by Anne Bishop
“Where is Gray?” she asked. He’d relaxed enough about being in the house to come in and eat with the rest of them, so she felt worry scratching her heart when he wasn’t there.
“He’s on the terrace, explaining the facts of life to the honey pears,” Theran said.
Cassidy clamped her lips together and didn’t dare ask what that meant.
Shira carefully spread some jam on a piece of toast. Since it was the second one on her plate, Cassidy figured Shira was doing it simply to have something to do.
“Do you play an instrument, Lady Cassidy?” Shira asked.
Ranon growled in response, so the question clearly wasn’t as innocent as it sounded.
“That depends on how you define ‘play,’ ” Cassidy replied, quickly filling a plate and pulling out a chair next to Shira. “I can read music, and I can pick out a tune on a piano. Why?”
“Gray thinks the honey pears would enjoy having someone play music to them for a little while each day, and I think you’re the only one he hasn’t questioned yet about your proficiency with an instrument.”
Ranon seemed to be giving his scrambled eggs a lot more attention than they required. Or deserved.
“Do you play?” Cassidy asked Shira.
“Drums,” Shira replied as Cassidy took one of her pieces of toast. “Too much sound for tender seedlings-to-be.”
Theran snorted.
Powell fiddled with his coffee cup but didn’t try to drink—and didn’t look at anyone else around the table.
“Ranon plays the Shalador flute,” Shira said brightly.
“I am not going to stand out there and play music for thirteen pots of dirt,” Ranon growled.
“I’ve never heard a Shalador flute,” Cassidy said—and watched the color drain from his face as he realized playing for the pear trees really wasn’t his choice to make.
“Whenever it gives the Lady pleasure,” Ranon said.
Either that phrase had remained in the training, or Ranon had been studying the books of Protocol.
Live your life.
“Speaking of music, Theran,” Cassidy began, noticing the way his body jerked and the wary look he gave her, “I’m planning to attend the outdoor concert. I heard this was a weekly event in the town. You and the Master of the Guard may take whatever precautions you feel necessary, but this isn’t a formal visit by the Queen, so discretion is preferred.”
“No,” Theran said. “It isn’t safe.”
Cassidy pushed her plate away and locked her fingers together. “Prince, I’m not talking about visiting a Province that is still recovering from all the things that have caused upheaval in this Territory. I’m talking about spending a few hours in what amounts to the home village. Grayhaven is the town connected with this estate. It grew up around this estate. This is the place where I’ll do my personal shopping, attend the theater and concerts. This is the town where I live. If I’m not safe here, I’m not safe anywhere. If you can’t relent enough for me to informally meet the people in this one town, then my being here is nothing more than a fool’s dream. On both our parts,” she finished softly.
Theran looked shaken—and even more wary.
She intended to visit the town. She couldn’t spend the rest of the year confined to this estate.
Now there was a bitterness in his face—a look that was, sadly, becoming too familiar.
He called in an envelope and slid it across the table. “That came for you this morning.”
She wasn’t sure she recognized the writing until she turned the envelope over and saw the SaDiablo seal pressed into the black wax. Feeling a flash of concern that the High Lord might be writing to tell her bad news about her family, she relaxed when she opened the envelope and realized what she held.
“It’s an invitation,” she said, smiling in anticipation. As she absorbed the significance of the phrasing, a trickle of worry began to seep in. “You, Gray, and I are invited to dine at the Keep.”
Theran clenched his hands. The muscles in his tightened jaw twitched. “Invitation.”
“More or less.” She held out the invitation so he could read it.
He hesitated, then took the invitation and read it. And relaxed. “It isn’t convenient to go.”
He’s afraid, she thought. And if he’s afraid of spending an evening with those men, how will Gray react?
Unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as Theran seemed to think.
“Look at the phrasing, Theran,” Cassidy said.
He read it again, and she saw no understanding in his eyes.
“There is only one correct response to an invitation like this when it is made by someone like the High Lord,” she said.
He understood her then. “But . . . Gray.”
She nodded. “That has been taken into account. Lady Angelline being the kind of Healer she is . . . Believe me, that has been taken into account.”
“No choice, then,” Theran said.
“None.”
“Then going to the town and hearing some of our music would be a good idea,” Shira said, her voice sounding far more confident than the look in her eyes. “It will give you all something to talk about.”
CHAPTER 21
KAELEER
Daemon glided through the Hall’s corridors, a vessel for the cold, silent fury that held a single thought: how many of these bitches would he need to kill before the rest of them finally learned to leave him alone?
The silence held until he reached his suite. Then he slammed the door, letting temper and Craft enhance the sound until it thundered through the Hall, warning everyone of what they faced if anyone dared disturb him.
Moments after that came the knock on the door between his bedroom and Jaenelle’s.
He ignored it, so moments after that, Jaenelle opened the door just enough to stick her head in the room.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“You do not want to step into this room,” he snarled, knowing his eyes were glazed and his temper was lethal.
