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

by Alien, Aldrea

  Clara flinched as if she'd been slapped. She had been, in a way. Something deep within her breast certainly stung. "But... but I came back..."

  "To burden me!" Marian threw her arms up. "I struggle to keep the home my husband died in and you seek only to give me another mouth to feed."

  "I can work." She waved a hand at the sewing machine. It'd been a wedding gift from someone on her father's side. Not exactly new back then, it was now a clunky thing.

  The machine itself had been bolted to a table that bore hints of once having a painted edge. Bits of thread and material lay scattered about the wrought iron feet, the pile at its thickest just around the enormous pedal that drove the stitching beast.

  "I can clean, fetch materials, take orders." Just like she used to in the days before her kidnapping. Only this time, she would never complain again.

  Those hard, cold eyes bored into her. Clara squirmed. What else could she offer? There is nothing. All Clara possessed of worth was herself.

  Finally, after what seemed like forever, her mother harrumphed. "You can't do a thing in that gown. Just look at it! Anyone would think you'd crawled your way home through a midden after a romp in the cattle yards." Her mother rummaged through a pile of suspiciously familiar clothes sitting beside the old, padded chair produced a simple smock. "Here." Her mother threw the item at Clara. "Put this on."

  She did as her mother ordered, both eager and reluctant to be rid of the gown. Layers of black and red pooled at her feet. She hesitated at relinquishing the chemise, which hadn't suffered the same abuse as the outer layers, only removing the soft undergarment at her mother's sharp nod.

  Clara stepped away from the clothes to dress, the smock's rough weave scraping against her skin as she pulled it over her head. Next to the silk she'd worn, she might as well have draped herself in sacking. After several years of use, the smock had even taken on the off-white colour of canvas.

  Her mother picked up one of the many layers that made up the gown's skirts and vigorously brushed at the fabric. Dust curled about the silk, settling back onto the folds. "What have you been doing in this?" She held up her hand before Clara could think to speak, heedless to the dark horsehair clinging to her palm. "No. I do not wish to hear. It is painful enough to know you will not go before the altar untouched. I couldn't bear to hear any more."

  Clara swallowed. She thinks I'm no longer a virgin. Could such a reason be why her mother was less than keen at seeing her again? She recalled the response given upon informing her mother of her imprisonment. Mentions of compensation, of money, dominated the page. It was all she wanted. Clara could suffer such knowledge.

  "I thank the Goddess your father is not alive to witness this."

  "Did you not fully read the letter I sent? I was kidnapped!" Did her mother believe she'd been a willing participant in their lord's search for a mistress? "I haven't been outside the Citadel for two weeks."

  "My dear girl, you protest prettily enough, but this—" Her mother brandished the handful of silk as if it were some mighty sword. "—this is not a gown one gets without offering up something in return." A brow twitched upwards. "And you have little to give a man of his breeding." She shook her head, the thick braids of her hair gently swaying. "What sort of man will take you now?"

  "Does it matter?" What did she care if a man wouldn't have her because of rumour? If he would believe idle hearsay before her then she'd be better off without him.

  "Do you plan to be a spinster for the rest of your life, my girl? Working yourself death just to survive, burdening your poor mother more than you seek to do now?" Marian clutched the lace at her throat. "My only hope was Terence would take you, even if you are tainted, but—"

  "I'm not marrying him!" Clara had barely escaped one man she wanted nothing of. How could her mother be thinking of marrying her off to someone else? And to Terence. The cobbler from down in Main Street. She shuddered at the thought.

  "He is a good man, Clarabelle. No reason to think anything else of him. He treated his first wife well, even got her the best doctors he could afford when she became ill."

  Yet his wife still died. It wasn't Terence's fault. Sometimes an illness grabbed hold and refused to let go no matter how much money you threw at the doctors. And Terence Cobbler was a man with a fair bit of money to get things done. "The man has children my age!"

  Her mother nodded. "Children who'll be moving away to follow in other trades no doubt, leaving their poor father all alone. He'll need help." She bent to gather up the rest of the discarded clothing. "Assistance only a young woman could give."

