Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  He sucked in air, a harsh sound. He pushed himself against her, asking for entry.

  "No." Her fingernails dug hard on that sensitive place, so hard that he jerked back, uttering a soft curse, sending water rushing in waves around the vault.

  "Not yet. It will be when I please," she said, her fingertips still resting against him. She moved leisurely, lying back, using him for support. "Only then."

  He was panting between his teeth. With a feral smile, he pushed his shaft against her again, purely defiant. She hurt him in response, cutting him, punishment until she was sure it must draw blood. But he leaned into it, close to her, heavy on her. His hoarse sound of desire carried and resonated between the water and the walls. Elayne made an answering whimper as her body arched and met his of its own accord.

  She let the head of his shaft come inside her, just inside her, stretching her a little. He sank down over her, his arm locked behind her back, his breath discordant in her ear. He twisted with a groaning gasp, pushing halfway into her, fighting her as she gave back pain for each sweet burst of sensation, allowing him nothing without that price, until he was shuddering in all his limbs and she thought her body would disintegrate in torment and bliss.

  She could not bear it. She cried out and drew back, sliding free, panting, fearing she might drown of this merciless pleasure—though the water never came above her chin.

  They stared at one another. He made a pleading growl, his arm taut under her, his breathing racked and painful. Even in the dimness she could see the angry marks of her fingernails on his bruised face, his chest and shoulders. And yet he was so beautiful. She could not endure the way she felt, wanting to score his skin, wanting to kiss and comfort him as if he were a child. She touched the marks, stroked them, overcome with a rush of tenderness and shame. He closed his eyes, his long black lashes tangled with drops.

  "I’m sorry," she whispered, tracing down his cheekbone and his jaw.

  He lifted her up, taking her backward with him in a flood of warm waves into deeper water. He kissed her throat. "Hurt me," he said fiercely against her skin.

  Elayne rested her cheek on his hair, stroking her palms down his back, her eyes hazy with steam and sudden tears. "I don’t want to hurt you."

  "Hell-cat," he said into her throat. "Sweet Mary, take up my blade and I’ll let you kill me."

  "No." She gave a little sob. It was no light love-speech with him, no pretty words of praise or fondness. "Don’t say such things."

  "I am yours," he said, lifting his face to her.

  She kissed his forehead; she cupped her hands around his jaw and pressed her lips to his bruised temple. Her hair wrapped them together, swirling around his body. He could have impaled her; she felt him ready for it, but he held her floating in the water above him.

  "Whatever you will," he said, inhaling deeply, carrying her up and down with each breath.

  She pressed into the skin beneath his ear, catching it between her fingernails, pressing slowly, gently, a terrible delight as she felt him quiver beneath her. His lips parted. He closed his eyes and moaned. Every muscle in his body seemed to thrill like a bowstring, but he didn’t move. He waited, controlled explosion at her command. She delayed, hurting him until he was shaking, until she could feel his will to have her rise to the shattering point, until he was uttering faint sounds of desperation with each panting breath. She waited until his fingers pressed and kneaded her buttocks with a rhythm that lost its cadence in jerky motions. She waited until he had no dominion over his own body. Until he had no defenses.

  "Now." It was barely a word, barely a murmur. "Take me now."

  He ran his tongue over her lips as he let her slide downward. "Say my name," he whispered harshly.

  She bent her head and closed her teeth on his shoulder. Water washed into her mouth as he pulled her down onto his hard shaft, pain in return for his blunt pleasure. He gripped her hips, going deep in one swift thrust. She wounded him with savage guilty joy, power over him as he made a sound of agony. He filled her, dragging her against him. He shoved hard inside, his fingers spreading her buttocks to bring her closer. It hurt her, too, pain deep inside at the limits of her body, but a brilliant wave of sensation coursed up through her. She gasped, throwing her head back, rocking against him again and again. "Allegreto!"

  He answered, driving his seed into her, desire and pain and hot elation at her bidding.

