by Jane Atchley
“I dreamed of being like them. On our voyage home, I badgered my father for tutors in all things military, and over the next few years I studied every scrap of information I could lay my hands on about the famous captain and his tiny garrison on the northernmost border. When I turned twenty, I presented myself to Captain Fawr armed with a letter of introduction and a fervent hope he would not recall the foolish things I said to him on the occasion of our first meeting.”
Faelan leaned forward, intrigued. “Did he?”
Duncan caught his bottom lip with his teeth and nodded. “Every mortifying word.”
She smiled. “But look at you now in your fine blue jacket. Your dream came true.”
“So it did.”
He slid his hand across the table and covered hers. Desire licked over her skin as tongues of fire.
“What are your dreams, Faelan?”
No one had ever asked before. Faelan had trouble picking just one. She turned her hand over so their fingers melded. “I dream of reading books, of writing long letters to absent friends who can actually read them. But mostly, I dream of the freedom to choose my own destiny.”
“And have many of your dreams come true?”
His voice had dropped to a whisper. Faelan couldn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t want his pity. She glanced around the stuffy tent’s interior, her gaze coming to rest on the bowl of roses in the center of the table. “I may be a prisoner, Field Marshal, but I am a prisoner by my own choosing.”
Duncan released her hand, shifting in his seat, preparing to rise and take his leave. The air tickled her moist flesh, so much cooler than the field marshal’s hand.
She had a sudden inspiration. “I paint watercolors. If I had supplies, I could paint you.”
He stood, tugged at the hem of his jacket, and touched his empty scabbard. “I will see what can be found. Good night, Miss Foley...until tomorrow night.”
Chapter Eighteen
General Foley swept the enemy camp with his field glass. Except for the regular explosions chipping away the river bank and felling trees, his adversary gave little indication he considered the larger army entrenched nine-hundred-yards distant a threat. His troopers sang and danced around big campfires at night, and played rough games during the day.
At first, the general saw it as a ploy to tempt him into abandoning the high ground and the advantage of the river. His chief-men urged just that, but a season of warfare against this particular enemy convinced General Foley against giving up his choice position.
In the meanwhile, their enemy’s indifference demoralized the Descendant army and the constant explosions kept everyone’s nerves ragged. That, General Foley reasoned, was their entire purpose. His enemy was up to something.
General Foley lowered his glass. “What are you doing over there, my clever little hound?” The enemy field marshal was a clever little hound, who had herded, harried, and stalked the Descendants to a standstill. There was nothing left but the fighting.
His niece also reported the little hound was a young man. Watching the field marshal with the aid of a field glass as he engaged in some sort of brutal ball game, General Foley saw a man not much older than the son he’d left safely at home tending goats. Yet this younger man kept himself between an older seasoned warrior and his prize, even when he should not have been able to. How he wished they could meet, share a glass of Kirsch, and compare strategies. General Foley had developed an odd fondness for his youthful counterpart.
Another explosion tore a chunk out of the riverbank.
“He’ll use the earthen work to dam the river and cross his cavalry by dry land,” Nicholas Falkenbach used a broad sweep of his arm to illustrate his words.
“They still have to scale the bank, which is why we are sinking ramparts.” The general narrowed his eyes at the younger man. “Consider this, Nicholas. He wants us to look at the river. He goes to great lengths to insure we do. We are missing something, my boy.” General Foley swept the glass in a wide arc. “I thought we’d picked our battle ground, but now I think the clever little hound allowed us this fine defensible position. Why?”
Nicholas snorted. “To block our progress and hold us here until we starve. It won’t take long. His supply line is secure. We forage.”
The bright yellow and black banner fluttering over the field marshal’s tent snagged the general’s attention. It first appeared over a fortnight ago just before his niece missed her check-in. Happenstance? Not likely. The clever little hound was purposeful. Choosing to ignore Nicholas’s too true observation, General Foley turned to his nephew. “What have we learned about that flag?”
