Текст книги "Demon's Bride"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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Her mouth tugged in a sardonic smile. Let them try and burn her. She would blow out the flames with a wave of her hand.
Unless they bound her hands. Then she might be burned. Already, she thought she could smell her flesh being charred, flaking away from bone to be borne aloft on currents of heat.
Leo would come to her aid. Shoot them all down, or use his fists to knock them senseless, then cut the ropes binding her to the stake and take her far away to safety.
She shifted onto her back. No indulging in fantasy, in fairy tales. The world is not so kind as to give us heroes and rescues—not without a price.
“Unquiet thoughts make for a poor lullaby.” Zora spoke softly, her voice smoky and subtly accented.
Anne turned her head to look at the Gypsy. Zora set the primer on the floor and crossed her wrists in her lap. Odd that the Gypsy would choose to sit on the floor rather than the nearby chair, yet she looked perfectly comfortable. Her dark gaze moved over Anne, clever and astute, rich with a worldly knowledge Anne could only envy.
“I hated him, too,” Zora murmured.
Anne frowned. “Leo?”
“Whit.” The Gypsy shook her head. “That gorgio fascinated me, yes, but I knew what he was, what he had done. He’d taken so much from me—my family, my freedom. I wanted nothing to do with him.”
“But I thought ... you seem so very ... in love.” It hurt Anne’s throat even to say that word, love, yet she had seen the way Lord Whitney looked at Zora, the way he touched her, and there could be no other word to describe it. He would do anything for Zora, and she for him.
Zora’s gaze warmed, and her mouth curved into a small, private smile. “Oh, most terribly. Yet he spilled more than a little blood to earn it.”
This conversation was stranger than Zora sitting on the floor. Anne did not know this woman. In truth, she and the Gypsy could not be more different. The rings gleaming on Zora’s fingers and the ropes of shining necklaces draped across her bosom seemed like emblems of distant, exotic lands.
Yet there was a point of convergence for her and the Gypsy: Hellraisers.
“I don’t want Leo’s blood spilled.” Anne shuddered to recall the angry lacerations over his body.
Zora shrugged. “If, Duvvel willing, we survive our task, you won’t have to see him again. If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want.” Anne turned to look back at the ceiling. She lay her forearm across her eyes.
“Hard men to love, these Hellraisers.” Zora’s words were wry, yet tinged with deeper emotion. “Harder still to not love them. But I think there is a reason why Livia chose to give magic to you and I.”
“Because we might get close to the Hellraisers.”
A definite smile sounded in Zora’s voice. “Because we’re strong.”
The door opened. Someone entered the room. Anne did not remove her arm from where it lay. Only one person would come inside—and she knew the purposeful sound of his footfall. He never tiptoed anywhere. Certainly not with her.
“The door was locked,” Zora said.
“I had the innkeeper give me another key.”
Of course he did. Leo could make anything happen through force of will.
Untrue—he had not made Anne love him. That, she had done all on her own.
“I want to be alone with my wife,” he said.
“I don’t think she wants to be alone with you,” answered Zora.
Before Leo could retort, Anne spoke. “It’s all right. And I’m certain Lord Whitney would rather have you with him than sitting on the floor in here.”
“I left him in the taproom,” said Leo.
Anne thought she could hear reluctance in Zora’s movements as she rose. But the Gypsy walked quietly from the room, shutting the door behind her.
Anne and Leo were alone.
“Here’s some stew and bread.” As he said this, she heard a bowl being set down atop a table, and the rich scent of cooked meat and the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread drifted through the room.
“I’ve no appetite.”
He expelled a breath. “Think what you will of me, Anne, but don’t starve yourself out of spite.”
Taking her arm away, Anne looked over to where he stood near a small table. Arms crossed, feet braced wide. He had borrowed some of Lord Whitney’s clothing—a serviceable green coat and waistcoat, in addition to the shirt, but no stock, so the collar of his shirt fell open to reveal the strong sinews of his neck, the shadow at the base of his throat. Hair wet, undone, and slicked straight back. Yet he had not shaved. Golden stubble lined his cheeks. He was dangerous as a buccaneer, and blade-handsome.
Yearning and need throbbed through her. And sorrow.
“Spite? Is that what this is? Spite?” She sat up, and the room tilted. Truly, weariness took a toll. And, she admitted to herself, hunger. “How very petty of me. To be out of temper when I discover that my husband is in league with the Devil. And had been lying to me for the whole of our marriage. What a dreadful virago I am.”
