Secret Heart

by Speer, Flora

  “Mine are chiefly of Lord Walderon,” Garit said. “We both know he will never tell us anything about Chantal. He says he’s given up all hope that she’s still alive, but his story reeks of half truths and evasions. Not to mention, outright lies. And he will continue to feign ignorance of Chantal’s fate unless we can find definite proof of his culpability.”

  “On the surface of the matter, Walderon had no reason to wish Chantal ill,” Roarke said. “Her coming marriage was to his benefit. Simple reason indicates that he had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

  “Unless he learned of our secret plans,” Garit said.

  Roarke had wondered a few times if Chantal was with child by Garit. His friend’s vigorous defense of Chantal’s chastity had put a firm end to that possibility, as well as squelching Roarke’s other idea, that Walderon had removed his pregnant niece from court and confined her to a beguinage in order to forestall a scandal.

  Not even the parchment Roarke carried that bore King Henryk’s seal and ordered anyone to whom Roarke showed it to answer all his questions honestly, had produced any evidence that Chantal was residing in such a retreat. Roarke had come to the conclusion that Garit’s obsession with Walderon’s guilt was mistaken, and that some other explanation existed. Whatever the truth of Chantal’s disappearance, they had to uncover it soon. King Henryk was growing impatient.

  “Suppose, one day in the near future, Lady Chantal were to appear at court in the full finery appropriate to a noblewoman, as if she had never been away,” Roarke suggested, his gaze still on the woman who called herself Jenia.

  He’d like to see her clad in silk and jewels. He’d like even better to see her lying naked on a linen sheet with her red-brown hair spread loosely around her. The intensity of that sudden, deeply sensual image sent heat surging to his loins. At the same time, an almost unbearable longing pervaded his innermost being, a yearning that was something other, and far stronger, than mere physical desire. Oddly, he felt no shame, though he was surprised by how difficult he found it to continue describing his plan to Garit.

  “At the very least, Lady Chantal’s reappearance would startle a few people,” he said.

  “D’you mean, startle them into confessing the truth of what they’ve done to her?” Garit asked. “Aye, that just might work,” he agreed, his gaze fixed on Jenia, too.

  “Be certain of your answer to my next question,” Roarke responded softly. “My plan may end your dearest hopes. Do you really want to know the truth, no matter what it is?”

  “Yes,” Garit said, his voice low, but his tone leaving no doubt about his determination on the subject. “I cannot go on with my life until I learn what has happened to Chantal. After so many months with no word of her, I am prepared to learn the worst. Never imagine that I will shrink from the truth, no matter how dreadful it may prove to be.

  “But Roarke,” he continued, “I trust you do realize that if Jenia is not my dear love, then we will have a second puzzle to solve. For she is almost certainly a noblewoman. If she’s not Chantal, then who is she? And if the Great God Sebazious made two such incomparable ladies, why haven’t we heard of Lady Jenia before this day?”

  Chapter 2

  Jenia woke to the sound of a low-voiced discussion. Having recently trained herself not to reveal her awareness of others nearby, she kept her eyelids closed and, despite her increasingly uncomfortable position against the tree trunk, she did not move.

  “I find it odd,” Roarke said, “that a ship could sink leaving only one body and no wreckage on a nearby beach – and the ship must have been near to the beach for a woman to survive in the water long enough to reach land through thunder and lightning and rain. The tide was running high last night, with the waves pounding along the shore. Anything floating out there would certainly be tossed up onto the sand. Not necessarily alive, either.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Garit asked.

  “I’m not certain.” Roarke expelled a long breath that sounded to the listening Jenia as if it originated in deep frustration.

  “Roarke?” Garit prodded when his companion remained silent for too long.

  “What can I say when I cannot locate a single clue that might provide answers to the many questions I have?” Roarke asked. “My first question being, why did Jenia arrive at just this spot, at a time when we are staying nearby? Did she jump from the ship? Or was she thrown overboard? Was there actually a ship, or is her story a ruse?” He stopped short of voicing his concern that Jenia could be a spy, because he had no proof.

