Shana Abe (28 page)

“And if I wish to discuss our marriage, then I am also disagreeable to you.”

“Since there is no marriage to discuss,” she retorted, “then yes.”

“And if I wish to discuss the fulfillment of the legend, then—”

“Why are you here?” she interrupted.

Marcus tilted his head, gave her a piercing look. “I am here to be disagreeable, obviously.”

“You are succeeding.”

“It’s nice to know I’m succeeding at something.” He moved away from the window and went over to the lamp, picking it up, studying the flame.

“I thought I could do it,” he said to the light after a moment. “I thought I could give you time, but I’m beginning to think that I can’t.”

She felt a strange tenderness as she watched him, the flame only complimenting his features, the strong profile, a rakish lock of ebony hair falling over his brow. She wanted to brush back his hair for him. She wanted to touch him. It almost hurt her, how much she wished she could do this simple thing.

“I just want to go to sleep,” she heard herself saying softly.

“Sleeping is easier than fighting, isn’t it?” he asked, again with that small smile.

She couldn’t reply to this; the tenderness melted away to annoyance that he seemed to defeat whatever she said with his unconventional reasoning. She walked over to him and took the lamp from his hands, placing it firmly on the table again.

“My lord, I will thank you to leave now.”

He looked up and met her eyes squarely amid the dancing shadows.

Avalon, truelove, come to bed with me.

Her mouth fell open at the surprise of it, the clarity of his thought deliberately reaching out to her, penetrating her, the force of his desire almost paralyzing her.

He watched her back up in halting steps, shaking her head now, a denial of his invitation or the entire experience, he couldn’t tell.

She turned away from him then and was almost running for the door, anything to get away from him. But he had to stop her, he couldn’t let her go like this—not like this, afraid and appalled, when all he had meant to do was bring her into his life and worship her.

Without thought, Marcus took the short steps needed to catch up with her in the hallway, reached out and caught her arm, meaning to say something to make her understand—

His arm was taken and turned and the world flipped around him in a dizzy streak, until he found himself lying on his back on the floor, staring up at Avalon framed against the sharp arch of the ceiling.

Her hands were still on his arm. She was pale, breathing hard, and looked as stunned as he felt.

“I’m sorry,” she said, releasing him. “I didn’t mean to. I just …”

She backed away from him, shaking her head again, no more words, and then she was gone back into her room, slamming the door shut.

Behind him came a low chuckle.

Marcus sat up, wincing, and didn’t bother to look at Balthazar.

“I have heard, Kincardine, that patience is listed as a virtue.”

Bal came over to where he sat on the stone floor, and continued, “Perhaps you should consider adding a virtue or two to your soul. I believe you would find it most beneficial.” He held out his hand, pulled Marcus to his feet. “In the meantime, I have an excellent salve for your head.”

“It is not my head,” Marcus replied, “which particularly hurts.”

“Ah,” said Bal. “I have no salve for wounded pride.”

They began to move off down the hall, Marcus rubbing his head. “I was actually referring to a different portion of my anatomy.”

And Bal, who would never mistake his meaning, laughed again. “I have no salve for wounded hearts, either.”

T
wo more days passed under a haze of fog that blanketed the castle and the lands. Avalon moved her lessons indoors, with plenty of helpers to push aside the benches and tables of the great hall and make room for
her pupils. She now had, in addition to the children, six men and two women, one of which was Ellen. Others still clustered close to watch, commenting to each other on what they saw, even applauding some of the youngsters when they mastered a difficult move.

It was pleasing in some indefinable way, watching the people grow and adapt to what she taught them, watching them learn for pleasure what she had learned for self-defense.

Marcus still studied her while she taught, although he made no move to join in. But she knew he memorized what he saw. Avalon tried not to let it make her nervous. All he ever did was stare at her in that thoughtful way, with perhaps a shade of a dare in his stance.

And no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she sought to distract herself, what had happened the night he came to her room would not leave her thoughts. That clear, unvarnished message from his mind—more command than entreaty—that sweeping want from him, deliberately sent to her, would not fade. She had felt her knees buckle with the force of it. She had felt her own desire for him crash through her, even though she didn’t want it to. He must have known.

He watched her now with an intensity that she swore followed her wherever she went, even when he wasn’t in the room. He was not playing with her, he was deadly serious.

He had asked her—
asked
her—to marry him twice more in as many days, just plain words, no thoughts pushed into her mind, and each time she said no, he grew colder, more hostile.

She regretted hurting him, but worse than that, in a
hidden space of her heart was a kernel of what felt like fear.

She wanted to deny it. She wanted to believe she was fearless, but that was folly. Instinctively she knew she was not afraid
of
him, but rather
for
him.

Her rejections were having a dreadful effect on him, subtle things, perhaps only the chimera could see it. There was a tension in him now, the snake trying to awaken and burrow its way through the man to take over and handle matters in its own way.

She prayed the snake was weaker than Marcus. But looking at him, watching his coldness, the fear only grew. He was unhappy with her. He had allowed her to deny him up to now, but what if the next time would be the last, and the snake sprung up and convinced him that she should be subdued and bent to his will? What then? He was still his father’s son, after all.

Avalon tried not to think of it. But the laird kept vigil at her lessons, a mute witness to her every move, and she couldn’t help but consider what the next moment might bring. The future was becoming a foreboding thing.

