Rital of Proof (5 page)

He breathed deeply, then exhaled.

"I met you once when you were a boy, you know." Green watched his face carefully for some sign of recognition.

"Really?" He stared back at her.

"You don't remember?" Of course he would not remember such an insignificant incident in his childhood. Somehow, she was slightly disappointed, though.

"Was it at my grandmother's?"

"Yes. You had run into the salon like a hissing ball of fury."

He acknowledged her accurate description of his youthful demeanor, his white teeth flashing in the flame-lights. "I often entered rooms like that."

"Not much has changed, has it?"

He smiled secretly. "Probably not."

"You seemed such an angry little boy."

"Not always," he responded quietly.

"Just after your parents died?"

Her astute insight surprised him. "Yes, probably. For awhile, anyway. I hated the injustice of it."

"They died in a transport accident, didn't they?"

"Yes. Unnecessarily, I found out much later. They were traveling to the western horizon and an arc storm took them."

Her brow furrowed. "Didn't their guide see the signs?" Arc storms were always preceded by a definite series of phenomena.

His nostrils flared. "She saw them; she just didn't heed them. They think she may have eaten a Banta psillacyb. I hear they grow freely along the western routes."

Psillacybs were groups of indigenous Forus plants that caused extreme hallucinogenic effects in humans. They had been adopted by some fringe tribes to the far west for their religious practices. Except for medicinal purposes, they were generally frowned upon by society, although they often made their way to the soirees of Top Slice swaggers.

Those kind of parties generally were not talked about in polite society.

"I'm sorry, Jorlan. I know how hard such a loss can be."

He looked at her curiously.

"I am the last of my line as well."

"May I ask what happened to your family, Marquelle?"

"They were poisoned by a bad crop of hukka grain. It was back during the drought years. You are probably too young to remember that time—I barely remember it myself."

"What happened?" He pivoted effortlessly with her, perfectly matching her steps as they swirled about the floor. The grace of his movements belied the extraordinary martial skill that Anya Reynard had fleetingly remarked on on more than one occasion. The men trained in very basic forms to stay fit, but Green wondered how deadly he could actually be. There was something about his movements...

She gathered her thoughts to answer him. "Most of our usual crops were failing so we were forced to experiment with others. It was not known then that hukka must be harvested before it flowers. If you wait too long the stalks become highly toxic."

"I didn't know that."

"Why should you?" she smiled faintly. "I can't imagine your cook lets you into the kitchen much."

"True. Whenever he does, I have a tendency to cause havoc."

She grinned. "I have no doubt of that. And of course, you would not be allowed anywhere near the crops."

"You don't think so, hmm?" His eyes twinkled as he remembered a youthful prank. And then he remembered the brush of her lips against his—He focused on her mouth again.

"No."

He blinked. For a moment he was not sure what she was responding to. "I suppose at one time I enjoyed causing a certain amount of trouble."

His grandmother had regaled half the Top Slice with stories of his boyhood escapades. He had been a mischievous, difficult child. But she knew that he had also been an incredibly sweet child, with a sensitive heart.

"Really? Who would guess?" Green teased him. "And you did say 'enjoyed,' as in past tense?"

He cleared his throat. "We will not pursue that."

"Why not?"

"It is probably best not to." He arched his eyebrow.

"I would venture to say that on some days you arose with a mission to see just how much trouble you could cause in one day."

An engaging dimple curved a line in his cheek. "You wound me, Marquelle. I assure you I am much too serious of nature even to contemplate such a thing."

"That is what you would have us believe. I, however, know better."

"Do you?" He dipped his head and almost, but not quite, brushed her mouth.

It was a daring, bold act on the dance floor. It was mischievous and certainly begged trouble. Thankfully, no one realized what he had almost done. She pressed her hand into his waist. "Behave, Jorlan Reynard."

"Is that what you recommend?"

"If you wish to be safe, yes."

"Perhaps I don't wish to be entirely safe... Marquelle."

She sucked in her breath. "You like to play with danger, I see. But be forewarned: Should you play this game with others, they might not be as mindful as I am."

"Then perhaps I should play this game just with you."

He knew what she was about! Her initial plan to teach him a small lesson was backfiring on her. The veil was toying with her! She arched her brow. In the arena of games, he was a novice compared to her mastery. If the Duchene's grandson wanted to experiment with his limits, she would be only too happy to oblige him. "Is that what you really desire?"

"And if I do?"

"Then I would say, come take a walk with me."

"A walk? Where?" He asked her cautiously.

"Just outside to the gardens."

He hesitated for only an instant. Then his gaze fell on her mouth once more. The heat in his glance told her his response before he answered.

"Lead the way, Marquelle."

"Always," she murmured low.

Turning, Green noticed her archenemy, She-Count Claudine D'anbere across the room.

She was standing in the corner surrounded by her sycophants, lesser nobles of shady reputation who followed the She-Count about for whatever favors she could dispense.

She was watching them intently.

At first, Green assumed that it was her usual fixation on Green that was at the root of it. But the more she observed her, the more Green realized that Claudine was for once not focused on her—but on Jorlan. "Claudine D'anbere seems to have a tendresse for you, Jorlan."

