by Jean Winter
“Finding out I lied to you?” she countered.
“Working with the sheep together.”
“My 'traitorous' roots.”
“Our stroll in the rain.”
“Our heated arguing!”
“How you are with my daughter.” The man was not be deterred and Lyra sighed.
“I slapped you,” she tried one more time.
But J'Kor only grinned. “Lyra, I saw how maddening it was for you, seeing me with Shasmae.” His fingers went up to stroke her face from her temple to her lips in that special way that made her insides flutter. “And when I saw how you were watching us in front o' the fire—” Blessed Saints! He had seen her! Great gorebugs, she was never going to live that down. Oh, why was she even there in the first place? “—And when I saw how you were watching us in front o' the fire,” he said again, bringing her back to herself, “I knew I was with the wrong woman.”
Feelings she didn't want to have bubbled up and threatened to spill over—feelings she had been resisting for a while. Change the subject. Just change the subject. “What happened next? With Shasmae, I mean?”
J'Kor glanced in Lady Pryn's direction. “I apologized, as best I could anyway, especially given that I was the one who invited her over. And before she left I assured her that I would go along with whatever story she chose to tell so she did no' have to feel embarrassed in front o' her peers.”
“You … you did that?”
He shrugged. “Shasmae has a much more stringent public image to uphold. I will be forgiven a small scandal a lot faster than she would.” Forgetting herself again, Lyra gazed at him in open wonder and J'Kor's mouth twitched as he took her by the arm to lead her into the party. “Do you know that you are sexy when you are surprised, too?” he whispered into her ear.
An appearance before Lady J'Kor was the first order of business. Surrounded by her influential friends, she wore a frown while J'Kor said hello with a token kiss on the cheek. Then she quickly intimated her wish for a private word. This left Lyra standing awkwardly with the other women, blatantly eyeing her like they would a string of smelly fish that had been too long drying in the sun. So speedily excusing herself (which they all found very agreeable), she found a wall against which she could blend in anonymity.
As she waited, Lyra people-watched the multitude of extremely well-dressed gala guests take pleasure in mingling with other people who were nearly as important as they. There was an unsettling plethora of prominent red sashes displayed across puffed chests, but just as J'Kor had promised, none of them belonged to a certain smug man who knew too much.
A small clique of guests ambled in front of her, effectively blocking her entire view, and Lyra was about to search out a less claustrophobic piece of floor when one of the gentlemen suddenly turned to her.
“Mistress J'Kor,” the slightly overweight lord with the full, salt-and-pepper mustache said quietly, “I represent a certain coalition that has been watching you since your sale at auction. We are sympathetic to your circumstances and our leaders are interested in speaking with you regarding certain shared 'ideals' we believe you possess. We would like to arrange a time and place to meet. In private, o' course.”
Lyra stared in utter amazement. The distinguished gentleman spoke so earnestly that she had a hard time ruling this out as some kind of joke. The rest of his group continued to masterfully ignore her, chatting casually with each other in a tight-knit blob of concealing humanity, and Lyra's senses went on full alert. “Um, my lord, I—I don't think I understand at all what you are—”
“Mistress, forgive me, but our time is short. You do wish for your freedom, do you no'?”
Blessed stars, this might be some kind of trap! “Uh …” Her pulse raced. Her breath turned shallow.
“Do you wish to be rejoined with your people again? Your family?”
Good night! Who was this man? Fearing to speak such a reply out loud, Lyra just gulped and gave a tiny, frightened nod.
With a nod of acceptance, he produced a small card from his coat pocket. “Mistress, we can help you, but everything must be done with the utmost caution.” Lyra was almost too afraid to take the proffered card from his hand. “Think about it, and when you are ready to move forward with our offer, use this contact number. We will set up a meeting with you. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, my lord.” The card held only a handwritten number sequence on it. Nothing more.
One more curt nod and he was nonchalantly rejoining his friends. As if on cue, they suddenly all moved on like they had just decided to continue their stroll elsewhere. Lyra found herself alone once again. Heavenly Father, what in the world?
