Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt Read online

  hitch in her voice and the bravado that seemed so much bluff,

  he had an impression of innocence caught in a trap.

  She lay very still, hiding in the darkness. He breathed deeply,

  scenting her in the warm room. She smelled of lemon and

  jasmine, and beneath that lay a hint of her own feminine scent.

  He wished she weren’t a slave and could choose a lover of her

  own volition. He wished he could rub his face against that warm,

  perfumed skin.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over on his side. “Don’t

  be afraid,” he said, more as a reminder to himself than a

  reassurance for her. “I meant what I said. You’re safe with me.”

  ***

  Sera lay awake in the dark, listening to the Outlander king’s

  breathing. The depth and the evenness of each breath had told

  her that he had fallen asleep half an hour ago, but she had to be

  certain before she took advantage of her sudden good luck.

  It was all her fault—from the very beginning. If she had

  not begged her grandfather to save the ferendi devil who lay

  dying outside the cliff walls, he would never have ordered the

  Outlander brought into Arkadia.

  After he’d recovered, the Outlander stole away in the night,

  bearing with him the Heart of Fire.

  Without the Heart of Fire, the kingdom was vulnerable to

  any tyrant seeking Arkadia’s destruction. Grandfather would

  have no recourse but to seal the kingdom shut forever on

  midwinter’s day. And Sera had no recourse now but to chase

  after the thief and return the ruby before Grandfather did so.

  Sera bit her lip. Only two months left! If she didn’t find the

  ruby by then, she’d be banished from the Hills forever. If only

  Hadar’s eunuchs hadn’t thought her Hill cloak a dirty rag and

  burned it, she could fly on the wind from this prison, and she

  would be searching even now for the ruby.

  The Outlander king still slept. His breathing had deepened

  and slowed into that state of dreamless relaxation when even

  the most aware cannot hear hushed footsteps in the darkness.

  She couldn’t spare time to think about this king, whose beautiful

  face outshone that of the Apollo standing in the Temple Square.

  It had been difficult not to respond to his beauty when she stood

  hidden by the wooden balcony screen. But up close, the man’s

  dark fringed, gray eyes had shimmered with something both

  frightening and compelling when he looked at her. It had to be

  fear that made her respond to his gaze with languid warmth in

  her belly and a strange weakness in her knees.

  Sera rolled into a crouch and rose to her feet. No more

  nonsensical thoughts, she scolded herself. It was past time to

  go.

  Glancing through the lacquered windows, she saw the moon

  dip behind a cloud and made her way, step by step, across the

  marble floor of the bedchamber. There would be a few sleepy

  guards outside, but she would simply say the king had dismissed

  her. The walk to the stables wouldn’t be a problem. Grandfather

  had taught her to blend as though she were a part of things.

  Muffled sounds came from the corridor—terrible sounds

  she had heard once before. Heart slamming erratically against

  her chest, Sera retreated into the room and shrank against the

  wall to the left of the door. She stood between the sleeping

  Outlander and the door, listening in horror to the low, choking

  sobs of the guards as they were killed. And then came a rustle

  of a key in the lock and the slow creak of the doorknob as it

  turned.

  The dim light in the corridor outlined the doorway well

  enough for Sera to see four figures dressed in black. A silent

  scream gathered in her throat, but she could not utter a sound as

  her worst nightmare crept into the room. She shrank against the

  wall, thinking only stillness, as Grandfather had taught.

  At that moment, the moon sailed out from behind the cloud,

  limning everything in silver. The men in black were slinking

  closer to the bed, intent, not even aware of her presence in the

  room.

  Run, run, she thought. The stable was less than three minutes

  away.

  The leader of the assassins was almost past her. She could

  hear his muffled breathing, smell the sweat of anticipation on

  him. He slowly made his way toward the bed, his knife raised

  and ready. She could leave in a moment more and be free. She

  could—

  “No!” The scream ripped its way from her throat.

  While the Outlander struggled up from sleep, Sera took a

  deep breath and hurled herself at the black clad leader who was

  closest to the Outlander’s bed. The vermin was solid and hard.

  A black hood shrouded his head. She struggled, biting the wrist

  that held the knife, but the man gripped her hair and pulled

  back hard, exposing her neck to the knife’s blade. Her eyes

  watered in agony at the cruel pressure on her scalp.

  Through the ringing in her ears came shouts and cries of

  pain. The Outlander king was a blur of motion and unleashed

  power. The door from his companion’s chamber crashed open.

  In the light pouring in, she saw the king slice through the men

  coming at them as though they weren’t even armed. She caught

  a gleam of concentration in his gray eyes, a glint of bright sword

  against her captor’s dark-clad side. The knife dropped from her

  throat, but as the man holding her went down, she felt the icy

  glide of steel through the flesh of her arm.

