But the door opened, and there he stood. His hazel gaze was earnest. Clear.
She swallowed and bit her lip, shaking her head as no words would come, and he took her in his arms, and it was so much comfort, too much—his warm body against hers, his strong arms holding her in their loving embrace, his stubble brushing her forehead.
Whatever had kept her strong and standing for the past months failed her now, collapsing upon itself. Her knees buckled, and she slipped in his embrace, but he caught her.
“I got you. You’re all right.” His voice, despite its reassurance, choked.
There was no more holding back.
She rested her wet cheek against the velvet doublet covering his chest. “He didn’t… wait for me.” An unfamiliar voice, broken, shrill.
He squeezed her, groaned. The rumble of his voice vibrated from his body against hers, and she closed her eyes, focusing on his warmth, on his breaths, on him.
“Stay here tonight,” he whispered, and she nodded against his chest, breathing him in, cinnamon spice, and cypress, and familiarity.
He scooped her up and carried her to his bedchamber, where he lowered her gently to the bed and nestled her under the covers. He climbed in next to her, wrapped an arm around her and held her together.
Chapter 47
The sun’s morning rays warmed Jon’s skin. He’d slept too long, hours past dawn. It had been a long night.
Outside the window, snow layered the sill. Gods, not again. It was nearly spring—much too late for snow. He had to get a handle on his power.
Despite his nakedness, sweat coated his skin. A fever. No, a fire. It burned inside him.
He peered at Aless asleep upon his chest, not a care in the world. After Leigh had left Courdeval, thoughts of Rielle had reclaimed him, haunted him.
He rubbed his face. If Aless agreed to marry him after he told her about his heart, they would announce their engagement in a matter of days, and they might be married by the end of summer. And he still had yet to formally end his affair with Nora.
Another time. It could wait.
He slipped from the bed. Aless could sleep all day if she wished, but he had a list of tasks that could take weeks. The Lord Warden would be reporting soon on the interrogations, as he always did in the afternoon.
He washed and dressed, the final piece the black leather doublet his chamberlain had left out. Perhaps he’d open the windows in his study to make the leather bearable.
On his way to his dining room, he passed the mirror and caught a glimpse of the man reflected there. Dark, tired, angry. He raised a hand to the bristly stubble on his jaw. Two weeks’ growth. Rough, like a ranger. He huffed. The men of the Houses sported beards. So could he.
He didn’t know the man in the mirror, but he was beginning to. This man in the mirror didn’t think dark thoughts anymore, but he wore them; he filled his days with work and his nights with distraction; he kept the land safe. Stable. Kingdom and country first. All else second.
He could do that—for the rest of his life, couldn’t he?
Manon and another maid brought in breakfast. He thanked them, grabbed his mail, and sat with a cup of black tea. He sorted through the endless invitations, letters, petitions—
A note with a wax seal. Tregarde’s seal. Brennan.
He dragged in a deep breath as his heart hit the floor. There had been no way of getting word to Brennan. Sooner or later, he’d return to Courdeval. He had to. Perhaps his mission had finally led him to her final…
He clenched a fist. Whoever was responsible for her death—no matter who—would suffer for it. Greatly.
He tore open the note.
Found her in Xir. She couldn’t wait to see you.
Wide-eyed, Jon reread the note six times.
She couldn’t wait… His chest pounded. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
She couldn’t wait to see you.
He breathed raggedly. Found her in Xir. He rubbed the note between his fingers, the fibers harsh against his skin. Found her in Xir. She couldn’t wait to see you.
He sucked in a breath and lowered the note to the table with a shaky hand, letting it rest light as a feather. He stared at it there, next to his tea.
The note was real.
Rielle was alive?
He looked around the room. Books, shelves, walls, drapes, window, a snowy Courdeval… Not a dream.
Somehow, he was even warmer.
Rielle was alive.
He bolted from his chair.
Rielle was alive! He grinned. How was it possible? Never mind that—where was she? He grabbed the note, rushed to the door, and burst out into the hall.
