Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt Read online

breathed easier. Home. Even the air smelled cleaner, sweeter.

  He raised his arm high in the dawn’s light, signaling his men to

  halt. He then shifted the limp burden in his arms and ran a hand

  across his face. His eyelids felt gritty from lack of sleep and the

  dust from the road, but his body was curiously relaxed, as though

  he had ridden for an hour rather than most of the night. Aside

  from the warm sweetness of the woman between his thighs, it

  was the stallion, of course, that made the difference. Nicholas

  had never felt such an easy, ground-covering stride.

  In his arms, the slave woman moaned and stirred. Nicholas

  looked down. Her eyes were open but glassy with pain. She

  moaned again, pushing away from him. The horse stiffened and

  lunged to the side. Nicholas gave the halter a tug and prayed it

  would be enough to control the skittish power carrying them.

  “We need to find her a doctor,” Andre said in a worried

  voice. “She’ll do herself some damage.”

  “We’re miles from a doctor,” said Nicholas, fighting his

  worry and the stallion. “But the lake lodge is close, and it’s our

  best bet if I can get the horse to take the mountain trail without

  dashing us both to our deaths. We’ll take her there and send a

  few men ahead to Verso for the doctor.”

  Andre nodded and called to the captain of the guard. Three

  men set off down the road toward Verso. Nicholas led the rest

  on the long climb up a narrow trail to the north. The stallion

  moved under him in an uneasy truce.

  The sun rose higher, hot already, with unusual intensity for

  autumn. The woman was beginning to struggle in his arms. The

  chestnut snorted and jigged. His muscles turned to iron. Nicholas

  cursed beneath his breath and used his leg to push the horse

  forward on the narrow trail.

  The stallion’s head suddenly pulled against the halter,

  causing the slave’s bandaged arm to bang against her side. She

  twisted in his arms, shaking her head again and moaning low,

  and the horse sidestepped the trail, perilously close to the edge.

  Tension crept up Nicholas’s spine. The hell with the Hill

  tongue, he thought, wrestling with the horse to keep them from

  plummeting into thin air. The woman was perfectly capable of

  understanding anything he said in his own language. “Be still,

  no matter how much it hurts,” he said, allowing the intensity he

  felt to make his voice hard and cold. “I cannot ride your horse

  if he thinks I’m hurting you. A minute more of this and I’ll

  leave him behind.”

  She clamped her mouth together at that threat, shut her eyes

  and turned her head away from him, effectively dismissing him.

  “Good,” said Nicholas, as though she were still listening,

  as though she didn’t make him feel like the lowest snake on the

  face of the earth for threatening to abandon her impossible horse.

  They crested the mountain a short time later. The horses

  behind Nicholas were breathing hard, but the chestnut, now

  relaxed, never faltered, and his coat gleamed with a thin sheen

  compared to the runnels of sweat darkening the coats of the

  other horses.

  Andre must have been thinking the same, for he whistled

  and said to Nicholas, “Jest all you please, my friend. The lady

  has brought you two gifts already. Your life and this horse. `Tis

  not too bad a night’s work, eh?”

  “She is full of surprises,” said Nicholas.

  “An interesting lady, I’ll agree.”

  Nicholas nodded glancing down at the woman, who must

  be conscious, for she kept her face resolutely turned away from

  him. He remembered her body’s nestling acceptance as she slept

  against him through the long night ride and missed it.

  Who was she really? In the bright morning light, he could

  see the delicate blue veins of her closed lids. Even wounded

  and exhausted, she seemed to glow like an incandescent flame.

  Nicholas caught sight of the lake, its waves sighing as they

  lapped at the shore. He sighed in relief. It was cooler already in

  the shade of the mountain, where the grasses before the large

  wooden dacha swayed in the lake breeze.

  “Dismount, then remove Tzirah’s halter.”

  He shook his head struggling between amusement and

  exasperation. “How can a woman’s voice be as sweet as the

  scent of jasmine and, at the same time, as cutting as a sharply

  honed scythe?” he asked her. “Nevertheless, I live to obey.”

  When he dismounted, she slumped forward against the

  horses’ neck, breathing heavily. The animal stood still as stone

  while she slipped from its back. Nicholas caught her. Panting

  heavily, she leaned her forehead against the horse’s barrel while

  he unhooked the halter ropes.

  Nicholas turned to the slave again and circled her slender

  waist with his arm. He was irrationally pleased when she leaned

  back against him. She might make a show of defiance, but

  whenever they touched, her body clung to his. The horse nuzzled

  her hair and sniffed delicately at her bandaged arm. Raising her

  good hand, she rubbed his mane and breathed into his nostrils.

  Then she spoke a few words in the Hill tongue too softly for

  Nicholas to hear, and the stallion made for the lake in a floating

  trot. Nicholas turned, hesitated, and looked back at the stallion.

  “He’ll stay close to the lodge until I am ready to mount

  him again,” said the woman softly. “Tell your men to refrain

  from restraining him, and he’ll be as peaceful as your oldest

  nag.”