  Clara clamped her teeth together. If Brenna ever had a daughter, and she prayed the Goddess would see fit to grant the woman sons instead, this was exactly how she would be with a little girl. "What is it you're trying to have me do, Mother?"

  "I'm attempting to do what your father should've had arranged years ago!" Black and red silk shimmered in the lantern light as her mother threw up a hand and waved it about. "Ensuring you had a life which wouldn't demand you to prostitute yourself in order to eat has been our goal since your birth." The dress, dangling half-folded in her arms, hit Marian's skirts with a hollow whump. "You don't make it easy for me."

  Easy? Because she wouldn't roll over and allow her mother to dictate how her life went? The idea her father had also been behind this plan was absurd. "I am not marrying Terence, Mother." Her father would never have agreed to such a thing. He wouldn't seek to force a man older than himself upon her.

  "You will." The words snapped the air; sharp and precise, bearing the edge of heat encased in an unruffled facade. "It had all been arranged before your... unfortunate incident with the new Great Lord."

  "But I—"

  Those brown eyes snapped out a warning. Marian Weaver had not finished speaking. "He should be willing to marry you despite your lack of—"

  "Stop!" she shrieked in an effort to be heard through her mother's calm, and equally relentless, prattle. "I'm not marrying—"

  The clothes slammed to the floor, landing in a rumpled heap. "You will do as you are told." Marian strode towards her, kicking aside the gown she'd so carefully folded. "Are you not my daughter? Is this not my house?" She jabbed at Clara's unprotected shoulder. "Whilst you are under this roof, you will do as I say!"

  Clara stepped back out into the hall. "I'm not a child anymore." She was seventeen, not seven. If her mother considered her old enough to marry, then she was certainly old enough to decide who it should be to. She would not be bullied into a marriage to some man who had children older than she was. If she had to live under another roof to get the chance to choose, then so be it. "You can't make me do a damn thing!"

  Her mother's hand lashed across her face, snapping Clara's head around. "You will not speak to me like that."

  Clara glared at Marian. "I assure you, I won't. I'll never speak to you again." With her cheek stinging from the blow and hot tears blurring her sight, she ran back towards the storage room. The curtain tore as she hit it.

  She stumbled across the room. Her shoulder smacked into the door. Abandoning the battle in wiping the tears from her eyes, she blindly scrabbled at the handle.

  Daylight flooded the room, turning the world beyond into a shimmering pool of white and grey. She entered the glittering realm, slamming the door shut on the remnants of the home she hadn't before realised was lost to her.

  Sheltered by the L-shaped wall, her back pressed against the wood, she scrubbed a sleeve across her face. "I wish Dad was here," she mumbled. Her father would've made everything seem right again.

  "How strange. I've been thinking the same thing over the last three and a half weeks."

  Clara jumped at the sound of Lucias' voice. Her hand grasped the door handle before she could think. But there was no freedom to be had in the rooms beyond. I can't go back. Going back would mean submitting to the fate her mother offered.

  Steeling herself, she peered around the end of the wall.

  Lucias leant on the o
ther side, his back pressed against the brickwork. His destrier stood in the alley entrance, blocking her only way out. "Was home not the bright and cheery welcome you thought it would be?" He offered a small, sympathetic smile. "It never is, you know."

  She stared at him through the last of her tears, marking the weary lines on his face. He'd returned to the Citadel because of his father's death. She forgot how short a time it'd been since the old Great Lord had died. Barely a month now. Perhaps because Lucias didn't seem at all bothered, showing no outward sign of his grief. Her father had died two years ago and she still missed him.

  On the other hand, did Lucias actually have the time to waste in grieving for the loss when his mother was coming to kill him? "How did you find me?" How long had he been standing here?

  He shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "I trained with the scouts on the southern border, spent many summers hunting across the Endlight moors with the nomads and you ask me how I found you?"

