by J. V. Jones
His palm was dry, she noticed. “You purchased me as if I were a sack of grain, and now you want to marry me?” It didn’t make sense. The duke was a proud man, yet here he was proposing marriage to a girl he believed to be illegitimate. Such a union would only bring him shame. Unless, of course, he was too in love to care. Melli’s pride rose up like a lid over a boiling pot. Why wouldn’t he be in love with her? Many others had been before. Castle Harvell was full of men who had fallen at her feet—though she was quite sharp enough to know that it was her father’s money, as much as her own personal charms, that sped the bending of their knees.
Unlike the vain and pimply noblemen of the kingdoms, the duke knew nothing of her family or wealth, yet he still wanted to marry her. Surely that must count for something?
Melli returned the pressure of his hand.
The duke took the gesture as his cue. “Melli, if you agree to marry me, I swear that you will not be just a bedmate. We will play, hunt, and politic together. You will be by my side, but not as my lover or my wife, but as my equal.” He grabbed hold of her other hand. “Imagine it, Melliandra: you and I, the duke and duchess of Bren, walking arm and arm through our palace, talking policy and power one moment, and love and life the next.”
Strange, thought Melli, the words themselves were tantalizing, but they were spoken with little emotion, like an actor running through his lines for the first time. Still, the duke was a dispassionate man, and by his own admission, he had gone many years without strong feelings toward any woman except his wife. Perhaps the quality of natural reticence, combined with old-fashioned nervousness, made him speak the way he did. “And what about my past?” she asked, desperate to give herself time to think. “Many would scorn me because of it.”
“If anyone dared to scorn you, Melliandra, I swear I would kill them.” There was emotion in his voice this time: the huskiness of threat and the tremble of anger. “I will not tolerate a single word spoken in mockery or contempt.”
Melli’s heart thrilled at the sheer power of the duke. He would kill anyone, she didn’t doubt it for an instant. It was pleasing to think that such a man would be actively defending her honor. Not wanting to betray her thoughts, Melli pulled away. She threw a question to test him. “How do I know you speak the truth about involving me in affairs of state? It could be a ploy to tempt me into agreement.”
The duke walked over to the sideboard and tested the jug for wine; finding it empty, he spun around to face Melli. His sword sent light flashing across her face. “You’re not the type of woman to sit quietly and embroider all day,” he said, a dry smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Gardening, gossip, and housewifery are not pursuits that will engage your interest. Indeed, that is what I love about you—you’re spirited, you’re independent, and you’re not afraid to speak your mind.” His smile was full now and bright with admiration. “You could certainly teach the ladies of Bren a thing or two.”
“Not how to put on cosmetics, that’s for sure.”
The duke laughed. “I had wondered what those marks on your cheeks were.”
“One of your vintage reds,” she said, secretly hoping that she didn’t look too embarrassing.
“I would stick to drinking it next time.”
“Hmph!” Melli picked up a pillow from the bed and threw it at him. The duke’s sword was out in an instant. The pillow never reached him. The blade sheared it in two, sending goosedown flying into the air like snowdrops. He looked magnificent standing there, sword held aloft, muscles tensed, skin dark against a flurry of white feathers. Slowly, he looked toward her and smiled. “You’ll have to be faster next time.”
“No. I think I’ll just blunt the edge of your sword when you’re not looking.”
“I like a woman who can think on her feet.”
“I like a man who looks good covered in goosedown.” They both laughed merrily. The sound of shared laughter acted like a charm upon the room, changing the atmosphere, making it lighter, less serious and, as the sun broke free from distant clouds, bringing sunshine to accompany the joy.
The duke put down his sword and walked toward Melli. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. He came and knelt by her feet. “Agree to marry me now, Melliandra, or as Borc is my witness, I will lock you up in here until you do.”
“And will you make me pick up the feathers one by one?”
“With tweezers, no less.”