He glanced the She-Count's way. Unconcerned, he turned back to Green. "Then she wastes her time. I have already rejected her suit."

"She doesn't seem to realize that."

"Then that is her misfortune. I have made it quite plain that besides not wanting a name-giver, I do not like her. There is something about her that chills me."

"I agree, but a word of warning: Be careful of her. She does not take rejection well. In fact, she does not take rejection at all."

He raised his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Ask her past three name-bearers. They initially refused her, only later to change their minds." And they all died in rather strange accidents, but Jorlan didn't need to know that. "Just heed my words. Do not toy with her as you have me tonight. You might find yourself in a situation you would not like."

"I see, although I'm not tempted to do such a thing. None of these newbreeds holds any interest for me. You are the only one I have ever been—" He stopped when he realized what he was saying.

Green smiled, somewhat stunned. "Thank you, Jorlan, that means a great deal to me."

He was surprised. "Why should it? I have heard you—"

She placed her finger over his lips. "It does, Jorlan. Leave it at that."

He nodded curtly once, his trust warring constantly with his maturity. No longer a youth, not yet a tried man, Jorlan Reynard was an intriguing blend of both. While his demeanor and reactions were that of a seasoned male, on occasion she caught the vestiges of innocent surprise on- his features. She suspected that was part of his nature and would never change, no matter the circumstance of his life.

What a compelling, mystifying personality! And what a shame it was that she was not interested in procuring a name-bearer or she would surely be tempted to make a bid for him.

She only hoped that his eventual name-giver would appreciate his rare qualities and allow him the room to develop his potential.

She sighed morosely. Knowing the Top Slice, the chances of that happening were extremely remote. Most women would see him as a beautiful ornament to dress their table and father their heirs. He would be cosseted, left in a gilded cage, and stifled.

It depressed her.

Taking his hand, she led him across the floor to the arched doorways and out onto the terraced logia.

There were several pairs already strolling the inlaid stone logia. Most of the first-seasoners were closely dogged by their retained scinose.

"How fortunate we are that you are not in your first season," she remarked drolly as she led him past the potted plants and down the few steps that led into the shrouded gardens.

"Why is that?" he whispered low and close behind her, bending near her ear. The action made her aware, once again, of his unusual height.

"Because then your scinose would be trailing our every step—almost before we took it." Men in their first season were required to have a scinose. It was feared that a youth's first outing into society, with its rich offerings, might turn a lad's head and the better judgment he had been taught would be in danger of leaving him. No family wanted to take that risk. It was imperative that a son make the best match he could. Any smear to his reputation became a threat to the family.

Generally it was reasoned that if he showed good sense his first year then he should be able to withstand any untoward influences, although many a family retained a scinose until the son was safely fastened.

"I never had a scinose," he responded smoothly.

She stopped and gazed at him over her shoulder. "Never?"

"Never. The Duchene knew I would never tolerate it."

"It is good that she trusted you so. It speaks highly of the relationship between the two of you."

"Yes." One corner of his sensual lips lifted. "But there was something else involved, too."

"What is that?"

"Do I seem to you the kind of man who is easily led astray?"

No, he did not. "You seem like the kind of man who makes choices based on dangerous pretexts."

"Really."

"Yes." She resumed leading him deeper into the hanging shred-moss.
Why was he following so readily then? Did he not know the danger he could be in?

When they reached a secluded spot under the branches of a massive shredder plant, she motioned to him to take a seat on the carved bench.

In front of them the water of a placed pond lapped against some rocks. Once, long ago, she had read that Forus had partially been formed to resemble the Origin place. For some reason, the natural rhythm of Forus had allowed such reshaping only to a certain extent. The innate charm of the mysterious moon yielded just so much before reclaiming its own wild beauty.

Parts of the land were rugged and exotic still—even after a millennium of colonization.

She stood before him, looking down at him. "You are not worried that you may lose your control, Jorlan?"

"No."

That was a challenge if ever she heard one.

On the one hand, she was impressed with his confidence; on the other hand, she was surprised that he had so underestimated her.

"I haven't, you know," he said in a low voice.

She arched a brow. "Haven't what?"

"Underestimated you."

That was the second time. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

"I don't know what you're thinking... I just felt to say it."

She wondered. "Why are you out here with me?"

"Perhaps I'm simply curious."

She laughed at her own expense. "I can't tell you how wonderful that makes me feel."

"No... no... I did not mean it like that... It's just... I don't know."

But she did. She was too experienced not to. The ever-aloof Jorlan Reynard had finally found himself attracted to someone and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it.

Again, she did.

She sat next to him on the bench.

"Why do want to live your life alone?" She faced him and reached up to smooth back his hair. It felt incredibly silky and supple. Even more luxurious than she had imagined. He flinched slightly at the touch of her fingers.

"Why do you?" he rejoined softly.

Her lips twitched. Yes, he was a handful. Smart, angry, with a wildness just barely under control. Green really liked him. He was a rare combination. He might even be a true treasure.

Right then and there, she knew she was going to regret this evening.

Regret having her taste of Jorlan Reynard.

Regret leaving him to the whims of society.