Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  Elayne trembled, outraged by the ache of excitement that traveled down through her body. "Everything I care for was in that book."

  "It’s gone now," he said.

  She closed her eyes. "I hate you." But he drew his hands down her shoulders and caught the neck of her chemise, pulling it open across her back, the buttons popping free with gentle tugs.

  A memory of Raymond’s fervent grasp flashed in her mind. She held herself stiff, refusing to yield if he tried to seize her with the same zeal. Instead his fingertips played on the curve of her skin, a mere teasing. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, the black depth of his gaze almost lost beneath his lowered lashes. She could feel him breathing.

  "If you had a poison ring, you could kill me now with a scratch," he said.

  She gave a faint sob, almost a laugh. "A poison ring!"

  He smiled. "You see I’m not accomplished at love-prate. I expect this Raymond didn’t say such things."

  "No," she said.

  "Perhaps he didn’t put his life in your trust, as I do now." He slid his hands down her arms and slipped his fingers between hers.

  "I have no way to harm you."

  He guided her hands behind his back. "I have no shield if you do." The move brought her into an embrace with him, as if she held him close. "This is wholly alien to me. To linger in close embrace this way. I dread to be defenseless."

  Strangely, standing near enough that she felt his pulse against her breasts, she understood him. Another man might have said she was beautiful, or made tribute to her blushing lips. He locked them together in a cave, behind a door with no key, and put his daggers outside his close reach—in faith she would not kill him.

  "I cannot imagine the life you have lived," she whispered.

  His fingers tightened on hers and relaxed again. "You smell of rain." He took a deep breath in her hair. "Windstorm." He released her hands and slid his palms up her bare arms.

  She found that she did not draw back, but only let her fingers rest on his hips. She felt outside herself. Her skin was cool and hot at once. There was nowhere to escape; behind and beside her the heavy chests stood one atop the other, their straps gleaming dull metal.

  He held her arms lightly, and moved his mouth in a whisper down her temple and cheek. "Fruit," he murmured, drawing breath at the corner of her mouth. His tongue tasted her skin. "Ripe plums."

  She lifted her chin. "I stole them from you."

  His body was a feather-touch against her, all down the length of her, a sensation more of heat than of contact. "Good," he said against her lips. "You’re a practiced sinner."

  Cara had always said so. Elayne knew it was so now, for she wasn’t struggling. She wasn’t even pulling away as she had from Raymond. She was leaning faintly toward the pirate, toward an unredeemed outlaw—her shadow angel turned to living man.

  He felt it, for he drew her closer, skimming his hands over her body beneath the thin damp silk. Her hips and her back, and then a single rough motion that tore the last buttons free. She heard one button hit a metal chest with a faint chink, and then drop upon the carpet.

  He spread her hair against her bare skin. "Now I’ll know the scent of you." He took up a fistful, inhaling deeply in it. "If you’re near, I will know it."

  The promise was no light flattery. He said it as if he branded her. He pushed his fingers deep into her tangled hair. The faint tug and twist sent a sweet pain down through her throat as he forced her to lift her face to him.

  "He made your heart feel hot?" the pirate asked, tightening his fingers in her hair.

  "Yes," she said, a last defiance. One last piece of herself withheld, while her body submitted as he drew her against him, a gentle kiss upon her mouth, almost like a token between courtiers.

  "Someday I may find this Raymond, and kill him." He bent his head, trailing his mouth down the curve of her throat, and closed his teeth on her skin.

  Elayne drew a sharp breath. He hurt her, but an instant afterward he pressed his lips to the place softly, as if to soothe it, and the flow of his breath on her skin was like thin fire.

  The smooth curve of his bared shoulder was before her, the outline of graceful strength. She was angered by her own desire, by how his beauty alone lured her close to him. It wasn’t the love she felt for Raymond, nor the conjugal duty she would have owed a truly wedded husband, nor anything but simple, sinful lust. Her fingers curled, drawing her nails across the hard plane of his back. He pulled her to him with a deep growl.