  * * *

  The scent of citron enveloped her as she rested in the darkness with his arms about her, the warm water cradling them together on the bench. She held his hands, his beautiful hands, his fingers entwined with hers. She was infinitely gentle in her touch, afraid of her own self.

  "I’m ashamed," she said, bowing her head.

  He turned her cheek against his shoulder, spreading his fingers over her skin. "Beloved," he whispered.

  She pressed her face to him, swallowing a sob. "How can you say that now?"

  He drew his hand through her hair. "How can I not?"

  She bit her lip. "I must have a demon in me."

  "No, only a small imp," he said, holding her tighter. She could feel his mouth at her temple. "A little fallen seraphim, to harrow and torment me."

  She lifted his hand and kissed his fingers. "You’re hurt?"

  "Elena," he said, "I’m wounded beyond any hope of healing now."

  She whimpered and turned in his embrace, her hair drifting and floating all about them, mingling with his. She leaned her head against his shoulder. In the silence, the lake made faint ripples and murmurs of sound. He brushed his fingertips across her cheek, outlining her lips and her chin.

  "I nearly left you," she whispered. "I thought to find refuge with the church."

  He tapped her cheek. "The church. Foolish hell-cat. You make me fear for you."

  "Where else could I go?"

  "Even the Venetians would have been better," he said. "They might have held you safe till Advent, before they made a bargain with Franco Pietro. I would have had a hope to steal you back."

  "But the church—"

  "Elena, you would not be safe within the church. Do you suppose any bishop in this province wasn’t invested with his mitre at the Riata’s whim? Do not attempt it, I entreat you. Franco Pietro will see you dead now, if he fears that you carry a Navona babe."

  She was silent. Such black thoughts had not occurred to her, but she didn’t doubt him. She curled her arms around her waist.

  He held her closer. "Do you think it might be so?" he asked, his breath light in her hair.

  She felt as if she were falling from a high cliff. "I know not," she said.

  "You’ve done nothing to prevent it?"

  She hid her face against his throat. She could feel his chest rise and fall. "No."

  He was silent and still for a long moment.

  "What comes, Elena—what I intend..." His voice was suddenly grim. "You must obey every instruction that I give you. Do not cross me or forestall me. Our lives will depend on it, and Zafer’s, and all the others, too."

  She lifted her head. "What do you intend?"

  In the dimness she could see his eyes narrow. He looked beyond her, staring into the blackness of the lake. Elayne closed her fingers into fists.

  With a faint shake of his head, he put her away from him, turning her gently to the water, "Let us not tarry longer here. It’s not wholly secure."

  * * *

  "Stay by the bed," he said as Elayne stood garbed in a man’s robe again, this one luxurious, pure white damask silk with an ancient scent of lavender. She shivered in the cool night air, her wet hair still trailing in a tangle down to her hips.

  He moved about his father’s chamber, his fingertips tracing the patterns of red diamonds and painted vines and flowers that ran in perfect geometry around the room. He wore only hose and breeches now, his chest and feet bare, his black hair tied back roughly. He paused, flipping his dagger into his hand, and probed delicately at a spot on the wall.

  Elayne
watched. His skin bore red marks where she had scored him. She felt unnerved by what they had done, as upset and distressed as if she had caused some calamity. And yet she loved to look at him. He moved with such confidence and grace, like no other man she had ever seen move. She felt a deep possessiveness of him now, so fierce and raw and tender that it was almost like despair.

  He placed his shoulder against the wall and pushed. Elayne leaped, recoiling onto the bed at the sound of a huge wooden crash behind her. An arm’s length from where she’d been standing, the carpet sagged over an open trapdoor, the knotted fringe trailing down into darkness. Cool air flowed up, carrying the warble of anxious doves. She realized with horror that the trap opened to the full drop of the tower.

  "Look," he said. "Here." He tapped the wall and held the small clay slipper lamp near it. "When you see this—a diamond with a tooth at two points. Draw a line between them, then an arrow in your mind, from that line. In the perpendicular direction, five paces distant. It will happen there."

  "What will happen?" she asked faintly.

