Sonata

by Skye Warren

  “I’ve shocked you,” she says cheerfully. “Don’t worry. It was all a big shock for me too.”

  A woman enters the room, her doe-shaped eyes alert, her satin dress reminiscent of a maid. “The luggage is in the dressing room. Can I help mademoiselle unpack?”

  “Later,” Isa says, her voice hard.

  Dangerous undercurrents ripple through the air, making the hair on my arms rise. The woman nods in a way that’s both deferent and dominant before she leaves.

  “Sorry about that,” Isa murmurs. “I know it seems rude, but you can’t trust the servants here. They report everything to Frans. If they insist on spying on me, they’ll have to work for it.”

  Surprise steals my voice. “What is this place?”

  A soft laugh. “You’ll get used to it. Or maybe you won’t. If you and Liam aren’t an item, that probably means you’re going to be a completely ordinary guest. Like Bethany.”

  “Bethany’s here? What about Romeo?”

  “They got here two weeks ago.”

  That’s not long after we left Germany and rented a flat in Madame Tissot’s house. The similarity prods at my consciousness, until I’m forced to face the truth: Liam has been planning this. It wasn’t a moment spurred on by the emotion of the day—or by the fact that I poured rubbing alcohol on his wound like a crazy person. It was always going to end this way.

  “There you are,” says a familiar voice.

  Warmth suffuses me as I take in the sight of Bethany, wearing her leotard and tights as if it’s a regular practice day back in Tanglewood before the tour began. She opens her arms, and I almost trip over myself hugging her. She pulls me into a deep embrace.

  “I was worried about you,” she murmurs against my cheek.

  “I was worried about me too,” I say, trying to make it a joke. Then I pull back. “I’m sorry about the tour. It must have been a mess when it couldn’t continue.”

  “Please, honey. I wouldn’t have kept going if you were in danger.” She gives me a little shrug. “Besides, we were technically on loan from Cirque du Monde. Their lawyers had set things up so that we got paid whether the shows happened or not.”

  That makes me laugh. “That must have given Talent Development a heart attack.”

  “None of the old label reps are here. There’s someone else designing the show.”

  Unease moves through me, even though it shouldn’t matter. The only reason I agreed to do the show is so that I can draw out whoever’s behind this. Then Liam can get back to his regular life.

  As for me, I’m not sure what a regular life looks like. My tidy little future filled with violin concerts and international acclaim? That shattered along with the wood on the stage of Carnegie Hall.

  Bullets have a way of doing that.

  I force a fake, bright smile. “Who’s running the show?”

  “Some investor in the theater. It might be okay, though. He seems to be more about the skill than the showiness. He let us come up with a new routine.”

  An image forms of some old, stodgy man in a vest with balding white hair. Maybe he has a more classical taste. He probably won’t want something that would be fit for a pop concert. That actually appeals to me. Something more sedate means I won’t be flying around the stage doing stunts. Instead I’ll wear regular black concert clothes and play songs that—my stomach clenches. This isn’t good.

  Even the idea of playing makes me feel sick.

  Bethany pulls me close to her side as she starts a soft conversation with Isa, as if she understands that I’m too worried to speak right now. They have the patter of comfort. They must have spent time together in the past two weeks, getting close, being friends. While I was a few hundred miles away, trapped alone in a small room with a man who resents me. No, he resents my choices. Is that the same thing? It’s hard for me to tell. A discussion of dresses lulls me to the decadent room.

  “I had the costume department send something over,” Bethany says. “It will fit in well enough, even if I look eccentric. And the skirt falls away so if I need to perform unexpectedly I can.”

  Isa appears to take the offer seriously, like maybe there are frequently situations where emergency acrobatics and dance take place. “Will Romeo also be in costume?”

  Bethany smiles. “He’s got a tux.”

  “What are we dressing up for?” I ask, shivering a little at the re-entry into the conversation. I’ve grown accustomed to my prison. I find myself missing those walks along the sea. I miss his shadow following me—stalking me and keeping me safe. “I basically just brought jeans.”

