Rift (39 page)

“Don’t tell him that.” Sorcha materialized from the crowd with Kael at her side. “If you do, no one in the barracks will sleep again because Lukasz will be drumming all night.”

“She’s right.” Kael tipped his wooden cup to his lips. “I know you love to build up our spirits, Father, but in this case have mercy.”

“Any other surprises?” Alistair asked.

“I think we’re about to be surprised by rain.” Sorcha glanced up. The sunset had vanished behind a cluster of threatening storm clouds.

“It’s a planting festival. Rain is welcome.” Kael grinned, casting a sidelong glance at the ring of dancers. “I’ll tell you what
would
surprise me: if our Barrow manages to get through this night without a betrothal. I think I’ve observed a dozen maids vying for his attention. The poor man hasn’t had a chance to eat, or even sit, since we set foot in the village.”

Though her chest was burning, Ember couldn’t resist searching the blur of moving bodies. Finding Barrow was too easy. He was taller than most of the villagers. She watched as he lifted a girl up at the waist, twirling her around and releasing her. The girl laughed as her golden locks bounced, gleaming in the firelight.

Ember pulled her eyes away, suddenly wishing she were back in her room. Or blind.

“Hold your tongue, Kael,” Sorcha said. Ember glanced at her and was surprised at the sympathy in her gaze. Sorcha smiled briefly at her before shoving Kael playfully. “You’ve had too much whisky. You know Barrow has no interest in these girls.”

“I’ve hardly had too much!” Kael turned over his cup, empty. “Look, my cup is empty. Does anyone want to assist me in righting this wrong?”

Alistair laughed and turned to Ember. “Whatever you please, my lady.”

“I see your true nature, choosing the pretty girl over your handsome mentor,” Kael said to Alistair. “Turncoat.”

Sorcha took Kael’s arm. “I’ll help you, poor fool.”

“A good woman, this one.” Kael laid a noisy kiss on Sorcha’s cheek.

As they walked away, Alistair asked, “Do you want to go with them?”

Ember shook her head. “I want to dance.”

Though her chest was still burning at the sight of Barrow’s hands on that girl, Ember knew indulging her jealousy would prove as empty as Kael’s cup. She loved to dance and dance she would.

Alistair regarded her with surprise. “Dance?”

“Yes, Alistair,” Ember answered, taking his hand. “I can dance with my oldest friend, can’t I?”

She saw disappointment flicker briefly in his eyes as her words drew a firm line between them, but he answered, “You can. And we shall.”

He took her hand, leading her into the throng of dancers, who moved around the bonfire with rapid twists and twirls. When the song ended and the partners made their bows, Alistair tugged her into the line.

“See you in a bit!” he called as the music rose again.

She laughed. The dance began, and after only a few turns she was out of Alistair’s arms and in those of another man. The joyful abandon of country dance had her spinning and flying down the line as the men of the outer circle moved clockwise and their female partners moved counterclockwise. Dizzy but ecstatic, Ember reveled in the flare of her skirts, letting the music carry her feet in steps so fast and turns so quick she felt as though she barely touched the ground. Her partner caught her forearms, whipping her around and sending her with gales of laughter on to the next man.

Her laughter stopped when she recognized him.

She could tell Barrow was as surprised to see her standing before him as she had been to suddenly encounter him as her next dancing partner. But of course she would—Scottish country dances always involved changing partners and hadn’t she known that Barrow was in this dance circle? Had she hoped for this without admitting it to herself?

They both went still for a moment. Barrow coughed then, stepping toward her. Ember bit her lip, offering him an uncomfortable smile. His arm encircled her waist and he clasped his hand in hers. They began to whirl in time with the pounding drums.

The world slowed. The music and the other dancers faded, leaving only her and Barrow moving together. She could see each spark leap from the bonfire, escaping from the flames to dance toward the night sky. Her pulse drowned out the drumbeat, jumping through her veins. She could feel Barrow’s heartbeat too, as if her own heart were racing alongside his.