Melli took a moment to look at the duke. He was a handsome man; the lines of his face told of experience and the hook of his nose told of power unchallenged. She liked the way he dressed—plainly, like a soldier—and she liked the way he carried himself—turning every movement into a simple statement of pride. Unlike Kylock, he laughed and had a sense of humor, and although Melli was sure that he could be cold and calculating, she was also sure he would never be cruel. And in that respect, he was a world apart from Kylock.
“What say you, Melliandra?” The duke’s voice was soft.
Melli reached out and brushed the goosedown from his shoulders. The muscle beneath her fingertips was hard as stone. “I agree to marry you, Garon, duke of Bren. I am willing to become your wife.”
• • •
It was time to leave this place. His heart had recovered from the shock of foretelling, and the wind that blew across the courtyard cut straight to the bone. Under his robe, his hands were curled up like nestling birds; he would need to bring drug to lip before they could be straightened once more.
Just as he tensed his muscles to raise himself from the bench, Baralis felt a sharp pain in his chest. His heart stopped dead. A dull ache raced up his left arm. Even as panic gripped his soul, he knew a second telling was its cause. Stronger than before, much stronger, it overrode all communication from eyes and brain. A vision filled the void of a not-beating heart.
Seen in his belly as much as his head, it was a girl with dark hair. Her lips shaped words that he could not hear, and the man whom she spoke to was a shadow without form. Baralis felt a stirring in mind and groin. He knew this woman. He had seen her naked, emerging from her bath, candlelight resting on the welts on her back. It was Maybor’s daughter. Melliandra.
The second her name came to him, the vision was sucked back to his heart. The jolt coursed down his spine like lightning. The beat began again, shocking, sickening, sending his whole body scrambling to fall in time. Baralis’ lungs contracted violently and the air from the vision was expelled from his lungs; he tasted cheap perfume and expensive wine as it raced along his tongue.
Out of time, out of strength, and outside of rational thought, Baralis opened his eyes. A dark blur raced toward him. Paws hardly touching stone, it hurtled forward, muzzle drawn back to reveal an armory of teeth. A low growl sounding deep in its throat. Froth foaming at its jaw. It meant to kill him.
Instinct and split seconds were all that he had. With a brain reeling like a spindle on a wheel, he could barely think, let alone react. Deep inside he found a resource more primitive and more deadly than thought: the will to survive. A whiff of dog and a glint of teeth were enough to set it in motion. The animal barreled ahead, fur flying, mere feet away now. A hand shot out from Baralis’ robe. He hardly believed it was his own. With neither time nor consciousness to form a drawing, something came half-remembered from the plains. A rite of passage from boy to hunter. Without weapon or warning, but with alcohol high in their blood, they stopped a charging boar in its tracks.
Hand held out to command the beast, sight trained on a spot between its eyes. A thick band of instinct rising up from the gut, and the mastery of willpower forced upon the beast.
Baralis felt the air push against his face. Saw the black and pink of its gums. Eyes bright with savagery met his. Words and thoughts were obsolete, purpose was what counted. Wills clashed a half-second before bodies met. Eye to eye, Baralis bludgeoned the beast with his will.
No stronger force existed in the universe in that instant. The dog responded as if whipped. Strength drained from its
body and purpose drained from its soul. Momentum carried it forward to Baralis’ throat. Muzzle closed, snout down, it slammed into him like dead weight. He was thrown backward toward the ground, the dog landing on top of him.
Baralis blacked out.
• • •
Wet and warm, something brushed against his face. Heart racing like a stallion on the chase, body shaking like a long-hunted fox, he forced thought and eyesight into focus. He was lying on his back looking up into a late afternoon sky. The dog was by his side, licking his face. Blood was still wet around its mouth, and it was standing with one front paw drawn up, as if injured.
The creature wagged its tail when it saw him move and doubled its licking efforts. Baralis caught the stench of foul play upon its breath. Strangely, he found himself warming to the beast. Lifting up a hand too gnarled to show to ladies, he stroked the dog’s ears. “No harm done, my pretty lady,” he said.
