The Dream Thief (8 page)

He watched the corners of her
mouth lift. Part of him—the part that was still dazed by her magic, by the
shape of her eyes and the contrast of the crimson silk against her milky chest
and arms, and the swan’ s curve of her neck, and the mass of smoky-thick locks
that fell to her shoulders, half pinned, half not, like she’d just tumbled out
of some very soft bed—part of him only stood there and stared, as dumb and
dazzled as all the other fools encircling her.

But the other part of him was
still a bastard outlaw in a room full of unknown risks. It was this part that
snapped his jaw closed and sent the blood back into his heart. He leaned
forward without a word to anyone, took her hand, and yanked her to her feet.

The dandies fell back, agog. A
few of the younger men began to protest, but Zane only offered a nod to the
woman she’d called Marie and pulled Amalia with him to a small, un-crowded
space by a side table laden with plated raspberries and crystal bowls shining
with punch. He glanced around to ensure they were alone, then glared down at
her.

“What
the hell are you doing here?”

She’d made no protest to his
forced march across the ballroom; when she answered him, her voice was calm.
“The same as you, I imagine.”

“You’re supposed to be in
school!”

She tipped her head and
smiled—another shock, because it was definitely a woman’s smile, both sensual
and faintly amused. “It was finishing school.” She freed her hand from his and
slid it slowly down the cinched curve of her waist. “Well…I’m finished.”

“Good God,” he said at last, for
lack of anything better.

“Merci,”
she murmured.
“C’est très
gentil.”

A maidservant approached the
table, bobbed a curtsy at them before beginning to ladle the punch into cups.
Zane took Lia by the elbow and turned her away again.

“Was it
you who sent the invitation?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“Then
who is this Comte du Abony?”

“He is the gentleman hosting this
very fine ball. I’m having such a splendid time.” Her smile widened, just a
little. “We never have balls at home. I can’t imagine why.”

“Well, you can bloody well ask
them yourself when you get back there. Let’s go.”

“No,” she said, still very calm,
and put a step between them. “I’m afraid I’m not leaving yet. Not the ball, and
not the country. And if you wish to be so imprudent as to force the issue,
Zane, you’ll discover I ’ve made quite a few friends in my time here. Do
release my arm. People are starting to gawk.”

He felt it without looking up,
the pockets of whispers beginning to rise around them, the many eyes. He
dropped his hand, returning her smile with a razored one of his own, and at
least had the satisfaction of seeing her confidence falter, a swift lowering of
her lashes before she gazed back at him again.

“I want you to understand
something,” he said, his lips barely moving. “I don’t know why you’re here. I
don’t care. I’m not going to be responsible for a chit of a girl who takes it
in her head to run off whenever the moon is blue, or the stars align, or
whatever your reason this time may be. I’ve come for a very specific purpose,
and I don’t like surprises. I find your presence here—offensive.”

“I’m not a chit of a girl,” she
said, her smug expression vanished. “Not any longer.”

“No, you’re a
lady
now,
clearly,” he sneered, with a deliberate glance at her décolletage.

The pink
of her cheeks began to darken. He pressed his advantage.

“So now, if you don’t mind, we’ll
be departing. We will return to wherever you are staying and pack your things.
In the morning you can start home.”

“Actually,” she took another step
away from him, “I do mind. I’m not going home.”

He regarded her for a long, tense
moment, just long enough so that her blush deepened another shade and the pulse
in her throat began to quicken. By the dim light of the ballroom she was truly
beyond lovely, ruby and snow and those amazing dark eyes. Five years had passed
since he’d last seen her, five years and a world of experience, it seemed. She
looked like her mother and her father and no one else on earth, a being of
clouds and stone-cold sorcery, poured into a very tight gown.

Against
his will he caught the scent of her: not perfume but something more subtle, the
air and the sun and winter roses. “Fine,” he said brusquely, and moved away.
The musicians were playing something new, a jig. Amid the jangle of strings and
festive bells, he went back to the punch table—because it was nearby, because
it was where his feet took him—and allowed the maidservant to hand him a
brimming cup. Beneath her starched cap she was young and homely. When he nodded
to her, she smiled shyly back.

He lifted the punch in salute and
downed the entire thing. Sweet cloves and brandy, the fumes searing his nose.
As he was accepting a second measure, a sweep of crimson skirts came into view.

“I don’t know how you found me at
the hotel”—Zane acknowledged the maid once more before turning around—“but I
won’t be there much longer. Pray do not trouble yourself to search for me
again.”

Lady Amalia was quiet.

“I have no doubt there’s a pack
of your kinsmen on your heels, and damned if I’m going to be the one who takes
the blame for this.” He glanced at her coolly. “You’re on your own, my lady.”

“You need me.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“No, you do. You’re looking for
Draumr.
And I know where it is.”

He lowered the cup of punch,
staring again.

Her lips pursed. She gazed down
at her fan.

“Well?” he said.

“I’m not going to just tell you.
You need to take me with you.”

“Dearest child. Get it out of
your head. You’re not going anywhere with me.”

“I am not a child!”

