Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt
Page 19
where kindling and wood for a fire had been laid in wait for the
maid to light at Sera’s return. A curl of smoke rose from the
kindling, and then the wood burst into flame. Pushed aside by
the force of her anger, the iron fire tools beside the mantle
crashed to the floor, clanging against each other as they rolled.
The door flew open. Annette raced into the room, then slid
to a stop in front of Sera. “Oh, my lady, I heard the noise and
came as soon as I….” She turned, her attention caught by the
heat coming from the fireplace.
“But what is this?” she said, replacing the fire tools in their
stand beside the mantle. “You should have rung for me,” she
said as she added another log to the blazing pile. “You should
not try to light the fire, yourself. It is not seemly.”
“No,” said Sera, sitting down on her bed before her knees
gave out from trembling in the sick aftershock of realization.
She had started the fire with her mind! “I should not try that
again.”
***
Nicholas automatically caught the jacket and leaned against
the corridor door, staring at nothing as his mind churned. He
hadn’t meant to hurt her, damnit. What right did she have to
show him everything she was feeling? Had she no defenses at
all? What could he do but what he was doing already?
She tied him up in knots. Why did she have to wear a gown
like that tonight, so he could see the creamy swell of her breasts
just above the taut wool? Little fool! Couldn’t she see he was
hanging on to his honor and hers by a thread? The thought of
other men eyeing her, dancing with her, seducing her, sent him
into a paroxysm of jealousy.
Beautiful little fool. He ought to send her back to her hills,
and be free of this damnable lust. Perhaps that was the best
way—for both of them.
But then, she was not such a little fool, was she? Ockham’s
Razor, indeed. Was Sera’s theory worth investigating? He
pushed off away from the wall, still deep in thought. Galerien
had been an ally for a very long time.
He glanced across the hall at a Chippendale table placed
beneath a high, arched window. Shards of a Chinese vase, Ming
Dynasty, he believed, lay scattered on the floor beneath it. He
crossed the hall, hunkered down and picked up a shard, staring
at it. A breeze no doubt had swept it to the floor. He stood up
and examined the window behind the table, expecting to find it
open.
It was shut. The night beyond was clear and calm. No gust
of wind had pushed the vase off the table.
He looked down the hall in the direction Sera had fled. Was
it possible? Could she have done it in anger? In hurt? In
frustration equal to his own? If she had the power to break an
object with her mind, was that mind also capable of superior
understanding, concerning, for instance, Galerien and Beaureve?
She spoke the language, after all.
He remembered that prickle at the back of his neck, warning
him to take her with him for the good of his people. In these
terrible times, what country could afford to lose an advisor
whose mind was quick and cool, whose power could send a
vase crashing to the floor? What king could ignore her?
He couldn’t send her home now. The feeling of relief that
coursed through him made him despise himself. Unbridled lust
was for the weak. He had a country to lead.
He looked at the broken vase again and shook his head.
Some servant, dusting in hurry, had placed the vase too close to
the edge, no doubt. Still, a man ought to investigate every
possibility, even what seemed remote at a given time.
He went to his study and called for Lieutenant Carlsohnn.
It was cobwebs and moon dust, in all probability. Nonetheless,
he would send discreet agents across the border. It would give
him something to think about. Something besides how much
he ached each night, burning for Sera, knowing she was just
below him, and all he had to do was walk the secret stairway to
her chamber, and like the lowest libertine on the face of the
earth, take what he craved before he succumbed to a lifetime of
duty and regret.
Eight
Sera did not see Nicholas again for rest of the week.
Immediately after what she thought of as the disastrous dinner,
he sequestered himself in his chambers. It was for the best, she
knew. She had never feared a man more than she feared Nicholas
Rostov, the catalyst to an outburst of magic so overpowering, it
set wood ablaze and flung iron to the floor.
Too late, the Gift she had longed for all her life, the proof
she was a true Arkadian, flowed forth. But she was alone here,
without the comfort and the aid of a mentor. And she didn’t
know how to control the power.
Why now? Somehow, it was all tied up with Nicholas. And
Katherine, and Andre, and Selonia, and the merchants of
Montanyard, and the palace guards, and Ivan and Ned, the stable
boy, and…Her heart was full to bursting with all the feelings
these people evoked. This world so full of violence and beauty
stirred things inside her she’d never felt at home. It was as though
she were a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, and her senses
were painfully alive to everything around her. Was this what
Grandfather called the painful process of growing? If so, she
prayed it wouldn’t last very long.