  The companion, sword raised, joined the fighting. Sera

  stood swaying in the darkness, while the king whirled,

  quicksilver swift, and cut down another assailant. Suddenly,

  there was no sound in the shadowed room but the scratch of

  tinder as the companion lit a lamp.

  “Hell, you’re not even breathing hard,” said the companion,

  rushing over to the king.

  “They didn’t touch me,” said the king, shrugging. “The girl

  sounded the warning and threw herself at the leader.”

  They both turned to Sera and stared at her. She stared back,

  her heart galloping unsteadily as the candle flame made swaying

  shadows on the wall behind them. The Outlander king really

  was strong, she realized muzzily, and his look could intimidate

  anyone. His gray eyes had gone the color of dark slate, and his

  mouth turned down in a fierce frown.

  Why was the man angry with her, she asked herself in a

  hazy sort of defensiveness. It was not fair. All she got from her

  good deed was the scorching heat of this giant’s glare.

  The king’s eyes were focused on her arm, she realized, not

  her. Looking down to see what had prompted his fury, Sera saw

  the blood coursing down from the slice across her arm right

  above her elbow. The thin silk of her skirt was already drenched

  with it.

  “It is nothing. A mere scratch,” she murmured. “Help me

  get to the stables, and you’ve paid your debt.”

  “It’s rather more than a scratch.” The king moved to her

  side, pulled off
his linen shirt and ripped it into strips. The blond

  one held her arm steady while the king wrapped the strips around

  the wound. Both men paid strict attention to their task, but

  ignored her weak protests completely.

  “The black uniforms, the masks—who else could they be

  but the bastards plaguing the border towns of Russia, as well?”

  asked the one called Andre.

  “That they would dare! And to do this to a woman . . ..”

  The king’s hands were gentle, but the bandage was

  uncomfortably tight.

  The Brotherhood. That was what they called themselves,

  the crazed religious zealots who preyed on the kingdoms of

  Beaureve and this king’s Laurentia—as though a word could

  make jackals seem like men of honor. They spewed hatred upon

  any of the people who worshipped in traditional prayer houses

  with those litanies the Brotherhood found offensive. Outlanders!

  Never in a million years would she understand their antipathies,

  their brutality.

  “Hadar betrayed us,” the blond one was saying. “He must

  have given them access to your room.”

  “Hadar’s a fool and a coward. He could have had an ally,

  but instead all he’s gained is an enemy.” The king went to the

  door, dragging her along with him, holding her close to his side

  as though he did not wish to let her go. His naked chest was

  dense with muscle, damp and heated from the battle, and very,

  very solid. She had a sudden absurd desire to rest her head

  against the springy scattering of black hair growing there. The

  blood loss had obviously affected her brain. She looked into

  the hallway as he pulled her forward within the circle of his

  muscled arm. Several guards in Iman Hadar’s gold and red tunics

  lay dead outside the door.

  The king returned to the room, still holding her steady with

  one large hand on her shoulder.

  “Nikki.” The companion threw the king a shirt. He shrugged

  into it and then pulled her back against him. Sera swayed,

  grateful for the support.

  “He’s in league with them all right, but we’ll never prove

  it,” the king said. “These guards died fighting to protect us, so

  he’s got his claim of innocence. But it’s the courtesan we must

  thank. She alone saved us.”

  Courtesan! Of all the stupid, illogical, Outlander

  assumptions! Sera felt the room spin out of control. She sank

  sideways against the Outlander, and the whirlpool sucked her

  into the dizzying darkness.

  ***

  Nicholas felt the woman slump against him and swept her

  up into his arms. At the same time, he heard the heavy footsteps

  of several soldiers in a dead run toward his door.

  “Damn, this just gets better and better.” Andre lunged

  forward to shut the door.

  “Wait. It’s Hadar, come to view the bodies. I want to see his

  face when he sees which ones lie in this room.”

  Iman Hadar rushed forward at the center of a troop of his

  guards. He wrung his plump hands as he passed the guards lying

  dead in the corridor, his silken shoes making slippery shuffles

  on the marble floor. As Hadar got closer, Nicholas held the

  woman tighter against his chest.

  He looked down at the slave. She was very small in his

  arms. The veil fluttered loose, revealing her face. She was, quite

  simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Long lashes,

  blond at the root and darker, like bronze at the tips, curled against

  her cheeks. Her nose was small and straight and her lips were

  full, soft, and naturally inclined to curve just a little into a half

  smile. For some strange reason, she looked oddly familiar, but

  his first concern was her pallor. He knew how much blood she

  had lost, and she might even now be dying from it.

  He bit his lip, awash in guilt. While he had been dreaming

  of her, she had faced death alone.

  “We leave now,” said Nicholas, purposefully fixing Hadar

  with a look that made stronger men than Hadar quail before

  him.