• • •
Two men waited in the antechamber. One had been known to the duke for twenty years, the other for twenty days, yet he trusted them both the same.
First he spoke with Bailor. Taking him to one side, he spoke for his ears alone. “Your speech worked well, my friend. The lady has agreed.”
Bailor’s smile was triumphant, yet his words were uncharacteristically modest. “More your delivery than my speech, Your Grace.”
The duke glanced at the second man. Tawl’s eyes were averted and he was busy putting edge to sword. The duke risked a short laugh. “I was as wooden as the floor I stood on, but the lady seemed not to mind.”
“And the gift?”
The head of his household was anxious for praise. In this instance, the duke didn’t mind giving it. “An excellent suggestion, Bailor. She loved it. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires when the falconer handed her the bird.” The duke paused for a moment, considering Melliandra’s face. “She will be good with the falcon, I know it. She has more spirit than a score of trained huntsmen. A remarkable woman, indeed.”
“She is that, Your Grace.”
The duke noticed Bailor’s eyes settling on his shoulders. “Threw a pillow at me, she did,” he said, brushing away the last of the goosedown. “I’ve never met a more infuriating wench.” The memory of her soft, hesitant kisses played upon his mind. It had been many, many years since any woman had excited him so. More than her beauty, it was her peculiar mixture of confidence and innocence that set his blood on fire. Without a doubt he would marry her soon. He would not wait untold months for the marriage bed; he was too old and his plans too pressing for the indulgence of a long betrothal. He could have taken her then and there—she had been willing enough—but no, he would not risk a begetting before their wedding day. When Melliandra was with child, people would keep careful count of the moons, looking for the slightest excuse to shout “illegitimate!” The duke shook his head. He would not give them a single arrow of doubt to shoot from their suspicious bows.
Besides, he liked the idea of waiting. It was a novel experience for him, and one that would surely heighten the joy of their first union when it finally came. He would take no substitute to warm his bed in the meantime. All other women seemed like pale imitations compared to her.
“Bailor,” he said, “go to Melliandra now. You are the closest thing she has to a friend. If she is having any doubts, reassure her. See that she gets anything she wants. Tell her I will be back later to take her for a short walk in the gardens. She must feel as cooped up as a hawk during training, stuck in that bedchamber all day. Get Shrivral to play his harp whilst we walk, and have some refreshments waiting in the arbor. Fruit punch and sugared fancies, you know the sort of thing.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Bailor hesitated for a second. “Though perhaps if I might make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Bring strong wine and meat instead. The lady’s tastes differ greatly from the hothouse flowers at court.”
The duke rubbed his chin. “Do it.”
Bailor bowed and began to make his way to the adjoining door.
The duke pulled him back, for the first time speaking in a voice meant for two, “Find out from the physicians when the lady will be fit for the ride to Bren.”
Bailor nodded and then left the room.
Turning to face the second man, the duke said, “Tawl, can I trust you to keep a confidence?” More statement than question, he didn’t wait for the knight to reply. “The lady who you have been charged with guarding has just agreed to become my wife.”
Tawl bowed simply. “I wish you joy, Your Grace.”
The duke had known thousands upon thousands of men in his time, some bad, some good, most a mixture of the two, and he had developed the ability to quickly judge a man, to see where his strengths and weaknesses lay. To know what drove him forward. Somehow, despite all his experience, Tawl eluded him. Oh, there was a lot to see: the knight was entirely trustworthy, loyal, and probably gallant to a fault, but his motives were hard to pin down. Unlike Blayze he had no interest in the trappings of glory. Fine clothes and a purse full of gold meant nothing to the knight.
