Shadowheart (13 page)

She froze, buffeted by the wind, afraid to step forward or back. Below the roar of the storm, she could hear the surf, a deep echoing boom that seemed to come from all around her. The puppy began to struggle again. She held it tight, afraid that if she let it go, it would vanish off the edge in one bound.

She stood petrified, no longer indifferent to her fate. She was certain that the cliff lay one step before her, or perchance beside her, or left or right or she knew not where.

She could see nothing. She dared not take one footstep, but the wind shoved her like a huge hand. Slowly, with her wet skirt battering her legs, she went to her knees. The puppy wriggled madly and began to bark.

It made a frantic leap, tearing free of her hold. Elayne cried out in terror. She could see it for a moment, a vague white shape as it sprang and disappeared. A faint whimper escaped her throat. She stared through the rain pelting her face, panting, certain it had hurtled from the cliff.

Then with a vast relief she heard it barking again, high-pitched notes from the howl of the storm. As she squinted against the rain, she saw a large white form take shape in the gloom. A huge dog—and then a man loomed up over her from the dark.

Elayne grabbed his hands. He pulled her up roughly, his grip slick with coursing water. She stumbled forward, half-dragged as he turned and followed the pale shape of the dog through the lashing gale.

In a passage lit by one of the strange blue globes, the pirate halted. Rain still poured into the rough opening behind them, spilling in a stream down the rugged steps, trickling from the rock walls. He turned, her outlaw-savior, a dark lock of his hair plastered down to one cheekbone. Blue-tinged droplets glistened on his eyelashes and ran down his face.

Elayne stood in a puddle of her own making, shivering like the puppy that hugged her legs. She did not even pull away from his brutal grip on her arm. They had not struggled far to reach this cavern entrance, but she would never have been able to find it herself. The white dog had led them unerring to the shelter.

That instant of terror in the dark, feeling no ground before her, made the blood beat in her ears yet. The big dog shook itself vigorously, sending a hail of water over them all.

“Grant mercy,” she said to it, heartfelt. Her teeth chattered as she reached out to stroke the big white head. “God protect you.”

The dog sat down and glanced at her with brief disinterest, ignoring the puppy trying to lick its muzzle. Suddenly the animal leaped up with a roaring bark, hurling itself down into the passage with the pup racing behind, a minor echo of its elder’s throbbing voice.

The Raven looked after them, watchful. But when the dog ceased barking, leaving only the puppy’s excited yap resonating faintly amid the drumming of the rain and wind, he turned back. He released her.

“Listen better to me in the future,” he said, “when I tell you it is time to go.”

“You have my thanks,” she said stiffly, though it tested her to show gratitude to him.

“I did not expect you would endure so long there.” He wiped a trickle of water from his temple and flicked it away. “A dire mistaking of your obstinance.”

She hugged herself, shivering. “I beg your pardon for causing you to bestir yourself.”

“Aye,” he said, “I’d hoped to be lounging in bed with my bride on such a night. It is too bad she resembles a drowned rat.”

“A pity!” Elayne said, hardly able to pronounce the words as a shudder overtook her.

“But even rats dry,” he said. He reached up and took the glowing sphere from a hook, cradling it in his palm. It cast no heat, only the cold light that gave everything an uncanny hue.

He began to descend the passage after the dogs. She hesitated a moment, and then followed. It was that or be left soaking wet in the dark, with the storm still screaming above. The sound of the tempest receded as they went down, replaced by the crunch of their footsteps on loose stone. The tunnel grew narrow and twisting, marked by seeping water on the walls. In some places other routes branched off, passageways that danced with the blue light for a moment and then vanished again. The dogs seemed to have disappeared, gone among the tunnels like foxes would fade into the woods, intent on their own business.

The passage took a sudden turn back on itself. She ducked a low ceiling, following him up a staircase—each step more smoothly carved than the last—until they reached a massive bronze door.

“Watch,” he said, holding up the lamp.

Carving marked the door, designs of sheep and a shepherd in one panel, in another a fierce battle between dogs and a bear. The doorway seemed a barrier, with no handle or hinges. Incised deeply down the center were three words.
Gardi li mo,
as on the ring she wore. Guard it well.

He touched the first letter, and then the shepherd’s staff. His hand moved in a pattern, from letters to the carved scene and back again. In the utter silence of the underground, Elayne heard a faint click. Gently he drew his palm down the carving of the battle, and the creatures slid apart to reveal a latch.

“Can you do it?” he asked.