It didn’t matter if she wanted to enter his room or not. He didn’t want her there. Not now.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” she said.
She pushed the door all the way open but stayed on her side of the threshold, which infuriated him even more. Especially because she was wearing one of his white silk shirts over a pair of slim black trousers—and her feet were deliciously bare, revealing toenails painted an enticing rose color.
The only reason she painted her toenails was that he enjoyed seeing them that way—and since she did it rarely, it never failed to catch his attention.
She must have painted them as a “welcome home” surprise for him, which only stoked his fury. Warlord Princes were passionately violent and violently passionate. Trouble was, he was spinning between violence and passion too fast to know which emotion would dominate if anyone gave him the slightest push.
He wanted to pounce on her. He just didn’t know which kind of pouncing he wanted to do. Which was her fault, actually, because she’d painted her damn toenails, but it was clearly Jaenelle the Healer rather than Jaenelle the Wife who was studying him.
And because he knew why the Healer would be asking the question, he let his temper slip the leash for a moment.
“I’m not sick, I’m not damaged, and as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, I’m not feeling fragile in any damn way,” he roared. “What I am feeling is angry. So leave. Me. Alone.”
Those sapphire eyes stared at him. Stared through him.
She stepped into the room.
Not sure if he was acting on temper or sheer possessiveness, he slapped a Black shield around the room, sealing her in with him.
If she noticed, she didn’t react. She just took another step toward him.
“You’re riding a lot of temper, Prince,” Jaenelle said. “But something was the cause of that temper, and that something is going to be dealt with one way or the other. If we have to work through all the temper first,
so be it.”
Hot. Cold. One moment he was Daemon, feeling furious and cornered; the next he was the Sadist, wanting to step up for this dance. And, oh, how he wanted to dance!
That particular truth scared him enough to be furious with her, so he dropped the Black shield and punched up his temper for the kind of fight that would get her angry enough to storm out of the room. Which would be the safest thing for both of them.
Turning his back on her, he removed his black jacket.
“You don’t want to be in this room right now,” he said in the cold, brutally dismissive voice that used to flay women’s feelings so successfully.
“Why not?”
Her tone was so snippy, he saw the room through a red haze and stopped thinking.
“Because you can’t defend yourself against what I am!” As he said the words, he swung the jacket at her, intending to smack her with it and prove that she shouldn’t be in a room with him when his temper was barely chained.
Her right hand lashed out.
Hell’s fire.
Daemon stared at the slices that went all the way through the back of the jacket. He flicked a look at her right hand. Had he really seen claws instead of fingernails for just that moment when she lashed out?
“Tell me again I can’t defend myself,” she said too softly.
Not while he still wanted to live.
His temper fizzled and a giddy joy filled him as he acknowledged that truth.
It was completely ruined, but he hung the jacket on the clothes stand to have something to do.
Mother Night, those claws were impressive. She was impressive. And such a vital, needed part of his life.
How could some bitch think a few superficial tricks could make her a substitute for Jaenelle?
That thought brought his temper roaring back to a cold, deadly edge.
Which his Lady recognized—and chose to ignore.
“You went to visit two of the Province Queens,” Jaenelle said. “You came home a day early and furious. What happened?”
He vented some of his temper in sheer volume. “This evening when I walked into my room at Lady Rhea’s house, that bitch Vulchera was wearing one of my shirts!”
There was a look in her eyes he’d never seen before, a kind of pissed-off incredulity.
“When in the name of Hell did you get so damn possessive about a shirt?” she yelled. “If you don’t want me wearing one of your precious shirts, say so. Or have Jazen tell me, since he seems to be just as possessive of anything that resides in your closet.”
“That’s not—”
She ripped open the shirt, sending the buttons flying. Stripping it off, she scrunched it up and threw it behind her.
He wasn’t sure what she was wearing under the shirt, except that it was a combination of sheer fabric and lace that veiled her nipples without hiding them.
His mouth watered, and his mind went wonderfully blank of everything that didn’t concern having their two bodies come together in particularly delicious ways.
“Daemon.”
Which was a problem, since he’d finally managed to get her well and truly angry with him.
You started this fight, old son, so pay attention.
Besides, the sooner he figured out a way to end the fight, the sooner he could apologize for being an ass and they could put all that energy and emotion to better use.
“Let’s start with some basic truths, Prince,” Jaenelle said.
He winced at her tone of voice.
“You’re a beautiful man, Daemon. It’s more than your face. It’s the way you move, and the timbre of your voice, and the sexual heat that comes off you even when you’ve got it leashed. All of those things are part of what you are. And women are going to be drawn to you because of it. Hell’s fire, I was drawn to you because of those things. I still am, you ass.”
His lips twitched, trying to smile.
“And you can’t deny that the times when you walk into the bedroom wearing leather pants and nothing else, you aren’t looking for the reaction you get.”
