The Wolf's Captive (13 page)

After a moment, a reedy voice said, “I’ll have the rest of the house searched, too.”

“I think not, Captain,” a voice she recognized as Avignon’s said. It sounded like a layer of ice spread over gravel. “Not here, so far from the Castel, and so close to the city streets. And not during such a strained Bacchanal season. It might look very much like a Captain of the Guard attempting a coup of some sort, sir. And if you died in the resulting melee, there’d be no one to claim otherwise.”

The reedy voice sniffed. Lucia could hear angry pacing. “Well, what’s his relationship with the Lyselle girl, then?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know to whom you refer, Captain.”

“Don’t be stupid,” the one called ‘Captain’ said. “He was seen with her at the Dance of the Seasons.”

Avignon cleared his throat. “Lord Cesare played the part of Winter in the Dance. I believe Summer was played by Lucrezia Grimaldi. Most of the city saw them…together.”

Lucia flashed back to that moment, her first sight of Lord Cesare, and was surprised to find herself more angry than aroused. The thought of Lord Cesare with another woman was suddenly repugnant. Which did not bode well for her, given Lord Cesare’s reputation.

“I meant after,” the Captain seethed. “After the Dance, he was in some sort of scuffle over the Lyselle girl.”

“If you say so, Captain. My Lord Cesare is in the habit of protecting the defenseless. It is entirely possible.”

The man who was evidently a Captain snorted, and the pacing resumed, somewhat closer to Lucia’s hiding place. She forced herself to open her eyes and, very quietly, look around. There was no use pretending danger wasn’t there; she should at least try to get an idea of who was looking for her, and why. She was in luck. Lucia’s eyes, now accustomed to the dark, were immediately drawn to a thin crack of light in the front piece of the desk, facing the rest of the room. She shifted her weight as silently as she could and discovered she could see a tiny sliver of the scene.

Avignon was still near the door. The man who hunted her was out of sight.

“Well,” the Captain said. Lucia was startled; she couldn’t see him because he was practically standing over her. “He must know her. Does he know where to find her?”

“It would be impossible for me to say.”

The Captain’s voice grew oily. “Do you know where to find her?”

“No.”

Lucia breathed her relief into her hand. For some reason, she was worth protecting.

But Avignon’s chivalry and Lord Cesare’s protection wouldn’t matter if she were discovered. The Captain’s heavy, graceless footsteps thudded around the desk until he stood right in front of her little hiding spot. She would be exposed if only he were to look down. All Lucia could see of her apparent nemesis was a pair of shiny leather boots—with surprisingly little wear—planted squarely in front of her. They were attached to plump legs that couldn’t have been much longer than her own.

What’s he doing?
she thought.
He’s just standing there.
Too late, she remembered she hadn’t had time to return the book.

“Reading up on the Berkari legends, is he?” the Captain said. Lucia could actually hear the sneer in his voice.

“I couldn’t say, Captain.”

“No, of course not. You find things impossible to say. Nevertheless,” the Captain continued, “as challenging as you find common speech, I want you to tell your master something for me. Tell him I will find the Lyselle girl, and any common citizen found to have harbored her will have interfered with a rightful investigation, and will be considered to be a—”

The loudest crash Lucia had ever heard ended the Captain’s speech. Lucia hunched her shoulders and covered her head in pure animal reflex, her mind racing ahead to identify what terrible danger must accompany such a noise, when she heard him.

Lord Cesare roared, “What are you doing in my house?”

Lucia opened her eyes again. Even through the tiny crack in the desk, Lord Cesare loomed large in his anger. He almost seemed to vibrate, to pulse, with that same primal ferocity she remembered from the cavern. Someone had trapped a hurricane in the body of a man, and all that was left to control it was Lord Cesare.

He didn’t seem interested in controlling it much.

His dark hair hanging wild around his chin and his scars shining in the soft light, Lord Cesare stormed forward, out of Lucia’s frame of view. The Captain’s legs, palpably tensed, backed away. If he took another step back, he’d be able to see Lucia cowering under the desk. She didn’t dare move.

“I need to interview an associate of yours,” the Captain said, his voice faltering. Lucia noticed one of his legs was shaking. “My Lord.”

