Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1)

by Miranda Honfleur

  He couldn’t meet her so lowered, humiliated. And it would only get worse. Word would spread until every courtier would snicker behind his back. Rielle would have to acquiesce, publicly, else he’d never regain his standing. Or he’d have to humiliate her more than she had him somehow. But hurting her—

  Hurting her.

  He slowed his pace, swallowing, and flicked his tail. Did she even understand what she’d done to him, how deeply she’d hurt him?

  No, how could she? A child of thirteen years? She wasn’t even a woman yet. What could she know of this?

  Make her understand.

  Could he... make her understand? She’d tossed him away, but did she realize what she’d done, understand what she’d lost? If she understood, would she take back her repudiating words?

  If he apologized to her, she’d stay with the Divinity, and he’d never reclaim his position among the Houses. She’d learn nothing, remain in the clutches of those who would manipulate her, and he wouldn’t be a man worth inheriting his father’s legacy or marrying the heiress to Laurentine. He needed power, influence, the ability to instill fear in the hearts of his fellow nobles, so that they always remembered he had teeth and, as long as they didn’t displease him, chose not to bite.

  His Companion, Liliane, had taught him the ways of court, the ways of women and seduction. And he would go out and use them. Rielle would understand what she’d lost when the rumors reached her at last, and she’d suffer them as penance, return to him, hurt by his philandering, jealous and heartsick. She will have learned her lesson, understood what she’d done to him, felt pain like he had, humiliation like he had, and she would want to reconcile and reclaim what was hers. Her place at his side.

  Then they would unite and face the world together instead of against each other.

  He leaped over a rock with a quiet yip. Yes, that was his path, his only path. It would be dark, unpleasant, and painful, but he’d emerge with his fiancée by his side. He’d save her from the Divinity, a life of loneliness, and from herself. And all would be as had been intended.

  Chapter 7

  Stirring awake, Rielle tensed as a wave of magic surged through her, rippling up her ribcage. She lifted her head from the bedroll, canvas clutched in her fists, and glanced at the tent’s flap. Still fastened.

  Something had crossed the ward. No—the sensation was strong. Something large. Someone.

  Enemy?

  No. Werewolf?

  Either way, she’d be going alone. Jon would remain here. Safe. She waited until his breath slowed, until she was certain he was no longer awake. He shifted in his sleep and rolled closer, close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her face. He rested a palm on her hip. Stunned, she didn’t move.

  But she had to go. She eased out of her bedroll. When she pulled her legs free, he stirred and blinked at her drowsily. “Mage?” he rasped.

  “Privy,” she whispered.

  He gave a sleepy nod and rolled away.

  Stay safe. She grabbed her mage coat and boots, then slinked out of the tent, scanning their camp. Nothing. No one.

  Her heart skipped a beat. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. A pull on the blood bond. Brennan had arrived.

  She laid a fresh ward around the tent; it would blow a heavy wind inward and ripple her anima if something crossed. She placed it far enough to give Jon fair warning of any intruder. And she would come running.

  Pulling up the hood of her white coat, she stalked into the woods. The trees tore into the dark sky, pine cones littering the ground beneath. Low shrubs hunched with withering foliage that would soon lose its weakening grasp.

  None of the forest creatures stirred. Even the predators fled when they scented werewolf. If only she could do the same.

  Through the prickly pine needles and reluctant branches, she made her way to a small clearing. It was as good a meeting place as any, far enough away that Jon wouldn’t hear. She stepped into the silvery light of the waxing gibbous moon. It would be full in a few days.

  She clasped her hands in wait, shrugging deeper into her coat as the wind blew past.

  Within moments, two golden orbs materialized in the darkness, accompanied by a low, rumbling growl that infused the air with menace. Impossibly white teeth flashed into a snarling smile, and with a swirl of shadows, he lowered to his knee, half man and half wolf. The forest was eerily silent; not a single animal dared incur his wrath.

  Brennan always knew how to make an entrance.

