Scanlon pulled her to a sitting position next to him, his gray eyes searching her face, true astonishment on his face. "You would not die for me," he said softly, "but you would die because of me?"
Diesa sagged, overcome with emotional exhaustion, as Kittellan arrived in the room. He stopped short, his blue gaze taking in the scene before him. Diesa knew what he saw. The two of them sitting together on an unmade bed, she half-naked, he looking fatigued and confused. Kittellan would assume they’d made love. She almost laughed at the prospect. Poor Kittellan. He looked … Well, he looked jealous.
::Jealous?:: Scanlon’s question danced into her mind.
::Yes.:: Diesa replied quickly, taking advantage of Scanlon’s puzzlement. ::You see, M’lord, your body holds more interest to him than mine. Didn’t you know?:: Her taunting was cold and calculated and Scanlon’s face flamed red. He rose.
"Kittellan, come here."
Kittellan dropped the packs near the table and came to stand before the elf. He was a head shorter and had to look up to meet Scanlon’s gaze. "M’lord, I can come back later," he mumbled.
Scanlon held him with his gaze, then slowly reached up and caressed his bruised cheek. Diesa saw a shudder run through Kittellan’s body and she wished she’d said nothing. Scanlon would care for him, perhaps even satisfy him, but never love him.
::And you think elves are incapable of love?:: Scanlon asked, his voice hard and cold in her mind.
::I know they are,:: she returned. ::All men are. If you have any decency, don’t do this to Kittellan. He will not fight back.::
::As you do?::
::As I will continue to do.::
::If I promised not to answer to Kittellan’s desires, would you be my lover?::
The question startled her, but her response was swift. ::No.::
::But I own you,:: Scanlon pointed out.
::My body, and now my soul, but never my heart.::
::We’ll see.::
Scanlon smiled, lowered his hand from Kittellan’s face and stepped back. "The bruise is gone," he stated. "I dislike having others accuse me of beating my servants. Join me for dinner in twenty minutes." He strode from the room, leaving them both gasping for air.
* * *
It was not until after dinner that Kittellan spoke to Diesa. His voice was expressionless, although his eyes condemned her. "Why did you tell him?" he asked when they were alone in their room.
"I’m sorry. It slipped," Diesa replied wearily. "It’s not easy to keep my thoughts mine. Kittellan," she gripped his arm as he made to pass her for the bed. He looked at her, his blue eyes sad and miserable. "Don’t love him. Don’t let him use you."
He jerked free of her. "What concern is it of yours?"
"You’re my friend, Kittellan. Probably the only friend I’ll ever have again."
"He owns me, Diesa, just as he owns you. And now that you’ve informed him of my—deviancy—he can do one of three things: he can take me as his lover, he can ignore me, or he can get rid of me. I’m betting on the third." Kittellan stripped off his tunic and threw himself onto the bed, his hands clasped under his head, his eyes focused on the dingy ceiling. "He’s a good master, Diesa. He cares for us extremely well. He doesn’t beat us, nor does he treat us like slaves. Not even the Knights I was assigned to were this kind." He rolled onto his side away from her. "I doubt my new master will be so generous."
"Kittellan, he won’t sell you," Diesa said, although she found no strength in her words.
"Go to sleep, Diesa," he said, his voice thick with either sleep or tears.
Diesa lay down beside him, her heart aching. She wanted to reach out, to hold him, to comfort him. But more than that, she wanted to feel him hold her, to feel his warmth, to feel protected by his strong embrace. The thought that Scanlon might sell Kittellan drove pain deep into her heart. It was her fault, her need to score a point against Scanlon. She had reveled in his embarrassment, in his error. But at what cost? Losing Kittellan? The thought of him being abused at the hands of some ego-driven lord ate at her.
He turned in his sleep, his face toward her, and his beauty again struck her. Carefully, quietly she rose, steeled her resolve and slipped from the room. She knew which room was Scanlon’s. She had heard the proprietor. Heart pounding, she stepped up to the door and tapped lightly, wanting and yet not wanting an answer. She was about to turn away when the door opened.
Scanlon didn’t seem at all surprised to see her. He had removed his tunic and for just a moment, Diesa’s gaze lingered on his lean, muscular chest. He took a sip of his wine and waited, his gray eyes still smoldering with anger. She had wondered why he hadn’t punished her then, wondered why he didn’t just do it now and be done with it.
