A Man Betrayed (28 page)

The sword that
Rovas had given him stood resting against the pickling vat. As a baker's boy he
had always been strong; kneading enough dough to feed the castle each day soon
put muscle on a man's arms and chest, but using the longsword required new
muscles and new strength. His back had to bear the considerable weight of the
blade, and his flank the brunt of the thrust. Jack's legs were aching, too.
Rovas spent a lot of time explaining balance, not just centering the blade upon
the body, but also balancing upper strength with lower. "When wielding a
longsword a man's in danger of becoming top heavy," he would say. "You
need muscle on your thighs to even out the weight." So the smuggler had
him running up hills and barrel rolling.

Ever since Jack
had defied him by taking a walk with Tarissa, Rovas had used their training
sessions as a form of punishment. Practice had become dangerous. Rovas was
remarkably skilled with the blade, light on his feet, firm with his grip, and
always quick to thrust. Jack had no chance against him. Sitting here in the
kitchen chopping pork bones for the broth, he only had to look down at his arms
to see the full extent of Rovas' hostility over the past three days. His arms
were covered in cuts and bruises.

He was getting
better, though. Yesterday the smuggler had tried to make him look a fool by
forcing him back against a tree. Jack had rallied his strength and somehow
managed to land a decent blow. His blade grazed the length of Rovas' sword and
came to rest in the flesh of his wrist. The look of indignant surprise made the
later thrashing worth it.

Jack didn't know
what to make of this strange household that he found himself in. Tensions ran
deep, yet he didn't know what caused them, or why his presence seemed to
aggravate them further. Magra was a dilemma. Proud and cold as the greatest
courtier, he thought at first she was against him, but only minutes before
they'd shared a joke about the onions and she'd patted his shoulder gently. He
couldn't pretend to know about such things-after all, what experience did he
have of anything except baking and beatings-but he got the distinct impression
that Magra was being nice to him merely to spite Rovas.

One thing was
certain: both Magra and Tarissa were afraid of the wide and usually jaunty
smuggler. They laughed and teased him, but they each stepped carefully, as if
frightened of waking a sleeping bear.

Another thing
certain was that he had to stay here. Now more than ever. Tarissa had lied when
she said Rovas had given so much, yet asked for so little in return. Expecting
her to kill a man for him was currency of the highest tender. What kind of man
would do such a thing to a girl who was as good as his daughter? Leaving was
out of the question. If he left now, Tarissa would never be free of Rovas. They
would become accomplices in murder, bound together by shared secrets, fear, and
guilt.

Jack glanced quickly
at her. Tarissa was putting the bellows to the fire. Her sleeves were rolled up
and the muscles on her arms pushed against her skin. Her face was illuminated
by the flames. The golden light suited her. She looked young and strong and
self-possessed. Jack's hands curled up to a fist. How could Rovas have expected
her to kill someone? How could he have forced this honest and hardworking girl
into acting as his assassin?

Jack felt hatred
swell in his stomach. It suited him to let it build. Rovas lived to control the
women in this cottage. He wanted to have the power of life and death over them.
He wanted to make Tarissa his partner in crime.

Tarissa put down
the bellows and smiled Jack's way. "I've blown a gale on that fire,"
she said, "and it still looks fit to die." She had ash on her nose
and in her hair. A single curl fell across her cheek and she blew it away like
a feather. She was so straightforward, no airs or graces. Nothing hidden.

Jack found it hard
to return her smile, but he did. And as his lips stretched then curved, there
was no question in his mind that he would have to kill the Halcus captain. He
couldn't let Rovas corrupt and then blackmail this spirited girl before him.

Magra stood up.
The spell of hate and vows was broken. "I'm going to take a walk to Lark's
Farm," she said. "It's about time we had some fresh eggs."

This was a
surprise. Jack and Tarissa exchanged looks. She was as baffled as he. There was
no explanation other than that Magra wanted to leave them alone. She knew Rovas
would be gone all day. Putting on a cloak of scarlet wool, she fastened it at
her throat. Jack saw for the first time what she must have looked like twenty
years earlier: a breathtaking beauty. Taller and more slender than her
daughter, Magra's bearing was as much a part of her attraction as her finely
chiseled face.