She should stay away from Nicholas until she found calm.
She should try to forget whatever strange and terrible longing
he stirred in her. It was hopeless, after all.
But where was he? Andre would know. Sera finally found
Andre in the library and questioned him as to Nicholas’s
whereabouts.
“Don’t worry yourself, Sera. He’ll be fine in a few days.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, beginning to feel sick.
Had she hurt him, too, that night when she’d been so angry? “Is
he ill?”
“Almost well again, actually. Nothing serious this time.”
“This time?” Now she was alarmed.
Andre shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “A lung problem.
He’s…susceptible if he becomes overtired, or chilled,
or…overexcited. Now, Sera, he’ll be quite all right. As I said, it
didn’t become a problem this time.”
She was at the door in a wink, but Andre was right behind
her, holding the door shut with one hand outstretched over her
shoulder. “He won’t thank you for going to him, Sera. Don’t
worry. He knows how to take care of himself.”
The days grew shorter. Nicholas, apparently recovered,
thank the gods, was far too busy ruling the country to request
Sera’s company. She went from fearing for his life to wishing
she could give him a piece of her mind, and then leave this
blasted prison before she burned the place down.
“Sera.” She heard Katherine’s voice from the corridor. Sera
ran to unlatch the door.
“Hullo. Are you feeling quite the thing? I h
aven’t seen you
for two days.” Katherine looked worried and more lonely than
normal.
“I am quite well, thank you. I was simply. . . out of sorts.”
“It’s the chill, and the constant rain. I’m glum, too. Since
we can’t go outside, would you like to explore the palace?”
Katherine looked so wistful, she hadn’t the heart to say no.
“Of course.”
“Oh, good.” Katherine took her arm and walked the
corridors with her, showing her room after room of treasure—
robes of fine silk and ceremonial swords from the east, porcelain
from England and Germany, teak wood and gold from the
Americas.
“Those are my ancestors,” Katherine said as they strolled
through the long gallery. Kings in full court dress, with swords
at their sides and scepters in their hands stared down at Sera
with a haughty resemblance to Nicholas in his most dictatorial
moments.
“Goodness,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
The queens were no better. Proud and stiff, they dominated
the paintings without actually inhabiting them.
“They make me feel rather small, actually,” said Katherine,
shivering. “Come, let us go into the blue room. I’ll show you
my favorite portrait.”
They walked back to the family quarters and entered a lovely
room Sera had never seen before. She looked up at the woman
so informally posed with a small boy at her knee.
Katherine stood before the portrait, looking at it with
undisguised yearning. “My mother,” she said. “She
looks…warm, doesn’t she?”
“She looks very kind,” said Sera. “What was she like?”
“I don’t know anything about her,” said Katherine. “She
died giving birth to me.”
“But your father—didn’t he tell you about her?”
Katherine bit her lip and refused to meet Sera’s gaze. “My
father never spoke to me at all. Well, of course,” she went on,
her words hurried, “he was very busy. He barely had time to
oversee Nikki’s education, much less pay attention to me.”
“But surely Nicholas would have told you all he
remembered.”
Katherine sighed. “I have asked him once or twice, but he
says he was too young. He remembers nothing of note.”
“I see,” said Sera. What a family! If she could, she would
have gone straight to the grave and dragged the old king out of
it to give him a piece of her mind. As it was, there was only
Nicholas to harangue. If she ever saw him again.
***
A letter came from Father Anselm the next day. Sera raced
down the corridor, caught the startled eye of a footman, and
slowed her steps to a much resented ladylike pace to the library,
deserted at this time of day. Once within its privacy, she broke
the seal of the letter and eagerly read through his news of the
boys and Selonia to the passage that made her heart leap in her
chest.
You asked me to send news of the merchant who visited
Selonia just before the terrible attack. A man bearing his
likeness was seen in the village of Vurst not twenty miles from
here. He travels east to Montanyard, but is so mysterious about
his plans that no one knows for certain when he should arrive
in the capital or what route he will take. From a word or two
that he dropped to the farmer with whom he stayed, I would
surmise that he will reach Montanyard within a fortnight or
so. If I hear anything more, I shall certainly apprise you of it.
A fortnight! She still could get home with days to spare
before the cliff walls closed. Now, she had a choice to make.
She could leave and run the risk of capture and death without
ever finding the thief, or she could remain in Montanyard and
wait for him. She clenched her fists. The thief would come. She
might find the ruby before she escaped to find her way home
again.
