy to catch, was she? The entrance sat just to her right, likely still open and a few sprinting strides away. Nothing stood between her and it.

  She slipped out into the courtyard, pressing one shoulder to the wall. Keep to the shadows, she chanted. Walk like you belong. No one ever bothered anyone who seemed as if they were meant to be there. With her new, high-necked gown, she should resemble a servant from afar.

  In the middle of the yard stood a carriage. A hideous boxy thing, bound with metal in too many places to be carrying anything nice. An iron wagon. She'd never seen one before, but she'd heard of them a great many times. Be good or face the iron wagon. Clara shivered at the memory. The priests, the guards, her parents... From before the first time she'd been old enough to walk the streets alone to just a few months back, she would always hear that warning.

  The doors opened, the carriage rattling as the heavy panels swung freely. Clara paused, unable to tear her gaze from the dark shapes within. Criminals. The law said if you weren't good, then you must be bad. And all bad men met their end here.

  "Come on! Come on!" a man bellowed, thrusting his torch into the wagon. "Step out or be dragged out, your choice." He laughed, the dreadful sound echoing in the silence. "Be the last one you'll ever get."

  One by one, the three men left the dubious safety of the iron-bound box. They look so normal. She never would've picked them as criminals. Maybe the scrawny one, but only because of the guilty way he shuffled. Why one even bore a striking resemblance to—

  "Tommy?" she breathed. It can't be. No rea
son it should be. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the lanky form with its mop of dark hair. She could recall his face just as easily as the countless times he'd cheerfully helped her and then been on his way to whatever alley he slept in. What's he doing here? There wasn't a chance he'd done something wrong. Surely this was a mistake.

  Clara pulled her gaze from the wagon and its men. Before her lay the open maw of freedom. Darkness ruled the land beyond. The moon had risen, although it had become close to turning into a dark circle over the week, leaving the sky to be dusted in sweeping arcs of stars. Such a sight beckoned her forth. No one would notice her departure. Not until the morning. She could be on the road to Ne'ermore by then. There, behind those impenetrable walls, she would at last be safe.

  "Onwards lads!" the driver bellowed. "That's it, step lively to your doom!"

  She glanced back. The men had gone. The only thing marking their passage was the creak of a door not quite shut. I should help him. Tommy would be fine without her, wouldn't he? They'd see he didn't belong here. He wasn't like the other two. Only bad men come here. Tommy wasn't even aware of being a man. He'd been nine for the past ten years.

  "Curse it all," she snarled. She couldn't leave it up to those monsters. What would they care if he'd done anything or not? If you arrived in the iron wagon, you must be bad and if you're bad, you must be punished. The crime was no longer important.

  Keeping to the shadows, Clara snuck over to the last door she'd seen move. She'd never dared this entrance. The panel gave to a cautious prod and she peeked through the gap.

  Footsteps echoed from somewhere deep below, growing fainter with each stride. Down the stairs she crept, her slippered feet softly tapping on each bare step. Torches lined the stairway, turning it into a coiling patchwork of light and dark. This had to be the dungeon. A place like this would be remiss not to have one.

  The end corner peeked around the curve. No one appeared to be coming back up. She could sneak in, hide in some dark corner or behind something and then it would just be a matter of waiting for the right moment to free Tommy.