Nor, would it seem, did the chance to be close to greatness. The court at Bren was filled to the beams with men and women who hoped for power and influence by ingratiating themselves with either the Hawk or his daughter. Bailor was one of the few who had found success with this all too common ploy. Instinct told the duke that Tawl wanted none of it, which, although making him an enigma, also made him a man whom he would gladly entrust with the safety of his most precious possession: Melliandra.
The duke glanced quickly at the knight. Tall, imposing, built like a warrior, but with the manners and bearing to match any man at court. He was the perfect person to keep watch on his bride-to-be: honorable, loyal, and deadly with a blade.
“So, Tawl,” said the duke heavily, “you now understand why the lady is in great danger.”
Tawl nodded. “Yes. Though greater danger awaits her at court.”
“I know. It is a risk I must take.”
“I suggest that you and the lady travel in separate parties to Bren. I will travel with Melliandra, but I don’t want to be weighed down with a battalion of guards. I want to be light on my feet in case of danger.”
The duke nodded. The advice was sound. “You are in charge of her safety.”
“Who else knows of the engagement?”
“Bailor.” He thought for a moment. “And the falconer was there when I asked for her hand.”
“That was a mistake.”
The duke smiled. “I know, Tawl, but when the moment is right . . .” He shrugged.
“Good sense goes out the window.” Tawl raised an amused eyebrow and both men laughed. “Have Bailor speak with the falconer as soon as possible. Find out all the people he has come in contact with since he left the lady’s chamber. Have them all confined here, in the lodge, under sun and moon watch until the official announcement is made.”
The duke nodded. “Anything else?”
“Once the lady arrives in Bren, I personally want to examine her chambers before she takes residence. All her guards and servants are to report to me, and her food is to come directly from your personal cook. You do have a tester?”
“Yes.”
“Good. For the ride back she must have your gentlest mount. After her fall she will be horse shy.”
“What about speed?”
“I will take her on my own if need arises.”
The knight was good. Very good. It was far better to have Melliandra riding at his back in an emergency than having to fend for herself. The duke felt well pleased with his decision to have Tawl guard her. Already his mind was more at ease. “Do you need anything special for the ride?”
“A boy’s breastplate for the lady, and for myself a bow and a quiver of barbed arrows. I have swords and knives enough of my own.”
“So I noticed,” said the duke, motioning to the green felt cloth that was spread out on the floor. Resting upon it was enou
gh polished steel to defend an entire garrison.
Tawl smiled almost sheepishly.
The duke was beginning to like him even more. “Oh, and one more thing before I go. I want you to befriend the lady. She knows no one in Bren except Bailor and me, and she must yearn for extra company.”
“What about your daughter, Catherine?”
The duke drew in his breath: what about Catherine? His daughter would be furious once she learned he intended to wed. Not only was he stealing her glory, but also—if Melliandra was to give birth to a boy—her inheritance as well. Catherine was unpredictable at the best of times. It was better for the moment if he kept the news from her. He already had enough on his hands at the moment, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with one of his daughter’s childish tantrums. “I don’t want my daughter to know anything about the marriage until I make the official announcement.”
“As you say.”
“I think that’s everything. Bailor is yours to command, as are all my staff. Make sure he informs you when it is safe for the lady to travel.” The duke made his way to the door. “Tawl,” he said, as he paused on the threshold, “I feel better knowing that Melliandra is in your care.”
The knight inclined his head. “I will defend her with my life.”
Twenty-eight
Jack ate a small breakfast of pork and damp drybread as he counted his mistakes. Yesterday, an hour after entering the woods, he had discarded at least half of the supplies given to him by Mrs. Wadwell. Mistake number one was leaving the cumbersome oiled cloak behind. The skies had been a beautiful, cloudless blue the day before and he reasoned to himself that, as it was spring, they were bound to stay that way. Wrong. The downpour had begun in the middle of the night. Raindrops as hard as pebbles had woken him from his sleep. Scrambling in the dark, over ground rapidly turning to mud, he was soaked to the skin before he found shelter.