Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "Ha!" Elayne jumped like a child. "Two points for me now. Seventh round."

  "Your hair is like silk." He reached out to touch it, but she caught his hand.

  "Round seven," she said, holding his wrist steady before her, preventing him. "One...two...three..."

  "Four!" They both shouted at once. Two fingers showed on each hand.

  "The Devil," he said. "I’m going down to a tie."

  "I’ll win." She gave him a smirk.

  He caught her around the waist and pulled her against him, burying his face in her throat. Elayne gave a shriek and pushed him away, laughing. "Now who’s cheating?"

  He stood straight. Elayne began to count. "Wait!" he said.

  She stopped.

  "I must compose my mind," he said.

  "One...two...you’re a loathsome toad...three...zero!" Their voices united as he yelled, "One!" When she looked down, he held out one finger against her closed fist.

  She thrust out her lower lip. "A point for you."

  "You’ll never win," he growled. "I won’t abide it. Last round, hell-cat."

  They leaned toward one another. Elayne counted. "One...two..." She held her free hand against his shoulder, holding him off as he pressed toward her. She could not look at him; she would have burst out in hilarity for the ferocious look on his face. She flung out her hand. "Three!" she cried, while he shouted "Four!" at the same time, almost in her face.

  They both looked down. He held two fingers extended. She had one.

  She shrieked again as he took her down against the bed, falling in a shower of hair and his body tumbling beside her. "I won!" she mumbled against his palm over her mouth. "Sound and fair!" She yelped as he rolled her over and muffled her head down in the pillows. "I won! I won! Ow!"

  "Say my name," he ordered, holding her into the pillow by the nape of her neck. He was nearly on top of her, his weight pressed warmly against her hips and her back.

  "No!" she cried, then gave a stifled scream and a buck as he put his arm about her. "You lost!"

  "Yes," he said beside her ear, "but you think I’m beautiful."

  "A loathsome toad!" She giggled and gasped for air. "A great...toad!"

  She found herself turned over and pulled atop his chest as he lay back on the bed. He held her tight, their legs tangled amid the white robe and scarlet bedcover.

  "Allegreto," she said, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back and smiled.

  She had not known he could smile so. She had not imagined he could laugh. And he was beautiful—a far vision beyond beautiful—he was her pirate, her angel, his cheek and jaw and throat a perfect form, shadowed with roughness, his lips parted. She could feel his breath rise and fall, the strength like a hunter’s longbow drawn taut, easily held, as his arm curled about her to pull her close.

  "When I saw your eyes," he said, "I thought of that lake out there."

  She ducked her face into his shoulder, taking a deep breath of his warm skin. "At home some said I had the Evil Eye when I looked on them."

  "Fools," he said. He twined his fingers in her hair. After a moment he tugged it and said, "This is your home."

  She didn’t answer. She had no answer. Monteverde still seemed unreal to her, a place of foreboding and violence. And yet this lake was Monteverde, the dark mountains, the water so dazzling under the sinking sun and radiance that it almost made her mind ache. And he was a manslayer, without any sense of right and wrong that she could fathom—and when he laughed with her...just once, laughed with an open delight in the moment— she felt as if some long-lost part of herself had been completed.

  "You shouldn’t have to come home this way," he said. "Like a thief. I should have held it for you."

  "Not for me," she said, shaking her head.

  "Look what’s left of Navona." His mouth tightened, the smile gone. "I knew they’d pulled the walls down—but I didn’t realize—until I saw it..." He let out a long breath. "I have not done well."

  She rested her hand on his chest. She had a strong desire to deny it, but there wasn’t a single thing she knew of him that she could say with a whole heart was well or rightly done—except that he had saved her life. She traced the line of his collarbone with her forefinger. "You defeated me soundly at chess," she offered.

  He gave a short laugh. His mouth relaxed into an easier curve. "We have two days safe here."

  "Time enough to play morra again."

  He caught her hand in his fist, running his thumb up and down the inside of her palm. "I might have other amusements in my mind."