Lord Cesare’s footfalls were like hammers on the stone, nothing like the light, animal steps in the cavern.

“Who?” he snarled. It was a taunt, almost a dare.
He knows perfectly well,
Lucia realized.
That’s why he had me smuggled here in secret.

“Lucia Lyselle,” the Captain whispered. “You know why.”

First Lucia heard the choking noises. And then, before her wide eyes, the Captain’s feet began to lift off the stone floor.

Lord Cesare growled, “No.”

The Captain’s fine-booted feet kicked madly only a few inches above the ground. For a horrified instant, Lucia wondered if Lord Cesare would choke this man, would actually kill him—for her. She was a mess of clashing emotions: horror—plenty of horror—but also a girlish pride, and then disgust with herself for that pride, and all of it tied up in a confusing ball that very nearly compelled her to shout out, to put a stop to it. In another moment, she would have given herself up.

Instead, the feet disappeared, and there was a fleshy
thump
some ways off. Lord Cesare had tossed the Captain to the floor, away from the desk. Lucia heard sniveling.

“You have invaded my home,” Lord Cesare said, and his long, muscled legs strode past Lucia’s little cave. “I don’t care who you want to talk to, or why. Get out.”

“My Lord, you must produce her,” the Captain said.

“Must I?”

“That is, if you know where she is,” he added hurriedly.

“If I did, I wouldn’t hand her over to you for anything in this world or the next, Rickle,” she heard Lord Cesare say with eerie calm. It was like the eye of a storm. “But what makes you think I would condescend to associate with some unknown vintner’s daughter? What makes you think I would ever make such a person’s acquaintance? In what fantastical realm is it even a possibility that I would give a girl like that a second glance?”

So that was it. Lucia didn’t realize how hopeful it felt to hear Lord Cesare rush to her defense until he followed it with an insult and that hope was dashed.

“My Lord—”

“You are as stupid as you are inept, Rickle, and you have come incredibly close to death tonight. I will tell you only once more: get out.”

There was the sound of expensive boots scuffing on stone, and through the thin crack Lucia saw a round man, his face red and his beard scraggly, back away through the door that Avignon held open for him. Avignon slammed the door shut, and the threat was gone.

Lucia’s relief was short-lived.
Now what do I do?
She’d just heard Cesare defend and insult her in the same breath, and she’d eavesdropped on the entire embarrassing exchange.

Avignon looked ashen. “My apologies, my Lord. He barged in with force, and I had no assistance, given our attempts at stealth.”

“It’s not your fault, Avignon. Where is she?”

Avignon cleared his throat. Lucia did her best not to make a sound. In the silence, she heard Lord Cesare take a deep, full breath.

“I see. Leave us, please.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

Lucia closed her eyes tight. She wished, more than anything, for the ability to disappear. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to explain herself to Lord Cesare. Worse was the shame of knowing that her family’s trouble was so dire that even she was to be rounded up. Surely he would cast her out now, surely he no longer wanted her, after whatever it was he’d seen in the cavern, and now with this new trouble? Surely he was done with her, and she would be lost. Those last seconds beneath the desk felt like her last taste of safety.

“Lucia, come out from under there.”

His voice was gentle, coaxing. Even soothing. It made her feel suddenly very, very silly, hiding under a desk.

Which made her feel angry. And it was better to feel angry than scared.

Gracelessly, she unfolded her legs from the cramped hollow beneath the desk and tried to rise dramatically to her feet. Instead she bumped her head. That only made it worse.

“Don’t act like I’m some sort of foolish child for hiding,” she said hotly, rubbing her head. “That man would have arrested me! And I haven’t even done anything!”

Lord Cesare raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. With a slow, spreading chill, Lucia realized she had just scolded the heir to the Ducal seat of J’Amel. After he’d protected her. Again. And while she still desperately needed his help.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” she said, and hurried out from behind the desk, stopping only when she remembered Lord Cesare’s own words:
What are you
? She doubted she could answer him. What was
she
, to behave the way she had?

She did her best to curtsy.

