Gregory pulled Eleanor to her feet and took Ticia. He held the baby high in the air and blew on her belly. He snuffled at the fat rolls around her neck and she tried to suck on his chin. Eleanor laughed. Gregory’s love for their daughter always elicited a genuine reaction from her. He rested the baby on his shoulder. She seemed no larger than a kitten against his broad chest. His auburn hair melted into the fuzz of the exact same shade on her head.
“Did you find a witch?” he whispered.
“I did, but she cannot come until Friday.”
Gregory exhaled, hard. “Well, we can both think on it while I’m away.” He spoke to Dorian. “I’ll need something to distract me from my loneliness.”
“You can drink alone,” said Dorian. “You’ve done it before.”
“Alone?” asked Eleanor.
“Dorian’s sister changed the dates of her visit. She’s arriving tomorrow with her family.”
Dorian looked out over the cliffs. He pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and took a long drink. “Gregory generously gave me leave to remain at Trill with Anne Clara and Ransom and the children.”
Eleanor feared her voice would shake, so she waited a moment to speak. “How kind of you, Gregory.”
“Ah, Dorian only sees Anne Clara a few times a year. It was the least I could do for keeping him locked in the Council Room at Eclatant.” Gregory gave Ticia to Eleanor and sat on the blanket.
Eleanor smiled casually at Dorian. “Are you anxious to see Anne Clara?”
“I am.” His eyes, so light they were at once the color of the grass and the water and the washed out sky, were fixed on the Shallow Sea.
Eleanor strained for some hint, for some acknowledgement from him. He sat on the blanket beside Gregory. He tapped his fingers on the hilt of his father’s Fire-iron knife, the one he always kept in a sheath along his right boot. As she looked down at his dark hair a terrible thought struck her. Dorian had changed his mind.
Gregory left the next morning with several Unicorn Guards. Anne Clara and her family arrived a few hours later. Eleanor drifted through the next two days in a fog of false happiness. She planned picnics and tea parties. She took a long nap with Ticia. She spent a floury afternoon in the kitchen making cakes with Anne Clara’s children.
One of the Finley cousins hosted a dinner in honor of Anne Clara’s visit, and Eleanor took an hour determining which of her gowns Dorian would find most enticing. Her choice, soft blue silk with lace trim around the bodice, emphasized her nursing-enhanced cleavage. She hovered beside Dorian throughout the party, hoping he’d ask her for a dance. She had watched with disdain for two years as countless other women desperately maneuvered around him. Her efforts were just as soundly ignored. She called for her carriage before the clockworks struck ten. Raoul and Margaret accompanied her back to Trill. She rested her head against the rocking window and closed her eyes; both to give Raoul and Margaret privacy and to avoid the passionate looks flickering between them.
One the third morning of Gregory’s absence she made her way to the unicorn barn again. The grooms must have assumed her unsatisfied with their supervision of her mare’s care. She could hardly detect an errant piece of straw, and could see her own reflection in the Fire-iron trough of clean water. She sat down in the scratchy straw with the pitchfork over her lap. Chou Chou and Teardrop refused to leave her alone.
“The weather is fine, is it not?” asked Chou.
“Lovely,” said Teardrop. “Though I do feel thunder on the horizon.”
Eleanor opened her mouth to reply; then shut it. She dropped the pitchfork and hung her head between her knees. Her stomach clenched as she held back the sobs that had been hopping around her mid-section for three days, searching for a way out. Teardrop snorted. She nibbled at Eleanor’s hair and her wide hooves rustled the straw. Her mane rested on Eleanor’s back like a comforting blanket on a cold night. Chou lit on Eleanor’s head.
“There, there, darling,” whispered Chou. “Please, don’t—”
“Eleanor?”
She lifted her head. Dorian looked down at her over the stall door. She wiped her eyes and stood. Chou left her head for Teardrop’s back.
“We could ride down to Porcupine Bay,” Dorian said.
A few wordless minutes later and Eleanor and Teardrop were following Dorian and Senné across the grounds. They passed Margaret and Raoul as they set up a game of lawn bolls.