  She knew herself then, fully. Everything Cara or Lady Beatrice had ever said was true. She was a wanton, unchaste creature, without even constancy. She might have resisted him, for her fidelity to Raymond, or for honor, or at least for the sake of her pride. He kissed her throat hard and drew her earlobe between his teeth. Suddenly she met him with a fierce reply, opening her mouth against his shoulder, a willing she-cat to his leopard, biting him as viciously as if she could draw blood.

  The sound he made went down her spine like a panther’s hiss in the deep forest. He flung her from him without effort, holding her at arm’s length. They were both breathing hard.

  Red marks burned on his shoulder. He glanced down at what she’d done and then slanted a look at her from under his night-black lashes. With a faint menacing smile, he said, "That’s what you like?"

  "What weapons I have," she said breathlessly, "I will use."

  "To what end?"

  She didn’t know. She only knew that she was full of angry ferment, and he was beautiful and flawless and arousing, and claimed her body for his. She was ready to fight with him, her heart beating hard. Hot. He put his palm at her throat, his thumb pressed into her vein. It made her pulse throb in her own ears, a casual threat that turned to something else as he drew his fingers down to her breast and made a light circle at the tip, dislodging her shift. The touch of him there made her suck in her breath. He smiled, made a little cruel prick with his nail and then another circle of the lightest tenderness.

  The sensation seemed to burst in her, in parts of her that bloomed with flowing heat. She whimpered, pulling back. But he followed her, pushing her slowly until her hips pressed against the rug-draped chest. Her smock dragged downward to her waist, binding her arms at the elbows.

  A bolt of real fear seized her. She was trapped, bared of any modesty, as he leaned over her. He had warned and threatened, assured her of her fate, but until this moment she had not believed it. Somehow she would be saved—as her guardian angel had always saved her—but the edge of the chest cut into her hips; the more she struggled with her elbows bound awkwardly behind her, the more she arched to meet him. With a spurt of panic, she felt him pull her shift above her knees and then higher.

  He leaned on his arms, holding her confined, as if to imprint her helplessness on her. She could not reach him to bite or scratch now. Deliberately he lowered his head to her breast, closing his teeth on her nipple. Elayne jerked against the bright pain, felt him suck hard, sending fire and torture through her whole body. She threw her head back, trying to thrust him off.

  He made a rough sound and held her pinned easily. For an instant she felt his hand search between them. She threw herself wildly as he came between her legs, his naked member pressed to the place he would take her.

  "Yield!" he said between his teeth. "You are my wife."

  She twisted her head back, impossibly ensnared, panting. He pushed into her, and it hurt. It hurt and burned, and he did not stop. He thrust against her hard, lifting her toes from the floor while she squeezed her eyes shut. He drove again, invading her deeper with each shove until with one fierce pang he forced himself wholly inside her; as she dug her fingers into the rug she could hear his animal breath. The throbbing in her body grew into an ache that numbed the pain, dampened and smothered it. She felt as if she were dying for air.

  With a fierce effort to heave him off, she lifted herself on her elbows. His arm came under her head, pulling her face against the smooth hard skin
of his chest. She scored him savagely with her teeth.

  He made a brutal sound, closing his eyes, his head thrown back. His hands gripped her head, pulling her closer even as she hurt him. His whole body convulsed, driving into her as if he could not get in deep enough. She closed her teeth. His muscles bunched like a man in torment; his throat worked as if he tried to weep and could not. For an instant he held rigid, his fingers tight in her hair while Elayne bit him again, tasting blood. She heard his frantic breath as he lost himself. His body gave a violent jerk, a shudder as he arched. He pulsed and throbbed and burned inside her.

  He tore her away from him by her hair. "Jesu," he growled, thrusting into her roughly once more. "Have mercy, sweeting."

  "Mercy," she cried, trembling under his absolute domination. She could not move one inch without his compliance. "Damn you!"

