Secret Heart (5 page)

The ride
to the inn did not take long, but by the time they reached the
stable yard behind the main building, Jenia was fully aware of the
muscles in Roarke’s firm thighs and in his finely shaped upper
body. He wasn’t bulky in the way her jailors had been muscular,
with bulging arms and ridiculously broad and hairy chests displayed
under open leather jerkins. Roarke was decently covered and, though
he gave the appearance of being slim, every inch of him that she
could feel was taut and hard, with no hint of any excess
flesh.

Again
blessedly unlike her jailors, he was clean. The good smell of a
healthy male mingled pleasantly with the odors of leather and
horse, and with the fresh, tang of keshan wood that she had noticed
earlier on his cloak. Enfolded as she still was in that same cloak,
she was surrounded by keshan and the gentler scent of sweet
gallinum. The combination of the wood and the herb and the strength
of Roarke’s arms made her feel safe.

She knew
that reaction was unbelievably foolish on her part. Roarke was
prepared to lead her into danger. She doubted if she would live
much longer, probably no more than a day or two after she reached
Calean City. The imminence of her death hadn’t mattered to her, not
if she could right the terrible wrong that had been done and secure
both vengeance and justice. Once her goal had been achieved, she’d
have nothing left to live for.

Still, during the brief ride with Roarke,
while her cheek pressed against his muscular shoulder and his arms
held her fast, she dared to wish that she could find another way
and, perhaps, manage to live just a little longer. She would like
to know what Roarke would do after he learned the entire truth.

When they reached the inn, Roarke followed
Garit to the stableyard in back. As soon as his friend dismounted,
Roarke handed Jenia down to Garit with a grim look at her that told
her he was eager to be rid of her. To complete her discomfiture,
the stableboy came forward to take charge of the horses. Suspicion
filled his youthful face as he beheld her tangled hair and bare
feet.

“
The lad
will think we’re taking Jenia to our room for a session of bed
sport,” Garit muttered to Roarke.

“
That
impression will serve as well as any other and will likely cause
little comment. If you want to pay him for his silence, do so,”
Roarke added before Garit could protest the slur on his beloved
Chantal’s virtue. “Then find out if any new guests have arrived
today and if so, who they are.”

He put a
hand on Jenia’s waist to keep her with him and headed for the back
door. Stepping carefully to avoid the usual stable yard debris,
Jenia went along in silence. She was convinced that bed sport was
the very last thing Roarke wanted from her. For the first time in
her life the knowledge that she was not alluring to men produced a
sense of regret. For just a moment she wondered how it would feel
to be embraced by Roarke with tenderness, and perhaps to be kissed
by him.

She knew it was never going to happen, so she
thrust the brief, foolish daydream away and concentrated instead on
her surroundings. In case of attack she needed to know just where
she was and how to escape. She began by surveying the stableyard,
which was enclosed on all sides by buildings, the only entrance
being the archway through which they had arrived.

“
Come
along,” Roarke said, pulling open the door. “Don’t dawdle. The
fewer people who notice you, the fewer questions we’ll be
asked.”

Jenia was not disposed to quarrel with his
assessment and she wanted questions no more than Roarke did, so she
did not linger in the yard.

Once
inside the inn they mounted a narrow staircase to the third floor,
then headed down a short corridor to Roarke’s room. Jenia
understood at once why he had chosen that particular chamber, and
she was sure he had made the decision, and not Garit. One small
window looked out on the road. A second window at the opposite side
of the room overlooked the stableyard. Thus, Roarke enjoyed a clear
view of the comings and goings of the inn’s customers.

From the
room’s location Jenia guessed it was at the uppermost level of a
later addition to the original building. It looked clean and
recently swept, though the furnishings were sparse. A good-sized
bed, a wooden stool, a small table on which sat a basin for washing
and a clay oil lamp were the only amenities. A row of wooden pegs
protruded from one wall, with a man’s linen undershirt hanging from
one of the pegs.

