by Jane Atchley
Faelan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The guard repeated, “Field Marshal Duncan, my lady.”
She opened her eyes.
“Duncan, I heard—oh great ancestor. Quinn!” She launched herself at her brother catching him in a fierce hug. Turning to the beaming field marshal, she hugged him without thinking. “Thank you, Aimery. Thank you so much.”
“Save some of that for your intended.” Nicholas caught her arm and tugged her away from Duncan.
Faelan froze. “What are you doing here?” She glared at Nicholas’s hand on her arm. “I told you not to touch me. Let me go.”
Nicholas pulled her closer stroking her hair with his free hand. “You don’t want to embarrass me now, Lannie.”
“The lady asked you to release her.”
Nicholas shot Duncan an angry glance. “This is a lovers’ quarrel. Mind your own business girlie-man.”
“Faelan, do you have an understanding with this man?”
She speared Nicholas with an icy glare. “No.”
Duncan gripped Nicholas’ thumb and gave it a hard backward twist. Faelan tugged her arm free. Several things happened at once, Nicholas swung. Duncan blocked the punch, and followed through with a punch to the gut, doubling Nicholas over. Quinn grabbed Nicholas around his waist and held on for dear life.
Duncan tugged his jacket straight. “Aside from the fact there is an army a shout away, I spend a good portion of every day sparring with men whose reach exceeds my own.” His eyes narrowed. “Believe me. I am able to defeat you.”
Never taking his eyes off Nicholas, Duncan raised his voice. “Sergeant Major.” The man Faelan knew as Bird poked his head inside.
“Sir?”
“Escort this man to my tent, please.” Duncan nodded in Nicholas’s direction. “Entertain him until Mister Foley is ready to depart.”
“Yes, sir.” The blue-jacketed trooper took hold of Nicholas’ arm and gave him a non-to-gentle shove.
No sooner had they quit the tent than Duncan turned his temper on Quinn. “I have heard disturbing things about your culture, Mister Foley. I do not like what I have heard. I want your assurance that Faelan will be safe from any maltreatment when she returns to your camp.”
“She won’t hang,” Quinn flushed bright red and stared at his toes. “Lannie takes care of herself.”
“I am sure she does. Look at me, please.” Duncan’s gaze burned with blue fire. “Any man caught laying hands on one of my sisters in like fashion, would not lay hands on anyone or anything in his foreseeable future. Am I making myself clear?”
Quinn looked him in the eye. “Nicholas won’t touch her. You have my word on it.”
Duncan gave the other man a sharp nod. “I will hold you to it.” He turned his attention back to Faelan. “I apologize if I overstepped. I realize you are well able to handle your own affairs. I further realize your relationship with this Frickenbrick person is not my business—”
”Falkenbach.”
Duncan blinked at her several times. “Whatever.” He dipped his chin looking up at her through those obscenely long lashes of his, a sheepish smile quirked his perfect mouth. “It is just I hate bullies.”
Faelan smiled, beamed really. Finally the Maoliou word, Addiri, meaning little dragon, with all its multiple usages made sense. Conqueror. Champion. Protector. Aimery Duncan conquered her heart, championed her cause, and protected her, without once treating her like a possession.
She didn’t bother hiding the love in her eyes. Instead, she entwined his fingers in hers, raised their joined hands to her lips, and brushed a kiss to his knuckles.
“Thank you for your trouble.” She let go of his hand.
He chucked her under the chin. “It was no trouble. Let me give you time with your brother.” Duncan moved to quit the tent, paused and turned to Quinn. “I will call for you in a quarter hour, Mister Foley.”
“Well,” Quinn raised his eyebrows. “He’s a regular dragon when he gets riled up isn’t he?
“Lion,” Her voice sounded so soft and dreamy Faelan barely recognized it as her own.
“Huh?”
She shook head, wiping the loopy grin off her face. “The kin-slayer captain likens his blue-jackets to lions, not dragons.”
Quinn laughed. “He’d better take a closer look at that one. A sand-dragon, if ever I saw one. For a minute there, I expected the fire shooting out of his eyes to roast me alive.” He held out the bundle he carried, his gaze drifting over her ill-fitting dress. “I brought some of your clothes.”