  She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. He raised his elegant eyebrows. She smoothed the tip of her finger along one of the scratches she had made on his skin. With no more than that, she felt his body grow taut. His lashes lowered. He ran his tongue over his lower lip.

  "I won," she said in a low voice.

  He turned over and lay atop her, spreading her hair on the pillows around her head. "Be cautious of me, hell-cat," he said. "Be careful. There’s a brink there—and I don’t know where it is."

  She felt herself as if she had long passed some precipice, and walked on thin air in this tower above the dark lake.

  * * *

  In the dawn he stood by the open window embrasure, leaning his elbow on the stone wall. He looked out, his face and body lit with brightness from below, a half-silhouette in the dim room. He wore no shirt, but black hose and boots softly wrinkled about his ankles. The vambrace guards were strapped to his forearms. His daggers hung from the leather waist-belt, resting gently against his thighs.

  She hugged a pillow to her, watching him. He’d left her alone here in the night, away on some business of messages and plans. She hadn’t slept much, and when she had, she’d dreamed of playing morra in a dark lake where the water wouldn’t let her move her fingers.

  The leather buckled to his arms gave him the look of a fighter. He leaned at ease on the wall, his hand propped behind his head. Against the pale skin beneath his arm, against the smooth taut muscle, the sight of the dark gauntlet straps made heat rise in her throat. She lay naked within the sheets, a strange and delicate feeling. She could feel every place where the linen touched her.

  He turned onto his shoulders and crossed his arms as he noticed her awake, resting his foot up against the wall. "Good morning. I brought food and drink, if you want it."

  She did not want food or drink. She wanted him.

  "I thought of a game," she said, turning onto the pillow on her stomach, keeping the coverings up over her to her neck.

  He lowered his chin, looking at her from across the chamber. "Another game?"

  Elayne nipped a bit of sheet over her nose. "By chance it’s more of a story than a game." She pulled the sheet down a little, just enough to clear her mouth. "It’s like...feigning the people in a tale."

  "Is it?" he said.

  "Yes." She lifted her head, resting on her elbows. "An amusement, to pass the time. You said you delight in games. This is a game of human character."

  His mouth curved up a little. "You remember that."

  She rolled over, examining one of her fingernails, the sheet draped over her arms and breasts. "It’s something like a play. I have one part, and you have another."

  "What parts are these?"

  She gave him a sidelong look, holding the sheet up to her throat. "I thought perhaps I would pretend to be a great queen."

  He smiled openly then, tilting his head aside. "Not a minor one?"

  "A great queen." She flushed. She sat full up against the pillow. "Like the Queen of Sheba. All-powerful, with many lands."

  "I see," he said dryly. "And no doubt Your Majesty requires a humble servant to serve you in this game."

  "Oh, no," she murmured. She slipped down a little in the bed. "I don’t require a servant."

  His glance drifted downward, along her body beneath the bedcovers. "A Solomon, to share your throne?"

  She shook her head. "No," she said.

>   "A lover?" he asked.

  Elayne drew breath more quickly. "I’m told you are a manslayer, not a gallant."

  "It’s true, my lady." He bowed his head.

  "Then perhaps you’ll play the part of a warrior." She looked up at him. "A prince."

  "Will I?"

  She caught the covers in her hands and sat up fully, holding them to her breasts. "Yes. A warrior and a prince, I think. From a far land, that has been—" She hesitated, burying her hands into the bedsheet. "Conquered."

  A long silence followed her words. She didn’t look at him; she could not. She blinked rapidly, aware that there was an excited blur of moisture in her eyes, as if she’d just heard some terrifying tale of goblins and hauntings. Her body seemed to grow warm all over.

  "Brought—" She cleared her throat. "Um—brought before me as a prisoner," she said in a failing voice, when he didn’t answer. She leaned over her knees, hiding her face.

  "Do you think I would abase myself?" he asked.

  She looked up. He watched her from the dimness, obscured now against the growing light in the window. She couldn’t see his expression clearly. Only his bare muscular arm crossed over the other, strapped in leather.