  “It’s a ball,” Isa explains. “I have a few we can alter for you.”

  I make a face. Isa has a small frame with voluptuous features. I can only imagine how bean-pole thin I’ll look trying to wear something made for her. “Maybe we can find something at the mall.”

  For the first time Isa looks hesitant. Not exactly unsure, but maybe a little embarrassed. “Formal wear would usually work, but since it’s Frans, that means actual ballgowns. I don’t want you to feel out of place in a regular dress. Especially since you’re the guest of honor.”

  “The guest of honor?”

  “Oh.” She looks dismayed. “Liam didn’t tell you?”

  Unfortunately there’s a lot Liam doesn’t tell me. “I just don’t want to put you through any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Isa says in a confiding tone. “Besides, it will give the maid something to do besides spy on me. Now what do you think looks better on her, Bethany, a royal blue or red?”

  Soulful brown eyes examine me. “What kind of red?”

  “I’d prefer the blue,” I say quickly, mostly because it sounds a little more sedate. I don’t necessarily like being at the center of attention, even if the violin often makes it so.

  “Bright red,” Isa says as if I didn’t speak.

  “I propose we do something a little fun. Let’s use the ballgown but also make it a costume. I have this idea in my head, and I can’t shake it. She will stand out so well.”

  A blush warms my cheeks. “Umm… I don’t want to stand out.”

  Isa smiles. “Your soldier would like it very much. Actually, he would probably hate it. All the men admiring you in such a bold color. We could make him jealous.”

  That has a strange appeal—proving to him that I’m admired by more than him. I know that he wants me, even that he loves me, but he can’t shake the old sense of control. Another man wouldn’t seek to possess me. That’s not how modern relationships work.

  Then again, this is hardly the place to explain a modern relationship.

  “This is a rebirth,” Bethany says in her casual wisdom. “Both of the tour and of you. It shouldn’t be a soft sound on the world’s stage. When this night is over, everyone will know that you’re alive.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of. And it’s what needs to happen.

  Liam

  Frans leads me through a series of broad hallways until we turn toward his library. A low rumbling warns me from entering. An Irish Wolfhound bares his teeth as I turn the corner. Wiry gray hair rises on the back of his neck. Standing at four feet tall, he would be intimidating to anyone, which explains why the Irish once had an army of three hundred hounds. This particular one lets out a whine when he gets a good sniff. Then I’m attacked by ninety pounds of wriggling happiness, two large paws almost reaching my shoulders. Wolf manages a long lick across my cheek before I playfully push him off. “Down, Wolf.”

  Wolf doesn’t obey. Instead he hops playfully from armchair to armchair, shoving the heavy furniture across the hardwood floors with a screech.

  I raise my eyebrows at Frans, who shrugs. “The training didn’t stick.”

  Irish Wolfhounds have been gifts to royalty as far back as the ancient royal times. Wolf was my gift to Frans three years ago, when he was a puppy. He could do sit, stay, and down when I left him. Now he acts more like the puppy he was back then. No discipline. Ironic, considering some of t
he hobbies Frans entertains. Which reminds me of his recent nuptials.

  “Are you going to tell me the real story?” I ask, settling into a chair by the blazing fire. The chill from the train ride seeped into my bones. I still can’t shake the memory of that woman’s encounter.

  “Of my marriage? Once I’ve had more to drink.” Frans begins us down this path by pouring two glasses of brandy. He hands one to me before taking a seat. “That is a story I will share with very few men, but you’ll be one of them.”

  “Dangerous?” I ask, because I’m responsible for security here.

  “Not unduly. Scandalous certainly.”

  That makes me smile. He knows he can share the story with me because my discretion would not allow sharing scandals. For one thing, I’m under an ironclad nondisclosure with North Security. For another thing, I don’t give a fuck about scandals. I know some of the people who run in Frans’s social circles. International businessmen and displaced royalty. They need services such as mine. They are clients, not friends. Only Frans has crossed that particular line.

