Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (21 page)

Cyrus looked from the singer to the Baroness as the rest of the members of the group began to play stringed instruments. The Baroness looked back at him with deep amusement, a sly smile on her face.

Cyrus leaned close to her ear. “I was reaching for your hand, earlier, to try and calm you down after what was said.”

She pulled back to look at him, and her eyebrow raised, her smile widened before turning coy. “And you think taking my hand would calm me? Apparently we should change your nickname from Cyrus the Unbroken to Cyrus the Oblivious—to take into account the effects you have on women that you don’t even notice.”

Cyrus hemmed then hawed. “I doubt that my taking your hand would be cause for all that much excitement.”

“Mmmm,” the Baroness seemed to ponder his reply as she let out a humming sound that harmonized with the music. “I don’t know. I think you might be underestimating your charisma and legendary reputation as a leader who keeps very strictly to himself—including his hands and all else.”

“Ha ha,” Cyrus said with a fake, low-key laugh. “I prefer to channel all my efforts into battle. It’s less dangerous.”

“Well, now,” the Baroness said, “I suspect that has more to do with the women you’ve courted. Perhaps if you tried one who didn’t carry a sword …”

“Perhaps one who carried a dagger, instead?”

She put her hand on her chest in mock outrage, drawing his attention to her shirt, which had a high collar but reminded him for a beat of the low-cut dress she had worn when first they met and how it had displayed her ample bosoms. “That a lady would carry a weapon is such an outrageous proposition.” Her feigned shock disappeared as she tossed a shoulder casually, then smiled. “However, when in the company of Arkarians, one can never be too well armed, especially if one is a woman.”

Cyrus reached for his wine glass and took a deep drink as he pondered his reply. “And when in the company of beautiful women, regardless of origin, I find that blades are the least painful way that they can hurt you.”

The Baroness reached for her wine glass and held it before her. “I’ll drink to that truth, Lord Davidon, if you’ll drink to mine—when it comes to men, being outmatched by them physically is quite a bit more painful and likely to happen than being outmatched by them mentally.” She smiled broadly as she noted his pained reaction. “Present company excepted, perhaps.”

“I’m not likely to do either if I keep drinking this excellent wine,” Cyrus said, setting down his cup and watching the servant behind him rush forward to refill the glass.

“Oh my,” the Baroness said in a quiet voice as the singer trilled in the corner. “Lord Cyrus Davidon, physically and mentally vulnerable? Quickly, grab for my hand—I may become very excitable.”

He chuckled under his breath as she leaned in closer to him. “You’re different than the women I’ve known, Cattrine.” He stared at her and she stared back, her green eyes glinting at him.

“Have you met many Baronesses?” She said it with the amusement that she seemed to layer over everything, and he found himself chuckling again.

“No. But I doubt that’s why I find you so intriguing.”

“Oh?” He caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes, but the sound of chairs scraping against the marble floor drew his gaze back to the King’s seat, where the King himself was now standing.

“If you’ll all excuse me,” the King said as the music died in the room, the last squeals of bows drawn across instruments ending abruptly. The entire table rose belatedly to pay him homage, but he walked from the room toward a nondescript door, three servants and two armored guards in tow, before they had all gotten to their feet.

“Did I just miss the end of the party?” Cyrus asked as they sat back down.

“You’ll have to excuse the King,” Odau Genner leaned over the table from several seats away to address him. “He’s not feeling quite well right now—understandable, given what he’s faced with at the moment.”

“Lord Davidon,” came the voice of Count Ranson across the table from him. “My army can be ready to leave by sunrise tomorrow. Would that be sufficiently early for you?”

“I’d like a chance to review maps of this area, if you have them,” Cyrus said, watching the Count as the man nodded. “I don’t want to leave and march off to battle without some hint of strategy.” He smiled. “I’d like to catch them while they’re sleeping tomorrow night, if we can.”

“That should be possible,” Ranson said, a hand on his clean-shaven chin. “They’ll be camped in the northern reaches of the Fields of Gareme. It is half a day’s march. It is a flat land, and if we can deal adequately with their scouts, we should be able to approach them without being seen.” The count’s face twisted into a half-grin. “Which is better than meeting them in the middle of the fields in broad daylight.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said and glanced at the leg of lamb waiting upon his plate. “Why don’t we meet first thing in the morning with our officers to discuss the strategy? We can come to some agreement before we leave.”

