The Black Prince: Part I (36 page)

“Their fires are for each other, you see. Each other alone. So if Rowena—”

“Rudolph,” Hart cut in, “have you ever laid with a woman?”

The groom to be sat back in his chair. His lack of answer was answer enough. And confirmed for Hart something he’d long suspected. Rudolph’s seemingly unending stream of unfortunate comments weren’t the result of prejudice but, rather, of ignorance. He’d probably done less with Rowena, or any woman, than Quinn’s betrothed had with Quinn in those first few months together.

Quinn, Hart saw, understood as well. And his anger evaporated. Replaced, in an instant, with concern. Hart doubted that this was a problem many Northmen encountered, even dandies from Hardland. “So you and Rowena have never…?”

“Of course not.” And then, lamely, “I mean no disrespect.”

“And you never…?”

“The church forbids it.”

The silence returned.

“I, ah, suppose you might need some advice.”

“Do you know where it goes?” This from Arvid. Of course.

Callas stood up, added another log to the fire, and then sat back down.

Tristan, as usual, remained silent.

“Well you start by taking your clothes off and—”

“The church forbids coitus while naked! One might…become aroused.”

The feel of mulled wine shooting through Hart’s nostrils was not pleasant. Gasping and choking, he blew out the excess into a handkerchief. He’d known he never should have humored Isla by agreeing to attend this thing. But, as Isla had pointed out, Rudolph shouldn’t have to miss out on traditions simply because he had no friends. And then Hart had felt somewhat guilt-ridden as while he certainly didn’t regard Rudolph as a friend, it had never really occurred to him that no one else did, either. He’d tried very hard, indeed, to avoid thinking about Rudolph at all.

“You know where it goes, right?”

“Well that depends on if you’re hoping for a child.” This from Callas.

Arvid shot him a look. “Don’t confuse the man.”

The expression on Rudolph’s face told Hart that, in that moment, death would be a sweet release.

“How do Southrons fuck, for any purpose, without stripping down?”

“There’s a nightgown. A big, tented thing with a ribbon at the neck. And a hole.”

“And you know this how, Hart?” Quinn seemed entirely too interested.

“I am from the South.”

“Bugger all.”

“They don’t bugger. That’s precisely the point. Sex is meant for procreation only and brings the wrath of the Gods if conducted for any other purpose.” Or if, even during the most determined attempts at procreation, it was enjoyed. By either party. For even a moment.

“Don’t bugger?”

“What….” Rudolph’s tone was tentative. “What do you mean?”

“What’s the most you’ve done,” Quinn asked, “with Rowena or any woman?”

“I…nothing.”

“You’ve pleasured each other with your hands?”

“No.”

“You’ve kissed her breasts?”

Rudolph shook his head.

His face had turned the exciting color of an eggplant.

“Fondled them?”

Rudolph shook his head again.

“Kissed her anywhere?”

“I tried, once. She wouldn’t let me.”

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

“I tried with one of the dairy maids, once, but she boxed my ears so I left.”

Here he was: the church’s one pure, true soul. A man who, from the time of his earliest childhood, had striven to follow its precepts. To embody them, indeed, in every word and action. Up to the point where he was getting married on the morrow and had absolutely no idea how to complete the act without a special church-approved costume.

There was always the option of bringing him to a brothel but Rudolph might spend the morning of his wedding sobbing because he’d committed a sin. Or decide, even worse—at least for those who had to live with Rowena—that he couldn’t go through with it until he’d scourged himself back to purity. Hart had seen the flagellants wandering through Enzie, as a child, whipping themselves as they stumbled ever forward in a seemingly endless penance, their suffering meant to bring about the end of the war.

“Well,” Callas said, “I was going to ask you what you’d purchased as a bridal gift but after this conversation I’m inclined to think that you’re the one who needs one.”

Hart had never understood the convention of a bridal gift. Although not technically a part of church cannon, it might as well have been for how common it was. The morning after the wedding, the groom presented his bride with some sort of trinket. A ring, or a necklace. Sometimes a box to hold cosmetics, if he were rich enough to afford such things. The idea being to compensate her for the loss of her maidenhead.

A necklace, even a very nice one, seemed poor compensation for what surely must have been an awkward and unpleasant encounter for the woman. Undoubtedly with an almost complete stranger. Although, that people could actually
get married
without touching each other was an idea that Hart hadn’t fully credited until this night.

No one made any jokes about bedding virgins.

H
art pushed her against the wall, nearly knocking the breath out of her. The rail topping the wood paneling hit her just beneath the shoulder blades, and it hurt. His kiss was equally as violent, forcing her mouth open as he pinned her.

His hands were on her waist, her breasts, her shoulders, and then she was down on the floor with no understanding of how she’d gotten there and his hands were around her neck. Her hands were on his belt, nimble fingers working to free him. He’d arrived minutes before and there was no warning, just this. In other circumstances she might have been frightened but raw need surged through his every movement.

He ripped her dress. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything in that moment except the fact that he was here,
here
, with her. That, whatever was wrong, he’d come to her.

She arched her hips to meet him. The floor was cold and hard and she knew she’d have bruises. He dug his fingers into her hair, twisting it, and she felt some pull free from her scalp. She cried out, unable to help herself. His lips found her exposed neck, and when he bit her shoulder, she cried out again.

His free hand slipped down, along her side, and then under her exposed rump. With a rough yank he pulled her up, impaling her on him. It hurt, with no preparation. He was so large. So strong.

Everything hurt.

“Tell me you want me,” he hissed into her ear.