  “Then I’ll wait patiently.”

  “You may wait patiently, but I have questions that will come sooner than that. Especially since I’m hosting a ball on behalf of the young and beautiful Miss Samantha Brooks.”

  I manage not to react to the word beautiful. “She’s off-limits.”

  An amused look. “I thought I noticed you acting like a wild animal downstairs. Such base instincts, my friend. I never would have thought you’d feel that way about a woman.”

  “She isn’t an ordinary woman.”

  “Not ordinary. What sort of people are after her? I read about the events in New York City with concern. I never would have thought you’d get shot, either. Especially in front of a crowd.”

  “Happy to provide entertainment,” I say, taking a sip of the scotch. It goes down smooth. Only the best for the duke. I’ve learned to navigate this world, but that doesn’t mean I want it.

  Frans’s dark eyes acknowledge my discomfort. He reaches a hand over the armrest to stroke Wolf’s head. The dog’s eyes roll back in ecstasy. “You never liked expensive spirits.”

  “Or expensive houses. Expensive clothes.”

  “That’s what you get for charging so much for your services.”

  A low laugh. “You can afford it.”

  “And look what I’ve purchased, a pretty young wife.”

  “Pardon?” I ask, my tone bland.

  “Don’t act like you’re going to kick my Spanish ass. It wasn’t as if I bought her at auction. This is how the old marriages are made. And I like old things. She was willing enough.”

  Old memories turn my stomach. “Willing enough.”

  “She agreed to the deal being made to save her family. Her sisters are currently traveling in Italy. Her brother was accepted at Harvard. Her family bears the fruit of her labor.”

  “Labor that she understood from the start?” Frans has specific tastes that include things most brides wouldn’t expect. In other words, he’s kinky as fuck. It goes beyond silk blindfolds and padded handcuffs. I don’t judge his preferences, but it makes me uncomfortable to think of them visited on the vibrant young woman I met earlier. Especially if she hadn’t known in advance.

  “It would have been indelicate to go into details during early courting rituals. I make sure she experiences pleasure, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  “You know it’s not.” A woman can enjoy what’s done to her even if she doesn’t want it. The woman I met a few minutes ago hardly looked under duress, but a woman can also hide that part of her from the world. I learned that a long time ago.

  “Then don’t look so dark and forbidding, my good friend. I don’t judge your lust for a woman who was once under your care. For all the pageantry of wealth, men are really just animals. We take what we want. We fuck who we want. We enjoy what we’ve had the strength to take.”

  He lifts his glass for a toast, and though I’d like to disagree, it would be hypocritical. Samantha is the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and I’ve kept her to me ruthlessly.

  The clink of our glass resounds above the quiet crackle of the fire.

  “She isn’t your mother,” he says, so soft I’m almost not sure I heard him.

  My heart slams in a heavy beat of anger. Damn him for mentioning it. Damn myself for saying it in a moment of indiscretion, when the smooth slide of the scotch loosened my tongue. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know more than you think. You’re not the only person who knows how to investigate someone. Do you think I would let just anyone guard the chateau? You have the keys to the kingdom. Who better to betray me than the one I trusted to protect me?”

  Something about his words stick in my memory. The keys to the kingdom. Was that what Samantha’s father had? Was that what he transcribed onto her memory? Surely that’s the only thing that would be so important, but we don’t know what keys or what kingdom.

  It wouldn’t do to blame Frans for his investigations. Smart, that’s what I’d call it. Like he said, I hold the keys to his safety. My natural privacy doesn’t adhere to logic. I learned that solitude meant safety too long ago to forget the lesson now. “So you know the history. Don’t presume to know my mind.”

  Eyes almost black as ivory. He stares at me, undaunted. “How much was she sold for?”

  Fury flares in my blood, burning hot and red. “You don’t want to walk this path.”

  “Even men who aren’t blessed with the pageantry of wealth find a way to be absolutely fucking horrible, don’t they? Your father certainly had very little money. She couldn’t have cost much.”