They were dancing, feet flying as they followed the pattern of the circle. But Ember moved like one mesmerized, her eyes never leaving Barrow’s steady gaze. With each step their bodies drew closer, hands gripping each other’s fiercely. Soon the dance would force them apart, throwing them into the arms of the next partner. That knowledge made Ember’s chest tighten.

Barrow was still holding her eyes with his. They were dancing so close now that each step, twist, and turn had them brushing against each other. Ember could feel the heat of his body contrasting with the chill of the spring night.

The melody rose and a downbeat struck, signaling each dancer to relinquish his partner for the sake of another. For a moment, Barrow’s fingers dug into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to cling to her rather than let her go. That was when the sky opened up.

Rain fell in swollen drops that exploded on Ember’s head and shoulders, soaking her within moments. The deluge scattered the crowd. Dancers, musicians, and spectators ran shrieking, desperate for shelter. Sheets of rain blinded Ember, plastering her hair to her face and neck.

“This way.” Barrow’s hand slipped around her wrist. He tugged her away from the fire, which spit and sizzled its protest as the rainfall attempted to extinguish the flames. Barrow was running, and Ember was pulled along with him into the dark forest. She wiped at her face, struggling to see. Between the shadows and the heavy rain, she might as well have been running blindfolded.

Barrow slowed and then stopped, releasing her wrist. She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to shut out the rain. But somehow it was no longer raining, or at least the initial torrent had stopped. A scatter of drops hit her at irregular intervals, but she no longer felt as if she were standing beneath a waterfall.

Where had Barrow led her?

Ember looked up and found herself beneath one of the largest trees she’d ever seen. The branches of the ancient oak spread above them, offering temporary shelter from the deluge, but Ember’s clothes had been soaked during their flight. Barrow leaned against the tree’s broad trunk.

“We can linger here until the storm passes,” he said, brushing his still-dripping hair off his face.

Ember twisted her own heavy, wet tresses in her fists, wringing out the water, and then pushed them back behind her shoulders. The sensation of having the full length of her hair covering her back was odd, but not unpleasant.

The sounds of music, dance, and revelry had vanished, drowned out by the steady beat of rainfall. She wondered if the villagers had fled to their homes or if, like Barrow and her, they had stolen to nature’s harbors for protection from the downpour.

“Are you cold?” Barrow asked.

Lost as she was in the rhythms of the storm, his question startled her. Despite being slick with rain, her skin felt warm. Her heart only now began to slow after pounding with their flight from the ceilidh
.
She shook her head, but found herself shivering. It wasn’t from the night’s chill, but because of the path his eyes were taking from her face along her neck to her chest.

Ember glanced down and saw that her sodden dress clung to her body. A few raindrops that found their way through the barrier of tree branches chased each other from her collarbone over her skin, disappearing into her bodice. She looked up at Barrow and met his gaze, though she didn’t recognize his expression. Had she not known better, she would have thought he was in pain.

He reached out, lightly grasping her arms. Ember shivered again and her pulse quickened.

“Come closer,” he said. “You’re trembling.”

She stepped toward him, wanting to speak, but her throat had closed up. Her eyes were on his face. She was close enough to see droplets collecting on his eyelashes. She wanted to be closer. Her heartbeat outpaced the downpour, its speed stealing her breath, leaving her dizzy. When Alistair had drawn her into his arms and pressed his mouth to hers, she’d been breathless, but only in a way similar to being punched in the gut. The sensation had made her sick with fury.

But now she was tracing the shape of Barrow’s mouth with her gaze, wishing she could touch him with more than her eyes. With each moment she felt warmer, drawn to him in a way she didn’t understand. Barrow moved one hand to her waist. He was frowning, as if his confusion matched her own. His hand slid over the curve of her hip. With more than a little hesitation he drew her closer. He moved her slowly, steadily, until her rain-soaked form was fitted against his.