  Clara sidled along the wall, inching further from his side. "You tracked me through the city?" A horse would not have navigated the path she took. She peered at his boots. They were dirty, in a lived-in sort of fashion, but far cleaner than they should've been if he'd trod the same alleys as she.

  "I'd no need." Lucias' smile carried a grim edge. "A woman dressed in black and red stands out in a crowd rather well. More so when she decides to nip through the alleyways. All I had to do was ask." His gaze ran over her, those dark eyes narrowing and undoubtedly marking the lack of the gown she'd fled here in. "Why are you dressed in naught but a shift?"

  She flattened herself against the wall, suddenly aware of the little she did wear. "These are my normal clothes, my lord." The smock was baggy, serviceable and came to her knees. The perfect attire for busying herself about the house, but not exactly something she'd choose to wear on the streets. "I am a commoner, after all." He must be aware.

  And he doesn't care. Certainly not if much of his lineage had originated from common stock. To help keep the madness at bay. What, in the name of that goal, had his ancestors stooped to in order to ensure their reign continued?

  "Where are the clothes I gave you?"

  "My mother has them." Clara caught his brows twitch, puzzlement flitting across his face. "She no doubt plans to sell the fabric, my lord," she muttered. "As compensation."

  "For the loss of your unpaid services or the inability to marry you off now you are apparently no longer a virgin and possibly carrying my child?"

  Heat flooded her cheeks, blazing its way across her face. Marian was right. Someone of her low breeding didn't get fancy dresses without reason. Lucias may have gifted the gown to her, but he would also be expecting remuneration. He truly believed she would yield and give him an heir. Compared to a child, a gown or two was pittance. "You heard?"

  One corner of his mouth lifted. "Your mother has a good set of lungs."

  She thought back to the day of kidnapping, of the cry that had scattered pigeons. Her mother belonged at the forefront of an army, bellowing orders as she slew her enemies. "Runs in the family." Clara could've sworn neither of them had been loud enough to hear from the street. Had Lucias found her faster than she'd thought and used the time to eavesdrop?

  "And undoubtedly the temper does as well." He strode deeper into the alley, his face set into a determined scowl. "Come. We must return to the Citadel."

  Clara backed up until she hit the far wall. "Don't you dare touch me!" She had not gained her freedom only to be recaptured.

  "Again, there is fear in your eyes," he snarled. "What is it you expect me to do to you?" He waved a hand at the walls. "Pin you against the brickwork and have my way?" His lip quivered in a sneer. "Force myself on you in an alley?" His brows drew together. "Do you believe I would stoop to such wickedness?"

  If it got the deed done, then why not take her here and now? She glanced at the crates around them, searching for a weapon. Her hand fell upon the nearest board. It felt loose enough to come free at a tug. "You lay one finger on me and I'll scream."

  Lucias gave a cold smile. "No, you won't because then I'll be forced to do something you do not want me to do." Closing in, he grabbed her outstretched arm before she could move or utter a single world. "Don't scream." He pulled her close as she tried to wriggle free. "Don't struggle. Just listen. Please."

  She obeyed, held by curiosity. Please. He'd never spoken the word to her before.

  "There is to be a banquet held at the Citadel tonight in celebration of the impending wedding. I'd like you to be there."

  Clara glared at him, her hands balling. "I don't have a choice, do I?" She could not allow herself to be placidly returned to the Citadel like some stray cow. If she did, she would become his prisoner again, and for good as he'd hardly give her another opportunity to escape.

  "You have no home here."

  "I'll find another." She'd enough skill to become an apprentice. Someone in the village would be willing to take her on. And if not here, then there were other villages. "I'll live on the streets until then if I have to. It's safe enough." How hard could it be if Tommy had survived all these years?

  "Nowhere is so safe for a young woman, especially one who cannot defend herself." He tilted her face to one side. His thumb, cool against her skin, hesitantly brushed her cheek and she flinched as it stung anew. "Did she hit you?"

