As she reached the bottom of the stairs, a shadow stepped out in front of her. She flinched, dropping her shoes, and her feet pitched backward as she saw Nathanial’s face within the blur. He reached out and clutched her arm, preventing her from an ungraceful landing on the staircase. Within the same split second, he plucked her falling shoes from the air with his free hand.
A silent moment passed where they stood in perfect tableau, his eyes boring through her—no expression, no emotion.
“Nathanial,” Lusk’s voice barked from further ahead around the bend, thankfully out of sight.
Lenora just about kept herself from panicking. Only just. Nathanial held out her shoes and released his grip on her arm, a grip actually far softer than she’d realised at first. As Lenora took her shoes, his eyes flicked upwards toward the staircase, followed by a slight nod of his head. She didn’t need further instruction; she’d already risked far too much. Her feet rushed, tripping over every other step as she raced back up the stairs.
A guard at the top of the stairs twisted his face into a look of confusion as he glanced back and forth between her and the steps leading downward. “Ma’am?”
“I’m fine,” she breathed. Her eyes must have been as wide as a doe caught by a hunter. At least this hunter was less bloodthirsty than the ones from whom she’d just escaped. “I slipped and lost my shoes.” She raced to provide an explanation—not that she should have needed to, but she felt like a child again, sneaking into her father’s gin and games room to peek at his hidden stash of drawings of nude women. The explanation must have been sufficient, for the guard’s features softened and he offered her a helpful hand to complete the last few steps to the top. Then he followed her up the correct staircase leading to her room.
“Ma’am.” The guard nodded as she reached her door.
“Thank you.” She scurried inside and barricaded the door with the bedside table, as if that would stop anyone from gaining entry. She sunk to her knees, heart pounding, eyes watering. It felt as though she had just run a sprint across the entire castle grounds. She raced the conversation over and over in her head, unable to focus enough or even settle upon the meaning of the words. All she knew for sure was that she felt so very alone and terribly frightened. She leaned her head against the table and collapsed into a sobbing heap.
Lenora awoke to knocking noises. She found herself curled up in a ball beside the table blocking the door, and when she went to uncurl, her joints screamed with stiffness.
“Ma’am,” a male voice called through the door. “It’s Doctor Roath.”
“Emperor’s hairy-ass-crack,” she spat in a whisper as she tried to push the table away from the door without making any noise.
“Are you descent, Ma’am?”
“As if that seems to matter to the men around here,” she muttered to herself. “Just a moment please, Doctor.”
Once the room was straightened, she opened the door to find the squat, elderly man peering at her through thick spectacles.
“Good day, Ma’am. Commander Barentyn said you’d been feeling poorly and asked me to check on you.”
“Did he?” Interfering old bastard.
“Yes. May I come in and perform an examination?”
Her gaze settled on the large, black leather case in the doctor’s hand. It was already unclipped, and she could see the array of devices inside. They were not the sort of things a doctor would use to check for the common cold. They were implements—long, metallic, claw-like, and generally terrifying implements.
“You may not come in, nor perform any examination.” Her back straightened. She was a Consort of the Empire, not some brood mare to be poked and prodded on the whim of any man, save the Emperor himself; she couldn’t really refuse him.
“Uh…” The doctor shifted from foot to foot, clearly not expecting her refusal. “Barentyn suspects you may, umm…”
“Be pregnant?”
“Yes.” The doctor breathed a sigh of relief when she’d answered for him.
“He made this assumption based on his extensive knowledge of female biology?”
“Uh…”
“Doctor, I appreciate you coming here, but all I said was that I’m tired. I’ll admit there may be a chance of pregnancy, but if that is the case, it’s very early on. I assure you, I have kept track of my cycle. I wouldn’t wish to risk any damage to a potential child by agreeing to such invasive procedures at this stage.” She pointed to his bag and he stared down at it for a long while.
“I see your point,” he eventually said. “Perhaps I’ll come back next week.”