She clutched the stiff piece of paper in her trembling hand, not even sure what to do with it. She had no pockets or purse. A furtive skim of guest faces revealed a lot of people gaily enjoying the party. How many of them were part of this “coalition”? Was someone, even now, keeping an eye on her? The thought made her shudder.
“Lovely, is everything all right? Where is Kade?” The questions were Sal's as he and Maryn came toward her from the dance floor.
“Oh! Um, I'm fine.” Relax! Relax! “He and his mother stepped aside over there for a private discussion.” As she pointed in the general direction, Lyra hastily slid the card into the front of her dress while their heads were turned.
“No doubt she has heard the colorful rumor,” Sal intoned. Then his eyes suddenly zoned in on something and they narrowed in distaste. “Well, well, tonight is turning interesting, indeed. Look what crawled out from under his rock?”
Fearing Malig'ahnt, Lyra craned her neck to see, but she recognized only J'Kor, just emerging from a secluded corner. He was looking around for her and she made to go to him, but Sal's hand came down on her shoulder.
“No. You had better stay here for a moment.” He turned to Maryn. “Pet, keep Lyra company until all is clear.”
Maryn, evidently, understood Sal's meaning much better than Lyra and her nod harbored concern. “Aye, my lord.”
Sal strode away and Lyra turned on Maryn. “What is he talking about?”
“Him,” was all Maryn said, and she pointed to a man about J'Kor's height and build, dressed in black fashion with the enviable accessory of two pretty ladies on either arm.
He was naturally good looking with dark eyes that scrutinized his surroundings like a grayhawk, but his most striking feature was that of thick, black hair that had chosen to gray most attractively in one silvery white streak near the front. The animosity on J'Kor's side was visible when they met eyes.
Maryn linked an arm through Lyra's, whispering, “That is Lord Kildwynd. Lord J'Kor's late wife had an ongoing affair with him for years. He is Jos'lie's biological father.”
Holy!
SCHLAMOLY!
The mysterious encounter and cryptic card nestled against Lyra's bosom were swiftly consigned to the far recesses of her mind, and a light-headed Lyra was suddenly grateful for Maryn's supportive arm. J'Kor wasn't Jos'lie's real father?
“Is it a proven fact?” she breathed as J'Kor and Kildwynd regarded each other—J'Kor with a fire in his eyes and Kildwynd's lips twitching into an icy smile.
“Lady Ahna J'Kor was a regular guest o' his family's whenever she traveled to town alone. There were many rumors o' them spending a lot o' time alone together and when Jos'lie was born, well, the hair was a dead giveaway. That streak o' his is no' white from aging. He has always had it.”
Lyra nearly couldn't believe what she was hearing. It was clear as day how much J'Kor loved the special girl he was raising. “Does Kildwynd deny her?”
“He does, but it is only for the record so he is no' obligated to offer any support.”
Sal arrived on the scene, placing a pacifying palm on J'Kor's chest as he spoke to him calmly.
“I'm surprised Sal isn't encouraging him to lay into the jerk,” Lyra observed somewhat vindictively.
“My Sally only gets into fights for the fun o' it,” Maryn returned. �
�And he does no' consider Lord Kildwynd a laughing matter, especially when he fears your J'Kor might no' abide by his usual restraints when it comes to punishing an opponent.”
Eventually, Sal managed to get J'Kor turned and walking away and Lyra started pulling Maryn along to go meet them. She had a sudden compulsion to wrap her arms around him and whisper in his ear how wonderful she thought he was.
“Oh, there you are, child,” the Lady J'Kor said, stepping into Lyra's path.
Drat! Lyra obligatorily curtsied for the respected host of the party. “Good evening, my lady.” Maryn followed suit beside her.
“'Na Lyra, come with me. I think there is someone here who you will be glad to see.”
With a longing glance at J'Kor and Sal heading toward a waiter serving drinks, she reluctantly let go of Maryn. “Yes, my lady.”
