Rejar (35 page)

“Sir!” Herr Schimmer approached. “I have observed this entire duel—his lordship acted in a most dishonorable fashion! I will inform them at the house what I have witnessed.”

Traed nodded.

“You are an artist with the blade; it was a privilege to watch you. There were some things that you did that I have never ... May I ask who taught you?”

“My fath—” Traed hesitated, shocked by what he had almost said. “His name is Krue.”

“A true master,” Herr Schimmer remarked with respect for the unknown man’s extraordinary technique.

“Yes.”

“Come now, lad.” Jackie proudly led Traed away. “Emmy will arrange a nice, hot bath fer ya, she will.”

“That would be most welcome.”

It would take some doing for them to heat the water. Such things often took a very long time here in Ree Gen Cee Ing Land.

But he did not mind.

There was a certain comfort in simplicity.

“Jackie?”

“Aye, sir?”

“What do you know of a place called ‘the colonies’?”

“Oh, you’d not be wantin’ to be goin’ there, sir! ‘Tis a heathen place, full up wit’ barbarians. I ‘ear men there actually fight fer what they believe in... .”

* * *

Something seemed to change in Nickolai after that night.

Lilac didn’t know when she had finally fallen asleep. Although she was sure Nickolai had to have heard her tears, he did nothing to bridge the gap between them. It had made her all the sadder.

When she opened her eyes, he was already dressed. She had just caught him leaning over the bed, presumably to check on her. He hesitated when he saw she was awake.

Lilac gazed up at him in a beseeching way; lips slightly parted.

A muscle ticked in his jaw but he turned away.

She was crestfallen. It had always worked before. Whenever she gave him that particular look, Nickolai would give a little moan deep in his throat just before he pounced, kissing her senseless.

He was loosing interest in her.

The notion took hold of her and wouldn’t let her go. She had come to expect Nickolai’s attentions. Not that she had feelings for him, it was just that...

You did not have feelings for a man like him! A man so skilled, so sultry, so damn beautiful. True, he was generous at providing pleasure, but to how many women before her?

He’s kind, a small voice said.

He was overbearing with a terrible streak of arrogance!

He has a marvelous personality ...

He irritated her beyond belief with his strange ways!

He could be so sweet...

When he was sleeping!

He could touch a woman’s soul when he made love.

There was no answer to that. Lilac could get no peace from her self-inflicted torture.

To ward off her troublesome thoughts, she threw herself into a frenzy of activity around the house. She even rearranged the furniture in the drawing room, much to Auntie’s horror—the displaced davenport revealed Auntie’s wealth of hidden books.

Agatha immediately directed her niece to safer territory by casually mentioning an orphanage which could use some donations. Might she like to weed through the clothes in her dressing room? she hinted.

Lilac took up the task with grateful fervor, rushing to her room. Eager to be sidetracked by the chore, she flung open the door to her dressing room.

And came face-to-face with her bathing husband.

Her hand seemed paralyzed on the doorknob as she took in all that sleek tawny skin. His wet hair was slicked back from his face, revealing the exquisite, classical lines of his features. Water dripped from his hair in meandering lines down his chest.

Her mouth parted at the stunningly sensual picture he made. Lilac avidly watched a drop of water trail a path down that gorgeously muscled chest, sliding lower, lower...

She almost stood on tiptoe to follow its course before she came to her senses.

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

Remembering the last time she had come upon him in this room and what had transpired between them, Lilac softly closed the door behind her. Would he want her again? She wasn’t sure. He seemed remote and burning at the same time.

She approached the tub guardedly; Lilac wanted him to want her but she was leery of what he would do. With a husband like this one could never be sure.

Rejar gazed up at her. Remembering Traed’s advice, he lowered his lashes to conceal the hunger in his eyes. “Would you help me rinse my hair?”

“If you wish,” she whispered.

Bending down, she placed an empty basin behind the tub, then crouched on her knees next to him. She picked up a ewer of warm water.