Raoul and Florian came to attention. “Your Majesty,” they greeted.
Jon held up the note. “When did this arrive?”
Raoul scrutinized the seal. “From Tregarde, Your Majesty?”
“Yes.”
“Late last night,” he answered, shaking his head. “The messenger was—”
“Never mind the messenger.” Jon rested a hand on Raoul's shoulder. “Tell me, my brother. Is Tregarde here, in Courdeval?”
Raoul glanced at Florian, who nodded.
“He’s in his palace quarters, Your Majesty,” Florian answered.
Praise Terra. Jon grinned broadly. “My thanks.”
Both Raoul and Florian saluted, then followed him in escort as he rushed to Brennan’s quarters with eager steps.
Terra have mercy, Brennan had returned. He was in the palace. Had he brought Rielle here? Was she in Courdeval?
As he passed courtiers and guards, he hastily acknowledged bows and salutes and greetings. Was she here in the palace? Or in the Lothaire villa, Couronne? Victoire, perhaps? Was she all right?
Terra help him, he had endless things to tell her, to beg her forgiveness for—but she was alive. Everything else didn’t matter.
At last, he arrived at the door to Brennan’s quarters and knocked right away. Knocked again. No answer. If the man wasn’t in, he’d break down the door. He raised his hand again, but the door opened before he could knock.
Brennan.
His eyes widened as Jon embraced him. Florian and Raoul took up posts on either side of the door.
“You found her.” Jon pulled back, holding Brennan’s shoulders. He’d never been happier to see him—and owed him everything.
Nodding, Brennan opened his mouth, then closed it. He hesitated.
Jon rushed past him and into the parlor, his eyes sweeping the room. Bursts of sunlight. Red velvet drapes. A subtle flower print on the upholstered walls. The air sizzled, electrified.
“You did find her?” He turned back to Brennan.
“I did.” Brennan lowered his gaze. He wore only loose lounge pants fastened with a drawstring and a matching silk robe that hung open from his heavy shoulders. Spiritless.
Why wasn’t he happy? Was Rielle hurt? Had something happened to her? Jon grabbed him. “Is she injured? Tell me.” He searched Brennan’s face. “Terra have mercy, Marcel—”
Brennan inhaled, pressing his lips together. “She’s not injured.”
Jon shook his head and shook Brennan. “What’s the matter, then? Is she here? Speak.”
Brennan’s eyes bored into his, a dark-wooded forest, too dense, too thick, too deep. He looked past Jon at the door to the bedchamber.
“Wait here.” Pulling away, Brennan gathered his composure, and then he marched to the door, his black silk robe trailing after him.
Jon looked after him, a frown settling in his face. She was in Brennan’s bedchamber?
Stiffening, he watched the door as Brennan opened it, entered, paused, and closed it.
Together…
Could they be… together?
Crushing weight rounded his shoulders.
But he had no right to expect anything else—He’d betrayed her in every possible way. While he’d stayed behind, Brennan had gone after her. And yet, it was a thousand bricks on his shoulders.
; He moved as close to the door as he dared, then stilled.
“His Majesty is here to see you.” Brennan’s muffled voice, slow, cautious, came through the door.
Jon didn’t move, didn’t breathe, would never move, never breathe, unless he heard her answer.
“No,” came the low reply, barely audible.
Rielle.
It was Rielle.
He stared at the crystal doorknob. The only thing between them.
No. The voice had been hers, but… lifeless. What had happened to her?
He glared at the doorknob. Was Brennan going to try to keep him from seeing her? He could try. He would fail.
Waiting a foot from the door, Jon squared his shoulders. The door opened.
“She doesn’t—”
He shoved Brennan aside. Before Brennan could recover, Jon rushed past him and into the room.
Terra herself couldn’t have kept him out.
On the bed, she sat curled into herself, smaller than he remembered. Frail. Fully clothed, she wore a red-and-gold brocade coat, white trousers, and polished black boots. In bed. She raised her eyes to his.
