The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  “Disappointing,” Rose confirmed.

  “Hey now, listen here!” Rand looked scandalized.

  Isla ignored the rest of the conversation. That Rose had admirers of her own, almost as many as Hart, was of no particular significance to her. Although normally she took much more of an interest in her friends’—and she supposed that she and the maid were friends, for all that separated them—love lives. But with the reference to her own marriage bed, however kindly Hart’s joke had been intended, all the color went out of the afternoon. The sun had managed to warm things up considerably, but now she felt as cold as if she’d been encased in snow.

  She’d been happy enough, for a few minutes; the sheer normality of the situation would have been enough to raise anyone’s spirits. It was hard not to feel good when Hart was laughing, and Rose was laughing, and everyone around her was acting like something good had happened. But….

  She shivered. Beneath the persistent sense of unreality lurked the knowledge that life as she knew it was over. Possibly life of any kind. Whatever lay in store for her up in the snow-capped mountains of Darkling Reach didn’t include happiness, as both she and her would-be husband knew. And while she tried to steel herself to the realities of her situation, he seemed nothing but amused by the idea of this bizarre sham upon which they’d agreed.

  What did that mean?

  ELEVEN

  Dinner was drawing to a close when it happened.

  Rowena looked radiant in flax that had been dyed a soft shade of rose. Her color was high, both from excitement and from the ground angelica archangelica powder that she’d smeared on her cheeks. Although the church considered the use of cosmetics sinful, Rowena had saved up for her own small kit for months and bribed Apple for her help in making up the rest of the cost. She’d offered to both clean Apple’s favorite slippers—Apple herself was hopeless when it came to such matters—and stand guard at the door of Apple’s small private study while she trysted with Hart.

  One of their companions made some bland remark and Rowena’s laugh was like the high, clear tinkling of bells. She was bent, apparently, on acting like nothing unusual had happened. The duke was a houseguest, nothing more; she treated him with the same polite disinterest that she’d shown since his arrival. And he, in turn, ignored her entirely.

  He ignored Isla as well, a condition that Isla found both relieving and oddly piquing. He was her betrothed, was he not? Shouldn’t he at least ask her if she enjoyed her venison?

  According to the manuals on courtly love that Rowena was forever reading aloud in the women’s gallery, a devoted lover was supposed to cut his lady’s food into delicate bite-sized cubes and feed them to her from the point of his knife while singing the praises of her rosebud lips. Isla didn’t want the duke’s knife anywhere near her face and she certainly didn’t want to be fed like a child. Furthermore, according to The Chivalrous Heart, when not defending widows and orphans and fighting off blackguards, he should dedicate himself to buying her presents and always turn pale in her presence.

  Isla sipped her wine, thinking that the whole thing was rubbish.

  Rowena laid the tips of her fingers very lightly on the sleeve of the man next to her, whispering some endearment against his pale shell of an ear that made him blush.

  “I don’t think Rudolph would like that,” Hart said mildly. He seemed amused by the display. Rowena’s antics were harmless, like Rowena herself. To Isla, even having grown into such a lovely and obviously mature woman, at least on the outside, Rowena still seemed like a child. A spoiled child, to be sure, but a good-natured one and one who didn’t always understand the adult ramifications of her actions.

  The man—one of the guard captains, Isla thought, she didn’t know him—blushed an unbecoming scarlet.

  “Real jealousy always increases the feeling of love,” Rowena quoted.

  “Is that so.” Hart’s tone was dry.

  “In The Chivalrous Heart, the author, who is an expert in these matters, says that jealousy, and therefore love, are increased when one suspects his beloved.” Rowena sounded extremely self-important; this was, after all, her main topic and possibly the only topic on which she was even remotely educated. “In fact—”

  “The age of chivalry is past.” The duke sipped his wine, apparently unperturbed. “Bores have succeeded dragons.”