  Hadar’s fat face took on an expression of distress and fear,

  Nicholas noted. He bloody well should look fearful, for Nicholas

  was seriously thinking of starting a border war with the turncoat.

  “Truly, I don’t know how this terrible thing could have

  happened, my friend,” said Hadar in a soothing voice. “Surely

  you will allow me to make some reparation for this outrage,

  both to you and to my honor as master of this palace. Name

  what you wish, and it will be yours.”

  Nicholas’s lips curled in distaste. “Your slave,” he said.

  “Were it not for her, I’d be dead, and my council would vote for

  war against Jehanna. I wish her papers, immediately.”

  Hadar clapped his hands twice, and a servant scurried out

  of the room, bowing as he left. A short time later, the servant

  returned, bearing the bill of sale for the woman. Andre accepted

  it and gathered their belongings, for Nicholas would not let go

  of the woman.

  “Surely there must be something else you wish from me,”

  wheedled a still frightened Iman Hadar. “Jewels? Spices? The

  brightest, most delicate silk and fine porcelain from the China

  trade? Name it, and help me to erase this shame upon my

  reputation.”

  Nicholas felt a weak tug on his shirt. The woman’s eyes

  were open, blue and limpid as a spring sky. He bent his head to

  her bloodless lips.

  “In the stables, there is a blood red chestnut with flaxen

  mane and tail. Take him, for there is no finer horse in your

  kingdom, or any other in your world.”

  Nicholas froze in place for one moment, intently studying

  the woman in his arms. He nodded sharply and gave his demand

  to Hadar, who reddened, but nevertheless gave a command to

  fetch the stallion. Nicholas stalked down the corridor, now

  surrounded by his men, who had gathered at the door of his

  chamber while he spoke with Hadar.

  The little concubine lay trustingly against his chest. At the

  base of his neck, his skin rippled with a small shiver. Here was

  a mystery within a mystery, a Hill slave who spoke with the

  cool, pleasing accent of a noblewoman—in Nicholas’s language.

  When Nicholas reached the stable yard he stopped dead in

  his tracks. The Hill woman had spoken truthfully. Torches

  rimmed the area, and in the flickering light stood a magnificent

  stallion. The chestnut reared, striking out at the grooms who

  were straining at the ropes they held. He let out a scream of

  rage, pawed the air again, dropped with lightning swiftness and

  lunged to the left, snaking his head as he attempted to bite a

  shouting groom.

  “It’s obviously my lucky day,” Nicholas said to Andre. “My

  plans for unity are destroyed, but I’m now the fortunate owner

  of a rogue horse and a slave who orders me about like the kitchen

  boy.”

  The woman stirred in his arms. In a voice filled with urgency

  and insistence, she said, “He is no rogue to a man who deals

  wi
th him properly.”

  Nicholas’s lips quirked upward. “My apologies,

  Mademoiselle.” He grinned at Andre. “One out of two, anyway.”

  “Kindly quit dithering and take me to him.” The slave’s

  voice was sharp. “Quickly, for I have little strength.”

  Nicholas startled himself by obeying the woman’s arrogant

  order. Slowly, carefully, he carried her toward the horse. As

  Nicholas approached with the woman in his arms, the tall stallion

  sniffed the air, tossed his golden mane and turned to stare straight

  at them. By the time he’d reached the horse, it had settled quietly

  enough for the woman to hold her hand right beneath its nose.

  The stallion sniffed, bowed its head and turned as docile as an

  elderly maiden aunt.

  “Tzirah,” whispered the slave, smoothing her palm over its

  muzzle and up its cheek. “Beautiful boy.”

  “Tzirah?” said Nicholas.

  “His name. It means Wind Rider. You must help me mount,

  and then swing up behind me. I take it you are not quite a novice

  rider?”

  “Didn’t they teach you to soothe a man’s pride in Hadar’s

  concubine academy?” muttered Nicholas, lifting the woman

  onto the horse’s back, where she swayed and sucked in her

  breath.

  “They may have taught, but I chose to ignore that lesson.”

  The stallion wore no saddle and only a halter. Taking a deep

  breath, Nicholas swung himself up behind her and gathered her

  close to his body as the horse began to prance. She slumped

  against him and sighed, then patted the bay, whispering soothing

  words in the Hill tongue. The horse stood at rest, its ears pricked

  forward.

  Andre mounted and moved his stallion up beside Nicholas.

  His men urged their horses forward until they flanked their king

  and waited, eager, Nicholas knew, to be gone from this place

  and across the border before dawn. Nicholas took another deep

  breath and gathered the ropes of the halter in his left hand. His

  right arm encircled the woman, pulling her closer against him.

  He nodded once and squeezed the stallion into a slow canter.

  With a clatter of hooves, they passed through the high gate of

  the palace, leaving Iman Hadar and his treachery behind them.

  ***

  When they crossed the border into Laurentia, Nicholas