  "I don’t know," she said unsteadily. "It’s play."

  He made a soft laugh. "I fear you do no justice to the role of a great ruler—with that squeaking voice, and fortified among pillows. As your defeated enemy, I’m not much impressed."

  She drew herself up. The disadvantage of her nakedness was palpable between them. The white robe lay across the foot of the bed.

  With a regal move, she threw aside the bedcoverings. She folded her knees in the most graceful and queenly manner she could contrive and took up the robe as she rose. She imagined a host of handmaids and pulled it on with proud leisure, not deigning to close it from neck to toe, but only fastening one button across her breasts. She looked up, but still she couldn’t discern his face against the glare.

  She swept forward a few steps and sat down in the large chair, placing her hands on the arms. "Let me see you," she said. "Come into the light."

  For a moment she didn’t think he would. Then he moved, one step that swung him away from the wall into the growing sunlight, standing with his legs apart and his arms still crossed, a little curl of scorn on his lips.

  He made a very good likeness of an enemy prince. But he didn’t appear conquered, not at all, though his eye was blackened and his shoulders bore scratches and bruises like fading battle marks. With some effort, Elayne kept her face composed. She found it necessary to imagine guards—a number of them. She met his faint smile with a narrow look.

  "You’re insolent," she said. "Lower your hands."

  He looked down at her. His glance drifted in clear boldness to where the robe opened to reveal a curve of her bare thigh and knee. Elayne stared at him, unblinking. Guards, she reminded herself. If she were a queen, there would be guards enough to cause him to do what she pleased. She leaned back in her chair with a casual move, careless of the robe, not taking her eyes from his. No challenge, no contest; a simple assumption that he must obey. It was a game, though it did not entirely seem so.

  He drew a slow breath. Then he gave a low toneless laugh and raised his look to the wall above her head, uncrossing his arms, his hands not quite at his side, but open, resting lightly on his thighs. It was the stance of a man who might draw his weapons in an instant.

  "Disarm," she said.

  His faint smile of contempt vanished. He glanced at her. A long moment passed, with a new guardedness in his look. Elayne felt the tiny hairs on her neck and arms rise. He was truly splendid, standing half-naked like a royal savage, gazing at her now as if she were a stranger to him.

  "Do you fear me so much that you must have your blades at ready?" she murmured.

  He put his hand to the buckle of his waist-belt. Then he dropped it away and shook his head just slightly.

  "Perhaps you’re afraid to play this game," she said.

  He turned back his head and gave a raw laugh. "Yes. I am. Hell-cat."

  She stood, walking to him, and put her hand on his chest. She felt him draw a deep uneven breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them when she passed her fingers over his nipple.

  "You’re insolent again," she said. "Disarm."

  He seemed taller than he ever had to her, standing so close—tall and barbaric and unpredictable. She gave his nipple a sharp flick.

  He drew air between his teeth. He reached again for the buckle and pulled the leather loose, standing straight, staring over her head. As the belt came free, Elayne caught it in her hand. He resisted for an instant, and then let it go.

  He stood looking beyond her, utterly still.

  She let her gaze pass over him, from his waist to his hips and up again to his chest and shoulders and throat. She could see that beneath his breeches there was a thickening in his body, a growing readiness. Another prickling wave of sensation raised the secret tender places on her skin. It made her feel warm and damp beneath the robe. She paused, drinking in the sight of him. He was such a pleasure to look upon. And hers. Her captive, her prisoner—she lost herself in the fantasy of it, that he was under her command; entirely at her will.

  She dropped the waist-belt on the table and touched him again, reaching up to his shoulder, running her palm down his arm. He turned his forearm up and moved his hand abruptly, as if to reach for the vambrace strap and release it.

  "No," she said. She slipped her fingertip just under the leather, tracing the well-fitted edge. His skin was firm and silky at once, the blue veins showing on his inner wrist. She rested her fingers there, feeling his hard pulse. "No. Wear these. I like them."