His expression hardened. “Don’t,” he growled. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”
“As truth ill becomes you.”
Snarling in frustration, he dragged his hands through his hair. Anne watched his every movement with a greedy pain. She wished she could despise him. How simple everything might be.
“It was a mistake,” he ground out. “A goddamned mistake.”
“Putting too much sugar in one’s tea is a mistake. Giving one’s soul to the Devil in exchange for dark magic deserves a grander sobriquet.”
He crossed the room in two long strides, until he loomed over her. “You’re a woman possessed of a good imagination. Imagine this: You are offered your heart’s desire. What you want more than anything in the world. The cost of this gift is never mentioned, only its advantages. All you have to do is hand over the smallest trinket, and you finally possess that which you’ve always coveted.” Anger and need darkened his eyes as he stared down at her. “Imagine it, Anne. Put yourself precisely in that situation and then judge me.”
She stared up at him. This fierce storm of a man, devastating as a hurricane. She did as he asked; she envisaged herself in his position. Months ago, before she had met him, what might she have wanted so badly? A place of her own. A husband, family.
She did have those things, and lost them. Both because of Leo. But to keep them, to keep him ...
The other Hellraisers were men of wealth and aristocratic privilege. Leo had wealth in abundance, but not the proper breeding. She knew so much about him now, how much he craved access into a world that barred him entrance, his pride. His need for acceptance.
All of those things he had been offered. Few could have resisted the temptation. Saints, perhaps, and Leo was far from beatification. God knew she was no saint.
“The lies, Leo,” she said at last. “All those untruths I swallowed, like a credulous patient gulping poison instead of medicine.”
“What was I to tell you? How could I even begin to broach the topic? ‘Lovely day at the Exchange, my dearest, and by the by, I made a bargain with the Devil.’”
She shoved up from the bed, shouldering past him. “Do not be flippant about this. You’ve no right to ridicule me.”
He let out a breath. “True. I’ve only my self-abnegation. And your hatred of me. Both justly earned.”
“I don’t hate you.” She turned to face him.
He brightened, and the hope in his gaze made her heart break all over again.
“I want to despise you.” She knew she was being cruel, yet the cruelty was for herself as well as him. “It is not merely the lies you told, but the fact that you deliberately used me. Collecting coins for you. Having me believe I was gratifying some secret wish, a shared confidence for you and I alone. And I was so bloody eager to give you whatever I could. To help forge our wedding vows into a true marriage.” She shoved her knuckles into her eyes, forcing back the tears that wanted to fall. When she felt in control of herself again, she let her hands hang down at her sides. “None of it was genuine. Just a manipulation.”
He did not look away, did not flinch. Though it was clear that each word she spoke wounded him. Anger drained from his gaze, leaving behind regret and pain.
“True, again.” His voice was a harsh rasp. “I used you, Anne. Most grievously. I’ve no excuse but my own greed. There’s naught I can say but ... I am sorry.” He swallowed hard. “From the depths of my heart, I’m sorry.”
She wanted to go to him. Comfort him. Never had she seen him in such pain, or with such aching want. Yet she kept herself rooted to the floor, the cool of the warped floorboards chilling her feet.
“I do not know what between us is real. What is illusion.” She forced words from her burning throat. “Did you ever care for me, Leo? Or was I simply a puppet?”
He moved stiffly to the window, and braced his hands on either side of the glass. His distant gaze seemed to barely see anything outside. Cold light carved him into sharp planes.
“At the onset,” he began, “my motives were mercenary. Perhaps even more so than one of your typical aristo marriages. I saw you as a key, a way to open doors that had been closed to me. Ours was not a love match.”
His words hit her like thrown rocks, yet she anticipated the blows. “That, I know. Each of us gained something from the marriage. It was a business deal. Commodities exchanged.” She blinked as a sudden ray of sunlight pierced the gloom and knifed into the chamber. It could not hold out against the clouds, though, and shrank away until only its afterimage remained burned into her sight.
“Still,” she continued, “I thought that, in time, we came to share something. Something beyond ... the boundaries of commerce and trade.”
He turned back to her, his expression fierce. “We did. We do.”
“How can I know? What can I trust?”
“Trust this.” He stalked across the room to her. She knew his intent, and stayed precisely where she stood.
