English, Elizabeth (17 page)

His
wife. How did this happen? he wondered as he walked into the hall, listening
with half an ear to the melancholy wailing of the pipes. What am I doing with a
wife? And what in God's name will I do tomorrow and the next day and all the
days after that?

He
let his mind wander to a time so distant that tonight's events would have been
forgotten. When would that be—ten years? Twenty? Where would he be in twenty
years? Not here, that much he knew. He'd be gone without a trace. Maude would
remember him with bitterness—if she thought of him at all.

He'd
leave her nothing, not even a child. And though begetting children had been far
from his thoughts earlier, suddenly he ached for the little dark-haired,
blue-eyed sons and daughters who would never roam the fields and forests of
Ravenspur as he'd done so long ago, before the day everything changed forever.

"Why,
there's nothing to getting a lass with child."

Jemmy
remembered his uncle Stephen saying that, when they'd walked together in the
forest, Stephen's hand large and warm around his own. "Any fool can do
that much. It's nothing to boast about, Jemmy, if ye dinna mean to do right by
her and give the bairn a name. Remember that."

God's
blood, how he missed Stephen, even after all these years. Stephen was the one
person he could have talked to about what had just happened. Even if Stephen
couldn't change things, he would have made Jemmy feel better just by listening
in that way he had, as though whatever Jemmy had to say was the most important
thing in all the world.

But
Stephen wasn't here. Jemmy had been just a child when Stephen went away, but he
remembered every detail. And the day Stephen had come back to them was etched
forever on his memory. Even now it seemed he could hear his grandmother
screaming at the sight of her favorite son, lying dead in the cartbed with the
sunlight beating down upon his staring eyes and Darnley's badge laid across the
torn flesh of his breast. Oh, Jemmy remembered it all.

That
day Jemmy had lost Stephen and the next his mother, who miscarried her babe
from the shock and bled to death. Standing between the bodies of the two people
he had loved best in all the world, laid out in the chapel, Jemmy scarcely
listened to the priest's comforting words. They meant nothing, for though he
might speak of peace and forgiveness, it was war and vengeance that would follow.

Jemmy
knew then that the priest's words were all lies and the fighting was all
useless, all wrong, and he would never, ever be a part of it. He would leave
this place one day, just as Stephen had dreamed of doing—as he would have done,
if he had not made the deadly mistake of putting one woman at the center of his
world.

Not
me, Jemmy had vowed as the priest droned on. I'll live alone and make my own
way in the world, and I'll never, ever give my heart into any woman's keeping.

Now
Jemmy filled his goblet and drained it, then glanced at the only other occupant
of the high table. Alistair sat, chin propped in his hand, staring into space.
When Jemmy offered the flagon, Alistair held out his goblet, and once it was
filled set it down again without speaking. Jemmy rested his elbows on the
table, and the two of them sighed deeply at the same moment, then turned to
each other with some surprise.

"D'ye
ever think on Stephen?" Alistair asked abruptly. Jemmy started.

"I
was thinking of him now."

"Hmph."
Alistair made a low sound in his throat, looking uneasily over his shoulder.
"I was, too. And I dreamed of him last night—" He shuddered slightly
and lifted his goblet to his lips.

"What
was your dream?" Jemmy asked with some curiosity and a touch of
skepticism.

Years
ago, when they were children, Alistair had often been troubled by strange
dreams. Ian always insisted that Alistair had the Sight, but Jemmy had never
been quite sure whether to believe it. But there was no denying that Alistair
had made some startlingly accurate predictions in his time.

Now
Alistair brushed a strand of white-gold hair back from his eyes and scowled
into his wine. "I dinna remember it too well. I seldom do, these
days."

Then
he stood and walked away without another word.

Jemmy
shrugged and finished his wine, too sunk in his own foul mood to give Alistair
any mind. The music changed to a merry tune and soon the floor became a swirl
of blue-green laughter. At the high table Jemmy sat alone, his mind straying
back to the moment when he'd held Maude in his arms and felt her body mold
against his own. At last he tossed back his wine, then rose impatiently and
took the hand of the first girl who caught his eye and smiled.

She
was a pretty girl, very nimble on her feet. He knew her name but couldn't
remember it just now, for the room was spinning a bit more than the dancing
would account for. He stumbled slightly on a turn and the girl laughed up at
him, grabbing his arm and setting him aright. How much had he had to drink? Far
more than was his custom, but what of it? He deserved to have a little fun. Of
course he did. He took the next turn easily and laughed with the yellow-haired
girl, who really had a most attractive smile.

But
what was her name? He should know, he'd seen her often enough in Maude's
chamber. Celia. That was it. Celia with the pretty yellow curls and pink
cheeks, who, now that she had possession of his arm, seemed determined not to
let it go. The dance was over but still she clung to him, and when she offered
a fresh cup he took it from her hand. They danced again and drank, and then he
lost track of the dances and the wine they drank together, arms linked as they
competed to propose the most outrageous toasts.

And
somehow—he wasn't sure quite how it came to pass—he and Celia were walking down
the passageway together, the silence ringing in Jemmy's ears after the noise of
the pipes and the laughter of the crowded hall. Now it was her turn to stumble
and his to break her fall and then there she was, her face turned up to his. So
he kissed her. It seemed the natural thing to do, and as she didn't seem to
mind it in the least, he did it again.

It
was nice. Very nice.
She
didn't push him away;
she
didn't plead
an aching head. No, she pressed against him, clearly asking for more. The wine
might be clouding his mind, but Jemmy's body knew exactly what it wanted. The
feel of her breasts crushed against his chest roused him with an urgency that
would not be denied. And why should he deny it? Celia was clearly willing, and
he bent to her, his mouth closing over hers. But when her arms went around his
neck, she might just as well have flung cold water in his face.