Just remembering her reaction was making him hard. Harder.
“No, I can’t deny it.” His voice turned husky, almost a purr.
“A lot of women are going to want the body they see. Some of those women will also want the man who lives inside it.”
“The man they think lives inside it.”
“Point taken.” She sighed, and the sound made him hopeful she was shaking off the anger. “Aaron runs into the same problem on occasion when he’s an overnight guest, especially when Kalush isn’t with him. I don’t know what to tell him either, except to make his refusal so embarrassingly public the woman won’t dare go near him again.”
“It wasn’t that,” Daemon said, looking away. “Not all of it anyway.” His fury returned, but he worked to keep it leashed. “Vulchera is a woman, not a girl, and can’t use the excuse of being young for being stupid. She’s a trusted friend of Rhea’s, so she was among the aristos Rhea had invited to provide conversation and company after she and I reviewed the business I was there to review.”
“Was there any business?” Jaenelle asked.
“Some. Anyway, Vulchera’s flirting was too pointed and obvious from the moment we were introduced—and not the friendly kind of flirting your coven indulges in that’s meant to be nothing more than fun. Your friends taught me that there are ways a woman can flirt with a man that lets him know he’s safe.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “This woman wasn’t interested in doing anything that was safe, and she certainly wasn’t interested in my reputation or my feelings. She used the same scented soap that you had purchased the last time we visited Lady Rhea’s court.”
“It’s not an exclusive soap or an exclusive scent. It’s not even exclusive to the shops in that Province.”
“Vulchera wasn’t wearing that scent the first day,” Daemon said softly. “Since we were at Rhea’s country home, there was only one shop that carried items suited for an aristo purse. She paid one of the clerks to find out what scent you used.” And he intended to have a little chat with that fool very, very soon.
“And then she put on one of your shirts,” Jaenelle said, nodding as if she understood.
But she didn’t. “Do you know how I feel when I see you wearing one of my shirts?” he asked. “Do you understand how aroused it makes me, how much possessive pleasure it gives me? Because of who you are, when you wear one of my shirts, you’re telling the whole household that you’re mine. And more than that, that I’m yours.”
“I feel surrounded by you,” she said quietly. “Comfortable. Safe. Loved.”
“And aroused?” he asked just as quietly.
“Only if I picture you wearing it,” she muttered.
Her answer made him smile—and smoothed some of the jagged edges inside him.
“Well, this bitch did understand. Before we got through dinner that first evening, she realized I wouldn’t invite her to my bed or accept an invitation to hers. So she used a scent I associated with you, put on a piece of clothing that would carry my own scent. She wanted me to pretend she was you. She wanted me to believe she could be a substitute for you.”
Jaenelle studied him. “So you were insulted on my behalf?”
Rage flashed through him before he got it back under control. “Of course.”
For the first time since she walked into the room, she looked wary. With good reason. He might overlook an insult aimed at himself, but he would never tolerate an insult aimed at her.
“Is she still alive?” Jaenelle asked.
“She’s alive.” The Sadist smiled a cold, cruel smile. “But I did inform her that the next time she tried to seduce a married man, she would lose all feeling between her legs, guaranteeing a total lack of pleasure and no possibility of climax until the spell ran its course.”
Jaenelle swallowed hard. “How long?”
“Six months for every married man she had tried to seduce, and a year for every one
she had successfully seduced.”
“Can . . . can you do that?”
“The spell is already in place.”
She looked stunned. “Mother Night.”
He stepped closer. Slipped a finger under a strap of that whatever she was wearing.
“I don’t want to talk about Vulchera anymore,” he crooned. “I don’t want to think about her. Not her.”
He knew his eyes were glazed, knew which side of himself wanted to play.
And so did Jaenelle.
“Stay with me tonight,” the Sadist purred. “Here. In this room. Let me play with you.”
“What . . . wh-what does that mean?”
The stutter pleased him. So did the nerves.
“Leave this on. I find it intriguing. With it, I want you to wear one of my shirts and those sheer white stockings. Nothing else.”
She made a small sound. Might have been a whimper.
“I’m going to plump up the pillows and make myself comfortable. You’re going to straddle me. Sheathe me. And then, my darling, I am going to make you stay perfectly still. I’m not going to let you touch me in any way except to give me sweet kisses while I enjoy touching you. I’m going to play with you, lover. I promise I’ll be very, very gentle, and by the time I’m through, I’ll make you very, very happy.”
Her eyes were glassy, and she looked dazed by the force of sexual heat now surrounding her.
“Why don’t you go into the bathroom and get ready?” he said, taking a step back.
He hardly dared to breathe until she closed the bathroom door.
He wanted her desperately at that moment, but he knew what he was asking, knew what he was going to do. He had to give her enough time to think clearly and decide if she was willing to play.
He took off his shoes and socks, removed his belt. He pulled back the covers, plumped the pillows into a mound, and reclined against them, waiting.
The Sadist as lover.