She thought he would grab her roughly, crush her to him. Certainly his gaze burned and his visage tightened with hunger. But he was not cruel, nor brutal.
Stepping close so that their chests met, he threaded his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head with exquisite tenderness. He tipped her head back. Ravenous, reverent, his gaze moved over her face, as if seeking to commit every inch of her to memory. Slight tremors shook his hands, or perhaps it was she who trembled.
He lowered his mouth to hers, brushing his lips across hers, relearning her feel. Her eyes drifted closed as he took the kiss deeper, lips opening, urging hers to part. She wanted this so badly. When her own mouth opened, allowing him inside, a sound midway between a moan and a growl curled up from deep in his chest, a sound of profound need.
She tasted him, and his flavor was delicious, bittersweet. For he was familiar and strange, wonderful and terrible. Her hands came up to grip his tight biceps. This was as much touch she would allow herself, though she wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him close.
My God, how tenderly he kissed her. His lips spoke to her; she was the center of everything, the origin and the destination. Sweet and profound.
“Trust this,” he whispered against her mouth. “You seek truth. Here it is.”
“A kiss can lie,” she whispered back.
He shook his head. “Not mine. I’ve not the art of a seducer. Nor the words.” He pulled back enough so that their gazes met, and locked. “In all that has happened, in all that I had, you were the truest thing. Only you.”
She felt herself bleeding inside, torn and agonized. What he wanted from her, she did not know she could give. “Leo ...”
Abruptly, he released her and stepped away. Her hands hung in the air as he tugged off his borrowed coat. Waistcoat and shirt followed, all of them tossed to the floor without thought. Until he stood before her, bare-chested but for the bandages.
He turned, and she saw—for only the second time—the markings on his back. The pattern of flames twisted across his shoulders, emphasizing firm muscles. They were almost beautiful, the markings, but for their sinister connotation. They showed he remained the Devil’s possession.
“The marks have grown,” he said, keeping his back to her. “From the first day to now, they have spread over me. I didn’t know why, not until this morning.
“When they cover you, your soul is utterly lost.” The markings coiled down from his shoulders, along his back in a V-shape. A single tongue of flame wound down the length of his spine. Yet the skin of his back was not fully covered by the images. His lower back remained mostly bare, as did the upper curve of his buttocks, just appearing at the waistband of his breeches.
“Even with my gift of prophecy,” he said over his shoulder, “much of what I do on the Exchange involves hours of research, and careful consideration of available facts and knowledge. But instinct is vital, too. I trust my instincts. Always have. They seldom lead me astray.”
He faced her, chin high. “And I trust my instincts now when they tell me that those markings would have covered me by now ... were it not for you.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“You saved my soul.” He spoke plainly, with no embellishment, no uncertainty. “Had you not come into my life, had you not been who you are, my soul would now belong to the Devil. I know this as I know my own heartbeat.”
Slowly, she walked toward him, and he held himself very still. She moved past him, until she faced his back.
Her hand brushed over the slope of his shoulder. He inhaled sharply at the contact. Beneath her touch, his muscles tightened, responsive and alive. He radiated heat. With careful deliberation, she traced the markings, each image of flame drawn upon his skin.
“I wish ...” She followed the marks, trailing down between his shoulder blades, along his spine. The capability of this man, his will made flesh. “I wish you valued yourself more.”
“When I’m with you,” he rasped, “I do. I see what I can become, the better man I might be.”
“Might be,” she echoed. “But will you become that man?”
He shook his head. “The one future I cannot see is my own.”
“Yet you envisioned mine. You touched something that belonged to me, and you saw.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her. Releasing him, she picked up a scattering of pins she had removed from her hair, then placed them in his hand. “Tell me what you see now.”
Reluctance tightened his mouth. “Anne ...”
“Tell me.”
He exhaled. Then his gaze grew distant—the same distance that had come into his eyes when they stood on the banks of the Thames, and he had taken a ribbon from her hair. Fresh anger surged. He had used his magic against her. It felt like a violation.
His gaze sharpened again. “It was ... unclear.”
“No prevarication,” she bit out. “Honesty, Leo. Or there is no moving forward.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am being honest. I saw more demons, and a struggle. I was there, too. But the where and when of it—that I couldn’t tell.”