  Nicholas lifted her in his arms and felt that curious

  satisfaction again as she laid her head against his chest. He

  fought it down. The woman was stubborn, prideful, and too

  damned beautiful for a king who needed all his wits about him.

  “By all means, My Lady of Humble Mien,” said Nicholas,

  but as he looked down, he realized that his cutting remark had

  been wasted on her. She had fainted again.

  ***

  Nicholas washed the dust from his face and rubbed it

  vigorously with a towel the servant handed him. A rap at the

  door announced Baron Summers, the doctor Nicholas had

  summoned. He was a small, round man of middle age with a

  shock of white hair, a small white pointed beard, and twinkling

  blue eyes.

  He shook the doctor’s hand. “How is she?”

  “Our patient will mend quite well with proper rest and time,

  never fear. Such a lovely young woman, Nicholas.” The doctor

  produced a long tube and came closer. “Sit down for a moment.

  I want to see how you do.”

  Nicholas let out a whoosh of air in exasperation but obeyed

  as Summers pushed aside his open shirt and held the tube to his

  chest. “Hold still. You are as much of a fuss-fidget as you were

  at ten. Hmm. Sounds clear.”

  Nicholas didn’t know why he put up with Baron Summers’

  ministrations. With the exception of Andre, the doctor was the

  only person in his kingdom who had no fear of him.

  “I’m perfectly
fine, Baron. I haven’t had a problem in years.”

  “Still being careful at the first sign of a cold?” the doctor

  asked, tapping his chest.

  “Of course.”

  “Good, good. All is well. I must say, the exercise regimen

  you imposed upon yourself has worked beautifully. Astounding.

  It’s almost as though you willed the weakness from your lungs.

  If you weren’t so intent upon secrecy, you’d make a fine case

  study.”

  “Absolutely not.” Nicholas felt his whole body turn to stone.

  “No one besides you and Minister Lironsky knows of this, and

  no one will.”

  In truth, Nicholas frightened himself sometimes. When he

  was a boy stricken the second time with pneumonia, his father

  coldly derided him for his physical imperfection. Nicholas

  carefully learned the subtle signs of the disease’s approach.

  Through rest and sheer force of will he kept it at bay, and his

  flaw was a secret from his court and his country. To this day, he

  had not had another humiliating episode.

  “Tush, boy.” The doctor patted his arm as though he were

  ten again. “No need for alarm. It’ll be as you say. Now, back to

  our patient. Get one of the women to stay with her tonight. I

  gave her laudanum, and she became quite agitated when she

  learned of it. She fears visions and nightmares. I’m a little

  concerned, myself, as she mustn’t become so upset that she

  rips her stitches.”

  “Hmm.” Nicholas rubbed his chin. “She’ll need someone

  rather strong. Very well, Baron. I’ll see to it. Will you dine here

  tonight? Perhaps you’ll finally reveal the secret of Vladimir’s

  whereabouts. Andre and I are still eager to see him.”

  “My magnificent grandfather trout? I would no sooner give

  away his favorite hiding place than slide naked down a snow

  bank. However, if you’ll come fishing with me while you’re

  here, I’ll show you a wonderful bend in the stream where the

  fish are so plentiful they leap at the hook before it hits the water.”

  “Done.” Nicholas walked the doctor to the door and shook

  his hand warmly. Not two minutes later, Andre Lironsky strolled

  into his chamber looking fresh and neat, for once, after a cool

  dip in the lake. Andre took in Nicholas’s dusty boots and

  breeches and his travel-stained shirt.

  He raised his brows. “Been waiting for the doctor all this

  time?”

  Nicholas shrugged out of his shirt and cleaned his neck

  and chest. “She’ll need me tonight. There’s nobody else who

  can look after her.”

  “There are many who can do so, Nikki. Come have a real

  bath and a decent supper. We’ve been on the road a night and a

  day.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow, when she’s completely out of danger.

  Have them bring a tray to the woman’s room,” said Nicholas,

  toweling off and reaching for the clean shirt his aide held out

  for him.

  Andre wore the puzzled look of a man who had suddenly

  come up against a wall where none had existed for years. “Nikki,

  I just spoke to the doctor in the hall. The woman will heal. It’s

  beyond your responsibility, nay, it’s …improper for you as king

  to act as a common nurse.”

  Nicholas concentrated mightily on the buttons of his shirt.

  “She put herself between me and death. I owe her this.”

  “And that’s all there is to this…labor of yours?”

  “What else could there possibly be?” Nicholas felt himself

  redden. He had not meant to speak so sharply. Ever since the

  damned disaster in Jehanna, he had been some other person,

  disgustingly emotional. Like some Eastern fakir, he searched

  for “signs.”

  All because he felt that little shiver down his neck.

  Andre shrugged and headed for the door. “I’m sure that if

  you cannot imagine another motivation for your good works, I

  cannot.”