  “I count four or five questions there, not just one,” Garit said. “Let me offer a clue for us to ponder. I am sure you’ve noticed that Jenia wears no jewelry, though her ears are pierced.”

  “One earlobe is slightly torn, and there’s a scratch mark on her neck,” Roarke said.

  “Both of which suggest that her jewelry was taken from her by force,” Garit added. “That does fit.”

  “Fit what?” Roarke scoffed. “We cannot know anything for certain until she remembers who she is and what happened to her. If she ever does remember. If she is not lying to us about not remembering.”

  “Even so,” Garit insisted, “distrustful of Jenia though you are, still, from what you’ve said, I think you intend to make use of her remarkable similarity to Chantal as a means of uncovering the truth about my missing love. I know you well enough to guess most of what you plan to do and I must tell you that I disagree.”

  “My plan will work,” Roarke declared. “If Jenia continues to claim loss of memory, then she won’t be expected to provide a coherent story to explain Chantal’s disappearance. Her very ignorance, along with her apparent confusion, will convince everyone she meets that she must be Chantal.”

  “You know as well as I do that if she makes such a claim some folk will declare she’s bewitched,” Garit warned. “Fighting men may believe it’s possible for a person to forget who he is, because fighting men occasionally see injuries that can lead to such a memory loss. Most folk won’t believe it, because they’ve never witnessed it. They will look to the mages for an explanation and the wrong mage could cause serious trouble for all of us.”

  “Let people think what they want. If we are successful, Jenia won’t have to impersonate Chantal long enough to put herself in danger.”

  “Have you considered what could happen to her?” Garit argued. “Aside from the mages, I mean. Suppose your scheme lures whoever stole Chantal away the first time to steal her again? What if we can’t prevent the second abduction and Jenia is hurt, or worse?”

  “We don’t know for certain that Lady Chantal was abducted. Whatever happened to her, Jenia offers our best chance of finding her. I say, we use her. Since I am acting under King Henryk’s direct orders and you are only a volunteer, and an overly emotional volunteer at that, we will follow my plan.”

  “Roarke, sometimes I fear you have no heart,” Garit said, sighing.

  “Well?” Roarke’s voice was crisp with impatience. “Are we agreed?”

  “I suppose so.” Garit sighed again. “On one condition.”

  “Which is?” Roarke asked in the same crisp tone.

  “That we explain to Jenia what we are doing, and why.”

  “Garit, sometimes I fear that you have no brain,” Roarke informed him.

  “She has a right to know what she is becoming involved with,” Garit insisted, “and a right to refuse to aid us if she’s afraid. For all we know, she may have good reason to be fearful, good reason not to reveal her true identity.”

  “You are hoping that when she recovers her memory – or finally admits to the truth – she will prove to be Lady Chantal,” his friend accused.

  “While you are hoping she really is Jenia,” Garit said.

  An extended silence followed that remark, during which Jenia was hard put to sit still and keep her eyes closed. Her shoulders ached from holding the same position for so long and she began to worry that her legs would not support her when she fina
lly unfolded them.

  She heard the men moving about and caught snatches of a few more whispered sentences. Gently, cautiously, not wanting to alert them, she probed first Roarke’s thoughts and then Garit’s. Her Power was minor at the best of times, so the effort required all of her strength. She hadn’t realized just how depleted she was after months of inadequate food, followed by two days of nothing at all to eat or drink. As a result, she didn’t learn much, but what she did learn was reassuring. Neither man carried any trace of the mighty Power of the mages. They gave no indication of alarm, nor any sign that they were aware of what she was doing.

  Feeling herself weakening much too quickly, Jenia withdrew into herself again. She dared a breath of relief, concealing it with a movement as if she were settling more comfortably against the tree while she still slept. Despite her weakness she was more confident now, knowing her companions possessed no Power. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to probe deeply enough to discover what their intentions were beyond finding Chantal, though she did think both men were basically honest. She would simply have to uncover their motives and their ultimate plans by the usual method of employing her eyes and ears, and her instincts.