“Off to Porcupine Bay?” asked Raoul.
Eleanor nodded. “If only you could join us.”
“If only we had unicorns we might,” said Margaret. “I don’t fancy hiking down that cliff in my dancing slippers.”
Dorian and Eleanor waved good-bye and continued on their silent way. Eleanor did not fear the incline. She only feared what Dorian might have to say when they reached the beach. She ignored the breathtaking view around her, and the chattering of the cliff lemurs. As they descended, the wind picked up and blew the smell of salty water and damp seaweed into her face. She imagined his explanations: the danger, the immorality of lying to Gregory, the pointlessness of continuing an affair with no hope of ever being anything but just that. She heard herself trying to rationalize with him, and then screaming and crying, then agreeing with the hopelessness of it all. Her imaginary dialogue so engaged her that she lost her balance when Teardrop stopped behind Senné at the edge of the blood-colored waters of Redwine Falls.
“Let’s go this way.” Dorian pointed past the falls and back up the cliffside. She nodded. As they began the ascent Eleanor took hold of Teardrop’s mane. She could see the falls behind them, but the path had already faded to nothing but a jagged edge along the rock. There was no beach below, only boulders reaching their scarred faces out of the tossing waves like drowning sailors gasping for air. She waved at the gulls screeching and hissing around her head. Teardrop nicked one with a swing of her horn and they retreated.
“They’re protecting their nests,” shouted Dorian over the wind, waves and protesting birds.
She looked down, her face blanching with dizziness, and counted no less than ten twiggy brown nests full of fat yellow eggs in the rocks around Teardrop’s hooves.
“Teardrop, are you sure you can do this?” she asked.
“No,” said Teardrop, “but I will try.”
Eleanor gritted her teeth. “I’ll leave you to it.”
They climbed for half an hour. Teardrop slipped twice and dislodged several loose rocks. With each jolt Eleanor shut her eyes and muttered prayers.
Senné stopped and waited for Teardrop to catch up. Dorian pointed out a long, dark patch in the blue water. “There’s a reef out there. No ships can get within half a mile, not even the villager’s fishing boats.”
Teardrop’s footing improved with each step. Eleanor relaxed and watched the sea. She wondered how many living beings, other than the gulls and a few bats, had ever taken it in the view.
She faced forward again and her heart stopped. Dorian and Senné had disappeared. She looked down, searching for Senné’s black form against the gray rock.
“Do not fear,” said Teardrop. “Here we are.”
Eleanor slid from Teardrop’s back. The mare ducked into what at first seemed nothing more than extra darkness amidst a host of cast shadows. Eleanor just could make out the flash of Senné’s horn and the light in his liquid eyes. Teardrop walked the three paces across the cave and stood beside him. He puffed in her ears and she nipped his shoulder. Both settled into quiet watchfulness. Teardrop glowed softly white against Senné’s black bulk.
As Eleanor walked further into the cavern she could see her hands again. She turned toward the light, and climbed through another opening in the rock. She wondered how Dorian, with his height and breadth of shoulders, had contorted himself to fit.
He stood in a chamber made from a space between the cliff wall and a pile of boulders a hand span above his head. Sunlight streamed through the haphazard cracks between the rocks and struck the hard-packed dirt floor.
>
“I thought this place…we could come here…”
Eleanor threw her arms around his neck. His mouth found hers and they both tumbled to the ground.
She sat astride him and pulled his tunic over his head. Their arms collided as he repeated the favor for her. He buried his hands in her hair, then scraped them down her back. She wrapped her arms around his head and arched her back. He kissed both her breasts and his tongue flicked over her skin. He rested his head against her chest and squeezed her until she couldn’t breathe.
“High God, Eleanor,” he said. “How have I survived the past two months?” She hated herself for it, but she started crying. He looked up at her. “My love, what is it?”
She shook her head and bit her fist. She spoke around the sobs. “I thought—you changed your mind—you didn’t want to—”
His impossibly beautiful eyes widened. “Changed my mind?”