Faelan snatched the bundle out of his hands and sorted through its treasures while her brother explored her prison. He paused before the easel examining a half-finished portrait of Duncan. “He visits often I see?”
Faelan glance up. “Most evenings.”
“I’ve imagined you in all sorts of circumstances, but this.” Quinn opened his arms taking in the small tent and its accoutrements. “This is luxury, Lannie! Fresh flowers? Bright Lord! Where do I go to surrender?”
“Duncan is kind to me.” Faelan shook out a gauzy pale orange tunic. “Everyone is.”
Quinn settled himself on the cot beside her. “Are you kind to him?”
She shot her brother a saucy grin. “Not nearly as kind as I’d like. Duncan has scruples.”
“So he comes to your tent every night and what, sits for his portrait?”
Folding the tunic on her lap, Faelan fingered the soft material. “We sit together while I eat. Sometimes we play cards or a Nhurstari strategy game called Qaent. He always wins at Qaent. I suspect he lets me win at cards now and then, so I won’t feel too inferior. I know he remembers every card in play. Other times we just talk.”
“About?”
She shot Quinn a sharp look. “Not about the war, if that’s what you are thinking. We agreed not to speak of it.” She grinned at Quinn’s expression. “He’s teaching me to read.”
Quinn took her hands. “He’s what?”
“Teaching me to read—”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Faelan pulled her hands free and resumed folding clothes. “And write, so there’s always something to talk about. Other times, he talks about nothing and makes it sound interesting. Dinner conversation, he calls it. But the best thing, the very best thing is he listens. He makes me feel like what I say matters, as if I matter. It is such an unfamiliar feeling I can’t explain it, but I could get used to it.”
Quinn put his arm around her shoulders. “You matter, Lannie.”
“To you and Uncle Ari, I’m important, but you know as well as I do if I weren’t a Shifter, you wouldn’t be here.”
Chapter Twenty
Dearest Aimee,
Troubadours promise bright glory in war, but glory eludes me; war is a dark place. My prisoner draws me as a point of light in a dark howling emptiness. I am of two minds. I want to set her free and I long to hold her close that I might bask in her light. But for the hope of glory, I cling to the darkness.
Duncan paused scanning the page in the gloomy light. Afternoon had slipped into night while he struggled to come to grips with what his gut told him. The prisoner exchange was a mistake. One for which Faelan would suffer. The man Farkenbark had no honor, and in spite of her brother’s assurances, Quinn could not keep Faelan safe. Why had he not killed Fartenbart? The bastard broke parley. He had had every right to kill him, but he had chosen magnanimity. Duncan was sick of magnanimity.
The exchange was set for noon the day after tomorrow. He could not change it even if he wanted to. His duty belonged to the men serving under him not to his lovely prisoner, but still…
Captain Fawr entered the tent unannounced, as only he dared, and lit all the lamps dispelling Duncan’s preferred gloom. Exploiting their captain’s unique position, the twins followed, settled into the two empty chairs nearest Duncan’s desk, and struck up a game of rock-paper-scissors. For reasons Duncan did not try to comprehend, the twins loved the game.
The captain
leaned on the edge of the desk. “You should be dancing the line, not moping around in the dark. Hell, man, you got everything you wanted.”
“Not everything. Faelan is not safe while this fellow Fallenbrick lives.”
“Falkenbach.”
Eoin was always so helpful. Duncan shot him a look. “Whatever.”
The captain slumped into a camp chair across from where Duncan sat, and stared at the rug letting his big hands dangle between his knees. After a few seconds, he raised his head. “Is that our mission, Shug? Keep your woman safe?”
No censure colored his captain’s soft voice or showed in his eyes. It was a question, pure and simple, but Duncan felt an uncomfortable squeezing in his chest all the same. “No sir. We will drive the AOD from Kingdom lands. It is just…I-I wanted… That is to say, I hoped to accomplish both.”
“You have a funny way of doing it, returning her to her people where she’s right in the path of your monstrous weapon. I wouldn’t want a woman I cared about anywhere near the thing.”
