Keepers of the Flame (57 page)

She
didn’t know how much she could trust him, but him helping her while he was
irritated was a good sign. As if he was an honorable man. Honorable. It wasn’t
something she’d thought about on Earth. There she might have called him a
decent guy.

Perspectives
changed.

An
honorable man was a treasure.

The
large setting moon was orange and gleamed in the sea. They called it a sea and
not an ocean, and spoke of many islands, but she hadn’t seen a map. She fell
into a half-sleep and images of a ship sailing an ocean flitted through her
mind. It would have to be a big ship, she knew that. To carry….

The
tiny jolt of their landing, and the man’s arms behind her falling away, taking
warmth, roused her. She blinked at him as he stood next to the volaran. A sheen
of sweat showed on his face, and she became aware of his masculine scent.

Blossom
arched her neck and whuffled at his hair.
Well done.

Raine
thought so, too. She stroked Blossom’s neck and shoulders. “
Merci
,
Blossom.”

“Blossom,”
the guy muttered.

He
grabbed Raine by the waist and swung her up into his arms with a
matter-of-factness that spoke of expediency and no romantic urge. He turned
around and Raine caught her breath at the beauty of the yacht at the end of a
sturdy well-kept dock. The ship was painted white and pristine, its lines sleek
and eminently seaworthy. She could improve on the design a little to make it
faster…

Faucon
grunted. “Get the door, please.”

Raine
was craning her neck to keep the boat in view and the door to a cottage was
before her. She reached down and turned the knob. As they walked in, lights
came on and she found herself blinking again. “How did that happen?”

Raising
his brows, he touched his temple, which showed a streak of silver. “Power,” he
said, and she knew that meant “magic.” She swallowed. She wasn’t with the
fisherfolk anymore, and concepts she’d heard of—“streaks of Power,” “Power at
both temples,” “just a few hairs of Power” suddenly made sense.

Eyeing
her, he said, “There’s a fresh-water bath over there.” He gestured to the
right. “I hope this suits you.”

She
was dazzled. The wooden floors were clean and polished to a gleam. There were
chairs with cushions! Knit throws, rag rugs.
“Merci.”

“I’ll
take care of Starflower.”

“Who?”

Me,
whinnied
Blossom.
That’s what they called me.

“Oh,”
Raine said. “Blossom Greeting the Spring Wind. Blossom.”

“Ayes,”
he said shortly. His bow was just as brusque. “Catch up on your sleep. You look
like you need to. Sleep late. I intend to do so.”

Translated,
she looked like hell and he didn’t want to be bothered with her in the morning.

“There
should be food in the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll talk to my housekeeper and
confirm, and will send down more supplies tomorrow.” He gave her the once-over
again. “Clothes. We must have something to fit you. There should be bathrobes
in the closet. Good night.” Then he was gone, striding out of view.

Raine
went to the threshold and looked to her right, inland, and not to the ship
across the dock and to her left. Her mouth fell open as she saw lights from the
huge bulk of a looming Castle, a black shadow against the night sky.

Then
she stepped back into the cottage and closed the door. There was only one
flimsy lock. The nobleman didn’t think anyone would violate his property. Raine
shrugged and locked it, headed to the bathroom, opened that door to see a large
turquoise rectangular tub sunk into the ground with a wooden ledge. Another
wisp of old conversation came to mind, “them nobles take their bathing serious
like.” She guessed so. How glad she was to see that!

She
turned on the faucets, moaned when hot water poured through the brass. Tears
leaked from her eyes. She wiped her running nose with a corner of her apron
that she ripped from her. The fabric gave all too easily, as did the rest of
her clothes. Rags. All of them. She’d never have to wear them again.

She
bathed and shuddered with weeping. Hope filled her.

F
aucon strode to
his Castle from the boathouse, muttering under his breath about strange women,
then actually
listened
to himself. This is what happened when you got
deeply involved with Exotiques. He’d noticed it before in their men. They
talked to themselves. Sometimes not even in Lladranan. Once he’d yearned, then
enjoyed being a part of that exclusive group. No more.