Quinn squinted at the yellow and black square. “I questioned an old sailor. He says it’s a nautical parley flag.”
Nicholas spat on the ground. “A nautical flag?”
Quinn shot Nicholas an annoyed look. “Their field marshal grew up on an island. He’d be familiar with such things. I think he’s telling us he wants to talk.”
“I guess we all know about what.” Nicholas glanced at the enemy camp across the dark water. “He’s caught her. I still can’t see how the chief-men agreed to send a woman into that camp. She’ll tell him everything.”
“My sister’s not a traitor,” Quinn said. “She won’t betray us.”
“She’s a woman, weak, susceptible to a man’s persuasion.”
General Foley studied Nicholas. True, Nicholas was an exceptional fighter but he lacked imagination. Correction, Nicholas possessed imagination aplenty if he imagined Quinn would every give Faelan over to such a backward thinking man. “Did the sailor say how we respond?”
Quinn shot Nicholas a smug look. “I’ll cross under the same flag as soon as tomorrow if the chief-men approved.”
General Foley put his field-glass to his eye and scanned the enemy camp again. “The clever little hound sees her value. I will recommend it.”
“I’ll go with Quinn.”
“I don’t know, Nicholas—”
“Excellent idea,” General Foley cut off Quinn’s protest. “I can’t afford to lose another shifter. A good fighter at your back never hurts.”
****
Captain Fawr entered Duncan’s tent unannounced, as usual. Eoin followed fast on his heels. “So last night, how did it go?”
Seated in front of his large chalk board immersed in calculations, Duncan acknowledged his captain’s arrival with a grunt. The larger rockets had developed tumble problems, and he was working on a remedy.
“What did the two of you talk about?” Eoin said. “Did you dazzle her with the compliments I suggested?”
“Her uncle is the commanding general. She has a brother in the camp,” Duncan didn’t glance away from the board. “I am confident they will bargain for her.”
“He interrogated her,” Eamon added helpfully.
Duncan put his chalk down, turned, and rested his arm on the back of his chair regarding his friends. “I did not. I directed the conversation where I wished it to go. We had a pleasant evening.”
“Did you kiss her?”
Duncan shot his captain such a stop-thrust look the larger man burst out laughing. “I withdraw the question.” He dumped squirming puppy onto Duncan’s lap. “We bought you a present.”
The puppy set about covering Duncan’s face with kisses. In self-defense, he held the furry bundle at arm’s length. Friendly blue eyes regarded him. The pup’s tail wagged madly.
“You should not have, sir.”
“I live to serve.” Captain Fawr’s famous lop-sided grin flashed. “I’d say it wasn’t any trouble, but it turns out blue-eyed dogs aren’t common. Eoin and I had to ride all the way to the next village for that one.”
Duncan settled the puppy on his lap and scratched its ears. “You miss the point. You really should not have.”
Laughter exploded from the twins and Captain Fawr struggled to keep a straight face.
Duncan glared at the twins. “Do you two not have somewhere else to be?”
> The elves shook their heads simultaneously. Captain Fawr circled around behind Duncan’s chair and rested his big hands on Duncan’s shoulders. “We have some time on our hands this morning. I thought we’d amuse you.”
Easing the puppy to the rug, Duncan pointedly turned to study his chalkboard. “Since you three think you are so funny, you should consider a career on the stage.”
His captain peered over his shoulder at the equations jotted underneath the complicated drawings. “What’s all this?”
Duncan glanced up. “We have a tumble problem.”
His captain flashed a quirky, lop-sided grin. “Maybe you do.”
Duncan rolled his eyes, ignoring the double entendre. “The large rockets, sir. They tumble.” To demonstrate, he rolled the chalk end-over-end between his index fingers.
“This is going to fix it?”
“Perhaps. When I began this project—” He pushed papers around on the desk until he uncovered a much folded piece of paper covered with blocks of letters. He tapped one of the blocks with his finger. “My brother suggested constructing the rockets finned as opposed to fledged. I recalled it this morning.”