  Needing to replenish her strength, she banished all thought of Roarke and Garit from her mind and entered a state of calm peacefulness. Time passed without reckoning until, eventually, a gentle hand touched her shoulder. She opened her eyes slowly, feigning emergence from sleep, to find Garit smiling at her with the same tenderness she had seen in him earlier.

  “My lady,” he said, “if you will rise now and come with us, we’ll take you to the inn where we are staying. While you bathe and eat, we’ll find clothing for you.”

  She said nothing, but just looked at him, waiting for the proposal she knew he must soon make. As she ought to have expected after overhearing the discussion between the two men, it was Roarke and not Garit who offered the proposition.

  “We need your help,” Roarke said. He didn’t sound as if he was asking. In fact, the statement was more like a command.

  “What help?” she asked, adding with false innocence, “You’ve been kind to me, so I will do whatever I can to repay that kindness. Only tell me what you need.”

  “We offer our protection,” Garit said. “A lady cannot wander about the countryside dressed as you are, and all alone. We propose to escort you to Calean City.”

  Her heart leapt at the mention of the capital of Sapaudia. Calean City was exactly where she wanted to go, but she knew better than to confess as much to men who were still strangers to her.

  “How will my going to Calean help you?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Roarke said. “Come with us now, and after you are feeling more like yourself, we’ll explain what we want of you.”

  “How can I feel like myself, when I don’t know who I am?” she asked, fighting a sudden urge to laugh out loud. She thought she must be going mad. “I don’t know where I am, either,” she added.

  “This is the southernmost part of Sapaudia, though we are near to the border with the Dominion,” Garit responded, his words confirming Jenia’s earlier conclusion about where she had come ashore. “That is the Sea of Alboran,” Garit added, waving an arm toward the water. “Calean City lies north and west of here, on the Holotan River.”

  “You cannot remain by the sea, alone and unclothed,” Roarke said.

  “That is undeniably true.” She had presence of mind enough to avoid even a hasty glance in the direction of the Nalo Mountains. “Very well. I will go with you, and I will listen to your long story. But I warn you, Sir Roarke, I will not do anything immoral. My gratitude does not extend that far.”

  “We would never expect you to behave improperly,” Garit exclaimed.

  She had already decided that she would agree to their scheme. While secretly listening to their talk she had realized that she could achieve her goal without needing to do it all herself. She could take advantage of her forlorn situation and while they – or, more precisely, while Roarke was using her, she would use the two of them. It never occurred to Jenia to explain herself, or her reasoning, to either man. Having too often been deceived, she had learned not to trust anyone. But she did look forward with great interest to the story that Roarke had promised to tell her.

  Roarke insisted on taking her up with him on his horse, though Garit was plainly the man who adored Chantal. Jenia realized that to Roarke, Chantal’s disappearance was merely a puzzle that needed to be solved.

  In a way, she was relieved that he was the leader of their little company, and not Garit. She wasn’t sure she could cope with Garit’s chivalrous treatment or his heartfelt longing for his lost love. Dealing with the cool and unemotional Roarke would be easier because, Jenia told herself, she felt absolutely nothing for him except a vague sense of gratitude that he hadn’t killed her within moments of meeting her. That single fact added to the little she had learned while probing his thoughts suggested that either he had not been sent to commit murder, or else he was a very clever and duplicitous man.

  She was sick of the schemes of men with minds like dark and winding labyrinths. Though she was pursuing just such a scheme herself, still she longed for plain speaking and honesty. Yet, despite her fears and the need for caution, something in Roarke’s shadowed gaze and in the firm set of his mouth intrigued her.

  He was most amazingly strong. Once mounted on his horse, a large animal whose dark coat almost matched Roarke’s sleek hair, he reached down a hand to take hers.