She glanced at him. He stood back, closing the panel with a sharp sweep of his fist. The sound of it echoed in the passage.

Elayne stepped to the door. She reached up and felt the wood under the letter G give way beneath her light touch. She tried to copy his pattern, but when she moved her hand down across the carved dogs, nothing happened.

“Like this,” he said. He put his open palm over hers, pressing the heel of her hand down. “Softly.”

With a smooth motion he slid their hands across the carving. She could feel the wood slide away beneath her hand; she could feel his palm on her skin, warm against the chill of the cave and her wet smock. He stood behind her, close enough that he touched her with each breath. For a moment she thought he would take her in his arms; for a moment she had a vision of his bed and bodies entwined there. The air seemed to leave her throat.

He flipped the latch, and the door swung inward.

“Remember it,” he said.

Elayne stepped through. Beyond the door was a small chamber carved in the stone, furnished with a rush cot and some sturdy stools. Chests lined the walls, trunks of all shapes and sizes. The atmosphere was warmer than in the tunnels, the stone walls and floor spread with Turkey carpets.

The door closed silently behind them. “Behold,” he said. “My innermost sanctum.”

He said it with his derisive tone. And yet there were things of astonishing value scattered about—golden bowls and pieces of bejeweled armor; baskets nearly overflowing with loose pearls, a miniature device of silver wheels with a face like the king’s clock tower at Windsor. On the floor beside the cot lay a stack of books surmounted by a blackened candle.

Elayne paused, wishing it were not so small a chamber, or so full of things. She would have liked to strip off her sodden gown, but she saw no hope of being private here.

He moved past her, brushing close, for there was no room to give way. From one of the boxes he drew a multitude of fine linen towels and tossed them on the cot.

He was as drenched as Elayne. With his back to her, he unclasped the belt at his hip, spreading it carefully across the top of a chest. With a practiced glance, he examined the evil gleam of each dagger in turn, sheathing them with their hilts toward him. His shadow fell across the stacked chests and loomed on the walls.

He pulled off his dripping shirt and held his hair back, wringing it between his fists. Blue light glinted on the pendant that dangled from his ear. Water slipped down between his shoulder blades.

He was such a heathen presence in the small space that she felt half-suffocated. She grabbed up a towel and wrapped it around her hair. She pressed another over her smock, trying to soak some of the water out of it.

“You would do better to disrobe,” he said.

“I have nothing dry to wear.”

He leaned back against a stack of chests. “What do you need, in bed?”

“Don’t,” she said, her breath coming shorter.

“That is not a word I favor,” he said. “It is a shrinking maiden’s word.”

She pulled the towel over her shoulders. Her skin that had felt so chill was growing warm. “Do not berate me as a maiden, when you put an end to my maidenhood yourself.”

“Did I?”

Elayne flashed a look at him. “So you declared to all the world!”

“Such deceits are sometime required. It was necessary to convince Countess Beatrice.”

She gave a hiss. “Are you saying that you did not?”

“Would it be a great disappointment to you if I haven’t?”

Elayne gripped the towel between her hands. “Oh!” She flung it down. “You are the Devil’s creature!”

His dark lashes flickered. “I can be when I so
choose,”
he said. “Be glad you have not seen that face of me yet. As to your maidenhead, I thought it courtesy to wait until you were wakeful and prepared. But that omission can be remedied without delay, if you wish. It will be before you leave this chamber, in any event.”

She drew back a step, coming up against a tall pile of chests. Her heart was beating in her ears.

He shook his head. “Unwilling still? I wonder how you would have fared with Franco Pietro. He is not known as a man of tender gestures.”

“And you are?”

He gave a slight shrug. “I will try to please you. I have not made much study of the skill.”

She turned aside, plucking the damp silk of her chemise away from her skin. She did not feel cold at all now, but shivered anyway. “I suppose you required no particular study for ladies to incline to you,” she said tartly.

“Why?” he said. “Do you think I buy their inclinations?”

She blushed and waved a hand in his direction “I meant—a man of your countenance.”

“Ah. For my face.”

“Indeed,” Elayne said.

“Some have inclined,” he acknowledged. “More than some, by hap. But I am a manslayer, not a gallant. I don’t know if you will ever wish to write me love poems.”

She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. She opened them again. “What things you say.”

“Aye. And soon all those eager ladies changed their hearts and fled.”