"M’lord, I have a need to speak with you," she said through a throat gone dry.
"And it couldn’t wait until morning?" he asked coolly.
Diesa drew herself up tightly. "No."
He stood back from the door. "Then come in."
She swept past him and stood near the fire. He closed the door, settled himself in his chair, took another sip of wine and fixed her with his steely cold gaze. He seemed distracted, as if his thoughts were far from her and her earlier sarcasm. Again, she felt the sense of misdirected anger. She had no wish to bring it down upon herself, but she owed Kittellan this much. She took a deep breath, and realized she was trembling. "M’lord, Kittellan’s of the opinion you will sell him now that you know of his sexual preference. Is that true?"
Scanlon eyed her evenly and took another drink. "Should I do that?"
"No!" Her reply was swift. "He … he’s happy with you, M’lord. He knows a lot about servitude and he claims you are a kind master."
"And do you also consider me a kind master?" Scanlon asked.
Diesa went rigid, anger gnawing at her stomach. "I have never been owned. I wouldn’t know."
"And you don’t like being owned, do you?"
"Would you?" she shot back angrily.
He laughed, though it was without mirth or warmth, finished his wine and set the empty glass down. "Probably not," he admitted. "But then I have always taken care not to end up on an auction block."
Rage exploded through her and her hand flew through the air. Scanlon caught it in his own, his grip like a vise around her wrist. His eyes had gone deadly cold and anger flicked through them.
"You would strike your master, slave?" Scanlon asked in a low voice.
Diesa stared back defiantly, though she cringed at the last word. Slave. It was a hard word, a word at once foreign and familiar. She hated it. Hated everything that went with it. She was not a slave! She was Diesa de Tyronmen, of the Clan Omerron. She was a healer, a user of dryad magic. A person of worth!
"A person of worth?" Scanlon said quietly, obviously reading her thoughts. A strange glint came into his gray eyes. "Prove it then. You wish me to keep Kittellan. What will you do to save him from being sold?"
Diesa drew a deep breath, her stomach churning. "Whatever you request, M’lord," she whispered.
"Your love?" he asked, looking down at her.
She gasped, then nodded. "If M’lord wishes me to bed with him, then I shall."
"That’s not what I asked for," Scanlon told her.
Diesa stared at him. "My love?" she repeated. "Love can not be taken, M’lord. It must be earned."
His grip on her wrist softened. The anger suddenly drained from his eyes. "Then I ask the chance to earn it," he said.
Diesa was almost speechless, but at last found her tongue. "And you will not sell Kittellan?"
"No. Nor will I make him my lover." Scanlon answered her next question. He released her arm. "Go back to your room. With or without sleep, we leave early tomorrow."
Diesa rose slowly, massaging her wrist absently. "I … I’m sorry I tried to hit you," she mumbled. "It was wrong of me."
Scanlon’s mouth turned up in a gentle smile. "And I’m sorry I reacted with anger. That was wrong of me."
Diesa
paused only a second longer, then bowed and quietly left the room. Once outside she leaned against the wall, her eyes closed in angry disbelief. She had sworn he would not get her heart and yet he had manipulated her emotions to virtually promise it to him. Still, Kittellan was safe—empty and ignored, but safe. With a sigh of discontent, Diesa pushed away from the wall and pounded down the hall, not to her room, but to the stairs.
The dining hall was almost empty and Diesa took a corner table where she could melt into the darkness and think. The barkeep approached her questioningly and with a sudden twinge of animosity, she ordered a carafe of wine to be billed to Scanlon. The wine came quickly and she poured and downed a full glass almost without thinking. Why would Scanlon want me? she raged to herself, pouring another glass of wine. I am nothing to look at. Gods, I don’t even have the body of a woman! I don’t have intellect, I don’t have money! She gulped down the second glass in fury, poured another and settled back against the wall to glare toward the fire. This is all a game of some sort. A game to see if he can possess me completely. And when he has, when he has made me love him, he will discard me. Just like Kyran and De’el had. Tears blurred her vision as she poured more of the wine. Gods! How could life be so unfair? All she asked was to be loved, to be cared for, to love back. Instead, she was alone, penniless, homeless, and enslaved to the most beautiful man she had ever seen—a man who seemed determined to rip her heart and soul to shreds. A man she could never be an equal to. Could never expect to love her as she yearned to be loved.