  “The age of chivalry is never past,” Rowena’s friend replied, even as he wilted a little under the duke’s gaze. “So long as there is a wrong left unredressed on the earth,” he pressed on manfully, but in a small voice. He glanced down into his cup, as if seeking answers there.

  “The word chivalry comes from a word in the old tongue, meaning horse.”

  At this, the would-be stallion looked as though he’d like to bolt from the table.

  Hart snorted in derision, and poured himself more wine. Isla wondered if he was, indeed, serious about possibly seeking out service with the duke. He certainly adored the man enough—inexplicably. And he was right to note that there was absolutely nothing for him here.

  “Men don’t understand,” Rowena said, a bit defensively.

  The duke spoke again, surprising Isla—and Rowena. “The Chivalrous Heart also advises that when made public, love rarely endures.”

  “You’ve read it?” Rowena asked, surprised.

  “Of course.” The duke smiled slightly, revealing a flash of very white teeth. That he’d read this book, and undoubtedly many others besides didn’t surprise Isla in the least. He was, judging by his cultured accents, an educated man. Unlike much of the nobility, which was barely literate. Reading and figuring were considered womanish pursuits; the only truly literate members of many households were wives, priests and eunuchs. A man was supposed to spend his time fighting, or preparing to fight, or tumbling various lovers in the hay.

  “Oh,” Rowena said faintly.

  As she listened to the conversation, Isla saw the first flicker of doubt in her sister’s eyes and could read her thoughts as easily as if they’d been printed on her kirtle. Here might be a worthy combatant after all, except she could hardly tickle the back of his hand with her well-manicured fingertips when he was now engaged to Isla. Rowena would never have wanted actually to marry him, just as she certainly had no real designs on the guard captain, but she’d also lost her chance to flirt with him.

  “I believe another passage in the same book,” the duke continued, knowing the truth of his words quite well, “asserts that the easy attainment of love renders it of little value; only the difficulty of attainment makes it prized.” His gaze, like his tone, was insolent. He was toying with the younger girl, and enjoying himself greatly.

  From another man, Isla would have dismissed his cruelty as pique; but she instinctively knew that the duke was above such things. He simply enjoyed hurting people, because it was his nature. As torturing mice was a cat’s. “You wouldn’t want your beloved to think that the heart for which he’s fought so hard is given freely to others in his absence,” he said. “Now would you.”

  Now it was Rowena’s turn to color. Even Hart looked uncomfortable, as a hush fell over the table. All eyes were now on Rowena, who swallowed and said nothing. Isla thought she’d detected an additional note of derision in the duke’s voice, above that for Rowena, when he’d mentioned Rudolph and the heart for which he’d fought so hard. He appeared to share Isla’s view that for someone so much in love, Rudolph Bengough was a bit wishy-washy.

  Mountbatten stood, straightening to his full height in one smooth movement that managed to be both elegant and frightening at once. “And now,” he said, addressing Isla directly for the first time since that afternoon, “if you’d do me the honor.”

  He waited, his eyes on hers. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She didn’t want to go anywhere with him, let alone anywhere private. What was he going to do to her? Anxiety dug iron fingers into her heart. The idea of having him touch her at all was excruciating, and he might—she’d heard stories, about people deciding to cla
im their rights before the wedding. Which was, once the actual contract had been signed, a mere formality. That Isla knew in the back of her mind that something might happen some day didn’t remotely mean that she was prepared for it to happen now. Or ever. She loathed even the thought of kissing him, let alone feeling his weight on top of her as he violated her.

  “Excellent!” Her father beamed at this turn of events. “Well,” he said, turning to his daughter, “if your betrothed wants to woo you, you can hardly keep him waiting!” His forced joviality reflected his decision to regard this travesty as a love match—no matter the evidence before his eyes. He’d pretend, until he dropped dead from the effort, that his own flesh and blood and this monster had some personal interest in each other and that theirs was a betrothal like any other—except perhaps more exciting than most.

  Realizing that she was drawing attention to herself, and not of the good kind, Isla stood.