“Ember,” he said. Her name was like a siren song on his lips. She leaned into him. Her hands came up to his chest. She grasped his shirt, wanting to hear him speak again. As if he’d pulled the thought from her mind, he bent his head closer, whispering her name once more.

“Ember.” When he spoke, she could taste his breath, subtly sweetened by spiced wine. “Forgive me.”

She opened her mouth to answer and his lips touched hers. As she fell into the kiss, she understood for the first time what her sister had spoken of when she warned against the celibacy of the Guard. No sensation could match that of Barrow’s mouth moving against hers. Ember twisted her fingers through his damp hair, pressing into him and parting her lips further. His tongue slipped into her mouth. When Alistair had grabbed her, smashing his face into hers and invading her mouth with his thrusting tongue, she’d never imagined that a kiss could provoke anything but disgust from her. Now she knew better. The heat coursing through her veins was intoxicating.

Ember clung to Barrow because all she wanted was to be closer to him, but also because she feared what would happen when they finally parted. His hand moved up her rib cage, and his thumb traced the outer curve of her breast. Her body quaked and a small sound emerged from her throat.

He pushed her away, gazing at her face. The fear building in her chest was mirrored in his eyes.

His skin had gone pale. As he dropped his hand from her side, Ember realized he’d taken her soft cry as an objection to his touch.

“Barrow.” She grabbed his wrist, closing her other hand over his fist. She placed their joined hands against the damp skin above her breastbone. “I—”

She wanted to tell him that her lips were still warm from his kiss. That her body craved more than the skimming caresses he’d barely given it. Ember stood looking up at him, clutching his fist to her chest, unsure how to voice the tumult of revelations that filled her mind.

He returned her gaze, freeing his hand but only to twine his fingers through hers. They stared at each other, breathing hard, neither of them speaking. His other hand came up to stroke her cheek. Then he slid his fingers to the nape of her neck, drawing her close. She lifted her face, lips parting to welcome his kiss once more. But the kiss never came.

A piercing scream ripped through the heavy veil of rain. Barrow and Ember jumped apart. In the next moment they were running through the blinding downpour toward the sound, pushing through brambles and brush as another scream and then another rose in the night.

THIRTY

“HURRY!” BARROW CALLED
over his shoulder as he stormed toward the village. Ember was falling behind, though her lungs felt about to burst from the effort she put into her pace.

The screams were horrible. Agonizing. Unceasing. Despite her shrieking instincts, which begged her to turn and flee, Ember ran toward the sounds of torment. Shadows were closing in around her. Torches and campfires that had kept the forest lit with the subtle glow of flame had been drowned by the rain.

Barrow’s long legs carried him through the woods faster than Ember could manage. She could barely see him through the maze of trees and blinding downpour. Each moment seemed darker than the last, as if night itself manifested into a living thing bent on smothering her.

She was almost to the village, she thought, but she’d now completely lost sight of him.

“Barrow!” she shouted. “Sorcha! Alistair!”

Whatever was happening, she hoped it was something they’d face as a united front, particularly since her only weapon was a dagger she’d secreted into her dress pocket. Out of the corner of her eye, Ember saw a tall shadow rise up, slithering from behind a tree trunk. Though her sense told her it was only her mind playing tricks, her body jolted to a stop and turned.

As she stared, the shadow continued to come toward her. Ember couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. What was this thing?

The creature had no flesh. Its form was utterly composed of shadow, or perhaps ink-black smoke—it gave off an acrid odor of burning and decay. In the darkness it was nearly invisible; only the constant movement of its ephemeral body gave away its presence.

Ember drew her dagger, already questioning whether something not made of flesh and bone could be injured by a blade. The sinister form slunk closer, dark tendrils snaking out to grasp her. She had lifted her hand to strike it when the shadow creature suddenly billowed up, as if it were hesitating.