  ***

  The woman’s cries roused Nicholas from sleep. He came

  awake with a start. By the light of the candelabrum, he saw the

  slave writhing in her bed, her eyes open and unseeing. He rose

  from the sleeping couch and dipped a cloth into a bowl of clean

  water. She was muttering now, odd syllables indistinguishable

  to Nicholas in his state of weariness, her eyes full of fear and

  anguish.

  “Shh…” he whispered, kneeling by the bed and wiping her

  forehead with the cool, damp cloth. She turned toward him and

  grabbed his hand.

  He rolled his eyes heavenward and knelt there awkwardly.

  Patting, he thought with a flash of insight. Women like that. He

  patted her back a few times. “It’s just a dream—just visions

  from the laudanum. It’s not real.”

  But whatever the woman saw was certainly real to her. She

  cried out sharply in what Nicholas now recognized as a third

  language—Beaurevian.

  “No, no, Mama!” she cried. “Not the closet. Small. Dark.

  Terrible things—the bad men. There’s blood. No, Papa! Don’t

  let her! Oh, gods! I must run, run!”

  She was struggling very hard against him. He breathed a

  sigh of resignation and lifted her up, holding her tightly to keep

  her from straining against the wound and opening it. He felt her

  heart pound out its tattoo of terror against his chest. She rubbed

  her face against his shoulder, then struggled for a moment,

  batting away his hands, muttering in indecipherable phrases,

  deep in the nightmare.

  How the hell did one soothe a woman? They were all

  irrational, and this one, of course, was literally so. Perhaps, if

  he could get that golden mane off her face . . ..

  “Shh,” he said holding her against him, awkward at the

  unaccustomed feel of a woman seeking not pleasure, but

  comfort, in his arms. “No one will hurt you, as long as you’re

  with me. I promise.” He smoothed back her hair, surprised at

  the texture. It felt like rumpled silk. Softer, smoother even than

  he’d thought it would be. “Have no fear. You’re safe.”

  She sighed and turned her face into the hollow of his neck.

  And then, quietly at first, the tears began to fall, warm and wet

  against his skin. She cried, harder and harder, and an odd, tight

  lump rose in his own throat.

  Nicholas was not the kind of man to think in terms of

  emotion. But here was this woman, fragile in his arms like a

  bird that had been beating against the bars of her cage for who

  knew how long. The room was silent and dark in the moonlight,

  a place somehow out of time. He didn’t think or weigh the

  consequences as he usually did. He just held her.

  She let out a little hiccup and a sigh as he dried her tears.

  Still deep in sleep, she snuggled closer to his body. She took

  comfort.

  From him.

  From someplace barren and dry inside him flowed a little

  spring. He felt his rigid muscles soften like parched earth beneath

  drops of cool water. His body lifted with his breathing, strange

  and light.

  He laid her back agai
nst the pillows, hoping they were soft

  enough, and stroked her cheek. “Who are you? Why am I

  compelled to keep you?” he whispered. “And why are you

  here?”

  Two

  The Outlander has the desires of a greedy child. He learns

  only because of his need to possess. Thus, his historic interest

  in the false science of Alchemy, which he utilizes to acquire

  gold, or in witchcraft, to seize power. Ever restless, he cannot

  force himself into the stillness required to understand the

  essence of a thing—to see how it exists and why. That is why

  he cannot blend and become a forest, a stone, or even the

  familiar walls of his own city.

  From the Writings of Jacob Augustus of Arkadia

  Sunlight crept across Sera’s face, warming it. Very

  cautiously, she opened her eyes and looked around her. She

  was lying in a soft bed of clean linen, not silk, and there were

  no bars of wood inlaid with tiny jeweled flowers on the window.

  She was not in the harem. The room she lay in smelled of pine

  trees and fresh, clean air. With its oak-paneled walls the color

  of honey in sunlight, its slightly sloping floor, and its heavy,

  dark ceiling beams, this room must be centuries old.

  Sera jerked upright into a sitting position. The movement

  set her arm aflame, and she slowly lowered herself back to the

  bed and took stock of her situation. She was gowned in a long,

  white linen shift. Beneath the wide embroidered sleeve, her

  bandaged arm throbbed. Vaguely, she remembered the long

  journey through the night, how patient and good Tzirah had

  been carrying the Outlander king mounted behind her.

  The brass knob turned, and the door to the chamber swung

  open.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle.” The Outlander king

  positively filled the doorway. Well, all right, she thought.

  Perhaps he wasn’t quite the giant dear Jacob Augustus was, but

  he was indeed very tall and broad of shoulder and chest. The

  king was dressed simply in a pristine linen shirt draped over his

  wide shoulders, lawn breeches that hugged his slim hips, and

  tall boots. He wore no stock tie, and his shirt collar was open,

  showing the strong cords of his neck. Even in this state of

  informality, his hair was brushed to a glossy sheen and perfectly

  parted.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty. Is my horse settled well?”