Sliding her arm around the back on his strong neck, under his hair, she supported his head while she poured. The water gently lapped over his hair cascading into the basin.

For some reason, it seemed highly erotic to her. She watched him as she went about the task. His eyes were closed as if he, too, was aware of the sensuality of the moment. His spiky lashes were midnight crescents against his golden skin.

She was still holding him when his eyes slowly opened.

Droplets of crystal water sparkled on his long black lashes. He has never looked more sensual, she realized. The stunning blue/gold eyes captured her with a look of searing poignancy.

It was a moment of quiet intensity for both of them.

Then, as if he could not help himself, Nickolai turned his face into her bodice. He buried himself in the soft muslin of her gown, his wet arm coming around her waist to hug her tightly to him.

Lilac felt the heat of his ragged breath through the cool, damp material.

A sigh escaped her lips. There was deep emotion in him, but what was it? Guilt? Sorrow? Regret?

It didn’t matter; she had to show him she ...

Before Lilac had a chance to return his embrace, he abruptly released her.

He stared down at the water, not allowing himself to look at her. “I believe I can finish. Thank you for your help.”

It was a dismissal, plain and simple.

Lilac bolted out of the room, closing the door behind her. He didn’t desire her anymore. Something had died in him the previous night. He had expected something from her that she had somehow failed to give him. She would not cry again. She wouldn’t!

But she already was.

* * *

Rejar closed his eyes. The calming property of water did not seem to help much.

Lilac had absolutely no feeling for him.

Yet she had ensnared him like any lured beast.

Worse, what he had feared so long ago had come to pass. Captured, he belonged to a woman who did not love him.

It was the most terrible thing that could happen to a male Familiar.

He was enslaved by his own heart.

Chapter Seventeen

It was several days before the news of Lord Rotewick’s death reached Prince Azov’s household.

Everyone was sitting in the parlor since the day had turned out to be a dreary one. No one wanted to venture out. Rain sheeted down the windows and it was chilly and damp.

After luncheon they had all wandered into the parlor in search of creative pursuits.

Lady Agatha was sitting by the fire on one side, reading a cloth-covered book which Lilac suspected was on one of her favorite obscure metaphysical subjects. Probably something like “The Inexpressible Ambiguity”; she imagined the title, giggling to herself.

Seated on the opposite side of the fire, she was attempting a new sampler. Since Nickolai had praised her last effort to the point of requesting the work, she thought she might try to make him a companion piece depicting the various types of stitches in needlepoint.

So far, it seemed to be coming along very nicely.

Her gaze drifted over to the men. They were seated at a table opposite each other immersed in a board game.

She smiled fondly at the sight of the two long-haired heads bending over the board in serious study as if the fate of the world resided with the next move they made. Men often gave vast importance to the silliest of things.

The game itself consisted of a checkerboard and chips that were white on one side and black on the other. The object of the game was to surround your opponent’s color with your own by moving horizontally, vertically, or diagonally across the board one space at a time. If you succeeded, that chip or row of chips flipped over to your own color. The winner was the one who had the most chips of his color displayed at the end of the play.

It was a game of strategy and skill.

Both of the brothers had taken to it as soon as Auntie Whumples had explained the rules to them. In fact they had been at it for hours, completely immersed in their “battle.”

Lilac frowned. It was the only thing Nickolai seemed to be immersed in lately.

Under normal circumstances the crude thought would have caused her to blush scarlet, but Lilac was very concerned about her husband’s lack of interest in her in that way. Oh, he still left sweet little gifts here and there for her, picking places he knew she would be sure to find them, and he was still most solicitous of her welfare but... he had not touched her in days.

She missed him.

Missed his kisses and hugs.

Missed his deep voice whispering in her ear as he moved seductively within her.

Lilac missed his arms about her in the night and the little lap under her ear when she fussed in her sleep.

Lilac gazed out the window morosely, the dismal day reflecting her heavy heart. Since that fateful night something had changed in Nickolai.