“
You will
want hot water,” Roarke said, tossing his saddlebags on the bed.
“Stay here. I’ll see to it.”

She
didn’t object to his cool, brisk manner. Nor did she ask who would
sleep in the bed that night. She gathered Roarke’s cloak around her
and sank down upon the stool as if she planned to wait patiently
for his return.

“
Don’t
leave this room,” he ordered. “You will be safe here.”

As soon as he was gone she rose from the
stool and began to pace from one window to the other, peering out
of each as she passed it. Thanks to several cups of water from the
stream, the bread and raspberries she had consumed, and the
unexpectedly peaceful nap with Garit keeping watch over her, the
last of her earlier confusion was gone. She knew who and what she
was, and where her duty lay.

The
mountains weren’t as far away as she had thought, which meant Thury
Castle wasn’t far, either, perhaps a day’s ride to the north. Thury
guarded one of the two passes large enough to allow an invading
army into Sapaudia from the Dominion. In peaceful times merchants
and travelers used the pass, but the days of peace had ended when
Gundolam the Great conquered most of the eastern tribes and forged
them into the Dominion.

Four
years ago, Gundolam’s grandson, Gundiac, had become Domini in the
same way his father had succeeded to the throne; by killing
his
father. That was the
way of the eastern tribes. When word of the murder reached
Sapaudia, King Henryk ordered the two bridges over the Nalo River
destroyed and the mountain passes closed. Since then only a few
desperate smugglers and the occasional spy crept through the
passes. Thury remained a major barrier to invasion in the south, as
did Catherstone Castle, which guarded the northern pass.

Jenia moved away from the window when Roarke
returned bearing a large jug of steaming water, a bowl of soap, and
a towel, all of which he crowded onto the table. He was followed
into the room by a maid who brought a serviceable brown wool dress,
a linen headscarf, and a pair of well-worn shoes.

“
Bring up
the food as soon as it’s prepared,” he said to the maidservant. She
nodded and, after a curious look in Jenia’s direction, she departed
without asking any awkward questions.

“
You may
use my comb,” Roarke said, pulling a wooden comb from his
saddlebag. “While you bathe, I will wait outside to make certain
you are not disturbed.”

She washed her face and hands quickly, before
the water cooled in the basin. Then she bent her head and scrubbed
her hair as best she could. She wanted more and hotter water; she
yearned for a huge tub filled with hot water and scented soap, with
pitchers of still more warm water to rinse her hair, and clean
linen towels for drying.

“
Haven’t
you learned not to wish for the impossible?” she exhorted herself.
“Any hot water at all is more than you ever enjoyed in the dungeon.
Be grateful that the ocean washed away so much of the
grime.”

When her hair was reasonably clean she dumped
the dirty water out the window into the stable yard, then refilled
the basin and used the last of the hot water to clean herself from
the waist down. And then, with the water almost cold, she washed
her linen shift until the salt and sand were rinsed from it. She
wrung it out and draped it over two of the wall pegs. If they
remained at the inn until morning, which she rather thought they
would, since it was growing dark outside, then the shift ought to
be dry and it would prevent the coarse wool of the gown Roarke had
brought from scratching her skin.

Finally, unwillingly, she took up the gown
and inspected it. The shapelessness of its high necked, long
sleeved design and the poor quality of the wool would provide a
good disguise. Nobles rarely looked directly at ordinary folk,
anyway. She did wonder for a moment about fleas or lice hiding in
the folds.

“
Oh, you
foolish girl,” she murmured, “when did you become so particular?
How long has it been since you wore silk? Considering what you are
planning to do, a few small bugs can scarcely matter.” With a shrug
she donned the simple garment, then set to work combing and
braiding her hair.

She had just finished when Roarke called
through the door to tell her that their evening meal had arrived
and that Garit was famished.