“Yes. You’ve been so cold—we haven’t spoken in weeks—”
He took both her hands in his. “I’ve been cold because I’m afraid anything I say will give me away. When Gregory told me about the trip to Point-of-Rocks I wrote Anne Clara and asked her to come right away. I’ve spent weeks searching this place out.”
Eleanor swallowed. “I’m sorry—”
“I made my decision at Rabbit’s Rest. Come what may, I’m here, in this with you.”
Ten minutes later she had finally cried herself dry. She nestled in the crook of his arm as they lay in the dirt. She ran her fingers over his forearm, and lifted his hand. She kissed the knuckle that should have ended in his smallest finger, had a giant bird not snipped it off during her exile last spring. He curled his remaining fingers into a fist and then tugged at a lock of her hair. “Will you spend all of the time we have together sobbing? I’ll have to store handkerchiefs up here.”
Eleanor punched his arm, and rolled on top of him. “There’s one more thing.”
He sighed and blew her hair out of his face.
“I’m afraid this won’t be enough for you. Since we can’t…as we said at Rabbit’s Rest…the risk of a child…”
“I told you I understand your fear. I’ve already considered it.”
“And what conclusion have you reached?”
“Well.” He laced his hands behind his head. “We can find enjoyment other ways. Not to belittle the pleasures of the most holy act, but it’s not the only dance at the party.”
“What do you mean?”
He could not hide his confusion. He cleared his throat. “I assumed you would be familiar with…that you had some experience with…”
She blushed. In this cave she fully planned on pretending Gregory Desmarais, Crown Prince of Cartheigh, did not exist. Unfortunately, all her experience of the intimate sort came from her association with him. For a moment it felt as if her husband had peeked through one of the cracks in the rocks above them.
“My education in this subject has been basic and…not particularly…inspired.”
Dorian sat up on his elbows. “Indeed?”
“Indeed, sir.”
He smiled, and looked much like an eager schoolboy about to impress his teacher with the wealth of his knowledge. “Let us get right to it.”
He sat up, and once again she wrapped her legs around him. He touched her nose, then ran his fingers down to her lips. “We’ll go slow.”
She followed his lead and traced her own hands down his face. His fingers wound across her breasts and circled each nipple. She shivered, and stroked the smattering of dark hair covering his hard chest. She reached his belt, and then let her hands drift down further.
He sucked in his breath, and she joined him when she felt what waited for her beneath his calfskin riding leggings. She had noticed something through the fog of Rabbit’s Rest, but within the span of a few days she had faced execution for treason, nearly died in childbirth, and finally heard Dorian proclaim his love for her. She’d been in no frame of mind to dwell on particulars. She’d been too overcome to fully understand his…girth.
“Dorian?”
He opened his eyes. “Yes?”
“I… Never mind. What were you saying?”
She shivered again at the color in his pale cheeks, and the shimmering dots of black in his green eyes. She had seen that look on his face before, in a broom closet, a lifetime ago.
“I said we’ll start at the beginning.” He loosened the buttons on her leggings. His big hand slid below the waistband and she gasped. “And we’ll go to the end.”
CHAPTER 2
Thunderheads
Two days later Eleanor sat on the edge of her bed in her nightgown. She’d asked Margaret to stay with her while the witch did a quick examination of her nether regions to determine their readiness to resume marital relations. Margaret handed her a cup of water. Eleanor always felt a bit lightheaded after such awkward sessions. Her maid, Pansy, bustled around the room, no doubt waiting to bring out the smelling salts should she keel over. Once Eleanor’s head cleared she asked the witch for the verdict.
“Your husband may return to your bed,” said the old woman, “but I would advise you to go slowly. It must have been a difficult birth, and a difficult recovery. Excuse my familiarity, Your Highness, but have you and your husband been intimate…in other ways?”
Color rose in Eleanor’s cheeks as she thought of Dorian’s gentle explorations. “I’ve experienced some intimacy, but it hasn’t been painful.”
“It may take some time to readjust to true relations.”
As the witch gathered her tools, Eleanor asked if she might have a few words alone. After Margaret and Pansy left the room Eleanor called the old woman to the chair beside the bed. “Are you sure I’m ready?” she whispered.