“Two months, at least.” She folded her arms across her chest, aware of her obstinate tone but utterly unrepentant.
“I’ll inform Commander Barentyn.”
She swung the door shut and leaned her forehead against it. Things were going horribly wrong at an unstoppable pace. She replayed the conversation she’d heard the night before through her mind. Her replacement had already been selected? The Emperor was becoming impatient? She couldn’t disparage that one if his odd demand of “give me a son” was anything to go by. But there was no baby; she’d done the simple—if unreliable—tests almost weekly. The chances were greater that she was barren, just like his first wife… Slowly, a cog clicked into place in her head. One barren wife would be an unfortunate thing; two would be incredibly unlucky but certainly not a thing to place a wager on. That left only one other answer—that Emperor hairy-ass was the one with the problem. Empty seeds were no good for growing babies, no matter how liberally, viciously, or frequently one spread them about.
She shook her head against the door. What horrific end had the conspiring bastards come up with for her? She sunk to the floor, wondering about escape. Perhaps she could sneak into Barentyn’s office and find a bundle of money stuffed in his drawers, enough to book passage to the Togatt Islands and buy a small hut on a beach?
Blazing hellfire, I’m becoming delusional in my desperation.
Even if she managed to come up with a plan that wasn’t completely ludicrous, and then managed to enact an actual escape, slipping past the Emperor, the guards, Barentyn, Lusk, the army and the police… If by some miracle she survived all that on her own, it wouldn’t take long before they realised she’d run away, and Averys would likely send Nathanial to hunt her down, cut off her head, and deliver her severed skull back to the palace to stick on a pike. If they planned to kill her off anyway, she’d only be giving them an excuse to do so legitimately. Then, how many other poor women would he go through before the arrogant bastard figured out he was the one with the problem?
She stood up and rubbed a hand across her brow, trying to wipe away the headache nagging behind her eyes. She was one step ahead now that she knew their plans. Perhaps that was enough. If they thought she might already be pregnant, she had time, though not much. Lusk was right, curse him. It would be a waste to kill her off just yet. The only trouble was that she wasn’t pregnant, and if Averys’ pillow-hammering sessions were a waste of time, that left her with only one option. Someone else would have to get her pregnant.
She spent the rest of the day in the gardens, hiding behind hedgerows whenever she heard footsteps lest Barentyn catch up with her. While she’d avoided the doctor’s examination with quick thinking, Barentyn was a tricky bugger and her I’m the Consort, do-as-I-say act didn’t wash with him.
Lusk was just as bad, if not worse. His recent leering made her worry she was in for anything but a swift end if he had his way. Lusk would doubtlessly be willing to act as substitute stallion if she propositioned him, but her stomach churned at the idea of sharing that secret with that man, let alone sharing a bed with him. She’d rather it be any other man in the entire Empire than Lusk.
The sky turned pink with sunset, the long day drawing to a close. She headed indoors, scrutinising each guard she passed for suitability as a potential father of her child. Each one failed to inspire her to act on the dubious plan. It had to be someone strong—someo
ne to produce a strong and skilful child worthy of the title; a common man’s offspring may have been more obviously out of place. More than anything, she had to choose someone who could be trusted to keep the secret and willing enough to agree to it. She was sure even thinking about being unfaithful was punishable by death. That narrowed down the choices markedly.
Lenora passed the staircase leading down, where she’d followed the men the night before. The memory of Nathanial reaching out to catch her brought her to a standstill in the hall. He had known she was there. Known that she was following. Known what she’d heard. He could have told Lusk and Barentyn she’d been there, yet he hadn’t.
She leaned against the wall, the cool of the granite tile seeping through her thin shirt sleeve. Now the seed had been planted in her mind, it was quickly taking route. Nathanial was strong, fearless, handsome, and highly skilled—every trait that would be expected of a future Emperor. However, she had no clue of his lineage; was he highborn? She couldn’t remember hearing him being referred to as anything other than ‘Nathanial’. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She was sure he could keep a secret, and that mattered the most.