The food was plain, and simply served. Garit
removed the pitcher and basin from the table and pulled it closer
to the bed. The maid reappeared to set a tray on the table, then
departed. Meanwhile, Roarke lit the oil lamp. They ate sitting in a
row on the edge of the bed, sharing a single bowl of hot stew, a
loaf of crusty bread that Garit broke apart with his hands, and a
small pitcher of wine.

Jenia
discovered that she was ravenously hungry, but she heeded Roarke’s
earlier advice to eat slowly and sparingly.

“
Now,”
Roarke said, pulling out his knife, “I think it’s time to
talk.”

“
What are
you going to do?” Jenia cried, staring at the knife in alarm. She
could feel the blood draining from her face.

Roarke looked from the blade to her, and then
to two apples sitting still untouched on the tray.

“
I’m
going to slice these, so we can share them,” he said, frowning at
her. “What did you think I was going to do?”

“
Cut the
apples, of course,” she murmured, embarrassed by her overly
emotional response to a routine action.

“
If I
were planning to hurt you,” Roarke said, his assessing gaze still
on her face, “would I waste good coins on hot water and soap and a
gown for you before I hack you into pieces? Do I look to you like
the kind of villain who prefers his victims clean and properly
dressed?”

“
I am
sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“
It’s all
right,” Garit assured her. “Only last night you escaped death in
the sea. Now you have no memory. I’m not surprised that you are
easily alarmed. But truly, Jenia, we mean you no harm.”

He patted
her on the shoulder, but Jenia scarcely noticed the comforting
gesture. Her thoughts were elsewhere, lost in a dark and moldy
dungeon, where a man’s eating knife was raised high, to slash
downward into human flesh while she was made to watch, confined by
strong hands so she was helpless to stop the gleaming descent of
cruel and undeserved death.

“
Jenia?
What’s wrong?” Garit shook her gently.

Jenia gasped, then clutched at his right
wrist as if to stay any further motion of his hand.

“
My dear
lady, speak to us,” Garit urged.

“
I just –
a memory,” she stuttered. “It was a glimpse of a scene.”

“
What
memory?” Roarke demanded. “What scene?” Unlike Garit, who appeared
to be genuinely concerned about her, Roarke looked at her with cold
eyes and a set face, as if he thought she was lying.

“
It’s
gone now,” she said.

“
Is it
really?” Roarke’s voice dripped disbelief.

“
For just
an instant,” she explained, “my memory cleared and I saw a knife
like yours. That’s why I reacted as I did when you pulled out your
blade.”

“
Indeed?
What was the knife in your memory doing?” Roarke asked, still
sounding as if he didn’t believe her.

“
Murder,”
she said with a shiver she could not control. “The knife was used
for murder.”

“
Dear
heaven,” Garit gasped. He put an arm around her shoulders and would
have pulled her close, but Jenia threw up one hand to hold him off
and he immediately drew away from her. “Forgive me. I know I have
no right to touch you. It’s just that you look so much like my dear
Chantal. If she were in such distress, I would want to offer what
comfort I could.”

“
I
understand,” Jenia said. “You meant well. There is nothing to
forgive.”

“
Have you
quite recovered?” Roarke asked her. “May I cut and eat the apples
now?”

“
Roarke,
you are the most heartless man I know,” Garit told him.

“
No,”
Jenia said. “He’s not heartless. He just doesn’t believe
me.”

“
I do
not,” Roarke said, and sliced the first apple clean
through.

“
What I
have told you is true,” she insisted, fighting the certainty that
he could see through her as easily as he saw the carved-out core of
the apple that he was now quartering and dividing yet again to make
eight neat slices. When he looked at her with raised brows as if to
demand an explanation, she decided to attack. She had almost
forgotten how to do that. She’d been meek and mild for much too
long. “You promised to describe to me what you will want me to do
in Calean City,” she reminded him in a cold and arrogant voice that
perfectly matched his.

“
So I
did.” His look was kinder now. Spearing one of the apple slices on
the tip of his knife, he offered it to her. She took it without
hesitation, and he smiled when she put the slice into her mouth.
“Courageous lady,” he said.