Tarissa noticed he
was looking at her mother. She smiled, and he saw that she was proud. There was
so much Jack wanted to know. Why had they fled from the kingdoms? How had they
come to be here? And why did deep lines of bitterness mark the beauty of
Magra's face?

Before she left,
she threw a look at her daughter, an uneasy mix of warning and resignation.

As soon as the
door was closed Jack walked over to Tarissa. He couldn't help himself, he wanted
to be close to her. She didn't move away. Meeting his gaze, she said,

"What are you
going to do now, Jack?" Her words were taunting, but her eyes sparkled an
invitation.

Jack was
overwhelmed by her closeness. He had a sudden mad desire to take her in his
arms:

Tarissa smiled
slowly. "Another kiss, perhaps. Or are you going to surprise me?"

Jack knew a
challenge when he heard one. He stepped forward. Drawing his hands around her
waist, he lifted her into his arms. Tarissa's seductive smile was gone in an
instant. She screamed and giggled and then punched him. He told her she had a
good punch, for a girl. And she hit him even more. Finally he let her go.

Like two children
with no supervision, they ran around the kitchen fighting and laughing and
breaking odd pieces of pottery. Everything was funny: the broth, the fire, the
half-peeled turnips. The novelty of being alone together in the cottage was so
overwhelming that it left them lightheaded. Tarissa wrestled free of him.
"You smell of onions," she said.

"Thank
you," replied Jack. "I made a special effort." She kicked his
shin and dashed away with the speed of a hare. He chased her around the kitchen,
dredging up the rushes with every step. Tarissa had never looked more splendid:
color in her cheeks, hair wild and curling, and breasts heaving. Jack felt a
little ashamed of noticing such things, and he tried not to, but they drew his
eye and engaged his thoughts--constantly.

She caught him at
it again and laughed out loud. Jack, hearing amusement not derision, laughed
with her. Her eyes sparkled. He was enchanted by her confidence and the sheer
earthiness of her. She was no great unapproachable lady. He felt no awkwardness
around her. She may have been brought up in a different country, but she lived
in his world. It was a world where kitchens were the only rooms that counted,
where friends gathered around the fire, and where hard work was shared as readily
as tall tales at supper.

They stopped for a
moment and Tarissa offered her hand to be kissed. Jack's heart was beating
fast. Her hands were sturdy; the nails were short and not as clean as they
should be. The palms were crisscrossed with tiny scars from practicing with the
sword, and six perfectly formed and totally irresistible calluses graced her
fingers. Bypassing the smooth white skin on the top of her hand, he kissed the
calluses instead. Tarissa couldn't stop giggling, so he kissed them all again.

She was a delight
to be with. Gone was the scared girl of three nights back, gone was the haughty
woman he'd first kissed. Rovas had made a fatal mistake: by trying to keep them
apart he had drawn them closer. Three days of being unable to talk or hardly
look at each other had driven them to this. They were strangers before, now
they were united in intrigue.

Tarissa giggled as
he kissed her calluses one more time. She begged him to stop, and when he
wouldn't, she pulled at his hair and bit his earlobe.

Gradually, the
biting turned into something softer, and wetter. Jack had to physically stop
himself from crushing her. Her tongue traced the journey from ear to mouth. Her
breasts were within reach and nothing, nothing, could prevent him from
caressing them. A small murmur of encouragement thrilled him more than any
touch. Tarissa became the older woman again, guiding, teaching, sure of herself
in every way.

Jack moved his
hand upward, needing to feel skin rather than fabric. Tarissa pulled away.
"We're moving too quickly," she said, unable to look him straight in
the face. At that moment all that Grift had ever told him about women seemed
true. They were false, heartless, and confusing enough to drive a man wild. Why
was there nothing in his life that was simple and straightforward? His past,
his future, his abilities, and now this failed attempt at lovemaking. More
frustrated than angry, he pushed his hair back and sighed. "What did I do
wrong?"

She surprised him
by smiling gently. "You have such beautiful hair." Leaning forward,
she pushed back the strands that he'd missed. "I'm sorry, Jack. Your
excitement was infectious. It carried me to a place where I wasn't ready to
be." She held out her hand and he took it.