A short walk around a corner led to a small group of very fashionable people seated comfortably together in a nook talking, laughing, and drinking. Lyra had no time to consider who Lady J'Kor had meant, when she saw him—lounging with a foot up on an ottoman in the center of the circle of bodies. Lord Serpahn Malig'ahnt!
He looked the same as before—rich, handsome, arrogant, white-blond goatee framing thin lips pulled away into a smile of self-indulgent levity, and the skin around Lyra's implant started itching again, very irritatingly.
No! No! She was not ready to do this yet! But her unconscious step backward was halted by a stern Lady J'Kor, nudging her onward to take advantage of the convenient atonement opportunity. Lyra swallowed hard and willed her feet to move forward again.
“So, the violent whore comes to me begging for forgiveness,” a silky voice breezed for all present company to hear, and a dozen pairs of disdainful eyes turned on her. Malig'ahnt's yellow ones gleamed with pleasure.
A feverish prayer began in Lyra's head and she couldn't stop herself from quickly looking over her shoulder in the desperate hope that J'Kor was hurrying to her side. No such luck—just Lady J'Kor's grave expression and her body barring the way out of the alcove.
Malig'ahnt took another drink from his glass then handed it off to a woman at his left. “Well?”
The pit of Lyra's stomach turned restless in a most uncomfortable way. Her mouth and throat were utterly devoid of moisture. Slowly, she approached the man and knelt before him with bowed head. “My lord,” she croaked, then cleared her throat and started again with better control. “My lord, I beg your forgiveness of my insolence and utter lack of respect toward you at the auction. Please believe that I am mending my impertinent ways, and it would bring me great happiness to know that I have satisfied your sense of honor and given you the respect you deserve.”
He took an intentionally long time to answer.
“What a pretty little memorized speech that was. Your lord must have helped you with some o' those big words.” Lyra's downturned face turned red as soft, scoffing laughter erupted around. “I do no' know, however, if I quite believe your sincerity. Come closer, whore, and let us determine the extent o' your burgeoning humility.”
With a terrible foreboding, Lyra shuffled awkwardly forward a couple feet, just inches from his knee. At his slight shift she started screaming to herself, Hold perfectly still! Take whatever he has to give! Instead of a strike however, a long-fingered hand was presented before her nose, wearing three thick rings on two fingers whose gleaming, cut jewels were so large she could see her face reflected in the surface of any one of them.
Taking his hand in both of hers, Lyra kissed the back of it.
Malig'ahnt's skin was very smooth with a combination of cologne, lotion, and bath oils that melded together in a sickly sugary scent. Gag! He leaned in, taking her by the chin to lift her face very close to his. “You and your lord make quite a pair, I think,” Malig'ahnt whispered to her. “A witless, second-hand khar and a filthy sheep farmer whose retarded daughter bears glaring, daily witness to his shame.”
Lyra's eyes sparked in a fiery rage and she stared him down unflinchingly, opening her mouth to speak— Stop! This is exactly what he wants. He was just waiting for her to jump into him—to attack again.
Pursing her lips, Lyra humbly averted her eyes to more guffaws and sniggers from Malig'ahnt's clique. With a snort, Malig'ahnt grabbed her arm. “Look at her,” he sneered. “She is so stupid, she does no' even know when she is being insul—”
“Malig'ahnt.” The blessed voice of J'Kor spoke his name with a barely concealed loathing. “If my mistress is finished with you—which I believe she is—you are invited to let go o' what is no' yours and I will relieve you o' her. Again.”
He's here! He's here! Bless the Creator! It took all Lyra's will to remain still and facing forward.
J'Kor's careful phrasing had not been lost on Malig'ahnt, or anyone else, and the man's inner struggle to back down was plain on his perfect face. After a moment, however, he just sniffed and said, “She may go,” like the whole situation was a game that had suddenly grown quite tiresome. Reclining again, his fingers snapped for his drink.
Lyra did not move until J'Kor's hand lifted her by the arm and he escorted her away. She was still trembling as he had a few quiet words with his mother. Then she was expeditiously led to an out-of-the-way corner, concealed partially by a large, indoor potted tree.
“Lyra, I am sorry I was no' there. I did no' realize Mother intended to take you to him herself. It took me a minute to find out where you were.”