Duncan’s hand convulsed crumpling his sister’s letter. “And yet Kayseri is here.”
Captain Fawr nodded. “You think I want Katie here? I made certain promises when I took her to wife. Trust me, if not for those she’d find herself tucked safely away at home. And let’s not forget, she has her father and Garen to protect her. This woman has you.” He shrugged. “Do you want my advice?”
“Does it matter?”
His captain flashed him a lop-sided grin. “Not much.”
Duncan slammed the pen down in his desk with a loud crack. “In that case, sir, honor me with the benefit of your vast experience on women and war. How do I solve my problem?”
“Don’t give her up.”
“I must.”
“Why?”
Duncan blinked. Why? What kind of question was why? “I gave my word, sir.”
Captain Fawr chuckled. “You gave your word to an enemy who breaks parley—you didn’t think I knew about that did you—and murders children and bedridden men. Let me think.” His gaze briefly drifted to the right before coming back to Duncan. “I don’t care. I don’t think it counts. Does it count, Eoin?”
“No, My Captain. Ha! Paper covers rock. I win!”
“Eamon, does it count?”
The elf’s gaze darted between the captain and Duncan. “I sorry Aimery, I agree with My Captain.”
Duncan dragged his hands down his face suddenly bone weary. “Do you have a moral compass at all, sir?”
“Sure I do.” Captain Fawr reached out and punched Duncan’s shoulder in consolation. “It always points to win. I see you’re not going to listen to me so here’s my alternate advice.”
****
“Follow your natural instincts.” Duncan rehearsed his captain’s words again as he made his way to Faelan’s tent. The noon sun baked the ground. Little heat distortions rose in wavy lines. The locals said this intense heat heralded the rainy season, and he hoped the rainy season translated into cooler weather. Growing up in the tropics taught him such was not always the case.
His time with Faelan had slipped through his fingers. After the exchange things, if he desired things would be, as Captain Fawr so helpfully pointed out, more difficult. But still…the whole idea reeked of official oppression, and his natural instincts were, Duncan knew, so far removed from his captain’s “Lay the girl and be done!” it was laughable. Faelan deserved more than a captor’s prerogative. She deserved romance and he meant to see she got it if only for a single night.
The guard, whose name eluded Duncan, scratched at the tent flap. “Field Marshal Duncan’s come to see you, lady, are you decent?”
Faelan finger-combed her short hair as best she could. Duncan restricted his visits to her evening meals. However, he had missed the last three evenings. Her heartbeat raced. Owing to extreme heat, she wore the midriff baring blouse and loose trousers she’d found among the things Quinn had brought her. Both were ultra fine pale orange cotton designed to wear with an over tunic.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m decent.” Barely.
At the last minute she remembered her veil-cloth, but it was too late, Duncan ducked through the tent flap and she forgot all else. He looked magnificent. Every gold buckle and button gleamed. Not a single wrinkle marred his dragon’s eye blue shell jacket. His boots reflected the light like mirrors. He sported another new haircut. It just touched his jacket’s high collar and had a decidedly Nhurstari look. His demon twins wouldn’t be satisfied until they turned him elf. Faelan smiled.
Duncan smiled in return. His chin sported light stubble, Faelan noted as his gaze traveled slowly from her bare head, to her bare midriff, to equally bare toes and almost back again.
“You look splendid,” Faelan said. Her nipples stood at attention for him.
His gaze had lingered on her bosom. Now it snapped up to her face. “I was thinking the same of you.” He offered her a folded piece of his fancy parchment.
A hundred possibilities flooded her head, all of them bad. He wrote letters on fine paper to relatives of soldiers killed in battle. Cold dread gripped her heart. Looking up, she found his gaze on her face, his lower lip caught between his teeth. His so expressive eyes worried or eager or both.
“My brother’s dead?”
“Ashes! No. It—It is an in—invitation.” His eyes were very wide. “I would like you to dine with me.”
“But we eat together every night.” Rather she did, he sat with her.
“In my tent.” Duncan cleared his throat. “I want…I want to cook dinner for you in my tent. Tonight. In my tent.”