  Scarlet stains my vision. I launch myself at him, slamming my fist into his jaw. Even in my fury I manage to turn the hit so that his body can absorb the blow. Even in my fury, I don’t want to kill him. Another punch, this one lands against the side of his eye. That will turn black. I may not want him dead, but I do want him to be hurt. I’m straddling him on the expensive carpet, the fire raging beside us, the dog alternating whines and howls, unable to decide where his loyalties lie.

  My fist pulls back to land a final blow before I even see the way Frans reacts to me—he defends himself, the way a body will naturally avoid a fire, but he doesn’t hit me back. He wanted me to hit him. Why? I straighten enough to glare at him. “What the fuck? Are you so fucking guilty about buying your bride that you need me to beat the punishment into you?”

  A careless laugh as he rubs his jaw. “You didn’t mind too much.”

  I roll onto the carpet, looking up at paintings on the goddamn ceiling. That’s how you know you’re truly rich, I suppose, when there isn’t enough room on the walls for priceless art. It must be embedded into the house. Wolf launches himself between us, rolling over on his back, deliriously happy that our fight ended. I reach over to rub his belly, all the anger drained out in those punches.

  “You’re a bastard,” I say without heat.

  “Never more than with her.”

  Hell. “Should I take her away from here?”

  “I would kill you if you tried.”

  I don’t doubt that he would make the attempt. Probably I would live anyway. Despite the bullet that I took in front of a theater full of people, I’m damnably hard to kill. If I weren’t my father would have done the deed years ago. Days at a time in disease-ridden water would have killed anyone without an iron will. Pure stubbornness kept me alive. That, and my mother, for as long as she stayed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As a result of the mathematical nature of pitch bracket notation, arithmetic and algebra can be directly applied to the melodies.

  Samantha

  The bed is high enough that I have to hitch myself up as I climb in. Heavy blankets ward away the chill. I close the velvet curtains only halfway though. I want to see the door. Maybe I feel less safe being away from Liam. His apartments may be next door but I haven’t seen him since I was shown upstairs. F
or all I know he could be downstairs with Fransisco.

  Or he could have gone into Paris for the evening.

  A shadow appears in the doorway.

  I know it’s him even before my mind can place his silhouette. He brings with him a sense of safety that I’ve never known anywhere else. And anticipation that feels dangerous. The dichotomy pulls at my insides, ripping them to shreds by the time he crosses the room.

  Then he stands at the bed, framed by the velvet curtains.

  “You couldn’t sleep,” he says, his voice quiet. He doesn’t need to see me move to know that I’m awake. We’ve always had that awareness of each other, even when we shouldn’t.

  “This place is unreal.”

  He laughs softly. “A far cry from North Security headquarters?”

  “A far cry from anywhere.” Shyness tightens my throat, but I’ve lived for too long in the shadow of my past. “I’d like it if you held me. For comfort.” And for more, although I’m not bold enough to spell it out.

  He hesitates long enough I think he’s going to refuse.

  Then he sits on the bed beside me. He lies down on top of the covers, still wearing his clothes. He even has his boots on. Hardly the intimacy I was hoping for, but when he pulls me close, I sigh in repletion. A kiss to my crown that doesn’t end. His breath stirs my hair.

  The warmth soothes me the way I hoped, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’re not alone in this bed, that old ghosts followed him into the room, that they hover around us now, dark and insistent. “This place is like a freaking castle,” I whisper, and his lips curve in a smile. “And my father actually liked to stay at nice places when we traveled before.”

  “It took some getting used to after the barracks in the army.”

  He has talked about his time in the army, even though I know there’s a lot that’s classified. That part I understand. It’s what comes before that’s still a mystery. He told me about the well. About how his father would throw him down there. It’s very little to know about someone’s childhood. Enough to make me afraid to learn more. Is it possible to know the man without his past? Can anyone appear fully formed without being impacted every day from what came before?