Tears stinging her eyes, she drained her glass, discovered the carafe was empty and ordered another. This time she did not bother with a glass but drank straight from the carafe, swallowing large, stinging mouthfuls of the spicy wine, burying her despair and pain under anger. Her fury burned in her, turning her heart cold. So it’s a game you want then, M’lord, my Master? The words left a bitter taste and she drowned them with wine. Well, this slave is good at games. And this is a game you will never win. My heart will be mine. No more will I let a man trample across it. Not even you. No matter how beautiful you look, no matter how caring you act. Because that was all it was – an act. Well, tomorrow, the play would begin, only she would be writing the script.
She set the empty carafe down, her head spinning. Carefully, she rose and clutched at the table until the room stopped moving. Then slowly, methodically, she made her way back up the stairs and into her room. Kittellan had sprawled out, covering the entire bed, and the flickering firelight danced in gentle shadows across his fine face. Diesa closed the door, went quietly to the bed and sat down beside him. She watched him for a long time, memorizing each line and angle of his face. Like a god, she thought. A god I can see and touch, but never have.
She gave a little sigh, bent forward and kissed him lightly on each closed eye, then brushed her lips across his. He came awake with a start, stilling his fist just before it struck her.
"Diesa?" He exhaled sharply, then wrinkled his nose. "You’ve been drinking?" He sat up quickly, alarm and concern mingling on his face.
"Yes," she replied with a smile. "And I spoke with our kind and generous master. He will not sell you, Kittellan, nor will he demand you in bed. I got you that much. I’m sorry I could not buy your freedom."
"Buy?" Kittellan regarded her with a frown. "And what price did you pay for these assurances?"
"Price? A small price indeed, my beautiful god." Diesa caressed his soft cheek. "Just my heart. Only my heart."
Kittellan sighed and took her hand. "Lie down. You’re quite drunk."
She smiled, fell onto her back, then reached up to run her fingers through his hair. "I saved you, Kitt," she whispered. "But not for him. He can’t have you. He doesn’t deserve you. You need someone to love you back. Someone as beautiful and kind as you." She giggled. "And then, Kitt, I shall be triply cursed. Three beautiful creatures within my reach, but not my grasp." Her smile faded and a world of sadness clouded her mind. "I’m cursed, Kitt. Twice I’ve offered my heart only to have it used, then put back half gone. I should have died when Omerron died, yet still I live. Alive, yet with no heart." Her smile returned and she drew her fingers along Kittellan’s jaw. "So, you see, the game is mine. He can try as hard as he wants, but there’s no heart there to win. None."
Kittellan sighed again, gently brushed the dark hair from her face and kissed her forehead. "Diesa, from what I see, you are all heart and very little brain. Go to sleep."
Diesa’s eyelids drooped. "Hold me, Kitt. Just for tonight. Just until the room stops spinning."
Kittellan gave a half smile, settled down next to her and held her close.
Chapter 4
* * *
Diesa woke with a start. In desperation, she clawed free of Kittellan’s arms, tumbled from the bed and made it to the washbasin just in time. She heaved again and again until her stomach had quieted and left her in a shivering, sweat-drenched heap on the cold floor. Kittellan sighed and eased out of bed. Without a word, he picked her up and deposited her back in the bed. He emptied the basin in the privy, then rinsed it and set it beside the bed. She moaned and promptly refilled it, then began to cry.
"Kitt," she wailed, "I’m so sorry. You hate me now, don’t you? I hate myself. You must hate me, too."
Kittellan grinned at her. "I don’t hate you, Diesa. The gods know I’ve been in your place a few times." He took care of the basin and returned with a cool, wet cloth. He wiped her face gently. "I’m just trying to figure out what to tell Scanlon."
Diesa’s heart lurched and her stomach upended once more. She fell back with a gasp, then clutched Kittellan’s arm. "Don’t lie for me, Kitt," she said fiercely. "Never lie for me again. Scanlon likes you, you like him. Don’t jeopardize that for me."
His blue eyes searched her face and, once more, he wiped the cloth across her forehead and cheeks. "So much heart," he murmured, "and so little brain."
