Tomorrow's Kingdom (21 page)

Persephone gave a shiver of pleasure at his kiss
and
at the feel of his broad chest pressed against her back. “What a clever husband you are,” she sighed contentedly as she resumed licking honey off her fingers.

Azriel chuckled. “Perhaps it will be
you
who pushes
me
on the swing hung from the low branch of the oak tree by our little thatch-roofed cottage.”

“Perhaps, but only if you promise to feed the chickens,” she said.

“Very well, but I draw the line at tending the garden,” said Azriel, his breath warm against the back of her neck. Wrapping one arm across her chest to hug her closer still, he gently slid his free hand down to rest against her belly before continuing. “Ah, what a life we shall have together, you and I, with pigs enough to keep us in bacon and sausages all winter and grain enough to make our bread and beer. Sturdy homespun shirts, a warm bed, music and laughter—and the knowledge that it will all be there tomorrow and for a thousand tomorrows thereafter.”

“That would be nice,” murmured Persephone, smiling at the inexpressibly seductive picture he painted. Then her smile faded as she realized that now was the time to tell Azriel that such a life would not be possible, even supposing that she did manage to survive the fight for the throne. “It
would
be nice,” she repeated, more hesitantly this time. “Only—”

The words abruptly flying out of her head, Persephone inhaled sharply and sat bolt upright.

Azriel was on his feet with sword in hand before she'd finished gasping. “What is it? What's wrong?” he demanded, his gaze sweeping the darkness.

“Shh!” said Persephone, flapping her hand at him. Cocking her head to one side, she concentrated very hard. Then she exclaimed, “There it is again!”

“There
what
is again?” cried Azriel, who was almost hopping with agitation.

“The baby,” she breathed, beaming up at him. “I've felt him move at last!”

For a moment, Azriel just gaped at her, looking nearly as dazed as the Khan Ghengor had looked after taking the dull edge of a battle-axe to the side of the head. Then, letting the sword slip from his hand, he fell to his knees. Using his arm for support, Persephone pulled herself up so she was kneeling beside him. Reaching for his hand, she pressed it firmly against her belly, held her breath and waited for it to come again—that ping that felt
exactly
like the stamp of a tiny foot or the punch of a tiny fist.

It came again almost at once.

“There!” cried Persephone. “Did you feel that?”

Azriel shook his head. Determined that he should share in the wonder of the moment, Persephone pressed his hand more firmly against her belly.

The ping came again and again and again.

“Did you feel that—or that, or that?” she asked.

“No!” said Azriel with mounting frustration. “I can't feel anything. Are you sure—”

“I'm sure,” she said.

Feeling more excited
and
calmer than she'd ever felt in
her life, Persephone sat back on her heels and let her gaze drift from the fire to the velvety darkness of the forest around her.

Then she gasped again.

“What is it?” murmured Azriel, his gaze never leaving her beautiful face. “Is it the baby? Did you feel him move again?”

“I did, but it is not that,” she replied in a low voice. “It is, uh,
that
.”

Without lifting her hand, she raised her index finger and pointed at the pair of yellow eyes that glittered in the darkness just beyond the firelight.

Yellow eyes that were unblinkingly fixed upon her.

Yellow eyes that, judging by the size of them, belonged to the kind of beast one generally preferred not to encounter.

Ever.

Slowly—so as not to provoke an attack—Azriel picked up his bow, which was the obvious weapon of choice under the circumstances. Rising to his feet, he pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back, notched it and took aim.

The beast snarled wetly.

At the sound, Persephone's heart gave a wild thump. “
DON
'
T
SHOOT
!” she cried, giving the tail of Azriel's bow such a yank that the arrow pierced the heart of the fire instead of the spot between the beast's glittering yellow eyes.

“What the hell are you
doing
?” bellowed Azriel, jerking the bow out of her hand.

With breathtaking swiftness, he reached for another arrow. Before he could get it notched, however, the beast in the darkness had launched itself straight at Persephone.

The next instant, she was laughing and hugging Cur for all he was worth, while Azriel wheezed and clutched at his chest as though he was having a heart attack.

“Irresponsible … irresponsible doesn't even
begin
to describe—”

“Please don't be mad—” began Persephone.

“
PLEASE
DON
'
T
BE
MAD
?” shouted Azriel. “For gods' sakes, what if it hadn't been your infernal dog, Persephone? What if it had been something else—something that wanted to
eat
you and the baby?”

Persephone narrowed her eyes at him. “But it
wasn't
something that wanted to eat me and the baby,” she flashed. “I
knew
it wasn't something that wanted to eat me and the baby—I recognized the snarl. So I'll thank
YOU
to stop shouting at me, unless you're looking for a taste of your own medicine!”

As if to punctuate this rebuke, Cur jerked his big, furry head toward Azriel and began barking in such a frenzied manner that the startled Gypsy yelped and leapt backward. The leap caused him to stumble over his pack. He spent several seconds frantically windmilling his arms in an effort to recover his balance before losing the battle and landing with a mighty thump on his backside.

Azriel looked so utterly outraged to find himself sitting in the dirt that Persephone not only forgot her anger of a moment earlier but was filled with such hilarity that she did not know if she'd be able to contain it. She did contain
it, however—at least, well enough to be able to choke out, “So, um, how is your manly pride?”

“Wounded!”

“And your backside?”

“Also wounded!”