  She drew the small, red-handled al-dhammé from her boot, and pressed the tip of the thin, tapered blade to her palm, just enough. A small, red drop bloomed there.

  She wiped the al-dhammé on her boot’s wool lining, sheathed it and, as always, held out her hand to him. The offering. He pressed his muzzle to it, sweeping his tongue slowly over her palm, and exhaled loudly, slowly, pleased. Amber eyes fixed on her from beneath a menacing scowl, grotesque on his wolfish countenance.

  “I’ve needed your blood for days now.” He snarled, his clawed fingers digging into the soil and clenching it in fists. “The moon’s full soon. You kept me waiting.”

  Such arrogance. But every time the moon approached full, she knew an urgency burned in him. The Wolf’s demands became fierce and did not abate until he was at her heel, reunited with his master.

  Reunited with her.

  Eleven years ago, the otherworldly cries of an animal in pain had spirited her from her bed in Laurentine. Her bare feet had taken her to the rocky beach outside the castle, where a wolf-like animal had lain in suffering. Injured all over, he must have fallen off the cliffs overlooking the Shining Sea by Laurentine. Despite his form, the look in his eyes had belonged to Brennan. There had been no mistaking it. She’d known those eyes for as long as she could remember. Brennan, the boy she had been betrothed to since age five. His pitiful groans had rung in her ears, lamenting the pain and begging for death. Sympathy had guided her hand to his wounded muzzle. He’d shifted nervously and nicked her with a tooth. Their blood had mingled.

  She peered at him among the forest’s shrubs. He wasn’t the same boy. And she wasn’t eleven years old anymore. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come at all?”

  He changed from half-wolf to man. Unabashed in his nakedness, he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, and then he raised it to his forehead in a firm contact he held in mock reverence. Even kneeling, when he looked up at her, his eyes were intense, imperious, the eyes of a lord, a king, an emperor. “Perish the thought. I’d have to hunt you then, and take my control in a less... pleasant manner.”

  Let him try. It would be the last thing he ever did.

  As he rubbed his face against the back of her hand, a shiver ran up her arm at the coarseness, a day’s growth of dark facial hair. She hated when he touched her; perhaps that was why he did.

  Despite his cruelty and coldness, he was attractive, with bronze skin, hazel eyes, strong but fine features, a powerful body, and an effortless air of studied nonchalance. Many a woman had gotten lost in him. Too many.

  “Hold your tongue,” she said. “I haven’t missed a month in eleven years. I could have left you to go mad.”

  Although Brennan had always been rebellious, his initial resistance to their offerings had dwindled as it drowned in the pleasure of that offering. As much as she hated to admit it, the offering pleased her, too. The bond was both bliss and torture: possessive like a chain, and yet, for briefly high moments, euphoric.

  Just as he couldn’t resist the urge to meet her before every full moon, neither could she. Every month, the bond rattled her until she saw him.

  When she had rejected his ultimatum at the Tower nine years ago, he’d been quick to seduce a succession of women, adding notches to his belt—publicly—a clear message that her loss meant little to him, or perhaps an indication of what he thought of their continuing betrothal.

  But she had resolved not to be petty or angry. It had been she, after all, who’d hurt him, and if he want
ed to strike back, that was his choice. For three years, a long, cruel silence had ensued at their monthly offerings.

  She’d resolved to live her life and move on. But when she’d given her virginity to Leigh, opened her heart to him, Brennan had curled an upper lip at their monthly offering in the Tower forest, his coldness turning icy. And when her affair had turned public, linking his fiancé and a foreign commoner—even one as illustrious as Leigh—the iciness became outright animosity.

  Yet the bond continued unbroken. She would never be free of it, nor of him.

  Brennan smirked, his hair catching the moonlight like glass. “Your behavior still leaves much to be desired, fiancée mine.”