“Very well,” Count Ranson nodded and stood, executing a short bow. “I will go and make preparations.” The older man grimaced slightly. “If you would be willing to hear suggestions, I am very familiar with those lands and could likely help you to come up with a battle plan.”

“I am eager to hear suggestions, Count,” Cyrus said with a tight smile, “as I have no knowledge of these plains you speak of, nor of the Kingdom of Syloreas’s army.”

“Very good, Lord Davidon,” the count said with a curt nod. “I’ll have one of my men send for you at sunrise and we’ll discuss preparations then.” The count let a half-smile of obvious relief flood his face, then turned and walked around the table and from the room, through the double doors into the foyer.

The singer commenced with his song again shortly thereafter, and Cyrus had some more wine. He saw Samwen Longwell sitting across from him, but the younger man did not meet his gaze, picking at his food instead.
Did something happen between father and son when I wasn’t paying attention?
He looked down the table, noted the others engaged in conversation and discussion save for Aisling, who seemed to almost disappear between two Galbadien men in armor, and Martaina, who was no longer seated but had instead removed herself to lean against the wall. Cyrus had to almost turn around in his chair to find her, but when he did, she nodded at him.

He shook his head and turned back to find the Baroness delicately picking at the meat on her plate with a fork and knife. “How do you do that?” he asked.

She glanced at him and went back to sawing off a small cut of meat no larger than Cyrus’s pinky knuckle. She then delicately speared it with her fork and placed it into her mouth, chewing slowly and with a smile on her face the entire time. When she swallowed it, her smile grew more enigmatic. “It’s called patience, Lord Davidon, and it’s required when you’re eating like a lady, else you might become exasperated with the miniscule bites that manners require you to take and try to gnaw the meat directly from the bone.”

Cyrus held the leg bone in his hand, pondering the meat on it, then the five different forks and three knives that were set around his plate. “I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t subscribe to your dainty eating habits.”

She chuckled. “I think I should be more offended if you did. I am eating like a lady, after all. If you did the same, I might wonder about you, to think that perhaps the reason that you’re rumored to have gone so long without female companionship in your bed is something more basic than poor luck and good consideration.”

He looked at her, stunned. “Wait. How did you know it’s been …?” He sighed as the answer occurred to him. “Rumors.”

“All flattering to your character, I assure you.” She patted him on the arm. “A true gentleman and a man of strong discipline, one who has been in love for a long time and held himself in check during that period.” She took another bite and her smile faded. “A man for whom rash intemperance is not even a consideration. I admire that about you, if what they say is true.”

Cyrus managed a tight smile. “It’s true enough, but I haven’t felt like it was a mark of prestige, exactly.”

“Be proud, Lord Davidon,” the Baroness said. “You are very unlike the men I have known. And in my case, this is a very good thing, possibly the highest compliment I can pay.”

Cyrus grasped for his cup and took a long drink of wine. “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome—I think.”

The Baroness became caught up in a conversation with Ryin and Nyad only moments later, and Cyrus was left to finish the last of his leg of lamb before a succulent slice of chocolate cake was placed in front of him. Feeling slight disquiet in his stomach from the richness of the food, he took a deep inhalation from the cake, then two small bites and decided that stopping was the wisest course. With a last look around the table, he stood, and the servant behind him quickly helped him move his chair.

The Baroness turned her head. “Calling it a night already?”

“I think so,” he said. “I’m not quite sure what time it is, but I’m tired and I have an early morning meeting tomorrow.”

“I should probably turn in as well,” she said, aided by the servant behind her who darted in and helped her move the heavy wooden seat so that she could stand. The Baroness turned to Ryin and Nyad. “Good night, you two.”

Cyrus didn’t hear their replies, as he was already looking toward the door. Martaina waited beside it, and as Cyrus offered his arm to the Baroness out of politeness and she took it, he saw the elven woman’s face crease with a smile that she hid by turning away and looking at the musicians at the other end of the room.