  "Something unpleasant," he said.

  Elayne closed her eyes and opened them.

  "Attend me, hell-cat. Do not forget these things."

  She nodded, twisting his ring around and around on her finger.

  "I’m going to kill Franco Pietro. I can’t reach him while he remains in Monteverde, in the citadel in the city. He must be drawn out. So I’ve made sure that he knows we’re abroad, that I have you. If I killed three men in Venice as you say, then there was a fourth that I allowed to live, so that he could send the news to Franco Pietro and set him on our trail."

  "We’re followed?" she asked uneasily.

  "I think not." He strode across the chamber and kicked back the sagging carpet from the hole. Kneeling, he reached down and under the floor. The muscles in his back and shoulders worked strongly. As he sat up, the floor creaked and squealed, and the trapdoor sprang back into place. The boards vibrated with a hollow crash.

  He leaned hard on the trap, testing. Then he rose, taking up the lamp. "We’ll hope that Zafer leads them a fine chase," he said. "But Franco Pietro has men enough abroad in the Veneto. They’ll be caught by the third day ashore, by my reckoning, and Hell itself to pay when Franco’s men discover they have the wrong company. Zafer will betray me to Franco Pietro, to avoid their torture."

  She drew a sharp breath. "No, Zafer wouldn’t betray you!"

  He glanced up at her with a faint smile. "You think not? How little you know of Riata torture!"

  "Oh God, you haven’t planned this! That the Riata will capture them!"

  "That’s my intention. Zafer knows it to the last detail; and you judge well, that he wouldn’t betray me. Not for torture—even the Riata will guess that much. But to save Margaret from it, he will do it."

  She shook her head. "No!" she protested wildly.

  "It’s what we planned, beloved. It’s a ruse, but they must believe him, that he turns on me."

  "But there might be some misfortune, some misstep—" Her fingers gripped a handful of the scarlet bedcover, twisting the damask silk. "How can you know?"

  "I cannot. But I trust Zafer’s cunning as I would my own." He gave a short, harsh laugh. "No, the misfortune is here," he said, touching his bruised face. "In my own wits. There are things I haven’t remembered, that I must know. God rot your beloved palfrey."

  She drew her feet up, hugging her knees close. "It’s fiendish! Margaret is with them. And her babe. And Matteo!"

  "It’s Margaret’s choosing. I meant it to be Fatima," he said, "but Margaret beseeched me to allow her to take the task. And she’ll serve the better. It’ll be easier for Zafer to make them believe what he does, for he loves her anyway."

  She lifted her head quickly. "He told you that?"

  "I have eyes," he said. He leaned down, searching again in his father’s coffer. He tossed an ivory comb toward her onto the bedclothes. With a little bitterness he added, "Why would he tell me? She won’t let him court her, because he’s not Christian."

  Elayne knew it. Margaret had never spoken of her feelings, nor of Zafer, but the truth of it shone in her face whenever she looked toward him. To such degree, now, that she begged to be the one who accompanied him in the service of this lethal scheme.

  Elayne watched the pirate as he leaned on the bedpost. She had thought it painful before, impossible to stay with him, because he killed men so easily, because he lied so well. Now she felt as if her mind and heart were tearing asunder.

  "God curse you!" she exclaimed. She stood up from the bed, turning on him. "Don’t you heed what happens to them? Why must you do these things? Why do you have to kill the Riata?"

  He leaned back on the bedpost with his profile to her, his blackened eye and the livid marks of her fingernails hidden from her view. Only his lower lip was a little swollen; it gave him a sullen aspect as he crossed his arms.

  She grabbed up the comb he had tossed on the bed. "Monteverde!" she hissed. "I hate the very name!" She sat down on the edge of the bed and yanked at the tangles in her wet hair, making an angry whimper at the pain. She ripped out a knot, wincing.

  He turned away, the shadows from the tiny lamp playing on his bared back and elegant form. As he moved around the bed, she tensed at the prospect of some new trap or hidden trick. She jumped when she felt the mattress sink under his weight behind her. He took the comb from her trembling hand. His fingers brushed her throat as he drew the mass of her hair back over her shoulder, leaving a coolness on her neck.