  “You’re one to talk. And don’t call me that.” It was tiresome and frustrating, ever a reminder of his family’s selfishness. And his. His ultimatum at the Tower nine years ago, so confusing then, made sense when she learned that contracting with the Divinity interrupted the Emaurrian king’s dominion over a mage, including the ability to enforce marriage contracts. As long as she contracted with the Divinity, she had the power to deny him her hand in marriage, and she only had to hold out one more year, until age twenty-three.

  One more year, and she would be free of the betrothal.

  She was the last of her line, Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, Marquise of Laurentine, an unmarried Emaurrian noble. Papa’s line couldn’t end with her, but she couldn’t marry while the contract with the Marcels remained in effect. Just the thought of wedding her snarling monster of a fiancé sickened her, but privilege entailed responsibility. And she was bound to him, the contract unbreakable until the king or Duke Faolan, Brennan’s father, could be persuaded; she or Brennan lost their titles or fortunes; she bore a child out of wedlock to another man; or she turned twenty-three.

  The sooner, the better.

  He rumbled a proud laugh. “No one makes me wait. Especially not you. And we both know how I react when you displease me.”

  Brazen beast. “You forget your place.”

  “Ever and always above yours. But then, you remember that well, don’t you?” A rictus grin accompanied his answer. He drew near and sniffed. Breathed deep. “There’s a man’s scent on you.”

  She looked away from him, but no matter—he crouched and snorted a breath. His nostrils flaring, he picked her over with an amused gaze. “His scent is all over you.”

  “Keep your nose to yourself.”

  He laughed, a monstrous rumble deep in his throat.

  She’d wanted to meet him days ago. Perhaps he had answers the Proctor and Leigh didn’t. “What news of the capital?”

  “You mistake me for a town crier.”

  “Please,” she said, swallowing. The last thing she wanted to do was beg him for anything, but it was for Olivia. “It’s important.”

  His eyes gleamed, but his smirk faded. “I... don’t rightly know. I’ve been hunting a lot and haven’t kept up with the news. Why?”

  She shook her head. “A bad feeling.” If he didn’t know, she’d find answers in Bournand.

  His body contorting, he dropped to all fours as black fur spiked from his skin and covered his body. Changed from man-beast to full wolf—massive, the size of a man. With a last glance in her direction, he melted into the forest’s darkness.

  She glared at the brush. She’d allowed the wolf back in once, at nineteen, the wound in her heart fresh after being parted from Leigh. And he’d gotten his revenge. For three years since, he’d been flaunting his upper hand, a bulwark of outward arrogance to shield his still-bruised ego.

  After the fire had consumed home nine years ago, perhaps it had been her destiny to be ruined by every person she loved and to ruin them in return. It was for the best that she’d resolved to never love again. There would be no one who could cause her fureur, and no one she might kill with it.

  It’s in the past.

  Only Olivia had been spared, and now, even that was uncertain. It had been a long time since she’d heard from her dearest friend. Too long. They had plans for Midwinter; after escorting Jon to Monas Amar, she could make the day’s ride to the capital and intrude upon Olivia early.

  Seeing no more movement, she made her way back to camp, Brennan’s revenge heavy on her heart. She needed to find some leverage, something to force him into persuading his father to break the contract. She didn’t want even a single day more of it looming over her. Of him looming over her.

  A dark thought cast its shadow over her mind. She could threaten to reveal he was a werewolf.

  But even as the thought formed, she dismissed it. No one would ever believe her. And, if by some miracle they did, she was more likely to be accused of cursing him herself.

  With a dejected sigh, she kicked a pile of leaves. What kept Brennan awake late at night? What mattered more to him than breaking the curse? Did anything?

  Chapter 8

  Jon lay awake, staring at the darkness above him. His fingers moved to his Sodalis ring, as they always did when his thoughts lingered too long in the deep. The symbol of his vows, his commitment to the life of a Sodalis and the Order of Terra, it always offered him comfort. Always. But not tonight.

  She’s been gone too long. Perhaps she’d run into trouble in the woods? Wolves? A boar? Wild dogs?

  She can handle herself.

  He would wait a few minutes more, and if she didn’t return, he would go after her.