Her uncertain future held only one certainty: another battle. What transpired between then and now, and what came after—assuming there was an after—that lay in her hands.
She stared down at them, her hands. Not so long ago, they were as dangerous as hothouse lilies, and just as delicate. Now, they contained power. Truly for the first time in her life, she had power.
And she would make use of it.
Chapter 16
“What do you want?”
Anne looked from her hands to stare up at Leo. How could she answer that demand, when she could not see through the tempest engulfing her heart? She wanted to pull him close. She wanted to fling him from her. She wanted solitude and she wanted intimacy. It seemed impossible that one person could contain such a multitude of contradictions—yet she did.
She needed to test him, test herself. If she read his innermost self, what would she find there? A text of devotion, or more deceit? She did not know if she could gather the tatters of her own heart and step out into the storm. Or perhaps the silken ties that bound her to him were gone forever. One way to know for certain.
She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him. Deeply.
For a moment, he held himself still, as if afraid to respond and drive her away. Even with tension thrumming through his body, she sensed his restraint, allowing her to find what she needed to discover.
Desire flared through her, and she grew bolder. He groaned as the kiss heated. Not tender, but hungry, their mouths opening, tongues slick. She gripped his shoulders. Their bodies pressed flush against each other. Beneath the fine material of her shift, she felt his whole body—every plane and hewn surface, each sinew underneath satiny flesh. As she burned hotter, his caution ebbed. His large hands cupped her behind, bringing her tight, hip to hip.
Hunger tore through her, stronger than sense or wisdom. Her heart still ached. Words of apology and remorse might suture his betrayal, but the wound remained, and its pain throbbed in time with desire.
She never knew that one could desire someone this way—shredded by loss and sorrow, consumed with wanting. An appetite that grew even as she devoured more and more. She must learn the secrets of his heart, and this urged her on, demanding more.
Gasping, she broke the kiss. Yet she had only just begun. When she tugged him toward the bed, he went willingly, face dark, expression stern.
“Take off your clothes.” Her terse command surprised them both.
He obeyed, unhesitating. His gaze held hers as he tugged off his boots and undid the buttons on his breeches. These he peeled from his body, and then, save for the bandages, he was naked.
“I’ve never seen you this way,” she murmured. “In the light.” Nowhere to hide. Nothing to conceal or disguise.
He understood this moment’s significance. He let her look her fill, and look she did.
She discovered that her husband was stunning. Lean and muscled, his arms hewn, shoulders wide, the surfaces of his chest, scattered with golden hair, the taut ridges of his torso that led to a hard, flat stomach. The line of hair that trailed from his navel. The long, firm muscles of his thighs, the indentations above his buttocks. He was no soft aristocrat, no pampered gentleman. Years of struggle had fashioned his body into something fierce and tough.
She wanted to curse the bandages for obscuring him with their lattice. This was the body of the man with whom she had shared so much pleasure, such profound intimacy. It frightened her, a little, to see what she had known and touched and kissed, as though she had fallen asleep with a hunting dog at her feet and woken up with a wolf.
For all that, he was human, too, as evidenced by the intriguing scars and small collections of freckles. A man of flesh. Her gaze touched upon the scar on his shoulder, given to him by Lord Whitney—a reminder of the tapestry of deceit that had been woven by Leo’s hands.
Something on his calf drew her attention. More markings of flame climbed up the thick muscles.
“Why two sets of markings?”
He glanced away, and she saw the hard beat of his pulse in his throat. “Those came later. The geminus offered me more power.”
Which he did not refuse, clearly. “When?”
“After I made the other investment for your father,” Leo said. “It knew I was wavering. Sought to bind me to the Devil with further temptation.”
That was not so long ago. After the riot at the theater, after both she and Leo had been endangered by the evil he and the other Hellraisers had unleashed. Yet he had given in to the Devil subsequent to all this.
She dragged her gaze back up to his face. He looked like a man ravaged, passion and yearning and regret in his eyes.
Her resolve held. Many questions remained unanswered: what he wanted from her, whether she might salvage the care she once felt for him. She would put them both to the test.
Urging him back, she pressed him down when the backs of his knees met the edge of the bed. He sat, then leaned back on his elbows when she pushed against his shoulders.
He lay like that, braced on elbows and forearms, feet upon the floor, staring up at her with eyes the color of storm clouds. His cock strained up toward his navel. His fingers gripped the coverlet. Only his ruthless resolve seemed to keep him from leaping on her, claiming her.