  TWELVE

  “But,” Isla protested feebly, “the night air—”

  “Is air,” Mountbatten replied. They stood on the broad terrace adjoining the back of the hall, just inside the enormous stone colonnade that separated it from the garden. A chill wind whipped back and forth, not nearly strong enough to inconvenience them but still strong enough to be unpleasant. Twilight had painted the landscape in shades of dull maroon, and the first stars were winking on high above them. The outlines of what had once been carefully pruned rose bushes were ink-black silhouettes against the gloom. An intrepid gardener could, given sufficient time and funds, probably bring the so-called formal gardens back to some semblance of their former glory; but until then they stood as one more mute testament to what her father sometimes bitterly referred to as the good old days.

  The golden age, Isla had heard some wit remark, years ago, was never the present.

  She shivered. Her cloak was up in her room, and she hadn’t thought to retrieve it before coming outside. She didn’t care a bit about night air, nor believe the superstitions, but any excuse not to be alone with this man. This…thing. He gazed down at her, his dark gaze inscrutable. She felt naked beneath those eyes, which made her acutely uncomfortable. She was also painfully aware of how hard her nipples were beneath the thin material of her shift, and of the pebbled gooseflesh that tightened her breasts. How funny, that arousal and disgust should mimic each other so closely. Disgust…or at least acute discomfort. She was, she decided, too cold and miserable and terrified to feel much of anything else.

  Sweeping his cloak from his shoulders, he settled the heavy wool garment about her own. She smelled the fabric itself, and the scent he wore, and just the faintest breath of tobacco. His hands lingered on her shoulders, and their heads were very close. She froze, her heart pounding. He paused, lips parted slightly, tasting the air like he might if he were a snake. Indeed, Isla had seen snakes do the exact same thing: water moccasins and timber vipers, near the swamp. “What is that scent?” he asked.

  “Violet water,” she replied, her words barely more than a whisper.

  “You should have real perfume,” he said. “Sandalwood and bergamot.”

  Isla had never heard of either of those things. The only perfume she’d ever heard of was rose water. She remembered again that Mountbatten had been to the east, where all manner of decadence was reported. Even the books in their library were silent on the subject of the so-called Lost Lands, where men kept multiple wives and the church held no sway.

  “I don’t think I smell bad,” she disagreed, surprising herself.

  “No,” he said, straightening, “just not expensive. But at least you bathe.” A faint moue of distaste twisted his mouth, and was gone. “The standards at Caer Addanc,” he said, referring to his own stronghold, “are quite different. My servants do not fraternize with those they serve, and I do not permit men to join my table who smell of pig.”

  “Of course I bathe!” she said indignantly, forgetting for a moment how much she hated him. “I might be the only one,” she added, and then stopped herself. She colored. If Hart and Rand and the others smelled like pigs, that was only because they had indeed been rolling around with pigs. The duke, she noticed, did not smell like a pig.

  He arched his eyebrow, amused.

  “Your Grace—” she began hesitantly.

  “Tristan,” he corrected. “Please.”

  She paused, flustered by this unexpected turn of events. He was being so polite. That he’d suddenly decided he wanted to court her after all was…unlikely. Glancing up, her eyes met his and she saw that he’d followed her thoughts almost exactly. Which was embarrassing in the extreme. Even in the fading light, she saw his features clearly. He was quite a bit taller than she, unusual in a man—at least in Ewesdale. Highland men tended to be short. They were taller in the North. The duke was at least eighteen hands tall. Six standard feet. She wondered if all Northerners were so tall, or if some were even taller. Were there really giants there, in the mountains?

  He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to touch him, resented the feel of his cloak on her shoulders. Even if she was much warmer now. She felt…marked, somehow, like a tree that had been peed on by a dog. His cologne had an unfamiliar, woody scent, exotic and spicy, and she wondered if that was the sandalwood of which he spoke. Wondered if men in the East wore scent. The whole concept seemed very strange. Of course, surely a man who smelled like this would be preferable to a man who smelled like pig shit, but to care so much about one’s personal appearance wasn’t very manly—was it?