  He withdrew, releasing her and moving back with such quick grace that she couldn’t kick him before he was out of reach. She rolled aside, dragging her smock up over her breasts as she sat up. She pushed the skirt down, seeing blood on her thighs and garters—her own this time, real.

  "God curse you," she said, sitting hunched with her arms about herself. Then with a wild move she flung herself off the chest and grabbed for his dagger—but he had her wrist before she was anywhere close to the thing.

  "Don’t," he said softly. "Do not make us live in fear of one another."

  Elayne gave a raving laugh. She stepped back, holding up her shift with her free hand. "Oh, of course not! What should we fear?"

  He caressed the underside of her wrist with his thumb. "My lady, you have nothing to fear from me. From this night, your protection is all of my ambition."

  There was a bruise and a trickle of blood near his shoulder blade, where she had assailed him. She felt wetness sliding between her legs. She knew what it was—his seed mingled with hers. He watched her with a faint wariness, but no anger. There was even the trace of a smile in the tilt of his mouth.

  "We are wedded now, vows on a church step or no," he said.

  She sat back on her bridal bed of a lead-bound chest in a locked cave. "It hurt," she said between her clenched teeth, as if that were the worst of it.

  "That didn’t please you?"

  She looked at him. "No!"

  He put his hand on his shoulder. His fingers came away bloody. "Ah. Only to hurt me pleases you."

  She felt sticky and achy and hot. But she would have lied to say that there was no deep kernel of angry lust for him still locked in her belly. It was amazing to look at him and know it had been her teeth that bruised him. She had made her own mark on him. Her own brand. She narrowed her eyes and felt a moment of powerful pleasure in it.

  She heard him draw in a slow breath. She met his eyes. The leopard was there, watching her from between the trees of a nightmare forest.

  "You may hurt me, if you take delight in it," he said softly. "Only never outside of bedding, or with a weapon beyond your body."

  Elayne wet her lips. She looked away from him, at the books and the candle on the floor, letting her hair make a curtain to hide her face. "A most obliging bridegroom," she said bitterly.

  He came to her, put his hands to her head, pushing her hair back with infinite care. "You will find that so," he said.

  He drew her into his embrace, holding her cheek against his chest. She tasted his blood on her tongue and smelled the male scent of him and his seed blended with the odor of her own rain-dampened skin. There was nothing of delicacy or courtliness or high-minded spirit in this joining. It was all of the earth, like this cave. Something deep and hidden, never to be spoken of in the light. She pressed her lips to his shoulder and ran her tongue over his wounded skin with a malevolent satisfaction. She felt him grip her closer. He rested his head on her hair.

  From where they stood, through her lashes, she saw the daggers’ hilts agleam in the faint blue light. She would not attempt them—that instant of pure fury was passed. But she saw that she could not get to them if she wished. And she understood that even now, as he held her like a lover, his breath in her hair, he knew to a fine degree how far away they were and what she could reach.

  She stood back a little. He released her easily. Elayne lifted her eyes from his boots to his black hose, his man-parts in shadowed half-concealment, his elegant form: fine shoulders and straight height, his face like fallen Lucifer from Heaven.

  He knew she looked. He stood and let her. "Franco Pietro," he said casually, "is said to resemble a loathsome toad."

  "A loathsome toad is in the eye of the beholder," she replied.

  "Still," he said, "I think you would prefer me."

  She gave a little shrug.

  "I doubt he’d let you bite the hide off him, at any rate," he added darkly.

  Outlined by dancing shadows, he clasped the belt again about his hips, girding himself with swift skill. As he moved away from her, Elayne found herself growing deeply chilled in her damp smock. He handed her one of the towels.

  "Bind up your hair." He threw open a chest and dragged a folded robe from inside, shaking it out in the dim light. "Wear this." It was scarlet, embroidered about the hem and throat with astrologic motifs of indigo thread. The hem fell in a voluminous puddle about her feet, measured for his height and breadth. But it was dry. She kicked the wet smock out from under her feet.

