Intimate Enemies

by Shana Ab

  Ari wondered if that conversation with his uncle had taken place before Lauren had been kidnapped or after. It had to have been before. Yes, before, because he had never heard of Lauren MacRae until that day.

  What would Ryder du Morgan think of that little girl, the child he had wanted to murder, resting now in his bed in this very room? Ari found a dark amusement at the thought.

  “Your fortnight is over soon, MacRae,” said Arion to Lauren, speaking down to the table.“Tomorrow, in fact.” He waited, then added,“You'll not be able to leave here before then.”

  He heard her shift in the bed but she said nothing. He did not turn around to see her face.

  “What do you think your clan will do when the alliance expires?” he asked, and heard an ominously familiar rhythm in his question—slow, paced to coach an answer.“Would they fight to gain you back?”

  “Would they need to?” Lauren asked, wary.

  Arion shrugged, still finding that black amusement, but it had turned sour somehow, growing bitter in his blood. He wondered for a bare instant if this was something that Ryder would have felt, this wild anger at nothing and everything, this buried hurt that made him want to hurt in return.

  He was his uncle's nephew, after all. Perhaps some of that ruthlessness would be of use to him.

  He wanted something that was not his. Honor and reason dictated that he conquer the want, that he vanquish it for the good of everyone.

  But he was the Earl of Morgan, a man with a noble title and considerable authority to go with it. He had extensive lands, he had armies, he had a king who would—with the proper persuasion—grant him almost anything he requested. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, out here on the remoteness of Shot he spoke for the king, and that made him just as strong.

  For the first time, Arion had a cold taste of how power truly felt, and a clear vision of what it could mean, if wielded the way he wanted to. How it might satisfy this thing in him that called out for a woman beyond his control—at least until her clan killed him to get her back. It was a vast, whirling darkness, and he felt himself drawn to it with almost overwhelming force.

  This would be his last chance to capture her before she vanished into her people, became lost amid them before she left the isle—and his life—forever. He had not truly considered it until this moment, staring down at the inkwell. Soon she would be gone, and all that luminescence about her would be gone as well, and he would be left empty and alone and with that bitter thickness in his blood, until it froze him dead, or he wished he were.

  Arion faced her again, leaning against Ryder's table. “Naturally, I would prefer peace.”

  “We all would.” Her figure was slim and shadowed amid his pillows. He could see the caution in her more clearly than he could hear it. Her voice was even, but there was a kind of tenseness about her, her hands clenched together on her lap. “There is no cause for fighting among us.”

  “I could not, however,” Arion continued,“allow you to leave Elguire until it was judged you were well enough to be moved, no matter what your clan said. I am the overlord here, and you are in my country. I am responsible for all the souls in my demesne. Right now, that includes you.”

  “I cannot imagine it would take more than just a day or two until I am sound again.”

  “I can imagine it,” Ari replied.“I can imagine it quite easily. You were seriously injured. I'm surprised you lived, in fact. It could take … weeks until you are healed. Or longer.”

  “I'm sure something can be arranged,” Lauren said, the tension in her becoming more pronounced. “I'm sure we can reach an agreement.”

  “Aye,” he said.“An agreement.”

  And she stared over at him from the luxury of his bed and Arion saw her now, at last, see into his thoughts, understand what he was contemplating, what he might do. He saw the warm blush that had graced her before go draining away to nothing, leaving her pale and wide-eyed, lovely and worried.

  He gave her a smile that he knew would not reassure her, but he couldn't help it. It was the bitterness, the hurt and want in him that made him do it, and these were the things in him that made him walk away from her now, over to the door of the room.

  “Rest well, Lauren,” he said.“We'll discuss our agreement again tomorrow.”

  Then he left.

  Chapter Te n

  AUREN AWOKE TO A ROOM that was unfamiliar to her, filled with gilt and tapestries and an enormous bed that swallowed her up as if she were a sparrow in a swirl of clouds, lost amid the softness.