  “You proposed to me,” he pointed out rather blandly. “You should be friendlier.”

  “You’re toying with me,” she countered, scarcely able to believe that she dared to speak at all.

  But there was no sense in pretending, least of all here where no one could see, that this was anything other than what it was. She wanted nothing from him, and he in turn wanted nothing from her—at least, not that she wanted to give. If he was going to rape her, she wished he’d just get it over with. And if he was going to kill her, as seemed the most likely outcome given the resolution of his last two marriages…Isla might indeed be desperate, she supposed, but never so desperate that she’d deign to making polite chitchat with her murderer.

  “Let’s pretend, shall we?” Taking her hand, he tucked it into the crook of his arm and led her down the broad stone steps into the garden.

  Night had all but fallen and the air was heady with the smells of burning wood and decomposing leaves and mineral water from the lake. The underbrush rustled, and bats flitted through the air. Under other circumstances, Isla would have enjoyed herself. She liked being outside at night, despite the prohibition against breathing night air. Night air supposedly spread disease. Miasmas rose from the ground—or something. Isla had never entirely understood the theory, although she had an analytical mind. Perhaps, she reflected, that was because the theory didn’t make any sense. Air was air, wasn’t it?

  She concentrated on her surroundings, identifying each individual smell and sound and counting the bats that winged past them, anything to avoid noticing the man beside her. His hand, when he’d taken hers, had been as cold as iron and his grip as strong. She’d gotten the uneasy sensation that he could crush her bones to powder without much effort at all and that he was, indeed, making some effort to be delicate. This sudden solicitousness unsettled her, and the fact that she’d begun to regard not deliberately causing her harm—at least not physically—as solicitous unsettled her more.

  He, for his part, seemed content to share the silence and made no effort of any sort at conversation.

  Finally, she spoke. She hated him, didn’t care what he thought of her, and figured they might as well understand each other. He should know that, contract or no contract, she was no fool and wouldn’t allow herself to be treated like one. If he’d wanted a fool, he should have stuck with Rowena. She suppressed the thought, hating herself for it. She’d done this for Rowena. Rowena who, even
now, was probably gazing out her window and dreaming of Rudolph.

  “I have no wish to be friendlier,” she said.

  “How come?” he asked, more because her comment amused him than because he cared about the answer.

  “Because there’s no point,” she replied truthfully.

  “Would you prefer it if I locked you in a dungeon until I decided to do away with you?” He spoke in that same half-amused tone. “Perhaps chained you to a delightfully frigid stone wall and tormented you?”

  “Yes,” she said, again truthfully, “because that would be more honest. This”—she waved, indicating him and her and their surroundings, the once-beautiful garden with its drooping vines and sad-looking statues—“is subterfuge. I can barely stand to be in the same room with you, Your Grace, and I know you feel the same.”

  “That’s not a very nice way to talk to your husband,” he murmured, not seeming to mind.

  They were moving deeper into the garden, into an area that had once been a maze in which residents and guests could amuse themselves. Isla supposed they ran around like silly geese, as the pre-war nobility seemed to do, or secreted themselves together in the quiet corners that dotted the enclosure. Placed with a convenient bench or two, they gave the illusion of privacy without actually creating any. A lady could retreat in safety, knowing that if she cried out someone would hear her—at least in theory. If the man of the hour, say, touched her ankle.

  Isla frowned to herself. Those had been more innocent times, when House Terrowin still ruled and years of infighting hadn’t laid waste to most of their once-lush country. Isla didn’t remember those times, had been born long after they ended, but she’d read about them and had a good imagination.

  Almost the whole of the maze lay open to view now, the narrow hedges long ago collapsed into a single sprawling mass. Their path curved around, deeper into the woods behind the maze—what had once been a sort of fairy garden—along a track that the duke seemed to know quite well.