She bent over him, bracing her hands on the bed, and kissed him hungrily. He reached for her. She grabbed his wrists and lowered them to the bed. His fingers curled into the bedclothes. Giving in to her demands.
For all the deception, on an intrinsic level, they knew each other. And this caused her hurt to renew itself all over again, reminding her of what had been sacrificed.
She wanted to push him as far as she could.
Pressing her body to his, she rubbed her breasts against his chest. The fine material of her chemise provided little barrier. He was solid and hot beneath her. Sensation sparked outward from the taut points of her nipples, and against her belly she felt the thick, hard shape of his cock.
“Is this what you came for?” she challenged, breathless as she teased them both. “Why you chased after me? The softness of my body when the rest of your world is hard and cold?”
With a look of tortured pleasure, he clenched his teeth. “More than this. I searched for you because I wanted you, in any way I could have you.”
She took him in her hand. His response was a hiss, and an upward push of his hips. From crown to base, she stroked him, her grip tight. The silken feel of him in her hand made her shake with desire.
Abruptly, she released him and pushed back from the bed. He stared up at her, breath coming fast and hard.
“Is this your revenge?” he rasped. “To leave me wanting?”
“If it was, would you let me go?”
“It would destroy me.”
“Yet if I needed to leave, if it was the only way to ensure my happiness, would you?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Damn him. If he were a brute, unrepentant and selfish, this would be simpler, painless. Yet he wasn’t. He was Leo, and she loved him. After all this, she loved him still, and nothing hurt her more.
The choice to stay or go was hers. Yet she could not leave.
“If my happiness demands selfish gratification?” she pressed.
“I will give it to you.”
She climbed onto the bed, grazing her hands along his thighs. He was her supplicant now. She pushed him down, so that he lay back, his head upon the mattress. “And you’ll ask for nothing in return.”
“All I want is the chance to give you pleasure.”
With his gaze hot upon her, she braced her knees on either side of his head. Her quim was inches from his mouth.
She had never been so blatant in her demands. Her eyes challenged him as her body pulsated with need.
Prove yourself, she said to him wordlessly. Prove to me that all is not lost. His gaze holding hers, he gripped her thighs. Slowly, reverently, he brought her lower, until his lips pressed against her.
Anne swallowed a gasp, yet she could not keep silent when his tongue traced a glossy line from her opening to her pearl. He did this once more, and she cried out from the pleasure.
Though she wanted to let her eyes drift closed and float in sensation, she kept them open, watching Leo as he tasted her. With deep, lush kisses and licks, he feasted upon her, creating marvels of pleasure with his mouth. He drank from her as though she were the rarest and most precious delicacy, one he was determined to savor. And all the while, his gaze stayed on hers, burning bright.
Tremors shook Anne’s thighs as the climax built, then crashed over her. He persisted, sucking upon her. In this way, he was both worshipful and commanding, for he coaxed her to bliss over and over, and she could not stop him, did not want him to stop, needing only pleasure and more pleasure and not the labyrinth of questions and uncertainty that lay beyond pleasure’s ruby haze.
Shuddering with another release, Anne pulled away, feeling the echo of his fingers as he unclasped his iron hold on her thighs. He’d never looked fiercer with want, his eyes hot, his mouth slick with her.
“I would give you that,” he rasped. “Every day, every hour.”
“And what for you?”
“Whatever you will give me.”
She edged backward and removed her chemise. In that cool gray morning, she was as exposed as he, naked in every way. Yet she felt stronger than ever.
Her knees pressing into the bed, she straddled him. Though he thrummed with want, he stayed as he was, lying back, feet on the floor and hands clutching the coverlet until his knuckles were white.
“This isn’t a promise,” she whispered.
“I know.”
She steadied herself over him, her hands braced on his chest, the head of his cock at her opening. At the touch of her wetness, he gave an animal growl.
His eyes were heavy-lidded yet fiery as she held herself above him, savoring even this small contact. And then she could wait no longer, and sank down onto him. She moaned at the sensation, thick inches of him sliding into her, filling her.
She paused for a moment, drinking in the feeling of him inside her. Looking down at him, she expected his eyes to be closed as he retreated into physical pleasure. But his eyes were open and fixed on her face. As if memorizing her.