No
more, indeed. There was another Exotique sitting down there in his boathouse,
and he was responsible for her. He stopped grumbling and clenched his jaw
instead. He hated that he had a sick and confused Exotique on his hands. Hated
that his body reacted to her, hated that he more than pitied her. He respected
her for her grit and determination. She must be tough to survive in the
dock-towns for months as an alien.

When
he reached his home, he left instructions with the night captain for his
housekeeper to provide food and clothing for the Exotique during the day and
his medica to see her. Perhaps he should leave that to Bri. He sent a quick
search for a Song.

Jaquar
wasn’t at the Castle, and Sevair…damn himself for a coward, but Faucon didn’t
want to contact Sevair or Bri yet.

Tomorrow.

He
sank into a well-padded leather easy chair and rubbed his hands over his face.
There was much to do. Informing everyone of a new Exotique meant dealing with
the Marshalls and the Chevaliers in a council meeting. That might be best. He
could imagine the ructions of the other Exotiques when they discovered one of
their own had been misused.

Confronting
the Seamasters about a Summoning that had gone terribly wrong. How much did
they know of their lost Exotique? Would they seek to claim her? Harm her? They
certainly hadn’t protected her.

Dealing
with the sick Exotique herself. Yes, he’d have to contact Bri first thing in
the morning.

That
recalled him to
her
task, to build a ship. He wrote another note for his
housekeeper to have a drafting table, tools, paper and parchment sent down to
the cottage.

Exhaustion
settled on him and he welcomed it. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Tonight, with
all the surprises of the day, should be better. His eyelids went closed and his
muscles felt heavy, so he let himself slip into memory-dulling sleep.

T
ravys rocked to
his hands and knees. Shook his pounding, painful head. Rain splattered against
the wood of the pier above him, swept in on the night breeze and smacked him
with cold drops. Staggering to his feet, he leaned against the piling of the
pier and touched his head. Felt blood.

Rage
surged through him and he trembled with it. Bared his teeth. The fucking bitch
had tried to kill him. Then his violent anger turned to glee. Now
he
could
kill
her
. No one could deny him. His hands flexed and fisted, released.

He
could taste the pleasure of beating her to death. She’d pay for what she’d done
to him. For what she was, a half-breed, half-wit. He’d squeeze the life from
her throat, silence that strangely pitched atonal Song that nearly drove him
mad. No, strangling her was too fast. Too easy.

He’d
break every bone in her body and enjoy her pain, see it in her eyes, listen to
her beg. Ah. Ayes.

His
head came up and he sniffed the air, tested the tavern above him. It was full
of people but not one of them was pot-girl. Slowly he turned, and caught her
scent.

North.
She’d gone north, perhaps even over the bay. He shrugged, working kinks from
his shoulders. He knew people who’d lend him a boat to cross the water. When he
stepped from the pier, the rain stopped. A good sign.

R
aine woke in
dawn’s gray light, and knew at once where she was. That nobleman’s dockhouse.
Her body sunk in a soft feather bed, a down comforter of silk so fine that it
caught on the ragged cracks of her rough hands when she tried to pull it up.
The linens smelled good.
She
smelled good.

She’d
had a bath, used fluffy towels to dry and stumbled into this wonderful bed. She
stretched luxuriously. Warm. Finally warm.

Testing
her sickness, her inner compass told her she was on land, next to the sea, as
she’d remembered. All right, then.

Compared
to the past six months, she was downright fabulous. Her body ached with bruises
and unaccustomed walking—flying!—the day before, but she wasn’t curled and
cramped in a corner of the Open Mouthed Fish under a tattered blanket. She
wasn’t expected to get up right now and do another cleaning of the kitchen and
the taproom. That in itself was sheer luxury.

She
let her muscles loosen and didn’t wake again until there was a knock on the
bedroom door. This time memory was a little slow, as if she’d slept too well or
too long. She was used to no privacy and noise around her all the time.