"Promise me," Diesa demanded, then shook his arm. "Promise me!"
"I promise." Kittellan sighed, then rose and once more cleaned the basin. He had just returned to the bed when the door to the room flew open and Scanlon stormed inside.
His lean face was tight, his gray eyes furious, and he gained the bed in three powerful strides. Kittellan leapt to his feet, and bowed, while Diesa shrank back in terror.
"Get up!" Scanlon snapped.
Diesa struggled to obey, too sick to argue, although the world spun and danced out of focus. She swayed and Kittellan reached out to steady her.
"Leave her!" the elf ordered, and Kittellan’s arms fell to his sides.
Diesa grabbed for the headboard and clutched it as her stomach churned.
"Do you have any words?" Scanlon demanded hotly. "Any explanation for two carafes of wine in my name?"
Kittellan gasped, drawing a quick look of anger from Scanlon.
"N … no, M’lord," Diesa whispered, desperately willing her stomach to settle. She looked up at him through a gray fog. He was moving. Or maybe she was. Her knees buckled and she sank slowly to the floor. Once there, she made use of the basin at her side. Scanlon uttered an oath, then ordered Kittellan to clean up. Anger swelled in her at his tone. "No! I’ll do it myself!"
"Then by all means, do so!"
"Diesa—" Kittellan began softly.
"Kittellan, stand aside!" Scanlon’s voice boomed.
Kittellan yelped and leapt away, his face white, his eyes wild with fear and bewilderment. Diesa’s anger burned to rage as she realized that Scanlon had punished Kittellan with magic. "Stop it!" she shrieked, coming to her feet. "He didn’t do anything! It wasn’t his fault I got drunk! It was mine! Leave him alone, Scanlon! Just leave him alone!" She flung herself at him in a feral attack.
"Diesa! No!" Kittellan lunged for her but Scanlon had already intercepted her blows and held fiercely to each of her wrists, though his face registered more alarm than anger.
"Stop!" he ordered.
Diesa ignored him. "I hate you!" she screamed, struggling wild
ly against his hold. "I hate you! You’ll never have my love! Never! Because I no longer have a heart, elf! You have my body, my mind and my soul, but that’s all there is! There is no heart!" She swept her gaze to his face. "Kill me, elf! Kill me with your magic! It doesn’t matter anymore! Why don’t you just do it? I’d rather be dead than be owned!" She managed to wrest one arm free and slammed her fist into his cheek. Almost instantly, wicked pain shot through her. She shrieked in agony, too bewildered to even think what had happened. Scanlon gasped, his eyes wide, and he very nearly threw her into Kittellan’s arms.
Diesa crumpled, trembling, a soft moan escaping her. Scanlon stared at her for several long minutes, his mind probing hers, then he abruptly turned his gaze on Kittellan.
"Get her settled and then come to my room," he said quietly, then turned and left them alone.
Kittellan let out a heavy sigh of relief and guided Diesa back to bed. It took but a few minutes to clean and reposition the washbasin. He stood over her regarding her with a small smile. "Damn, Diesa, you’ve got more courage than half the men I know."
"And a lot less brain," Diesa mumbled, feeling true shame at the injury she had inflicted on Scanlon. "You said so."
He smiled. "I did, didn’t I?" His smile faded and he sank down next to her, taking her hand between his. "Don’t invite death, Diesa. There’s no telling what the future holds. Don’t waste a good one."
"My future looks bleak," Diesa replied. "It has for many months now. But yours may be looking better."
Kittellan flushed, rose and left quietly. Diesa watched him go with a sinking heart. Scanlon would use him to teach her a lesson. She was sure of it. She trembled and closed her eyes, reached for her magic, found it still bound, and gave up.
Why couldn’t he have just killed me? she thought. I certainly gave him ample reason. Why hadn’t he? And what had she seen in his eyes? Remorse? Concern? Alarm? That shock wave of pain he’d hit her with—it seemed almost unintentional, as if he had tried to keep it from happening and could not. He seemed as upset over it as she was. She shook her head in bewilderment and turned her thoughts on Kittellan. Gods, to what had she driven Scanlon? What would he do to Kitt to teach her a lesson? She shook her head again, and buried her face to cry.
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