  Clara blinked, finally lifting her gaze to look at him. Lucias glared straight ahead, although not at her, for the focus seemed elsewhere. His black brows knitted together, shielding eyes that had hardened. The firm line of his lips compressed with visible distaste. Was it concern? For her?

  "I'm fine," she blurted.

  "Fine?" His eyes took on a feral edge. "No one has the right to touch you in such a manner." He released her, marching towards the door. The weathered wood rattled. Hinges groaned under the unseen force.

  "Wait." She grabbed his arm, desperate to halt him. Her fingers dug into the hard muscles, but she could not turn him away. "Stop it!"

  "She struck you." His lips shuddered into a sneer. "Her own daughter. Is this common behaviour for your family?" He faced her, a faint shimmer of light dancing in his eyes. "Do you not wish to seek retribution for this act?"

  "Whatever for?" Her mother had always been physical when it came to dealing out Clara's punishments. Even her father had resorted to the belt in her youth. But she'd seen the result of worse handling. Her parents weren't harsh, never cruel and, although she never believed it at the time, all the reprimands she'd endured over the years were not uncalled for. "What would you do to her if I said yes?"

  "Anything you desire."

  Anything. All the power he had under his command, waiting to be wrought at her word. She could do whatever she wished. All she needed to do was give her consent. And be in his debt all the more. Letting him deal with her mother would just be another little hook to ensnare her. "N-no." She shook her head in case he hadn't heard. "I just want to leave." Her cheek was not so bad and the mark would be gone in the morning.

  With his hand firmly grasping his sword hilt, Lucias silently inspected her.

  Her untouched cheek joined the other in its burning. She planted herself before him, her arms folded tightly across her breasts. "If you plan on taking me back to the Citadel, then let's be off." Her gaze flicked to the alley's entrance and the destrier still standing there. "Otherwise, move your flamin' horse."

  His forehead creased. One brow rose as he eyed first her, then the door. His mouth took on a sour twist. "Tell me, Clara, do you enjoy being a martyr?"

  She jerked back. "What are you talking about?"

  "First you give up your freedom for the street urchin." Lucias marched over to his mount's side. "Now you attempt to sway me from seeking out your mother by promising to return to the Citadel." Grasping the black leather saddle, he leapt aboard his mount. The horse, seeming larger now it bore a rider, swung to face her. "You clutch your grievances to you like a child's blanket, forgetting you are no
t entirely blameless for your current situation."

  "So I deserve everything I get?"

  The horse snorted as he kneed it into the alley's tight quarters. "I could give you a great deal, Clara. Whatever you wished."

  "As long as I give you a child."

  He gave a sad smile. The horse shifted and threw his face into deeper shadows. "That choice has always been yours," he whispered.

  She shook her head. What choice did a prisoner have? "You took away my right to choose."

  "Oh?" Leaning over the horses' neck, Lucias thrust his hand towards her. "Then what is it to be this time, Miss Weaver? Do you seek to suffer even further by enduring hunger on the streets, or will you swallow your fierce pride to join me in the feasting and the comforts of a warm bed?"

  She clasped his arm. "As long as that bed does not include you."

  He grinned back at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Something both firm and yielding wrapped around her waist. Her feet left the ground. Clara stiffened as his magic coiled down her legs, writhing against her thighs and gently encouraging her knees to bend. Lucias lifted her over the horse to sit her, sideways, before the saddle. The unseen hold on her shrank into a thick sash-like harness, clasping her tight.

  Her stomach flopped. Why had he not tried to stop her from fleeing earlier? Had he suspected she would not find this a suitable haven?

  Clara wriggled on the spot, trying to find a comfortable position on the animal's withers. The horse's body rolled beneath her, coarse hair tickling her unprotected legs, as the horse backed out of the alley and onto the street. Her smock slipped down one shoulder. She struggled to cover her bare skin, her face growing uncomfortably warm.

  The destrier, at his rider's sudden and sharp command, leapt into a gallop, jolting a scream from her throat. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut, she clung to Lucias. Flattened against his chest, the harsh leather of his jerkin rubbed at her exposed shoulder.