That night he had frightened her; he had been wild and out of control. His lovemaking seemed to be born of eroticism and fury mixed together in a potent brew. He had been more than she could handle; nevertheless, he hadn’t hurt her.

Looking back on it Lilac could remember only the intense passion in him overwhelming her in his embrace; crashing over her like waves of a storm-tossed sea; pulling her under its voracious current. Nickolai had been the tempest.

Suffering a change into something rich and strange...

Lilac did not have a great deal of experience in this area but she suspected most men did not make love with Nickolai’s intensity. It was something she had sensed when she was speaking with the women at Lady Whitney’s and later, had come to believe as she got to know her husband better. Nickolai was a most passionate man.

At least he had been.

She glanced over at his brother Traed, wondering if the trait ran in the family. The ambient firelight reflecting off his strong, chiseled features cast him in a different light. For one thing, the glow softened his visage and Lilac could see at once the sensual side he tried so desperately to hide. Why? What pain was this brother running from?

Auntie shook her from her reverie by casually saying, “Did you hear about that loathsome Lord Rotewick? It seems he was killed in a duel last week. Served the rotter right, I say! Past time for the likes of him. Never could quite stand the fellow ... something about him gave me the megrims!”

Rejar’s hand stilled over the board.

“Who killed him, Auntie?” Lilac continued on with her needlework, not really interested in the topic, but knowing Auntie expected her to ask. It never ceased to amaze her how her aunt was able to obtain all her information on the ton since she rarely left the house.

“No one seems to know.”

Pausing in the midst of his move, Rejar pierced Traed with a glittering glance. {Why did you do it?}

Traed sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “Your move.”

So his brother was not going to answer him.

Fine. If that was the way he wished it! Rejar moved his chip, overturning an entire row of Traed’s. He exhaled noisily. {He was mine to deal with! You should have left him to me.}

Traed did not even flick an eyelash in response.

Auntie stopped reading, glancing up from her book. “Most odd that part of it... Neither the butler nor that fencing instructor, Herr Schimmer, could remember what the man looked like even though both had seen him.”

The Familiar’s eyes dilated fractionally, then veiled. He watched Traed speculatively. A vein throbbed in the other man’s temple as he bent over to casually make his move.

Rejar was not fooled by the disinterested action; Traed had not wanted him to learn of his involvement in the matter. Now why was that?

“Have you heard about Madeline Fensley, Lilac?” Auntie went on with her sporadic gossip as she read. “Rumor has it she has come down with some type of ague. The servants aren’t talking, of course, but—”

“Madeline Fensley? I recently saw her; it was the night we all went to Lady Harcorte’s.”

“Really? Well, I hear she is quite ill. Why I remember one time, back in ninety-eight when half the city fell victim to a noxious fever ...”

Auntie rambled on about a shortage of leeches in the city. Lilac stared pensively down at her hoop. Should she add a row of purple chain stitches?

She did not notice Agatha had stopped her diatribe to train her lorgnette on the embroidery her niece held in her lap; nor did she notice the elderly woman gape at the hopelessly jumbled mass of tangled knots and stitches.

When she glanced up, her aunt’s attention had quickly shifted back to her book.

Lilac decided to make the chain stitches green instead of purple. She began embroidering, her mind once again going to her dilemma with Nickolai. She sighed. If only he would—Strange; her embroidery seemed stuck.

She could not turn the hoop in her hand!

Surreptitiously, she lifted a corner of the wooden frame. Oh, no! Somehow, she had stitched the sampler to her dress!

She gave it a sharp yank.

The blighted thing wouldn’t budge! It was sewn fast to her lap.

What am I going to do now?

Covertly, she scanned the room, making sure no one was watching her. How embarrassing! Here she was trying to impress Nickolai with her stitchery skill and she had gone and done this stupid thing!

It would not make a very artisanlike impression on him, she was sure.

Maybe she could snip it loose with her scissors....