“Something funny, Martaina?” he asked her as he passed through the door.

“Not a thing, sir,” she said, still amused when she turned back. “There’s a steward in the foyer providing us escort to our rooms,” she said. “I’m told the one that they have for you is quite palatial, fitting with your numerous and august titles.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

Martaina smiled. “Not at all, sir. Shall I come get you at sunrise for your meeting?”

“The count said he’d send someone,” Cyrus said and turned back to the Baroness. “Get some rest.”

Cyrus walked into the foyer, the Baroness’s arm tucked through his. A man waited in the middle of the room, with two others behind him. “Sir and Madam,” the man said with a little bow, his silk crimson shirt moving delicately as he dipped low. He looked first to Cyrus. “I have a room for you, General. Will your companion be needing a room of her own?”

Cyrus felt a brief awkwardness before he looked at the Baroness, a slight smile on his face as he felt the rush of the wine, causing his head to swim. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you?”

She tilted her head in surprise and looked back at him. “I don’t know. Do I?”

Cyrus felt the moment slow down around him, looked at her, her green eyes locked on his. The smell of the lamp oil filled the hall and gave off an oddly intoxicating scent. Cyrus could feel his head swimming in a fog, the wine mixing with the fatigue to make him smile more than he should have. He saw the faintest hint of a flush on the Baroness’s cheeks, and he smiled, the weight of other things on his mind gone, blown away in a carefree breeze for the first time in months. “No,” he said. “Tonight, I don’t think you do.”

She smiled at him, then looked to the steward. “I won’t be needing my own accommodations,” she said. “But thank you for asking.”

“Very well,” the steward said, bowing again. “If you’ll follow me.” He led them up stairs, through corridors, winding around passages. The steward kept up a steady stream of commentary throughout, but Cyrus did not listen; his eyes and attention were fixed upon the Baroness, who had scarcely taken hers off of him. He could see the levity within her expression, mixed with more than a little amusement but tempered with the slightest bit of concern.

“Here we are,” the steward said, ushering them through a set of double doors off a long, torchlit corridor with lamps hanging overhead for good measure.

As they entered the room, Cyrus stopped in mild surprise. It was indeed palatial; white marble floors filled the cavernous entry. Stuffed chairs and a long sofa made of cowhide and stuffed with down made up a sitting area in front of a fireplace. A luscious bearskin rug was in front of the hearth, where a fire blazed quietly. The walls were the same sort of plaster that had been present in the dining room, but the ceiling was far, far above them and three different chandeliers cast their light down upon the room.

Cyrus walked, the Baroness on his arm, to the center of the room. “Your bedroom is in there, sir,” the steward said. “There is a garderobe—a toileting room—in a separate closet on the other side of it. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Cyrus looked at the Baroness, who shook her head. “You may leave,” she said. “Thank you.” The steward nodded his head, bowed, and made his exit, leaving Cyrus alone with her, a growing unease in his belly, a nervous sort of tension that caused him to taste bitterness in his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asked, hovering closer to him, close enough that he could feel her, feel his body ache for her to come closer.

Cyrus swallowed heavily. “Why are you doing this?”

She stepped closer, pressed against his armor, her cloth riding blouse giving him the strangest urge to run his hand across the fabric. She took hold of his gauntlet and pulled it slowly off; Cyrus felt his palms sweaty, sticky, and wished he could wipe them somewhere. He felt a tinge of embarrassment as she took his hand in hers and placed it on her back. “Because I want to,” she breathed, whispered in his ear. She pulled back and looked at him, locked eyes, stared him down, and the animal urge within consumed him and he kissed her, deeply and heavily, breathing hard as he broke from her. “Because although it may have been a long time for you since your last lover, for me …” her hand stroked his cheek, “I have never been with a man I have freely chosen.”

She pressed her lips against him, again, and he felt the rising tide of his desire. His fingers went to the straps on his pauldrons and loosened them, then he lifted them over his head and dropped them to the floor where they landed with a fearsome clatter. His breastplate and backplate went next, along with the gorget that protected his neck, his lips firm against hers the whole time. He heard his remaining gauntlet hit the floor then the vambraces from his arms and bracers from his forearms, each making a clank of its own.