“No,” he agreed, losing patience.
“You’re really not, are you? You’re something far more ominous than that.” He
set the cup upon the table behind him and leaned down to put his mouth to her
ear. “I wonder how all these good people would feel if they knew a monster
walked in their midst?”

Amalia stiffened. A powdered gray
coil of hair trembled against his jaw. “We stand at the brink of the
Carpathians,” she replied under her breath. “With woods and wolves and a
thousand different legends. You’ll find monsters aplenty in these lands. None
of these
good people
will thank you for naming them. For all their
fashion and French wine, they’re a superstitious lot. And I will, of course,
deny everything. You’ll be just a mad foreigner.”

She sent him a sidelong look,
challenging; someone new came near. Zane was already pulling away, but Lia had
turned and aimed a swift, glittery smile at the aristocratic couple now
lingering before them. “Ah, Lord Miklós, Lady Eliz.
Jó estét.
Have you
met my husband, Zane Langford?”

For the second time that evening,
Zane—Black Shadow of Mayfair, dreaded Whip of St. Giles—was too astounded to
speak.

“They will not miss me until
after Christmas,” she said, twirling the quill in her fingers to draw slow,
slow circles upon the paper on the hotel desk; the paper was thick and
fine-grained, but her hand was never very good. The ink from the quill made
blotches across the page. “They won’t be chasing after me, because they won’t
know I’m gone until then.”

“And
how did you manage that?” Zane was standing with his back braced against the
door to his room, his arms crossed. Lia envisioned him turning the brass knob
and simply stepping backward,vanishing instantly into the darkness of Óbuda.

It was late, very late. The
east-facing windows of the room showed a faint green rising in the sky. She
glanced up at Zane. For half a second she almost hoped he’d do it, just open
the door and go. He’d been quizzing her the entire night, and all she truly
wanted to do right now was sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come, anyway.
Or if it did, she’d wish it had not.

Her mantle and reticule were
still draped along the foot of his bed where he had first tossed them, a
jet-beaded glimmer against the patterned duvet. His own cloak had been flung
over hers, careless, lamplight slipping along a thin flash of emerald satin
from where the lining had flipped over. To anyone else in the room, it might
truly appear they were man and wife, returned together from a long evening out.

But he’d only brought her here
because she’d offered him no alternative. Lia was painfully aware that —right
now—the man she’d called
husband
wanted nothing to do with her.

“I sent a letter to the
headmistress from my parents, noting I would be absent this final quarter due
to family concerns. I sent a letter to my parents from the headmistress, full
of marvelous praise of my skills and diligence, and of how I had very
graciously volunteered my last Christmas there to help tutor the parish girls.”

“My heavens. I had no idea they
were teaching forgery at young ladies’ academies these days.”

She twirled the quill a little
faster.

“And theft,” he went on. “I
presume you did bother to steal the official stamp of the school.”

Lia lifted a shoulder. “It
wouldn’t have been very convincing without it.”

“Quite. And the marquess’s seal?”

“I had a copy made Easter last.”

“Cunning.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. It’s always
a pleasure to acknowledge the talents of a fellow delinquent.”

She propped her cheek upon her
fist. The quill was pheasant, she thought, striped and spotted.

Perhaps quail. She frowned down
at it, because it was easier to contemplate than Zane.

He’d also removed his wig and his
elegant black coat. His waistcoat was silver brocade, a pattern of willow
leaves and vines just barely visible in the weak early light. He’d raked his
fingers absently through his hair until it fell into a sheen of tawny,
sun-tipped gold; it was brown and blond and longer than she’d ever seen on any
man, nearly half as long as her own.

She wondered that he’d never cut
it shorter. She was glad that he never did.

He left
the door to prop a foot up on the cushion of the armchair beside hers—shoe and
all—and bent his head until his hair spilled forward again, sliding over one
shoulder. Without looking at her, he began slowly to plait it.

“Expenses?”

“A
saved allowance.” “Papa is generous indeed.” She let him think it. Until this
month she hadn’t spent more than a guinea on herself in three years. Half of
those nose-in-the-air ninnies at Wallence thought she herself was on the
parish.

“And of course,
Madame
Langford, I am most curious as to which aspect of your former curriculum
covered bald-faced lies. Everyone back home seems to be under the impression
that you are a sad, sad case. Not a hint of any of the old family traits.”

“That part is true,” she said,
pausing her circles with the quill.

“Then how is it you know the
whereabouts of this fabulous diamond?” he inquired smoothly. “When no one else
does?”

The quill made a series of
scratchy dots across the page. “Mostly true.”

“
Mostly.
How awfully
intriguing,” he said, in a tone that indicated it wasn’t. He abandoned the
plait, nearly done, to prowl across the chamber, pausing at a decanter on the
marble-topped
secrétaire.
From the corner of her eye, Lia watched him
pour a glass of dark liquid. It was claret. She could smell the dry spice of it
from here.

He held it between his palms,
staring moodily at the surface. He did not offer her any.

“I don’t see how it concerns you
how I got here,” she said, throwing down the quill. “All that matters is that
I’m here to assist. I would think you might appreciate that. I don’t want any
of the money for myself, you can have the whole pot. Any other thief in the
world would be overjoyed to have a beautiful woman offer to show him the way to
a valuable gemstone.”