  He began to comb it out as gently and skillfully as the kindest maid, so that she felt nothing but the soft damp sweep of her hair as it moved. She sat still, halfway to tears.

  "I don’t understand you," she said.

  He said nothing, working at the tangles.

  "For Zafer—if it’s his choice to serve you, then God absolve his soul. But Margaret. And her baby," she said painfully. "What have they done, to risk so much for you?"

  With infinite care he pulled the comb through her hair, the faintest of tugs at her scalp.

  "And Matteo! A little boy! He’s so frightened of you, and even still he loves you."

  He paused. He ran his hand down the length of her hair. Then he resumed his task in silence.

  "At least you could have left Matteo in safety," she said roughly. "Why did you bring him from the island at all? What can a child do in this fell scheme?"

  "He’s Franco Pietro’s son."

  Elayne jerked away from him, sliding from the bed as she turned. "He is what?"

  He knelt on the rich scarlet coverlet, holding the comb. He looked at her, expressionless. "Surely you knew that, Elena," he said quietly. "Did you inquire of nothing about the man you were to marry?"

  "I knew there was a wife—she died in childbirth. I—" She had not asked more; had not wanted to. Had not known nor cared. "Matteo is their son?"

  "He is."

  "Your hostage?" she moaned.

  He inclined his head. "I told you I protected the island by sufficient means."

  She had thought he meant magic, or his pirate fleet. She thought of how Matteo’s young face had been so anxious; how much he wished to please; how he had stared wide-eyed whenever someone spoke of the Riata with hate and disdain. "God save him," she breathed. "He loves you."

  Something flickered for an instant in his black eyes, a shadow under the long lashes, as when he had stared in the mirror and asked his father not to slay him in his sleep. She thought of the training, the poison, a boy’s fear and pride as he tried and tried again to serve Il Corvo’s wine.

  "If you mean for him to kill Franco Pietro," Elayne said, lifting her chin and speaking softly, her lip curled, "if that is what you intend, I swear before God I will see you into Hell myself. I will slay you any way I can."

  He gave her a long, unblinking look. She was trembling with the force of what she felt. She would push him through the trapdoor or spear him on one of his own daggers—she was terrified
of what he would reply.

  He smiled darkly. "I said I would kill Franco Pietro. That’s not a pleasure I wish to forego to any child."

  She let go of her breath, blinking. Her eyes were suddenly blurred, and her nose stung.

  "I’m not sure that’s a great advance in merit," she said. "But I’m glad to hear it."

  "Come here," he said. "Hell-cat. Let me comb out your hair. Comfort yourself that Dario took charge of Matteo and the babe. He brings them by another route to meet us."

  She wiped her hands across her eyes quickly, then turned and sat on the bed. He gathered a thick mass of her hair and resumed his work.

  "You would have murdered me in truth over Matteo, I think," he said, his voice pensive. "Or made the attempt."

  "Yes," she said fiercely. "And will yet, if I must."

  His hand stilled. He leaned forward and put his mouth to her hair. His hands rested on either side of her throat. He could have strangled her or caressed her, but he did neither.

  Elayne blinked again. She swallowed, pressing her hands together.

  "God grant you mercy," he said quietly. "Thank you."

  She wet her lips. "For what?"

  The bed sank as he sat back. "I was Matteo once," he said.

  No more than that. He pulled the comb through her hair, working gently in the tangles, awakening the damp scent of rosemary and citron. His knees were spread, just touching her hips.

  "A hostage, do you mean?" she asked shakily.

  "A hostage, though none so valued as Matteo. A weapon in my father’s service."

  "It is evil," she said.

  "Is it?" he said. "I know not." He drew his fingers downward in the waist-long strands, parting them. "But it would have heartened me, to think I had a champion to curb what he asked of me."

  "Let Matteo be heartened, then," she said grimly. "And all of them."