The witch nodded. “It may indeed take a few tries, but with care you’ll be fine.”
Eleanor took the woman’s hand. “I think myself not healed. I think I’m not ready.”
Comprehension dawned on the witch’s face. “Your Highness—”
“Please. Can’t you just say—”
The witch shook her head. “Lady, I understand your plight, and your fears. Others have said the same to me—”
Hope leapt into Eleanor’s chest. “And you helped them.”
“I have, in the past, stretched the truth—”
Eleanor squeezed her hand again.
“—but in this case I cannot. I cannot lie to the prince.”
Eleanor let go and hid her face in her hands. The witch made more excuses but Eleanor did not hear them. She had three days until Gregory’s return. She dismissed the witch and called for Chou Chou. She sent him to Dorian’s room with a message.
Dorian tugged at Eleanor’s leggings.
“Lift your seat. They’re stuck,” he said. She giggled and did as he asked. She lay on her back, watching the sunlight flicker through the cracks between the boulders. She caught sight of a gull or two flashing past. Her heart was light, the witch’s visit blissfully out of her mind.
Dorian kissed her navel. “Are you ready for lesson number two?”
She ran her fingers through his wavy hair. “I’m always prepared for any lesson, at any time.”
“We’ll see.” His kisses trailed down her belly. He pushed her right leg to a gentle bend. His hand wrapped around her thigh, and he bit the inside of her leg. She exhaled hard as his mouth crept lower. She looked down at him.
“Dorian, what are you doing?”
“Shhh.”
She felt his tongue and gasped. “Oh! What are you—”
“For once, Eleanor, please, don’t ask me questions.”
She didn’t ask him anything else, but a few minutes later all her questions were answered. She cried out, with such gusto she heard Teardrop whinny in alarm from the exterior cavern.
She stared up at the rocky ceiling, her chest rising and falling. “HighGod above,” she finally said. “It’s no wonder you have to beat the women off with a stick.”
He collapsed against
her, laughing. She reached for his shoulders and pulled him toward her face. “Thank you,” she said. “That was quite enlightening. However, I don’t see what was in it for you.”
“On the contrary, your pleasure is mine.”
She touched his lips. “How can I reciprocate?”
His mouth curled at the corners and her pulse quickened again. “There is a way, if you’re keen.”
She kissed him and pushed him onto his back. “I have a notion of how to proceed, but I may need some direction.”
He murmured his agreement. She unbuttoned his leggings and took his quiet instructions. As always, Eleanor was a quick study.
Eleanor counted Margaret Easton her dearest friend. As for her other stepsister, Sylvia Easton Fleetwood, Duchess of Harveston, there was no love lost between them. Margaret and Sylvia’s mother had married Eleanor’s father when all three girls were in the realm of ten years old. Within a month Cyril Brice had unexpectedly gone on to HighGod. Imogene Brice had wasted no time dismissing Rosemary, the witch who had been Eleanor’s tutor for as long as she could remember. Imogene promptly designated Eleanor as the maid in her own father’s house, and generally harassed and abused her for the next eight years. Thankfully, Rosemary provided Eleanor with clandestine tutoring, for Eleanor was unsure if she would have survived life under Imogene’s harsh rule without the solace of learning and letters. Sylvia followed her mother’s lead in all things, from her hatred of Eleanor to her scrambling up the social ladder. While Eleanor had softened to Margaret long before her unexpected elevation, the enmity between herself and Sylvia only deepened with time and good fortune.
Regardless of her personal opinions, Eleanor knew Sylvia was not the most famous hostess in Cartheigh for nothing. Never had a lady taken the social calendar by storm so quickly. No other hostess was so beautiful or gracious. No one else provided such lavish food and drink or music so lively. No one else could attract quite the caliber of guests, or boast such a fabulous setting as The Falls, the most magnificent estate on the Solsea cliffs. When Sylvia offered to host the Waxing Ball the other ladies agreed it was a fine idea, although it was unheard of for a hostess in her second season to take responsibility for the climax of the weeklong Waxing Fest.
The Cracked Slipper Page 35