How could he hate
her? The passion drained from his body, leaving a residue of tenderness.
"Then I'm sorry, too." He smiled as he spoke. Grift had told him many
times that women were notorious for having a man apologize when he'd done
nothing wrong. Jack didn't mind, though. The one thing Grift had
forgotten
to
tell him was that it was all worth it.

"Rovas is
making us act like lovesick fools," said Tarissa, "yet we hardly know
each other. You say you lived at Castle Harvell, but I don't know what you did
there, or why you left, or who your family are."

There it was, the
question he'd dreaded all his life, its asking always inevitable. Family was
what counted. It defined who a person was and where he had come from.
Ultimately a man was judged by it. So what did that make him? With a mother
commonly thought to be a whore and a father who didn't exist, he had nothing to
boast about. And a lot to be ashamed of.

Now was not the
time to talk of family. Jack made an effort to keep the mood light. He stood
up, pulling Tarissa with him, and said, "You mean I forgot to tell you I
was an apprentice baker?"

"A
baker?" Tarissa was delighted.

Jack steered her
in the direction of the table. "Yes, a baker. I think it's about time I
impressed you with my skills." He sat her down by the large, trestled
work-top and began to pull out flour and water and fat. Next he went over to
the fire and placed the baking stone in the center of the flame. "What are
you going to make?" asked Tarissa, elbows on the table, engrossed in what
he was doing.

He rubbed his chin
for a moment and then smiled. "Something sweet, I think." Jack worked
quickly, adding everything he could find to the dough: dried fruit and peel,
honey, cinnamon. After a while he looked up. Tarissa was watching him with
quiet intent. " Come and help me knead the dough," he said. She shook
her head. Jack was not about to be put off so easily. He stopped what he was
doing and reached across the table. "Give me your hands." The moment
she held them out, he took hold of them and rubbed the dough from his fingers
onto hers. "Looks like you might as well do some kneading now," he
said. "A little more dough will make no difference."

Tarissa pulled a
face, but came and stood beside him. Jack stepped behind her and placed her
hands on the dough. Slowly, he taught her how to knead and then roll it,
explaining that every dough had a different texture and showing the right way
to test for it. He guided her fingers and directed her arms. Jack was acutely
aware of her nearness. The curve of her neck was the most tempting sight he'd ever
seen. The feel of her hands beneath his was a joy to be savored. The dough was
soon forgotten and all that counted was touching and being close.

A rattle of the
door and in walked Magra. Jack and Tarissa stopped what they were doing
immediately. Like lovers caught kissing, they both blushed with guilt.

"Baking, I
see," said Magra.

"Jack was
just teaching me how to knead dough," said Tarissa, hastily scraping the
flour from her fingers.

"So Jack's a
baker, is he?" Magra slammed the egg basket down on the table. "Well,
that's about as good as I can expect, stuck here in the borderlands."

Jack was more
confused than ever. He thought Magra had gone out with the sole intent of
leaving them alone. Now here she was, clearly unhappy with the result. Magra
obviously considered him to be beneath her daughter. Why then had she conspired
to bring them closer?

Tarissa moved over
to the wash basin and began to clean her hands. Jack finished shaping the
dough. He turned it onto the baking stone and then covered it with a large
copper pot. This was the nearest most cottages could get to an oven: heat would
rise from the stone and be caught in the pot. He didn't hold high hopes for the
sweet loaf; the yeast had little time to work, so the bread would be heavy.

Glancing toward
Tarissa, a thought dark with possibilities occurred to Jack. Perhaps Magra was
reluctantly bringing them together because the alternative was worse.

Uneasy with the
direction his mind was traveling, and afraid where his thoughts might
eventually lead, Jack quickly cleaned up the table and made his way outside.
The borrowed sword was in his hand. He felt the need to do something physical.
Rovas had hung an empty beer barrel from a tree, so when it was swung, Jack
could practice dodging and feinting. Jack set it swinging, but dodging wasn't
on his mind. He wielded the sword and stabbed the barrel over and over again.
Splinters flew though the air. Jack hardly saw them. He was determined to
destroy the barrel. The metal hoops raked against his sword, damaging his
blade, but the wood gave way like butter. Thrust after thrust he aimed, the man
who had hung the barrel his imaginary target.