  The mage—no, the woman—would give him no peace. He could look at her for days. Bewitching, fey. Long haired, light footed, wild eyed.

  Wild eyed. He closed his eyes and saw the wilderness in hers—fire, water, earth, wind. The elements in that sky-blue gaze, in her hands, in her body. The way she pursed her lips, the way she scowled, the way she challenged him, it made him fume—but it also made him smile. And her scent... He took a deep breath. Somehow, in the tent, beyond the overpowering scent of horse, the sweet aroma of roses and her had prevailed. It, too, was a spell, an enchantment willing his arms around her, his nose in her hair, his lips against the crown of her head. One he would defeat.

  Terra have mercy, but he’d forgotten how women smelled up close. Vivid memories of bright mid-spring days, the verdant hedge maze at Maerleth Tainn, and the giggles of young women spun in his mind, mercilessly circling his repressed desire. He’d been a squire then, accompanying Tor to his brother’s duchy.

  No stranger to temptation, Jon had staved off that need with resolve and distance—and plenty of it.

  And that’s all this is—temptation. He shifted in his bedroll.

  No, he hadn’t wished to withdraw from the tent earlier for her weakness, but for his own. Terra have mercy, she had power over him, more than she knew. He huffed an amused breath. As much as he pushed her away, it might take no more than close quarters, some show of interest from her, and a moment of weakness to undo a lifetime of denial.

  Some show of interest...

  He sighed and relaxed deeper into his bedroll. Her surreptitious glances in his direction hadn’t been as stealthy as she’d perhaps hoped. But they pleased him, pleased him in ways glances from other women rarely had.

  Her curious study of him had straightened his spine, tensed his arms, expanded his chest, raised his chin... He wanted her to look. And he wanted her to like what she saw. Terra have mercy, but he actually enjoyed it.

  And she...

  He grabbed a fistful of canvas and pulled it off to cool his heated skin. He had fancied women before, and his vows had withstood the temptation.

  And so they would again.

  No woman would keep him from being a paladin once more, especially not a mage. Tor had warned him about searching for the apprentice healer who’d saved his life in Signy, about the temptation of women—and mage-women besides.

  And he refused dishonor for the sake of this elementalist, this stranger, a woman. Paladins were above earthly temptations, and at Monas Amar, at Terra’s holy monastery, among his brothers, this torture would end.

  Until then, however
, he would need some other measure to ensure temperance.

  In the absence of physical distance, he would have to think of something else.

  Soft footsteps crunched through the autumn grass outside the tent—hers. He stifled a relieved sigh, closed his eyes, and lay still, controlling his breathing. She didn’t need to know he’d stayed awake to wait for her.

  She slipped in, what little noise she made relaying her every move: the swish of a tent flap closing, the rasp of her shed coat, the rustle of her descent to her bedroll, the whisper of boots removed, the soft thump of them on the ground. She whished into the bedroll, shifted to her side, and a lock of her curls feathered the back of his neck.

  A shiver shook him.

  She went still. “Jon?”

  Pretending would be useless. “Hm?” he replied as groggily as he could manage.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” she whispered.

  He wanted to tease her, but there was a sad and lonely hollowness to her voice, a rasp. Had she been crying? He opened his eyes.

  “Paladins sleep light,” he offered by way of explanation. It was true enough; heavy sleepers didn’t survive as paladins-errant, considering they often worked alone. “Something on your mind?”

  She hesitated. “What does your faith say about forgiveness?”

  A Divinist interested in Terran theology was a rare occurrence. “What about the Divine?”

  She shrugged. “The Divine isn’t like your Eternan deities—not a man, not a woman, not like a person at all. More like a power, inhabiting all life and all else, mankind and gods and our world, everything that was, everything that is, and everything that ever will be. We serve by keeping life thriving, by cultivating magic and mages, by brightening and deepening anima. Grudges and forgiveness are inconsequential personal matters.” A troubled breath quivered free of her. “Confusing personal matters that perhaps your goddess may shed some wisdom on.”