Hot tears gathered in her own eyes. She wanted to be selfish and think only of herself, but the slick, sleek marvel of their joining, and the look of sorrowful rapture on his face, spoke otherwise. She had sought to test him, test herself, and now had her answer: their sex could never be merely two bodies pursuing mercenary pleasure. They needed balance, giving and taking.
“Anne,” he said, hoarse. He finally released his grip on the coverlet, his hand coming up to brush away her tears.
Using the back of her hand, she wiped her eyes, forcing the tears back. She did not know how much time she and Leo had left. She knew nothing at all. Only him. Only now.
She took his hand still cupping her cheek and moved it to her hip. Uncurled the fingers of his other hand and placed it on her other hip.
“Hold tight,” she whispered.
His eyes blazed.
She rose up, and lowered herself down. Hot sensation spread through her. She moved again. And again. Each rise and fall filled her with gleaming pleasure. Watching Leo beneath her, seeing the beat of his heart under the hard curves of his muscles, and the brightness of his gaze—she had never felt such a combination of ecstasy and suffering, and the darkness brought the pleasure into stark relief.
His hands gripped her tightly, his hips rising to meet hers with thick, potent thrusts. The tempo increased, flesh to flesh. She ground herself into him, shameless in her demands. Her tight, throbbing pearl rubbed against him, and he angled himself to reach her exactly as she needed.
Sounds came from her. Wild, unrestrained sounds. They mingled with his deep growls as their pace sped. And not once did their gazes part.
“Leo,” she moaned. “God.”
“Just like that,” he answered, panting.
She dug her fingers into his chest, leaving bright red marks. Release came like a hurricane, a storm of pleasure that wracked her every part, harrowing her with sensation. She did close her eyes then, tipping her head back as she lost herself to the climax.
The pulsations had barely dimmed when she felt herself gathered up and carried easily across the room. There was a crash and clatter as Leo shoved everything, including the food he had brought, off the table. He sat her on the table’s edge. At his wordless urging, she wrapped her legs around his hips, her hands clutching his shoulders, body already primed for more.
“I feared I would never feel this with you again,” he rasped. “That I had lost you forever.”
He gripped the table, gaining leverage, and thrust. Hard. She arched into him. He plunged into her again, and once more. The table shuddered from the force of his movements, just as she shuddered, yet she was caught in a maelstrom of pleasure from the fierce heat and power of him as he sank into her over and over. He was relentless, and she reveled in it. In him.
Another orgasm tore through her, harder than the first. She cried out. A moment later, he groaned, body stilling. Head bowed, he gasped against her neck, and his breath fanned over her skin.
They stayed like that, him still deep within her, their bodies fused.
“I love you, Anne.” His voice was deep, vibrating through her. “Even if the Devil drags me off to Hell, I will never stop loving you.”
She said nothing, only wrapped her arms around him and wished for answers that would not appear.
Leo woke with a start, and found Anne curled against him, his arms wrapped around her. She was soft and warm, deeply asleep. Darkness filled the room. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up the feel of her, her supple pliancy and the silk of her flesh. It had been far too long since they had lain like this, completely at ease, unguarded—yet he knew it was an illusion shaped by fatigue. Though he had loved her body with a soul-draining intensity, she would not permit him this closeness were she not exhausted.
Pain, it seemed, had a limitless supply, for he felt it anew, cutting through him. He had always taken whatever he wanted, yet there seemed nothing he could do to make Anne his once more.
A soft tap sounded at the door. This had been what had awakened him moments earlier.
Naked, he eased out of bed, grabbing his primed pistol as he did so, and padded noiselessly to the door. Likely demons would not knock, nor common thieves, but he’d take no chances.
Whit’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Livia has returned.”
Leo opened the door a bare crack. “Is she in your room?”
“She appeared for only a moment. Doesn’t like populated places like inns. We’re to meet her by the river as soon as we can.”
Leo nodded, and closed the door. He turned to find Anne sitting up in bed, already pulling on her chemise. Though he was used to dressing in the dark, she was not, so he lit a candle. It guttered, until Anne gave it a pointed stare, and the flame steadied. More evidence of her strange new power.
In the pale yellow light of a single candle, they noiselessly dressed. The air in the little room felt filled with broken glass, each inhalation a study in pain. They were two strangers who had shared the deepest intimacy. He helped lace her into her gown, now stained and limp, and she thanked him with a small nod.