  But in the next heartbeat she remembered it all, every moment of it, yesterday with the Earl of Morgan, her tears, his comfort … and then Hannah, and Arion again, and his strangeness, the edge of wildness that had come over him as he had talked about the end of the alliance.

  She sat up, scanning the room, wincing when she moved too quickly, and the pain rushed back. A figure in one far corner moved and stood; Lauren's breath caught and then released. It was Hannah.

  “Good morning, dearest,” said her friend, coming toward her. “How do you feel?”

  Lauren had to yawn and shake her head, then she looked around the rest of the room anyway, just to be certain Arion was not somewhere she could not easily see, a silent observer.

  “He is not here,” said Hannah.

  “No,” Lauren replied. “Of course not.”

  “It would not be appropriate,” Hannah said now.

  Lauren lifted one shoulder in a shrug, to show how little the subject interested her.

  “Do you think you are well enough to step out of the bed?” Hannah moved closer.“I do not wish to hurry you unduly, but we should think about when you might be well enough to return to Keir. Everyone awaits us there.”

  “Hannah.” Lauren put her hand on her friend's arm. “Today is the last day of the alliance, isn't it?”

  “Is it?” asked Hannah, appearing unconcerned.“Why, I suppose you're right.”

  Lauren raised a hand to her head, rubbing, fighting the sensation of dizzy apprehension that was filling her.“Tell me this: What was the talk, when you left Keir? What was the council saying? Will they renew our agreement with the du Morgans?”

  Hannah said nothing, but Lauren didn't need the words. She could see the answer in her eyes.

  “Oh no,” she whispered, and moved her hands to cover her own eyes. The apprehension turned to dread, sharp and lancing, and she couldn't even speak for a moment, so great was its hold on her.

  “The Earl of Morgan sent a day gown for you,” said Hannah, after a long pause.“Won't you see it? Yo u cannot go home in what you have on, and we do not have your tartan.”

  “They're fools,” said Lauren, biting.“I cannot believe they would let our agreement die.”

  “I do not think,” said Hannah softly,“that that is what they truly wish to have die.”

  “What, then?” asked Lauren.

  Again her friend said nothing, only looked down at her, and there was sadness and knowledge behind her expression, compassion. Lauren felt her heart shrivel into something dry and cold.

  Rhodric had won. He had told the council of his discovery—of how she felt about Arion—and even though they had professed not to believe him, Lauren knew now that he had stirred them into doubt. And because of the doubt, everything would be ended.

  “It took a great deal of convincing to persuade them to send only me to companion you,” said Hannah, reading her, as she always did. “And they agreed only because they trust me, and they know me, and they honestly do not wish you to be ill used by anyone. They cherish you, Lauren. They want what is best for you.”

  Arion had to know. He had to have realized by now what was about to happen. It would explain his mood yesterday, the chilled finality of his words. The alliance was ending. They would not be able to see each other again. Unless …

  Unless she had read the strange air about him correctly. Unless she had accurately perceived in him what she feared even to consider, the desperate depth
s to the green of his eyes …

  He had left her alone with her fears, her imaginings of what he was capable of, and even Hannah had stayed away until that evening, when Lauren had been asleep again because the exhaustion and the pain would not cease. She had roused briefly enough to see the figure of her friend, and then … this morning.

  “Come,” said Hannah, so gentle.“Look at the gown. Let me help you dress.”

  The day gown was an English fashion, created from a very heavy material that Lauren could not name. It was composed of a thick outer garment with long, slashed sleeves, and slits in both the front and back of the skirts. A plainer gown apparently went beneath it. After some struggling and a bit of guessing, they had the foreign thing on her, and it actually fit.

  Hannah seemed speechless, looking her up and down as Lauren leaned against the bedpost, trying not to appear as faint as she felt. When her head cleared she glanced down at herself. The color of the outer gown was a deep amber, soft and gleaming with stitches of darker gold. The gown beneath it, revealed in coy glimpses behind the slits, was a rich, royal blue, also gleaming, also thick and fine.