Something
wasn't right, though for the life of him he couldn't imagine what it was. Here
she was, fair and fresh and young, wanting nothing but to bed with him tonight.
Which was exactly what he wanted. Wasn't it? Of course it was; what man
wouldn't want her, all pink and gold and smiling? She had nice teeth, very
straight and white, and a pretty pink tongue that darted out, wetting her full
lips. Yes, here was a woman who knew what she was doing, the kind of woman
Jemmy needed, one who could tease and please and make him forget everything for
one night. So why wasn't he pleased? Why did he still feel that something
wasn't right? She was the wrong shape, somehow, or she had the wrong scent...
or no, that made no sense, for she smelled of gillyflowers, a scent he'd always
liked. But still...

She
didn't tremble in his arms as Maude had done. She didn't make that
sound—something between a whisper and a sigh—that Maude had made when he kissed
the soft skin of her neck. No, Celia was quite different from Maude. Celia was
nestling against him, drawing her hand slowly up his thigh, and he felt nothing
but cool distaste, imagining how many men she'd done this to before. While
Maude...

Maude
be damned! Why was he thinking of her now? He knotted his fingers in Celia's
hair, jerking her head back. And she smiled. She liked it. She wanted more from
him. He kissed her hard, and she responded instantly, her hips grinding into
his. After a moment he released her and stepped back.

"Too
much wine, my girl," he said with a shrug. "I'd be no use to you
tonight."

"But
my lord—"

"Go
on," he said, giving her a gentle push. "Go back to the hall."

He
went toward the stairway, puzzled, a little angry, and more than a bit
regretful of the opportunity just passed. Had he looked back he would have been
very much surprised to see the fury twisting Celia's pretty features and the
cold hatred staring from her eyes.

When
Jemmy reached his chamber he dismissed the
waiting servants. After
tending to himself for years it was a constant small annoyance to have these
men hovering about, trying to get him in or out of his clothes. God's teeth, he
was quite capable of putting himself to bed— even in this state—in half the
time it would have taken them to do it. Well, soon he'd have no choice but to
accustom himself to their attentions, it was expected of him.

And
we all have to do what's expected, he thought, pulling off his boots. Though
why was a mystery just now. But it didn't matter. Tomorrow he'd remember why he
was supposed to pretend he couldn't do the simplest things himself, but must
have others do them for him. Tonight he just wanted to fall into bed and sleep.

Yawning,
he unfastened his belt and heard his dagger clatter to the floor. No, that
wouldn't do. Have to hang it up. The peg had grown slippery and elusive, but
finally, with a muffled "Ha!" of satisfaction, he hooked the leather
on the wood, then shivered convulsively.

Good
God, but it was cold in here! Had they let the fire die? No, there it was,
burning merrily in the hearth, though it gave no heat at all. It was never
exactly warm in Ravenspur, but even in January he could not remember such an
icy chill as this.

He
walked closer to the fire, stretching out his hands, but was within bare inches
of the flame before he could feel its warmth. And even when his palms grew hot,
he was as cold everywhere else as he'd been before. He touched his warm hand to
his icy cheek, then frowned. What strange phenomenon was this? A fire that
burned but didn't warm, a cold as deep and endless as the grave...

He
shivered again, wishing that he hadn't had that thought. The fire was perfectly
normal; he was cold because... well, because he'd drunk too much. That
explanation didn't seem to make much sense, for he'd been drunk before and
never experienced anything like this...

Shaking
his head, he straightened and gave a startled cry when he saw the man beside
the hearth.

"What
the—?" he began, but could get no further, for his mouth went so dry that
for a long moment he was incapable of speech.

At
first sight there was nothing about the man to cause such grave alarm. He was
young, nineteen or twenty years, and unmistakably a Kirallen. Like Jemmy, he
had coarse, dark hair and long, dark eyes and wore the Kirallen plaid across
one shoulder. But unlike Jemmy, his skin was white. Very white. Bloodless, in
fact, Jemmy thought. As well it might be.

Instinctively
Jemmy signed himself with the cross as the other man stood watching. That
having no effect, Jemmy blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them
again the man was still there, still watching, still waiting silently.

Jemmy
cleared his throat. "Stephen," he said, pleased at the calmness of
his tone. "I was thinking of you tonight."

"Aye,
I ken ye were. I always ken when I'm remembered."

"Do
you? How interesting."

Jemmy
pinched his arm hard but Stephen still stood across the hearth. I am very, very
drunk, he thought, and I'm seeing things that aren't there. In fact, I'm
talking to someone who isn't here because he can't be, because Stephen has been
dead for twenty years.

"Eighteen."

"What?"

"I've
been dead for eighteen years, not twenty."

Jemmy
blinked. "Aye. And in all that time, I can't believe I'm the only one
who's thought of you!"

"You're
not."

Stephen
looked much younger than Jemmy had remembered him—and yet he looked exactly the
same, down to the tiny scar beneath his eye and the one lock of hair that never
would lie flat. He looks young because I'm older than he is now, Jemmy thought.
The last time we met I was nine and Stephen was alive.

"Well,"
Jemmy said cautiously. "Have you appeared to all the others?"

Stephen
sighed. "They couldna see me."

"They
must not have been drunk enough." Jemmy laughed, but Stephen only stared
at him with huge dark eyes.

"No,
their need wasna as great."

"Need?
What need?"

"I
canna say all I would, it's not... permitted," he finished, frowning a
little, as though dissatisfied with the word. "But ye must ken,
Jemmy—there's danger all around ye."

Jemmy
felt a spurt of irritation. Ghosts always warned of danger, didn't they? He'd
hoped that Stephen might have something more original to say.