  She despised him for bringing her down to his dark vice, but she thought wildly that it suited her. He had made himself her bridegroom here, by force and blood. No witnesses, no banns, no Christian troth-plight or vows. He simply declared it, and ravished her. A pagan wedding between heathen beasts.

  Somewhere there was a paper, full of high clerks’ seals, assenting to her betrothal to Franco Pietro of the Riata. In dreamlike despair, under Lancaster’s daunting eye and Lady Melanthe’s chill acquiescence, she had put her hand to it in England on the day after the May.

  She broke that contract now, with contempt. No one had tried to spare her, beyond mere weeping and regret. Not her godmother, nor her sister—not even Raymond. They had all bowed unquestioning to the Duke of Lancaster and flung her to the wind of fortune, until this pirate caught her up.

  If she were a wanton creature, an unfettered, unchristian harlot with too much learning to be modest; if she could never have the man she loved—wella, then she would take a beautiful murderous bandit instead, and read his books and learn his wiles and live with him in wickedness.

  From this night, he said, your protection is all of my ambition.

  SIX

  He was daubing a cloth on his shoulder, scowling at the smudges of blood as if he’d never had a cut upon him before.

  "Do you think it will leave a scar?" she asked with light malice.

  "I don’t scar," he said. He gave her a half-smile, almost an apology.

  It was true that he had no flaw on him. But for the place her teeth had scored, now turning black-and-blue, the skin of his chest and face and arms was perfect in the candlelight, unscathed by any injury. He blotted at the abrasion again, hissing air between his teeth. But still he had that odd ghost of a smile.

  He dropped the linen and took up a box, bejeweled and enameled, lined with silver, and held it open to her. It was full of many-colored grains, their hues reflecting in the shiny lid. He dug his fingers into the mound, the grains clinging to his skin and falling through his hand. He took some from his palm onto his tongue and savored it. "Confetti." He raised his hand to Elayne’s lips. "Something sweet to mend our hurt."

  Some of the grains on his fingertips clung as he touched her mouth. She licked her lip in spite of herself. The rich flavor of candied seeds of coriander and spices filled her mouth, bitter and sweet at once, drowning out the lingering taste of his blood.

  "A particular specialty of Monteverde," he said.

  She sat down on the carpet-covered chest, biting the sticky grains from her lip, each seed a burst of aromatic spice. "My sister always said she missed this."

  "Poor damsel,"
he said. "Breaking her heart over sweetmeats, is she?" He poured more confetti into his palm, shut the box with a snap, and set it aside, as if the topic bored him.

  "She never spoke of missing you," Elayne said pointedly.

  "I’m certain that she didn’t. She was acutely pleased to be rid of me. Are you jealous that I loved her once?"

  "No!"

  "Alas," he said lightly. "Will I never win a lady’s heart?"

  "You can hardly expect to win my heart by the manner of your courting!"

  "Then it’s fortunate that all I require is the use of your body." He lifted his chin and tossed the confetti into his mouth. Then he offered his open palm, covered with a frost of the glistening grains. "Wound me again, hell-cat," he said, holding it to her lips.

  She turned her head. "Don’t call me that." It was too close, too near a twisting of Raymond’s endearment into this underground mating like barbarians.

  He dusted the seeds away between his palms. "My graceless love talk!" he said. "I beg your pardon, most worshipful and obedient wife."

  "I’ve made no vow to obey you."

  "No, I place no dependence on vows." He reached out and brushed a clinging grain from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "They’re easily made and easily broken. I don’t aim to direct your whole existence, but when I require that you obey me, you may be certain that you will."

  "Demon!" she said sullenly. "I must be halfway to Purgatory."

  "Yes, it’s a desolate place," he said, disregarding her insult casually. "I’ve felt so myself, banished here, but we won’t be condemned to this island for long."

  Elayne glanced quickly at him. "You’re condemned here?"

  "Did you suppose I live in exile by choice? You named me outlaw, and it’s the vile truth. I’m a declared felon."

  "If you will turn to piracy—how else?"