If she tried to seduce him, or simply convince him of her plan, and failed, maybe he wouldn’t just rat her out to the others. He would have heard the conversation between Lusk and Barentyn, if he hadn’t already been aware of their plans to replace her, so she didn’t have to try to convince him of that part, at least. The more she mulled it over, the more convinced she became, and above all else, no one she knew matched up to Nathanial.
She nodded silently to herself and headed up the stairs toward her bedroom to freshen up and try to make preparations. She’d never needed to seduce a man before, not even Averys, and she wasn’t sure if she had the knack for acting the temptress.
“Ma’am.” Barentyn appeared at the top of the stairs, and her grip on the bannister tightened.
“Good evening, Commander Barentyn.” She curved around him and headed down the hallway, trying not to roll her eyes when he followed.
“I spoke with the Doctor.”
“Yes. It was good of you to send him to me. Thank you.”
“You sent him away.”
“I explained my reservations toward his…methods. He concurred.”
“So, there is a chance?”
She bit her lip and turned to face him as they’d reached her door. “I hope you understand my reluctance to discuss this delicate matter with you. I haven’t even discussed it with the Emperor himself. I wouldn’t want to give false promise.”
“But there is a chance?” he reiterated, his voice deeper than before.
A smile appeared on her face, followed by a slight nod. It was too soon to promise anything, but the impatient bugger gave her little choice. “I must say, it is very comforting to know a man in your position, with the whole army to care for, takes such keen interest in the Emperor’s personal matters,” she said, just about managing a convincing tone.
“The future of the Empire is my strongest concern in all things.”
“Yes, of course. Good evening.”
“Ma’am.” He left with a partial bow, a gesture she’d not seen in goodness only knew how long.
Perhaps she’d done enough to convince him she might be pregnant. All that remained was to actually conceive.
III – Into the Lair
Lenora headed through the dark and empty hall. It was past midnight, although guards still remained on duty, so she took care in her approach. She cursed silently as the cool air seeped through her thin, lacy nightdress and the polished floor froze her bare feet. She wasn’t sure which of the rooms in the soldiers’ dormitory would belong to Nathanial, but something told her he might have his own room, perhaps away from the others. Her cover story was sketchy at best, but if she got caught, she was ready to say she was looking for Barentyn, and she would ask him to fetch the doctor, feigning some sickness.
She passed another line of rooms, sounds of snoring and uninhibited bodily functions seeping out into the hall. The last room was set apart from the others and shrouded in darkness as the line of gas lamps ended further back, though it was too small to be a bedroom. It looked more like a closet.
Ahead, a set of steps led down into an even darker area. She recognised the way and had once promised herself never to go there again after Averys had given her a tour of the dungeon below. The blood-stained walls and array of torture implements dotted around the place did not make it an inviting place to visit. Her steps slowed as she approached the staircase, wondering if perhaps Lusk and Barentyn made Nathanial sleep down there, as if the poor guy weren’t macabre enough.
“You are lost?”
She spun on her heels and a hand clamped down on her mouth to keep her from screaming out. Nathanial. A heartbeat passed, and she swallowed deeply. He released his hand and took a step back; the door to the small room was open behind him. Her first panicked thought was to rush to her cover story and ask him to find Barentyn. But then she remembered her actual reason for being there, and he stood right there.
“Ma’am?”
She stared up at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. How had he known she was there? She hadn’t made a sound. She took a deep breath in and blew out slowly. It helped to calm her down, at least a little.
“Nathanial. I was looking for you.” Her voice was a whisper, but it seemed loud in the silence of the corridor. His mouth twitched ever-so-slightly, but the rest of his face remained a mask. When he didn’t move, or ask her to explain, or do anything at all, she side-stepped around him and walked into his room, and as she’d hoped, he followed, pulling the door closed.