“Y—yes.”

“Tell me.” He bit her again.

“I—I want you.” It was true. She did. And this was only making her want him more.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

She could barely moan in response to the repeated violations, to the heat building inside of her, let alone form a complete sentence. But she tried. “You—you know I am.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m—I’m yours!”

“And no one else’s.”

“And—no one else’s.”

“Promise me.”

“I—of course I promise.” Those last words were a gasp, barely even distinguishable as words. He was her whole world, especially now. He cared for her, took care of her. He was the only one who ever had. But she would have wanted him regardless. Had wanted him since the first moment she’d laid eyes on him, even knowing who and what he was.

Had his reputation drawn her to him? A wiser woman might have said so. His ruthlessness. The power he possessed, over himself and others. The knowledge that he could kill her at any moment. He’d seduced her from that first moment when his eyes met hers, filled with fire and barely concealed intent. He was fearless. He was a predator.

And he made her feel, not dirty and ashamed, not like a used up plaything to be discarded, but new. Pure. Something to be chased. Stolen. Coveted.

He made her do things but she wanted to do them. For him and with him. Wanted to be tied up, and bitten, and made to feel things she didn’t want to feel. When she was under his control, she felt close to him. As close as two people could be.

She tried hard, at those times, not to think about the fact that those same hands had caused permanent disfigurement to so many. Not to think about the fact that he might be, even now, holding his lusts in check and that there might be worse to come. Much worse. That there might be no limit to the pain he needed.

He’d been gentle with her that first time and gentle with her again, later on, and he was always gentle after. Always held her and told her she was beautiful and rubbed arnica into her wounds if there were any. Deep, penetrating strokes that were themselves a kind of seduction.

But he’d never, never been like this.

She was frightened, not for her but for him.

Still, that didn’t stop her from falling into an almost drugged state, releasing her body’s deepest secrets to him as he mastered her. She clung to him, overwhelmed by the mix of sensations that became, as her climax built, only pleasure. A desperate, urgent kind of pleasure that fought for release even against her better judgment. Why should she feel like this? She didn’t know, could never have imagined before meeting Hart that she would.

And then she was so far past the point of rational thought that she could only feel. Feel, and feel only pleasure. She gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head as, reaching his own climax, Hart collapsed on top of her. It was like being trapped under one of the marble slabs that were used to cover tombs and she could barely breathe but she didn’t care.

Even so, a moment later, she was vaguely conscious of his moving. Wrapping himself in a robe he stepped out into the hall and spoke to someone. Probably Cassie. Who liked to stand outside with her ear pressed to the door, although she denied this.

Lissa didn’t move. Wasn’t sure that she could. She just floated.

More time passed. Minutes or hours she couldn’t have said. But then he was lifting her up and carrying her, and then she was in the tub. His tub, that he’d purchased for his own use and that Goodwife Hamel had declared a disgrace of overindulgence. To his face, even. But Hart had only laughed.

“Arnica,” she told him, “is quite a beautiful flower. Orange petals.”

“You,” Hart replied, “need something to eat.”

Lissa blinked.

“I’ll have fruit and cheese sent up.”

Which he did.

While bathing her, he examined her injuries. He seemed particularly concerned about a large, angry-looking patch of red above her left wrist. Red that would be purple by the next morning. “I…didn’t mean to do this.”

“It’s alright.”

“No it isn’t. I lost control of myself.”

He said that like it had never happened before.

“I don’t mind,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t feel it.”

His eyes met hers. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not truly.”

“I know.”

And she did.

The food arrived. Cassie tried not to look curious. She put the tray down, dawdled a little—presumably to see if they’d start having sex, right there, in front of her—and then left.

Hart helped Lissa out of the water, dried her off, and wrapped her in one of the many soft blankets she now owned. She was never cold at night, anymore. Or in the early mornings, when she sat cross-legged before the fire and studied her lessons.

He threw himself down on the bed and Lissa joined him, her feet tucked up under her. She placed the plate between them. There was wine, too, but she tended to prefer water. There was a glass on her bedside table and she drank from it, then returned to studying Hart.

He was beautiful. There was simply no other word to describe him. He was all chiseled planes and tense, coiled energy. His eyes were the most incredible color she’d ever seen, like emeralds. But dark emeralds. His gaze was piercing. And while she knew that some fundamental part of him was evil…it didn’t matter. Not to her.

Or maybe, some small part of her whispered, it did. Maybe she was drawn to the man who had no soul. There were rumors, about the Forsaken. Of ritual murders and incestuous orgies. Society’s mores meant nothing to Hart, who lived according to his own rules. Rules he made, for himself. Which meant that he offered unlimited possibilities; a world without conventional morality was a world without guilt, or shame.

Hart exemplified the predator, the glory and unabashed rightness of the hunt.

“Tell me?” she asked.

His smile was brief, and without humor. “I discovered tonight that my sister is marrying a man who can’t find his cock with both hands and doesn’t want to. And I discovered, too, listening to him dig himself into deeper and deeper holes as he insulted first one guest and then all, that I think I know who the other traitor is.”

“And it’s not him.”

“And it’s not him.”

He wouldn’t tell her who it was, of course. Or who he thought it was. And she didn’t want to know. He wasn’t excluding her because he thought she was stupid, or because he didn’t trust her. He was doing it to keep her safe. And she wanted to be safe. She wanted to pretend, as much as she could, that he was a normal man and she a normal woman. She wondered, too, at times, if that made her weak.

Hart turned. “Do you know, he intends to bed her wearing a nightgown. And her in the same getup.”