  It was clearly a gown for someone more important than she was, Lauren realized, an English princess, perhaps. It felt strange on her, confining and weighted, such a contrast from the relative looseness of her usual gown and tartan.

  “Well,” pronounced Hannah, and then she said nothing more, because it was impossible not to be impressed with the grandeur of it. Their eyes met and both women broke into smiles, then laughter. Lauren held up one of the sleeves, displaying the long sweep of it.

  “Who could work in such a thing?” she asked, and Hannah laughed again and shook her head. The moment faded away, leaving them in silence once more. Lauren shifted, and the gown rustled in stately folds, formal and stiff.

  Hannah crossed to one of the tables in the room and came back with a looking glass in her hands. She held it up so that Lauren could see herself in it, a dusky reflection.

  It was not she. It could not be, that woman there, with her long, tangled red hair and her pale cheeks. It was not she in such English finery, looking like a noble stranger from that other land, a rogue queen who had run away from her court.

  Lauren stared at the image, fascinated, seeing a glimpse of someone she had never known before— a woman with her own face, yet who wore the clothing of the enemy, who looked like she belonged with them.

  “I met Fuller Morgan over thirty-five years ago,” said Hannah quietly, not moving the glass, not taking her gaze from the vision of Lauren in the gown. “It was a thing of chance, of pure blind fortune, that had us both become lost in a sudden storm one afternoon. I took shelter beneath a tree, terrified of the lightning, the thunder. I was but fourteen. And then there he was, running out of the storm, an Englishman coming toward me, soaked with rain. I was too afraid to even move. But he was kind to me, gentle and sweet. He smiled at me and took my hand, and that was the end of my fear. Storms have held no threat for me since that day.”

  Lauren stood still, listening, the woman in the glass just as intent.

  “We arranged to meet about a dozen times over the next year,” Hannah continued.“And each time was more precious than the last, and more magical. I did not think of the future. I could not. I thought only of him, and of what might be.”

  Slowly the glass lowered, and the English queen tilted and then was gone. Only a flash of gold at her feet remained in the disk of it.

  “What happened?” Lauren asked, still not moving.

  Hannah bent her head and smiled to the ground, then back up at Lauren. “Only what you might think. I was already betrothed, of course, and I ended up marrying the man my father chose for me. There was nothing else I could do, not without disgracing my family. Fuller understood. Indeed, within a year he was wed as well, to someone from his own people. And the years passed, and he stayed over on his side of Shot, and I on mine. Even after my husband died, years ago, I never ventured out again to that place where we used to meet when I was a girl.”

  “Did you ever …” Lauren hesitated, then finished her thought.“Did you ever regret your choice?”

  “No,” Hannah replied.“I never did.”

  Lauren turned and walked back to the bed, touching the covers, trying not to give in to the hot stinging behind her eyes. She heard Hannah come up behind her and then beside her. The older woman reached out, placed a finger under Lauren's chin to raise her head.

  “Until yesterday,” she said. “When I saw him again at last, and realized what it was that I had missed all my life.”

  The stinging grew, became moisture that Lauren had to blink away.

  “You are the daughter of Hebron,” said Hannah softly. “And the bride of Murdoch. But I fear for you, my darling. I'm afraid for your future, of what you might be forced to become. You are as precious to me as my own child could have been. I do not want to see you destroyed.”

  Lauren moved into her embrace, and they held each other, and the tears still came.

  “What should I do?” she whispered, wiping at her eyes.

  “I don't know,” said Hannah, mournful.“I don't know what to tell you. I don't want you to do something that will mar you for the rest of your life. I understand your heart, child. And I understand the power of your feelings.” She leaned back, taking in Lauren's face.“But I do not think you will be able to live with yourself if you injure your clan. I don't think you can do that. You are perhaps the most loyal person I've ever known—along with your father. You could not live with such a betrayal in your soul.”