Biting her lip to keep from smiling, Persephone gently pushed Cur to one side and crawled over to where her scowling husband sat huffing and muttering under his breath. Draping her arms about his neck, she pressed her forehead against his and murmured, “I know that Cur is sorry—”

They both looked over at the dog, who silently bared his teeth at Azriel.

“And though I cannot regret having prevented you from killing him, perhaps my actions
were
irresponsible,” admitted Persephone. “I'm sorry if they frightened you.”

Wrapping his arms tightly around her, Azriel said, “I'm sorry too. I should not have shouted at you. But your actions
did
frighten me, Persephone—they frightened me terribly. I have the tribe, but you and the baby are the only family I've got. I could not bear to lose you.”

“I know, don't worry,” she murmured, wondering how on earth she was going to tell him about the promise that could cost him
everything
. “Instead, why don't you let me drag you into the hollow of that tree? I know you intend to spend the night protecting me and the baby from the beasts of the forest, but Cur can stand guard for a measure. And as it happens, I
have
been harbouring secret plans to have my way with you …”

TWENTY-SIX

M
ORDECAI'S FURY
would have known no bounds if he'd had any inkling that the one he called “cockroach” was being transported to dizzying heights of pleasure at the very same instant that he, himself, was being plunged low by a devastating setback.

“It appears that your noble father did not heed your advice to stay where he was and do nothing to raise the suspicions of my general,” said Mordecai, without lifting his gaze from the dirty parchment clutched tight in his gnarled hands.

“
WHAT
DO
YOU
MEAN
?” shrieked Lord Atticus in terror.

Mordecai pursed his lips. The noble ninny had not made such a spectacle of himself since the night he'd been shown what real torture was. Even then, once he'd reconciled himself to betraying his father, received a goblet of wine that did not contain a nose and been assured that he'd henceforth be treated as befitted his noble station, he'd perked up considerably.

Now he was back to being a blubbering worm, and Mordecai was in no mood for his histrionics. For days now, Mordecai had been eagerly awaiting word that Lord Bartok and his insufferable little shrew of a daughter were dead—and with them, any possibility that the nobility of the realm would have the cause or strength to oppose him. That Queen Persephone had slipped through his fingers and eluded his trackers alternately filled Mordecai with rage and twisted his guts into knots. However, he no longer considered the loss of her an impediment to his goal of becoming king. He was done trying to show the world that he did not need to resort to brute force to triumph over his betters. He had the largest standing army in the realm: he would take the throne by force, and all would bend the knee or suffer the consequences.

All that was needed was the swift elimination of the one person in the realm who had the strength, daring and motivation to raise an army strong enough to take on his New Men.

Unfortunately, instead of receiving word that Lord Bartok had been killed, Mordecai received this hastily scrawled note informing him that Bartok had taken control of the imperial capital, Murdock had not been seen in days, and all but a handful of the realm's noblemen had abandoned the city and were rumoured to be gathering their sworn swords at Bartok Estate.

“I
told
you my father would not be fooled by that letter we sent!” cried Lord Atticus shrilly, pounding the dining table with his soft fist.

“You told me no such thing,” snapped Mordecai, who'd suspected that the letter would not fool Bartok but who'd hoped it would delay him long enough to give Murdock a chance to murder him.

“Well,
I
knew he wouldn't be fooled!” amended Atticus wildly, knocking over his goblet in his haste to reach for the wine jug. “My lord father thinks me an utter buffoon and always has—he would never believe me capable of the feats I'd claimed! And now your idiot general has gone and gotten himself killed—”

“It seems likely,” muttered Mordecai.

“It is an absolute
certainty
!” screeched Atticus, clumsily righting his goblet before sloshing more wine into it from the jug that he held in his violently shaking hand. “My father has killed him—just as he will kill me when he finds me—just as he will kill you when he finds you! Unless … unless—”

“Unless what?” said Mordecai irritably.

Hope bloomed on the young lord's fleshy face; his whiney voice dripped with it. “Unless the letter is a fake, just like the letter we sent to my father?” he asked. “Do you think maybe it might be—do you think that perhaps your general yet holds my father captive—”

“No,” said Mordecai flatly. “Even if the words did not have the unmistakable ring of truth to them, the fact is that if the city gates were yet sealed no one but my general would have been able to get a letter to me. That I received a letter at all tells me that Murdock has lost control of the city. That he has lost control of the city tells me that he is probably dead, for he is the kind who'd sooner fight to the death than fail in his duty.”

At these words, Lord Atticus's face crumpled with a disappointment so profound that he looked to be, in very truth, on the verge of blubbering. Mordecai regarded him with abject disgust. As he did so, it occurred to him that Lord Atticus was sitting in the very same chair Queen Persephone would have occupied if they'd gotten as far as dinner on their last night together. Without warning, Mordecai's heart swelled at the memory of her standing still as a portrait at the threshold of the dining hall—her creamy skin aglow, her ripe young body all but spilling out of her gown, the intoxicating scent of her wafting through the air toward him. Then, just as suddenly, he recalled the horrified expression on her face when he'd informed her that they were to be married. At this bitter memory, his heart shrivelled. For the thousandth time, he told himself that the only reason he was unhappy that she'd vanished into thin air was because his hope of finding the healing pool had vanished with her. He reminded himself that the queen had ever been a meddling complication and that he was well rid of her. He assured himself that when he became king in his own right, he'd have his choice of women and that he'd not need to settle for some gutter-reared tribal broodmare who was about as much of a queen as he was a—