Darkness engulfed the room until he struck a match and lit a candle. It was as cramped inside as she’d imagined—barely bigger than a closet. A plain bed with neither pillow nor sheet lay against one wall, a small desk and stool butted up to the wall opposite the door. There was barely enough floor space to stand comfortably; perhaps it was just large enough to allow for press-ups. A flush of heat ran across her cheeks at the thought.
Across the walls he had a dizzying array of knives and other weapons, hanging neatly on hooks as though they were only decorative—all sharp and clean and lined up in a fastidious manner. Certainly not just for show. A black metal crossbar hung down from the ceiling, perhaps for pull-ups? She’d seen soldiers exercising before and could imagine him shirtless, working out, muscles tense and hard. She felt her face flush deeper.
Lenora turned to find him standing with his back to the door, arms by his sides and back straight, as though he were a soldier standing at attention. She was aware of no protocol for a Consort intruding in the bedchamber of her husband’s personal assassin. But if Nathanial adopted the soldier-awaiting-orders approach, perhaps this might be easier than she first imagined. Could she really dare to command him?
A ridiculous thought flashed through her mind—Averys standing nearby, barking the order, “Nathanial, impregnate my wife”. She bit her lip, and for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked down to watch her do so. Perhaps this really would be easier than she’d thought.
“The Emperor, Barentyn, and Lusk are conspiring to replace me.” She aimed for the jugular. Straight to the point, though she’d opted for the word ‘replace’ instead of ‘kill’. He didn’t react. Perhaps because it was a redundant statement. He knew, and he knew that she knew and… She took another deep breath to steady her nerves.
“One barren wife is unfortunate. To find two women in succession who are both unable to give him a child, whilst not impossible, is highly unlikely. The women in my family have a long history of producing healthy children, and I have no reason to believe I’m incapable of doing the same.”
Nathanial remained as a statue, giving nothing away, his face a stone mask—cold, maybe calculating.
“How long do you think I’d remain alive if I suggested to Averys that he may be impotent?”
“Not long,” he said.
Shadows from the flickering candl
e flame danced across his angular face. The back of her neck tingled as she glanced at the glistening blade of a knife laid on the top of the bed, inches from his hand. She hadn’t noticed that particular knife until now. He made no move to pick it up, though she wondered if she’d even get a chance to register him making a move if he chose to kill her.
“The Emperor wants a son. Kienia needs a future Emperor. I intend to do my duty, whatever it takes. And you? Where does your true loyalty lie? To the Emperor, or the Empire?”
Seconds ticked by. It could have been minutes. He gave no answer. Perhaps he didn’t understand the question. Perhaps he was just waiting for her to ask the real question instead of pontificating. Perhaps he understood all too well but didn’t know how to respond. She doubted Barentyn included a session on ‘how to talk to girls’ in his training. Maybe he had never talked to a girl…or been with a girl…not even a kiss?
As soon as the thought settled in her mind, it would not go away. She could have asked, but he probably wouldn’t give an answer. In a bold rush of confidence, she clasped the straps of her nightdress and pulled them down past her shoulders. The dress caressed her flesh as it floated along her body and pooled at her feet. And she was utterly bare to him. If he had not understood her intentions before, she hoped it was abundantly clear now.
“Do you know what to do?” she asked.
“I am aware of the process,” he said.
A sputtered laugh escaped her lips, though she snapped her mouth shut when his glare cooled. No laughing at men—especially not assassins—before sex. She did not have a death wish. She took a step forward and reached out for his hand.
Despite the stiffness in his stance, he did not resist as she placed his hand upon her breast. She eased closer; he was taller than her and did not yet make any effort to reduce the space between them. She reached out to touch his face, breath quickening in her chest with fear and lust.
As her thumb brushed across his lips, she felt his thumb mirroring the action, stroking across her nipple. So gentle and small a gesture, but it sent a spark of heat straight down between her legs. Her fingers trailed along his jaw and reached behind to clasp the back of his neck while she pressed her hips forward into him, finding the stiffness of his arousal through his trousers. At least one part of him knew how to react.
Desire and Duty (The Consort's Chronicles Book 1) Page 2