The
door opened and a solid, middle-aged woman came in carrying a pile of folded
clothes. Raine’s eyes widened. She knew Lladranans loved colorful clothes, but
the people she’d lived among had only worn color for feast days. These clothes
were bright. The woman herself wore a blinding red dress over an orange underskirt
of a quality Raine had never seen on Lladrana.

She
dipped a curtsey to Raine. “Salutations. I’m Lydia, the Creusse housekeeper.”
Then said over her shoulder, “Bring breakfast for the Exotique.”

“Salutations,”
Raine croaked. “I’m Raine Lindley.”

The
housekeeper nodded, but curiosity lit her eyes. “We won’t stay long, or bother
you while you work. Here are some clothes. We’ve stocked the kitchen, and the
men have arranged the drafting table and instruments in the living room. Is
that acceptable?” She eyed Raine and laid out a tunic and skirt of blue, put
the rest of the clothes in a wardrobe.

“Urgh,”
Raine said, scrunching back until she was supported by the headboard, pulling
the covers to her chin. She focused on the rapid Lladranan in a different
accent. So people had been speaking slowly to her. Well, hell. She was less
ready to be out in the world beyond the Open Mouthed Fish than she’d thought.
Try to catch up, woman!

“Drafting
table?” she murmured.

“For
the ship.” The housekeeper’s mouth pursed in disapproval. “That was all I was
informed of. That you were here and would be designing The Ship that will take
the invasion force to the Dark’s nest.”

She
was a lot more informed than Raine. Several of those concepts had just whizzed
right by her. Invasion force. Dark’s nest. “Um, Faucon,” she said.

The
housekeeper’s face softened. “He’s had it rough lately. That Elizabeth and Snap
of your land weren’t good for him.” Her voice was accusatory, her Song
sharpened. “Reminds me.” She waved and two other women came in. Maids, Raine
guessed, but they were as far above her as a pot girl as the moon was the
Earth. Dressed well, walked gracefully, fine hair and skin and hands. One
brought in a tray of eggs and toast with strips of bacon that had Raine’s mouth
watering. The other held a stack of three books.

“Here,”
Lydia shook out what looked like a bed-jacket garment like Raine’s Granny Fran
had once used. It was bright red and smelled of lavender. With competent
movements that managed to preserve Raine’s modesty, the housekeeper tucked her
into it. Talk about efficient.

“Breakfast.”
She took the tray from the maid and placed it on Raine’s lap. “We’ll leave you
now, but if you have any wishes, just use the horn.” She bustled back out with
the wide-eyed maids before Raine could find words, but not before her stomach
gave a serious rumble.

“Eat
up!” Lydia chirped. In a moment a door closed and Raine sensed she was alone.

She
stared at the food, the clothes, the furnishings of the room. So much opulence!
She’d finally landed in a place where people might give her a chance.

Breakfast
in bed. She didn’t think so. She slipped from the bed—remembered too late it
was a little higher than Earth beds as she thunked a few inches to the
floor—and took the tray through the living room to the kitchen. The drafting
table in the corner of the living room looked good, but she wanted food!

She
ate. No, she gobbled. Tastes she’d only experienced in dreams exploded in her
mouth. She moaned at the simple crunchiness of crisp bacon. She’d once read
that cross-culturally on Earth, bacon was considered to be a smell associated
with the wealthy. She understood that now. She hadn’t seen bacon, or ham or any
other part of pig for six months, and she’d rarely eaten pork before then. For
a moment she wondered how her stomach would handle such rich fare. It didn’t
stop her from shoveling buttered toast in her mouth.

When
she was done, she washed the dishes automatically, though the soap wasn’t a
scent that she recognized—lots less harsh on her hands than at the tavern. Then
she went back to the bedroom and opened the drawers where the housekeeper had
put undergarments. She pulled out fine lingerie like long underwear—chemise and
leggings—then she dressed in the blue tunic and skirt. They fit.