Cold and bloodshot.
She pressed her lips together in a thin white line. Her teeth clenched, she fisted her hands and constricted her arms around herself, squeezed, and pulled her knees in to her chest. Contracted until her muscles trembled. Those cold, bloodshot eyes narrowed on him.
His heart threatened to leap into his throat. What had happened to her? Had someone dared hurt her? He rushed to her side, reached for her. “Rielle—”
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, scrambling away. She fixed him with a hateful glare.
His mouth fell open. “What?” he breathed. “Are you—”
“Get away from me!” she shouted, bunching up the sheets, clawing them in tightening fingers.
What—
Why? He stood rigidly, willing every part of him to remain apart from her.
Brennan came in, rubbing his chest. Had the werewolf poisoned her against him? Was that it? What had he told her?
“Your Majesty—” he began.
Jon stalked toward him. “Not. One. More. Word,” he seethed, “or—”
“Don’t you dare speak to him that way!” Rielle shouted at him, her voice the fury of storming waves crashing against the cliffs.
Every bit of fight drained from him as he turned to face her, unable to blink for his bulging eyes, unable to swallow for the pain in this throat.
“Brennan came for me. He brought me home. He was… there for me”—she clenched the sheets tightly, a smoldering stare fixing on nothing—“while you—” She clipped her words, grimaced, and shook her head.
Jon’s arms fell to his sides. The pain in the back of his throat sharpened.
She met his eyes, a maelstrom staring into his secrets and sins. “Forgot me.”
He inhaled a sharp breath but couldn’t fill his lungs. It was all wrong. Everything. “No, Rielle, never—”
She shook her head, those tempestuous eyes storming for him and him alone. “Betrayed me.”
Betrayed.
Terra have mercy, she knew.
She knew.
He staggered toward the bed and grabbed one of the bed posts for support.
“Rielle,” he choked out, “let me explain—”
“Don’t even try to deny it!” she screamed, her slight frame shaking but immovable.
Terra have mercy, she knew. He had no idea how, but this never should have—if only he could have told her himself, begged her pardon—“Rielle—”
For a moment, she just glared at him, glared until that tempest became unbearable, and then she lowered her gaze. “I… heard you.”
Heard… He waited for more, watched her face, but nothing else came. Silence. He lowered his gaze. Shimmering cloth. Red and gold.
Red and gold.
Tregarde’s colors. Red and gold.
Livery. Red and gold. Tregarde’s—
The messenger.
He dropped to his knees, caught the side of the bed, and brought a hand to his forehead.
She couldn’t wait to see you.
Terra have mercy, she’d come herself. Last night, she’d come to his quarters herself. She’d heard him with Aless. She’d heard him.
She’d come back from the dead—from a distant land, from months away—back to him, and she’d come… She’d come to that.
He raked his fingers through his hair, and it was all he could do to shut his eyes and pray this was some nightmare. That he hadn’t, through his own faithlessness, hurt her so deeply. Irreparably.
A choked sound. Muffled. Quickly suppressed. Hers.
Terra have mercy. Not this. He wanted nothing but to comfort her, but it was the only thing he couldn’t do. She didn’t want him near. Couldn’t stand his presence. The hollow in his chest widened.
“I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I thought you were—”
“Get… out.” The words, soft and quiet, crushed him.
She hated him.
She didn’t want to see him.
She never wanted to see him again.
“Get out!” she yelled.
He staggered to his feet, until his back hit a wall. A thousand pins pierced his chest, and he grabbed at it, fisting the leather of his doublet.
“Get out, get out, get out!” she screamed, the unbroken mask of her face cracking. Wavering.
Anything but—
From the corner, Brennan rushed to her, knelt at the bed by her side. He took a handkerchief from the nightstand and handed it to her.
She grasped it and wiped her face. “Brennan, this place, I can’t—” she whispered to him, her voice breaking.