  Lauren felt herself go still and empty, the words surrounding her, sinking in. She felt the confines of the gown as if she were suddenly in chains, everything heavy on her, everything important. It had taken Hannah to tell her what she had known all along—that she could never turn her back on her own people to save just herself. That she could never leave Murdoch and run to the side of a man who was untouchable to her.

  Da had set her path for her. She must continue to follow it.

  The stinging was gone, her mind felt clear and pure, perhaps for the very first time since she had seen Arion du Morgan as a man. She stepped back from Hannah's arms, nodding, calm. She looked around the room and realized again its unfamiliarity to her, and why that must remain so.

  Hannah looked strained, worried, so Lauren gave her a small smile and kissed her on her cheek, reassuring.

  “I think you should go find your Fuller,” she said.“A lifetime is a long time to have to wait, and the day is well begun already.”

  But Hannah did not move, so Lauren gave a wider smile, and another embrace, this one quicker, impatient. “Go on. I'm fine. You are my sanity, you know. But now I need to be alone. Go find him. I'm sure he's waiting for you, wherever he is.”

  After a long minute Hannah moved away, clasping Lauren's hand in a final squeeze, so dear and kind. At the door she turned around, and Lauren only waved her on.

  “Be certain to rest,” Hannah instructed. “We'll be leaving soon.”

  “I know,” replied Lauren. And finally Hannah left.

  HE SUNLIGHT WAS CAPRICIOUS, COMING and going through silver clouds, and Lauren watched it all from a cushioned seat on a bower at the window, her back to Arion's chamber, her head tilted against the stone.

  Her hands rested loose and empty on her lap, very white against the sapphire and amber of the gown she wore, and the view before her seemed as mysterious and foreign as the clothing on her body

  It might not have been Shot out there, so different was it from her half of the island. Before her now was nothing of the ruggedness she knew; instead she had miles of long meadows, rolling hills, lone trees that stood scattered like sentinels around it all. She saw the beach from here, too, again so mild and clement, smooth and tame, with water that rolled up to perfection at its edge.

  The clouds were fat and curled, tumbling and racing over the ocean in hypnotic form, highlighting long rays of sunlight that broke between t
hem.

  Since she had been expecting him, the click of the door opening was not surprising to her. But Lauren could not help the depth of the next breath she took, a brace for fortitude, for what she was about to do.

  “What peace surrounds you here,” she commented, not bothering to look at Arion.

  She heard him walk forward into the room, across the thick rug, until he stopped behind her, not too close.

  “Could you ever live in such a peace, Lauren?”

  The breath in her became stabbing, painful, but she managed to say lightly, “What a question to ask me! I am certain Payton Murdoch's lands are as peaceful as these.”

  She waited, counting out the seconds before she turned her head to him, took in his face.

  That was a mistake. There were no secrets there now, nothing hidden from her as he usually did. What she saw there was a need as raw and as powerful as what she felt, deep green eyes that pierced her, that stripped away her pretense to leave her bare and vulnerable. Lauren shifted her gaze down to her lap.

  “An interesting gown you've offered me,” she said. “But strange and uncomfortable, I fear. I would like my tartan back, if you please.”

  “I cannot give it to you.”

  She affected annoyance. “You would keep my own clothing from me now? To what purpose?”

  Arion shrugged. “Your tartan was ruined in battle, and your fall. I don't even have it any longer. I sent it back to Keir with your men.”

  Lauren pinched one of the folds of amber cloth; it almost stayed in place, so heavy and unyielding. “Is this your sister's?”

  “No.”

  “I would feel odd, wearing the gown of a woman who wanted me dead.”

  “Nora's clothing is back at Morgan, I should think.”

  Lauren dared to look up at him again, striving for nonchalance.

  “She never comes here?”

  “No,” Arion said again. He examined her face, his look dark and hidden once more, as she was used to seeing.“Nora is in the family crypt at Morgan.”