Part of her wondered why she was still here. She had done her share for the Kincardines, after all. She had provided them with a future of bounty, she need not linger here. The battle training she offered now could stretch on forever, if she wished it to, but that was certainly not cause enough to entrench herself here at Sauveur.

And Ellen was coming far as steward. Soon she would be able to manage the estate without Avalon’s aid. It could be as short as a month, even. And then Avalon would be at perfect liberty to go, all of her obligations
fulfilled. She could leave both the man and the snake behind, to fight for his life as they would.

But no matter how often she plotted to leave, one face would intervene in her thoughts, one voice, challenging her to stay.

You belong to me.

She didn’t believe that. She didn’t belong to anyone. But he had found her weakness again, asking her the appeal of a nunnery. The answer was nothing. Not any longer. But what did that leave her?

Only Marcus, so magnificent that it terrified her.

His eyes, crystal blue, reaching out to capture her heart.

Come to bed with me.…

Avalon was resting in a charming room in a corner of the keep after an afternoon that had been particularly taxing. As a sort of childish reaction to his unspoken condemnation, she had chosen today to teach her pupils the flip she had used on him, and Marcus had acknowledged her jab with only the slant of one lifted eyebrow, as if it were nothing more than slightly droll. She was determined to ignore him devoting herself to her work, but it had drained her, leaving her now in weary repose on the cushioned bower.

Greer had first shown her this secluded chamber, claiming it was the sewing room of the mistresses of Sauveur. Avalon supposed this was why Greer had gone out of her way to take her here, but no matter. It couldn’t be that bad, Avalon thought, to acquiesce to the atmosphere of this room, no matter whose it was. The tapestries were light and lovely, scenes of unicorns and
seals and fair damsels. There was an enormous carpet covering the floor, worn thin in places but still beautiful, plush lavender and rose and blue flowers on a background of sea green. The fireplace had a mantel of pink marble laced with white.

But most wonderful of all, this room had almost an entire wall of windows, great long stretches of glass, each one ready to open and let in the outside.

And each window had pane upon pane of beveled glass—a rare luxury in any home, much less a remote Scottish castle—which transformed the courtyard into little vistas of the same milky fog in every square.

Avalon had no sewing to do here. She hated sewing, anyway. But it was refreshing just to lie back on the long cushion, eyes closed, listening to the quiet all around, the fog pressing up against the glass, secure in knowing that she could be inside but not afraid of shrinking walls.

Last night, unknown to all but her, she had even slept in here, gathering comfort from the hazy glow of the stars all around her whenever she awoke.

“Here, I think,” came a voice, shattering the calm Avalon had worked to create.

It was Nora, opening the door to the room, letting Marcus come in, a group of people behind him.

The chimera awoke at the sight of him, making Avalon sit up quickly.

Marcus paused when he saw her, then came forward again, a strange twist to his mouth.

“Avalon,” he said.

“What is it?” Her heart began to pound wildly, harder than even after her exercise this afternoon.

“I have news from Trayleigh,” Marcus said.

She sat there, waiting, her hand covering her heart as if to slow it.

“Your cousin Bryce has been killed in a hunt.”

The chimera shook its head, the lion’s mane flowing all around, a low growl that no one but she could hear.

“Really?” she said faintly.

“A stray arrow struck him, apparently. No one has claimed it, but it’s being treated as an accident. They’re saying it was most likely a poacher.” Marcus looked down at her and the peculiarity draping him became more pronounced, a wolfish look. “Warner inherited the title.”

Of course he did, Avalon realized. Without Bryce, Warner not only became the new Baron d’Farouche, but he also got Trayleigh. The lands.

It was too much for her to unravel at once. Bryce dead; Warner the new baron. Where did this leave her? What had happened to her plans for revenge? What should she do?

Warner would move swiftly now in pressing for her hand, she knew it without a doubt. As a baron he would have a great deal more personal power on his side, equal to that of Marcus. If Warner did contrive to win his claim for her, then the emissaries would be returning soon. And this time, they might bring an army with them.

Dear God, and these people would fight to the death for her, whether she wanted them to or not.

Marcus turned around and made a curt gesture to the group behind him. Avalon saw them retreat, closing the door to the room, leaving the two of them alone. The smoky light outside was fading rapidly.

“And there is more news,” said Marcus. “I am told that with the addition of his baronage, Warner is now more adamant than ever to win your hand.”

She lifted one shoulder in a graceful show of indifference, a deception to cover her alarm. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Marcus gave a disbelieving laugh. “Are you jesting? Of course it matters! He has the means now to offer a grand payment to the church, even more than he could have before, with his holdings in France.”

“But his documents could not be real, I’m certain my father never agreed to wed me to him—”

“I’m certain he didn’t agree, as well,” Marcus interrupted, cold. “But that is irrelevant. Warner will produce papers that appear genuine enough. And if there are discrepancies here and there, well, a few covert payments in gold will take care of that, won’t they?”

She stared up at him, the chimera within her now tangling and turning around her thoughts, still growling.

“The church is about to rule in favor of him.” Marcus moved closer to her, illuminated in what was left of the fog’s ghostly light, his eyes the color of frigid waters. “They will try to come back soon and take you.”

“I will not marry Warner,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. “You will not.”

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I need to think.”

“Think on this. We will be married tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, firm and icy.

Avalon stood up, faced down the twist of his mouth: the beginnings of the snake, she saw it now. Her nightmare was coming true before her eyes.