There was always the chance that the thief would arrive at
the capital early. Her mind began to whir, planning ways to
anticipate his entrance into the city. As long as she took someone
with her, she could roam all the countryside east of Montanyard,
and no one would stop her. She could pretend to visit the ladies’
necessary in the inns and instead question the innkeepers.
She did not have to sit like a coddled child while fate played
out her last chance. By the gods, she would free herself from
the foolish extremes of emotion buffeting her heart. She would
go home, learn to use her power wisely, and forget all about
Nicholas Rostov.
***
Nicholas stepped into the library. A fire burned in the hearth,
dispelling the chill of the corridor. How he hated the coming of
winter, particularly after the close call he’d had last week. He
walked toward the marble mantle, holding out his hands to the
warm blaze.
And stopped short to see Sera sitting before the fire staring
into the coals. Her hair glowed like a halo above the high collar
of a gold velvet gown. His fine plans to keep her at a distance
melted like dew in sunlight. It was all he could do not to raise
her from her chair and tug her into his arms. He parted his lips,
as though he might breathe in the taste of her in the elusive
perfume he could just discern from across the small room. She
was so deep in thought she hadn’t even heard him.
Nicholas’s honor was losing ground to his baser instincts.
He turned to go, and at that moment, she looked up at him, blue
eyes coming back into focus from a long distance. She slipped
a piece of paper into the pocket of her gown. Was it a letter
from some besotted nobleman? He frowned, reminding himself
that it was none of his business who courted her.
“Please excuse me,” he said and bowed slightly. “I didn’t
mean to startle you.” His voice sounded stiff and cold to his
own ears. He turned again to go.
His hand was on the door latch when she spoke. “You might
have your secretary give me your daily schedule so I may stay
entirely out of your way.”
He turned and leaned against the door, assuming a casual
stance. “Why such sarcasm, Countess? I have not been avoiding
you.”
“And why turn your face from reality, king?” Her voice
rang, silver, mocking. “I accept this latest development in our
non-friendship. Surely, you can do the same.”
He crossed to the fire, facing her, his shoulder leaning on
the mantle. “Very well. I am the king. My duty dictates that I
have no…intimate friendships.”
She remained seated, refusing to rise and acknowledge him
as king. No, she sat in the brocade library chair as though it
were a throne, back straight, her feet tucked beneath the folds
of her golden skirt. Covered from head to toe, she glimmered.
Like a queen or an angel.
And like a queen, she waved a hand in an unmistakably
dismissive gesture. “I take your meaning, Nicholas Rostov. I
am aware that it
is not your way to take companionship from a
woman, even one with whom you might have an…intimate
friendship. But tell me. Does your duty deny you a sister?”
“Of course not.” He grew heated that she should, in a typical
feminine maneuver, switch tactics on him and accuse him, not
of ignoring her, but Katherine. “I give my sister attention, the
best instructors, and companions like yourself with whom she
may be at ease.”
“And what of yourself have you given her?”
“I care about her,” he said, stung.
“Enough to tell her of her mother?” Her voice was soft.
“Mother?” Something sore and painful closed in on itself.
“Mother died when I was six. I barely remember her.”
“Katherine knows nothing about her at all. I have studied
the Gainsborough painting. She was very beautiful, and she
had a look about her that reminded me of—well, she looked
very kind.” Her voice went on, a soft, relentless challenge to
the very core of his control.
“Your father hated Katherine, didn’t he? She has told me
he never recognized her existence. He must have blamed her
for your mother’s death. For that, and many other reasons,
Katherine needs to know that her mother would have loved her.”
With a swirl of gold, Sera rose and gave him a parody of the
deep court curtsey used by petitioners to their king.
She walked to the door, proud, chin up, and turned to face
him across the room when she reached it. “If you please,
Nicholas Rostov, permit yourself—within the parameters of your
heavy duties—a sister.”
He turned his back to her and got very busy poking at the
fire. And didn’t put down the poker until he heard the quiet
click of the door shutting behind her.
He lay awake for a long time that night, his hands stacked
behind his head, staring at the tester above his bed, red velvet
in the red light of the fire. In the morning he sought Katherine.
“Walk with me,” he said. The day was overcast, but warmer.
Katherine got her gloves and umbrella and walked beside him,
out the doors of the palace and into the wide lane entering the
park.
“Our mother,” he began, “was happier than I had ever seen
her when she knew she was carrying you.”
***
Nicholas dressed quickly for the supper party Katherine