Elayne frowned at the chests before her, stacked to the height of a table, where a gilded pitcher sat atop the drapery of a fringed rug. She was not suffered to flee. He claimed her as if she were a bounty, some battle prize fallen into his hands. Raymond had courted her for weeks before he kissed her; the pirate thought it a great courtesy that he did not violate her in her drugged sleep. Raymond had called her a diamond, an extraordinary woman. This manslayer merely said he was not a lover. But he would try to please her.

She thought she must be as impure in her nature as Cara had always accused her, for she could not swallow the tight ache in her throat, the sensation in her skin, the awareness that he stood so near, tiny beads of water gathered on his chest and shoulders. To share the small room with him was like to being caged with a lazing black leopard, his claws sheathed, but not harmless. It seemed as fascinating, and dangerous, to reach out and touch him as it would be to stroke a wild beast she had discovered asleep in the forest. Even knowing what he was, she felt herself drawn to his mortal beauty as a salamander was drawn to fire.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked suddenly.

She faced him. “Does it matter?”

He turned his head. With a sound of disdain, he shrugged.

“I will tell you this. I’m afraid of you. But more than that, I am angry. I’m angry that you force me, by guile and trickery, when I thought you might stand my friend. I’m angry that you are not my guardian, or my angel, but just an evil man, with deceit and blood on his hands, and still you come and save me when I’m in need. I’m disgusted that you make my heart feel hot as Raymond did, when you are not worth the ground under his feet. I should hate you, and I do not. It is intolerable!”

He lowered his lashes. “Haps you will write those lines in your book, as your love poem to me.”

“My journal!” she exclaimed, realizing suddenly that she had left it in the storm.

“I found it at the stone head, when I went looking for you,” he said.

She lifted her face in swift hope. “You brought it?”

“I tossed it off the cliff,” he said, crossing his arms. “I did not like the text. I’ll give you another, and you can scribe my poem there.”

She glared at him. “I was mistaken. I do hate you!”

“Nay, that is the line I regard with most favor. You cannot be mistaken.” He came closer and lifted his hand to caress her throat. He slid his fingers up into her hair as the towel fell free. The last tatters of her net gave way under his hands, and all her rain-soaked hair dropped loose, curling and twisting to her hips.

Elayne trembled, outraged by the ache of excitement that traveled down through her body. “Everything I care for was in that book.”

“It is gone now,” he said.

She closed her eyes. “I hate you.” But he drew his hands down her shoulders and caught the neck of her chemise, pulling it open across her back, the buttons popping free with gentle tugs.

A memory of Raymond’s fervent grasp flashed in her mind. She held herself stiff, refusing to yield if he tried to seize her with the same zeal. Instead his fingertips played on the curve of her skin, a mere teasing. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, the black depth of his gaze almost lost beneath his lowered lashes. She could feel him breathing.

“If you had a poison ring, you could kill me now with a scratch,” he said.

She gave a faint sob, almost a laugh. “A poison ring!”

He smiled. “You see I am not accomplished at love-prate. I expect this Raymond did not say such things.”

“No,” she said.

“Haps he did not put his life in your trust, as I do now.” He slid his hands down her arms and slipped his fingers between hers.

“I have no way to harm you.”

He guided her hands behind his back. “I have no shield if you do.” The move brought her into an embrace with him, as if she held him close. Her wet smock drooped from her shoulders, only clinging to her by the damp. When he spoke, his breath skimmed her forehead, his words vibrated beneath her cheek. “This is wholly alien to me. To linger in close embrace this way. I dread to be defenseless.”

Strangely, standing near enough that she felt his pulse against her breasts, she understood him. Another man might have said she was beautiful, or made tribute to her blushing lips. He locked them together in a cave, behind a door with no key, and put his daggers outside his close reach—in faith she would not kill him.

“I cannot imagine the life you have lived,” she whispered.

His fingers tightened on hers and relaxed again. “You smell of rain.”

“Not roses?” she said, nervous mocking.

He took a deep breath in her hair. “Nay. Windstorm.” He released her hands and slid his palms up her bare arms.

She found that she did not draw back, but only let her fingers rest on his hips. She felt outside herself. Her skin was cool and hot at once. There was nowhere to escape; behind and beside her the heavy chests stood one atop the other, their straps gleaming dull metal.

He held her arms lightly, and moved his mouth in a whisper down her temple and cheek. “Fruit,” he murmured, drawing breath at the corner of her mouth. His tongue tasted her skin. “Ripe plums.”

She lifted her chin. “I stole them of you.”

His body was a feather-touch against her, all down the length of her, a sensation more of heat than of contact. “Good,” he said against her lips. “You are a practiced sinner.”