Captain Fawr eyed the letter blocks dubiously. “It says that?”
“My brother perceives his surroundings in unexpected ways, therefore, he does not think, as you or I. He writes to build sharks not kingfishers.”
“From ‘build sharks not kingfishers’ you extrapolated...” Captain Fawr waved his hand Duncan’s complex equations. “No offense, Shug, I don’t think like you.”
****
That evening, true to his word, Duncan presented himself at Faelan’s tent. Prior to his arrival, her prison underwent a major transformation. Workers installed two screened windows. A colorful wool rug covered the newly raked floor, soft sheets and down pillows replaced her rough bedding. Ky’lara had delivered watercolors, brushes, and a tablet along with Faelan’s evening meal.
Duncan stood in the entrance for a moment struggling to control the puppy squirming in his arms. The slim book tucked under his left arm hampered his effort. Faelan took the puppy.
“I thought you might enjoy a companion.” He stepped into the tent’s dim interior.
The puppy licked Faelan’s chin. “He’s adorable.” Noting the pup’s blue eyes, she shot Duncan a questioning look as he moved past her.
“Captain Fawr’s idea of a joke.”
Faelan settled the puppy on the cot where it curled up and went to sleep. “I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault. Making sport of me is one of his grand passions.” Duncan smiled at her and held out his other offering.
Faelan took the book from his hands. “A picture book?”
“No.”
“But I can’t—”
“I will teach you. You have a fine mind. You will be a quick study. I know it.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she bowed her head so Duncan wouldn’t see how deeply his offer touched her. No one, not even Quinn, had volunteered to teach her to read. She stroked the book’s leather binding longingly, remembering the volumes of books in his quarters and the mind-boggling equations covering his chalk board. “You’ll be bored.” Her voice trembled in spite of her effort to keep it steady.
“Never.” Duncan held her chair. “We can begin as soon as you finish your meal.” He reached to take her hand and a spark jumped between them.
“Ow,” they said at the same time and smiled at each other.
When she’d finished the last bite and pushed the plate away, Duncan stacked the dishes on the corner of the table, trimmed the lamp, and pulled his chair over next to hers. His muscular thigh pressed against her leg. Their shoulders touched. The heat from his body scorched her. He opened the book.
“Wait.” Faelan shook her head. “This isn’t right.”
“I beg your pardon.” Duncan turned his head bringing his too-blue-to-stand eyes within inches of hers. His lips parted, moist, kissable. For a moment, Faelan forgot how to breathe.
“I’ve seen Katie and your captain read together and they don’t sit like this.”
He blinked. “How do they sit?”
Faelan turned her chair over, plucked the pillows off her bed, and propped them against the chair’s ladder back. “Sit on the floor and lean back.”
Duncan sat stiffly against the reclining nest she had created. “You think this position will be more conducive to learning?”
“Relax. Pull your knees up a little.” Settling herself between Duncan’s knees, Faelan leaned back against his chest. His stomach muscles clenched at the contact. “We’ll be more comfortable like this than sitting in those hard chairs.”
Duncan swallowed loudly. “H-H-How did you happen to see Captain Fawr thus?”
“Spy.” Faelan turned her head, glanced at him. He looked so uncomfortable she wanted to laugh. “It wasn’t exactly like this. They were in their soaking tub.”
He drew in a deep breath and raised the book resting his arms on his knees. “This primer teaches letters and sounds. It is a necessary foundation and not very exciting. You will be bored.”
Smiling at the strain in his voice, Faelan snuggled into the fire of his almost embrace. “Never.”
****
It took the better part of two weeks, but Quinn finally persuaded the chief-men that as Faelan’s brother he had the right to bargain for her. If only he’d had as much luck persuading Nicholas to stay behind. A tricky business it was because part of him wanted Nicholas at his back while the other part knew including Nicholas was asking for trouble.