  She lifted his hand between hers. He submitted to it, his lashes lowered, making no resistance as she spread his fingers and explored the perfect masculine shape of his hand. The metal bands on the arm guards gleamed dully. His third blade, bone-handled, lay in a tight leather sheath inside the length of his forearm. When she put her hand over the hilt, her fingers slipped easily into spaces molded for them.

  He made a warning sound in his throat, not quite a word. Elayne closed her hand and drew the knife, looking up at him slantwise. "Is it poisoned?" she asked coolly.

  He breathed deeply, his eyes on the blade. All distance was gone from his look. "No," he said.

  She nodded down toward the others. "Only the left-hand dagger."

  His left hand opened and closed, as if he could feel the hilt of it. He never took his eyes from the knife she held. "Yes."

  "I remember," she said, taking a step back. "Do not move." She picked up the waist-belt and walked apart from him, taking his weapons away the whole width of the chamber. When she was on the far side of the bed, she turned and stopped, watching him.

  He stood still, but he flexed his hands with a motion that showed all through his body, as if he pressed against a great weight. The muscles in his shoulders and neck grew taut. He swallowed, staring at the empty space before him. "Elena," he said hoarsely. "Take care."

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. Take care with the blades, perchance he meant, but a fine sweat had broken out over his skin. She could see it in the morning light streaming now from the window. It was as if she held his very life and heart in her hands, in these glimmering shafts of steel.

  She was well-cautious with the daggers, placing the bone-handled knife gently on his father’s coffer and leaving the others sheathed as she slid them free from the belt. His girdle was plain, made of fine strong hide, dark and well-worn, the inside lined with kidskin as soft as a lady’s glove and stitched in small even seams. The leather was still pliable with the heat of his body. She curved it around her fist, pleased by the feel of it next to her skin.

  She walked slowly back to him.

  He turned his head. "What have you done with them?" he asked sharply.

  "Whatever I like," she said, holding her hands behind her.

  "Hell-cat." His voice held a f
ierce warning, though he stood rooted in the place she had left him.

  She looked aside at him speculatively. "I’m your queen now, warrior," she said softly. She clasped her hands modestly in front of her, the belt entwined and dangling from her fingers.

  He glanced down at her hands. For an instant there was something like relief in his face, and then the curl of derision came again to his mouth. But she could see the pulse beating hard in his throat.

  "I will do what I please," she said in a quiet voice. "With your weapons. With you."

  There was the shadow of the nightmare beast in his expression, the hollow stare of an animal caged, as if he would have his daggers and be upon her but for invisible bars between them. Somewhere far deep inside, she was frightened—appalled—at what she did, but overlying it was the dark game between them, that depth of pleasure, the thing that kept him standing imprisoned before her without any bonds at all.

  "Put your hands behind your back," she said.

  He turned his head a little aside. "Elena," he said low, "this is dangerous. This is too...difficult."

  "Shall I go, then?" she asked. "I can leave you."

  "No!" he said quickly.

  "Then don’t tell me what is too difficult." She walked beside him. "Come, I’ll make it easier." With a light touch she drew his wrist behind his back, thrilling to the faint angry sound he made while his shaft answered with a swell of desire. "Sweet warrior," she whispered, lifting his hair and kissing his back, running her tongue over the tight muscles between his shoulder blades. "So well-made. I wish to make best use of my vanquished foe."

  "Ah...damn you," he said, shuddering as she drew his other hand into place.

  "You’re impudent." She used the end of the belt against him, a light slap like a tutor with an unruly student. But the leather had a solidity that magnified the flick of her wrist. It struck his skin and the inside of his wrist with a crack that made them both jerk.

  Elayne drew back. She stood an arm’s length behind him, startled. She’d felt the sting of punishment across her own hands often enough as a child—Cara had never had the heart to do it herself, but Elayne’s strict Italian duenna had known just how to apply the rod, for the little good it ever seemed to do in recalling Elayne to proper behavior. She wet her lips.