It did nothing to soothe her. She was hurt, so very hurt, at Lord Cesare’s rejection, and then the cruelty of his insult. She felt used, and confused, and, above all, indebted. And while she had always thought that those who found themselves in debt to another should properly feel grateful for the aid that they had received, she was discovering that, in reality, what you felt was resentful.

But Lord Cesare did not give her a moment to compose herself.

“Who owns your father’s debt?” he demanded. He had recovered from his surprise, and Lucia could see the storm gathering again behind his eyes.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said, and took a step towards her. “Who owns your father’s debt?”

“The Ramoras,” she said, trying to make sense of this
non sequitur
. “Paolo Ramora’s father. He works at the Grimaldi bank.”

“No.”

Lord Cesare’s eyes had darkened. The muscles in his neck and chest roiled under the skin, visible through his light, informal white shirt. The biggest scar—a jagged line that crossed his chest, just visible above the collarbone—seemed to glow with its own dull light.

Lucia took an involuntary step back. Her leg bumped against the settee.

“I don’t—” she stuttered.

“It was sold,” Lord Cesare said. He came closer again, and towered over her. “Who owns it?”

Lucia’s battered mind scrambled for some sense in this situation. She knew nothing about the sale of any debt. The only way this made sense was if her father was concerned that the new debt collectors would try to take advantage of his daughter. And here was Lord Cesare, so animal, so heightened, so primed, like barely contained violence, all apparently in service to his promise to her…

He was a beast—a true beast—who could ravage her and hurt her all at once. He made her sex flare to life and take the rest of her to heel. All she wanted to do was lick that scar.

What is wrong with me?
she thought.
Remember to keep yourself hidden. Keep yourself desirable.

“I don’t know, my Lord,” she choked. “I don’t.”

Cesare grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her close, his dark eyes burning down at her. He said, “The truth.”

“I overheard men once,” she babbled. “Men I didn’t know. But…”

Lucia was distracted by the sight of his pulse throbbing in his neck. By everything, really. She could smell him. She was losing herself to a man who would never, in a million years, keep her, who had seen something in her to drive him away, who had something terrible deep within himself that only drew her closer…

She knew she would do anything he wanted, and she grasped on to what felt like her last, drowning breath:

“What am I?” she heard herself say. “What are
you
?”

There was a deep, still silence, as though all the world were waiting for the storm to break.
What have I done?
Lucia thought to herself.

What is he going to do to me?

~  ~  ~

Cesare inhaled quickly. His grip on her arm tightened, vise-like. She was crushed against his body, the warmth of her a constant beacon. How could someone so small, so physically slight, have such power over him? She looked up at him with wide green eyes, and the hurt he saw there leveled him. Cesare thought her inner steel was nearly irresistible, but he hadn’t reckoned with her inner softness. He reached up with his free hand to brush her hair away from her cheek, and tried to speak.

He couldn’t.

Cesare had known those words—those stupid, impulsive words—would come back to haunt him. How could they not? What an awful thing to say to a woman, and right after he’d taken her, right after her first time.

“Lucia…” he tried.

But he could not tell her. He could not possibly explain what it was she did for him, what it was she did
to
him, without revealing whatever monster he had become. He would not know how to begin to explain it. He didn’t understand it himself, as that cackling Berkari prisoner had made so clear.

But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her, either.

“Take off your dress,” he grunted.

Lucia blinked.

“
Now
.”

Cesare watched Lucia’s shaking hands slip the thin silken straps from her shoulders. The dress fell in stages, hugging her full breasts, then her hips, finally pooling in thin layers at her feet. Her pink nipples were already drawing together into tight little buds.

Oh, gods. He could smell her again.

Carefully he traced the fine line of her neck down to her nipple, and quickly bent to take it into his mouth. He bit it gently.

He had been so panicked when he’d learned of the sale of the debt from Jovan, when he learned that Rickle, too, was looking for Lucia—
his
Lucia. He had barely felt human. Had he really lifted Rickle off the ground? Like the Ramora boy? Even though it had been just moments ago, Cesare remembered it as though through a haze, as though it had happened to someone else, some mindless animal full of rage and bile. He had smelled her when he entered the house, and smelled Rickle, and assumed the worst. If his father ever learned how important she was, it would be the end.