“It's okay,” she assured him shakily. “I knew you were, uh, dealing with something else.”
“Are you all right, though? What did he say to you?” The heavenly eyes were filled with such concern.
“… It is not worth repeating, sir,” she decided to say. Not ever.
“Kade,” he reminded one more time.
She couldn't do it!
Lyra cast her eyes away with a regretful sigh. A similar sound blew from J'Kor.
Then Lyra said, “Was it quite a shock when you found out about … your wife?”
“No. No' really.” With a frown, J'Kor turned, gazing across the party. “I had had my suspicions for a while. When she told me she was pregnant, well,” he laughed darkly, “we had no' made love in months, even though she tried to insist otherwise. Then when Jos' was born and her hair started coming in, it was only confirmation o' what I—what everyone—already knew.”
“So, what was it like between you and her after that? Did things get better?”
“Well, we went on with life as usual. I think she stayed away from Kildwynd for a few years after that, but I am fairly certain they were seeing each other again when she died. She just never really 'got' me, or appreciated the decisions I made about my life.” Then his head shook in irritation. “And perhaps I was no' trying hard enough to make her happy. I think I just gave up after a while.”
“No. Don't blame yourself,” Lyra told him firmly. “It sounds to me like she gave up on you a lot earlier. It takes two dedicated people to make a marriage work and one partner cannot bear the whole burden for very long without something getting dropped. And … I want you to know what an amazing person I think you are. I would never have known by the way you treat her that Jos'lie was not your own.” She searched his expression. “It must be difficult, every time you look at her, to see someone else there.”
“No' all that difficult, Sugarpip. She is mine. It does no' matter how she came to me or who she looks like. I suppose you are surprised to hear that coming from a heathen unbeliever.”
Lyra snorted. “It is surprising to hear that coming from anyone! I can think of several men of my own people who would have a very hard time seeing this situation the way you do, especially with it being public knowledge.” Then she laughed in wonder at all she had come to know of this man in the short span of a couple weeks—all he had done, and continued to do for her. “J'Kor, you are—you are one in a million!” Somehow a hand had come to rest on his chest and Lyra swiftly dropped it.
A new melody wafted through the ballro
om as the orchestra began the next number—a delicate, peaceful piece, like moonlight reflected over J'Kor's pond when all was still and quiet before bed.
“Dance with me,” J'Kor murmured, and he raised her fingers to entwine in his. “Please.”
“I … don't know this one.”
Chuckling, J'Kor only stepped a little closer. “That is all right. I do no' know this one, either.”
Like their first dance at Burhnee's, Lyra let him take her into position. Close. Intimate. And soon, everything else faded from existence. Lyra found herself leaning into him with her head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent. Now it was as familiar to her as a fond memory.
They turned slow circles, his breath warming the top of her head, and for the first time since that fateful day in the mountains she felt absolutely at peace. She entreated the music to not end.
Eventually, however, the last wistful strains did conclude and J'Kor's lips nuzzled at her hair. “Please tell me this was no' another one o' your acts, just now.”
“It wasn't.”
“Good.” He kissed the top of her head and his arm encircled her waist a little tighter. The little card shifted against her breast. The card.
The coalition! The Tohmu'vah! Her people!
Lyra suddenly pulled from his grasp. “But, I-I'm sorry. I need some time to think.”
Heavenly Hosts! What was she doing? Very aware of the flush spreading across her face, she backed up against the wall, afraid, not just of him, but of herself and where she was heading.
J'Kor had no teasing words for her coloring this time. “Lyra, I know this scares you—it scares you more than anything, but you need to know something,” he said, stepping toward her. “I think I have fallen—”
“No, please!” she said. “Don't say it. I don't want to hear it.”
Surprised, he looked straight at her. “Why? Because you do no' feel the same?”
At her reluctance to answer, J'Kor sighed and said, “Lyra, look. From the moment I met you--”
“Stop. Please stop!” Lyra implored.
“—you have taken over my every rational thought, time and time again, until all I can think is—”