Brennan gathered her up and swept her out of the room. The door to the hall slammed shut.
Silence shrouded the room, reclaimed the empty space, and Jon. Snow piled outside the window, casting its darkness.
Rubbing the agony piercing his chest, he thumped his head against the wall, wincing at the pain, struggling to breathe. He deserved it, and a lot more. That look on her face—when her composure had broken—stared deep into him, into darkness, and through, a sword of truth, of judgment, of righteousness. And its sting was sobering. Cleansing. Burning through the lies and sin like a hungry fire. For that look of hers, for the anguish he’d caused, he accepted the pain. And more.
Through blurred eyes, he looked out at the room, where in one moment he’d had everything and, in the next, had lost it all.
Olivia followed the guard through a doorway into a room with red velvet drapes and upholstered walls. Something wrong with the king. Something they needed her for. She clenched at the brocade of her dress.
Divine, it was his heart. He’d had another episode, and would she get there in time to—
The guard opened an interior door and held it. Taking cautious steps, she peered inside.
A bed, its sheets mangled, and then, on the floor…
Unmoving, Jon sat, his back against the wall, staring into nothing, his face blotchy, his eyes… red. Breathing ragged.
She dropped to her knees and grabbed for his wrist, then pressed a fingertip to his skin and gestured a diagnostic spell. Her presence entered him and traveled his heart, his lungs, his stomach, his liver, his kidneys, his brain, his eyes, the many pathways of life in his body—all in an instant. She urged the blood backed up in his lungs outward, flowing through to the rest of his body.
He gasped a breath, clutching her arm as his eyes widened.
She withdrew her psychic presence. “Jon?” she asked softly. “Do you feel better? What happened?”
When no answer came, she looked him over. He was clean and properly dressed, wearing his weapons, too. As he exhaled, something crinkled in his doublet. Paper?
“May I?” She eyed him, waited awhile, then unfastened his doublet, and there, between it and his shirt, was a message. On the back was a broken wax seal—Tregarde’s. A message from Brennan?
He
r heart raced, but she opened it.
Found her in Xir. She couldn’t wait to see you.
Found her? Rielle?
She couldn’t wait…
Rielle was alive?
She grabbed Jon’s shoulders. “Rielle.”
His Bay-of-Amar gaze flowed toward hers.
“Is she alive, Jon?” She shook him gently, and he blinked—once, twice, three times. “Is Rielle alive?”
He braced a palm on the heavy-pile rug and lumbered to his feet. Several slow breaths later, he held out his hand to her. “Yes, Olivia. She’s alive.”
She gasped. Alive… Rielle was alive.
They’d been wrong—how?—but it had never been such a blessing.
She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet, and embraced him. “That’s wonderful news.”
“It is,” he replied, his voice low, sullen.
She pulled away. “Why aren’t you…” Behind him, the tangled sheets… The tangled sheets on the bed took on new meaning.
Brennan’s quarters. These were Brennan’s quarters. Jon had come here, must have found—
“Great Divine,” she breathed, stroking his cheek with a sympathetic palm. “I’m so sorry.”
He took her hand, bowed his head, and frowned. “No… It’s…” He shook his head and swallowed. “She returned, came to my rooms, but I…” He drew in a ragged breath. “In the morning, I read the message and came here.” He met her eyes, his own reddening. Haunted. “Olivia, she knew everything.”
He straightened, his pained gaze on the rumpled bed.
Knew everything…
She closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping. Rielle had come to see him and found him with a lover. After all these months away, she’d returned to find he’d moved on. Betrayed her. Become someone else entirely.
She had to be—
A shiver shook her spine. “Where is she, Jon?”
He shook his head. “Promise me you won’t tell her about this.” He placed a palm over his heart. “Promise me.”
Jon brought down Faithkeeper again and again, and although Raoul parried and blocked, he receded with every strike. Finally, Raoul lowered his sword and shook his head before wiping his pale brow.
By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2) Page 50