His sister’s erstwhile suitor’s feelings might be common knowledge around camp, but Quinn was privy to the not so common knowledge that his sister loved elsewhere. Nicholas suspected the truth, and Quinn couldn’t shake the feeling that put in the same room with his enemy and rival, Nicholas would strike sparks. In the end, they made a deal. Nicholas’s promise to let Quinn do the talking.
His sister’s reports and his own reconnaissance pointed to afternoon as the best time to contact the enemy army. The field marshal generally kept to his tent for several hours following the noon meal. Quinn commandeered a small row boat, packed some of Faelan’s clothing, and waited for permission to cross the river.
****
Faelan’s laughter shivered over Duncan’s senses filling his heart. Onao, olo. Delicious. He longed to hear more. He needed more. For him, Faelan’s sweet rippling laughter was as addictive as a drug there wasn’t enough of in the world to satisfy his craving.
Coaxing laughter from Faelan had become something Duncan thought about, strategized over. Their growing friendship mattered. Faelan mattered. She had proven herself every bit as bright and eager as he suspected, taking knowledge from him as fast as he could dish it out. Duncan felt astonishing pride in her accomplishments. In just a few weeks, she read as well as people who’d been reading for years. As his fondness for her grew, his determination to see her safe increased until he felt it as a crushing weight.
“You’re very good at making amusing conversation about nothing.” Faelan said, calling Duncan’s attention back to their dinner.
He lifted his glass to his lips, sipping the tart fruit juice Ky’lara served him with Faelan’s evening meal. “My mother invested countless hours drilling me in the fine art of dinner conversation.” He patted the table, affecting a light feminine voice, “I will have a little conversation from you, Aimery, dear. With your beautiful face a little will do.”
Faelan giggled. “Your mother never said that.”
Just when Duncan thought nothing could be better than Faelan’s laugh, there was Faelan’s giggle, so sweet, so innocent, his heart nearly stopped. Could a man die from pleasure?
“She did, more than once. Do not look so shocked. Do you suppose me ignorant of my pulchritude?”
Faelan made a face at him, and he gave her a guilty smile. “I know what I look like. My point is a Holder’s sons are his greatest assets. We attend parties, play Chucker, marry w
ell, and add to the family wealth. We do not run off to the mainland and join the cavalry.
“My father has no luck with his sons. My older brother died a charming wastrel. I stammer and prefer science and mathematics to parties and dancing. And my younger brother…” Duncan paused for a beat. “My younger brother is not much engaged by language.”
Leaning forward, he touched the tips of Faelan’s cropped hair with his fingertips because he couldn’t help himself. So soft. He had no idea why he was telling her intimate childhood memories. It just felt right. He dropped his chin and gave her a self-deprecating smile. “So you see, Mother worked doubly hard on me as I was the most salvageable.”
Faelan’s eyes blinked rapidly. Her smile grew shaky. “You don’t stammer often. You never do when you speak to Ky’lara.”
“Ah, there, you see I think in Maoliou.” Duncan chuckled. “I do not have to translate for her. The problem is I think very fast. I am careful, but still sometimes the translation arrives a bit late and then,” he flashed a grin, “I fl-fl-flounder.”
Instead of laughing at his foolishness, Faelan stood forcing him to do the same. She crossed to the mesh window, gazed out into the night. Duncan’s gaze swept over her appreciatively. Faelan’s feet were bare, small, and slender. Light from tonight’s bonfire bathed her face in a soft glow and reflected in her ice-blue eyes. She was the most beautiful woman Duncan had ever seen. Did she know how much he wanted her? Looking at her made his heart melt.
A soft breeze played with her short silvery-blonde hair. The ill-fitting blue gown she wore stopped well above her slender ankles and hung on her lean figure. He should find her prettier things to wear. Women liked pretty things.
True, Faelan lacked the soft curves Captain Fawr found so attractive, but Duncan knew the pleasures hidden beneath that shapeless gown. He closed his eyes and imagined firelight dancing along Faelan’s ivory skin. He saw it licking at the coral tips of her pert breasts. He wanted to be that fire.