  “Put your foot on mine,” he ordered, and when she placed her bare toes on the soft leather of his boot, he lifted her up and swung her around so she landed securely in front of him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, wound her fingers into his wide belt, and hung on tight.

  The inn where they were staying lay only a short distance from the shore. It was built close to a rutted dirt road that ran east and west. Jenia knew the direction because the sun was at her back as it moved lower in the sky. She was relieved to have a somewhat better idea of where she was and of the time of day. She had not liked her earlier sense of being adrift in an unknown place and time.

  The ride to the inn did not take long, but by the time they reached the stable yard behind the main building, Jenia was fully aware of the muscles in Roarke’s firm thighs and in his finely shaped upper body. He wasn’t bulky in the way her jailors had been muscular, with bulging arms and ridiculously broad and hairy chests displayed under open leather jerkins. Roarke was decently covered and, though he gave the appearance of being slim, every inch of him that she could feel was taut and hard, with no hint of any excess flesh.

  Again blessedly unlike her jailors, he was clean. The good smell of a healthy male mingled pleasantly with the odors of leather and horse, and with the fresh, tang of keshan wood that she had noticed earlier on his cloak. Enfolded as she still was in that same cloak, she was surrounded by keshan and the gentler scent of sweet gallinum. The combination of the wood and the herb and the strength of Roarke’s arms made her feel safe.

  She knew that reaction was unbelievably foolish on her part. Roarke was prepared to lead her into danger. She doubted if she would live much longer, probably no more than a day or two after she reached Calean City. The imminence of her death hadn’t mattered to her, not if she could right the terrible wrong that had been done and secure both vengeance and justice. Once her goal had been achieved, she’d have nothing left to live for.

  Still, during the brief ride with Roarke, while her cheek pressed against his muscular shoulder and his arms held her fast, she dared to wish that she could find another way and, perhaps, manage to live just a little longer. She would like to know what Roarke would do after he learned the entire truth.

  When they reached the inn, Roarke followed Garit to the stableyard in back. As soon as his friend dismounted, Roarke handed Jenia down to Garit with a grim look at her that told her he was eager to be rid of her. To complete her discomfiture, the stableboy came for
ward to take charge of the horses. Suspicion filled his youthful face as he beheld her tangled hair and bare feet.

  “The lad will think we’re taking Jenia to our room for a session of bed sport,” Garit muttered to Roarke.

  “That impression will serve as well as any other and will likely cause little comment. If you want to pay him for his silence, do so,” Roarke added before Garit could protest the slur on his beloved Chantal’s virtue. “Then find out if any new guests have arrived today and if so, who they are.”

  He put a hand on Jenia’s waist to keep her with him and headed for the back door. Stepping carefully to avoid the usual stable yard debris, Jenia went along in silence. She was convinced that bed sport was the very last thing Roarke wanted from her. For the first time in her life the knowledge that she was not alluring to men produced a sense of regret. For just a moment she wondered how it would feel to be embraced by Roarke with tenderness, and perhaps to be kissed by him.

  She knew it was never going to happen, so she thrust the brief, foolish daydream away and concentrated instead on her surroundings. In case of attack she needed to know just where she was and how to escape. She began by surveying the stableyard, which was enclosed on all sides by buildings, the only entrance being the archway through which they had arrived.

  “Come along,” Roarke said, pulling open the door. “Don’t dawdle. The fewer people who notice you, the fewer questions we’ll be asked.”

  Jenia was not disposed to quarrel with his assessment and she wanted questions no more than Roarke did, so she did not linger in the yard.

  Once inside the inn they mounted a narrow staircase to the third floor, then headed down a short corridor to Roarke’s room. Jenia understood at once why he had chosen that particular chamber, and she was sure he had made the decision, and not Garit. One small window looked out on the road. A second window at the opposite side of the room overlooked the stableyard. Thus, Roarke enjoyed a clear view of the comings and goings of the inn’s customers.