Cook? She hadn’t seen that coming. She was lost for words. Duncan dipped his chin slightly, gazing up through obscenely long lashes. It was disarming, boyish, a lost-puppy sort of look guaranteed to win over the stoutest hearts.
Faelan’s heart was not stout. “You cook?”
“You sound surprised.” He splayed one long fingered hand upon his chest. “I am a chemist. Mixing base ingredients is what I do. It is relaxing to mix ingredients unlikely to blow up in my face from time to time. So…do you…want to?” He moistened his lips, stepped back. “You may say no, Faelan. I will not compel you.”
He gave her his lost-puppy look again. The man was sending her back to her people when he could send her to the gallows. He’d given her the gift of reading, something she’d longed for all her life. Did he seriously think she’d refuse to have dinner with him? He did it again, gave her a look to melt hearts. He did think she might say no, and he would take no for an answer.
“I’d be honored,” Faelan tried to sound as she imagined women of Duncan’s class sounded. Inside she jumped up-and-down, laughed, cried, and danced, all at the same time.
Duncan tugged at the tail of his jacket, though it was perfectly straight, and touched his empty scabbard. “The honor is mine. The twins will collect you at sundown.”
Faelan hid her disappointment until she was sure he’d gone. The Nhurstari twins, his great enchanter. Of course, he’d send them. She sat on the edge of her cot reading and rereading Duncan’s invitation. She pictured him composing it. He’d have chewed on the end of his pen the way he did when he searched for perfect words. He was the sweetest man. Tears blurred her vision. Tomorrow she would leave his camp and never talk to him again.
****
Duncan spent the afternoon scouring the local markets. Nothing but the finest cheeses and freshest vegetables would do. He could have sent Ky’lara with his shopping list and he supposed he should have. It would have caused far less comment in camp.
Most days he lived up to his name, Aimery, King of Work. How his parents had known he would pour his energy into research the way other young men did into chasing women was a mystery. But he did not want to make lists. He wanted—he needed to do this himself. Faelan’s last evening had to be as…perfect…as wonderful…as special as Faelan herself. Then she’d understand how he felt about her.
News of his
excursion and the reason for it had spread through camp like fire through dry grass. So Duncan was not surprised to see Captain Fawr striding toward him with a face like a thunder head.
“Namar’s tears.” Kree swore.
As his captain’s gaze took in the changes in the command tent, he had to be thinking, this is the man I placed over the largest armed force ever assembled in the history of the Kingdoms. But Duncan had to give his captain his due, the only emotion he saw was astonishment.
“What in all the sodden hells do you think you’re doing?”
This challenge or one like it was on the horizon from the moment Duncan woke up with the notion of a dinner party. He had laid his defense and planned his offense. He had transformed the tent’s front portion into a make-shift cook-house and was efficiently chopping fruit on one of the long trestle tables usually reserved for maps.
Duncan set his knife aside and looked up, meeting his captain’s curious gaze. “What you advised me to do, sir.”
All garrison troopers were of a size, six foot or so, athletically built. Captain Fawr at six-seven topped them. Duncan at five-ten was the runt of the litter and never let to forget it. Kree leaned across the table resting his weight on his elbows so his head was level with Duncan’s own.
This was a favorite tactic of his captain’s, making himself smaller. Duncan had never met anyone who used body language as well as Kree. He had scored the first hit. This was to be a friendly discussion, not a full-on dressing down. Still, Duncan proceeded cautiously. Friendly discussions with Captain Fawr could land the unwary in a fire-pit. He’d seen many a man burned to a crisp.
“I told to you to romance a spy?”
Duncan calmly resumed chopping fruit, glancing at his captain now and again. “You said, sir, and I quote, follow your natural instincts.”
“This is not what I meant and you know it.”
Duncan dropped the fruit into a large flat pan. It sizzled, throwing up a cloud of steam and fragrance.
“Yes, sir, I do. But we are very different people. I have observed your devil-may-care way with women from close range, sir. Yet you sang a different tune when it came to your own sweetheart…your certain someone.”