The Black Prince: Part II (42 page)

“Is he the one mentioned at dinner?”

“You mean the
son
Master Hamel asked the Gods to send home safely?” He cuffed the first man on the side of the head. “You’re too stupid to live and no mistake.”

“Gentlemen,” Hart cut in. “This is fascinating. But excuse me.”

He led Cedric to the Hamels’ small stable. So there’d been a party, then. He wasn’t in the least sorry to have missed it. Although, he had to admit, it was gratifying to be missed. He also owed a debt of gratitude to the Hamels for treating him exactly as if he had been their true son in law, following all the conventions that were proper. That they did this entirely for Lissa’s benefit he had no doubt. They’d accepted her as their own from the moment she appeared on their doorstep.

Thomasina had, she pointed out, always wanted a daughter. And the Gods had brought her one, even if They
had
taken Their own sweet time about the matter. Master Hamel seemed content enough to agree, in his turn, that there had been some sort of divine mix-up.

And now he was asking Lissa to leave.

He didn’t know much about her family of origin; she avoided discussing them, although he’d gleaned from what little had slipped out that her father was a pig and her mother a cipher. There was a sister somewhere, too. Had Hart been a better man he would have made some attempt to find her, to reunite the two women who’d each been sold into a separate but equally effective slavery. But he was too jealous. He wanted her love, her attention, for himself. He resented, even, in his lesser moments, her bonds with the various Hamels. Even Tad.

Leaving Cedric, he went inside.

The front door stood open. The front hall was deserted. But there, in the great hall, was Lissa. She was talking to Thomasina. Neither of them saw him at first. Which suited him fine. He was content—no, more than content—to wait. And watch. To drink in these last moments of her not knowing. To imagine, to himself, that things were still as they’d been.

Both women looked exhausted. But happy. He gathered, from his place in the shadows, that Liam was finally married. To Gretchen, a sweet but stupid girl he’d been mooning after for some time.

The last of the stragglers had staggered off, into the street at least, leaving them alone with the Hamels’ own regular servants and those who’d been hired on for the occasion. The reception looked like it had been a good one. He hoped that not too much of the plate had gone missing. The obvious depletion of Master Hamel’s gold was painful enough. Although Hart supposed that, to them all, it had been well spent. He wondered if Gretchen had remained a maiden and, if so, how Liam was fairing. Gods, Liam was a little backward;
he
may have remained a maiden.

Lissa must have sensed something, because at that moment she turned.

And time stopped.

Gods, she was so beautiful. Her gown was a soft cream with just the faintest hint of goldenrod to it, like buttermilk. Her hair was plaited. Not in a challenging mass of knots like Rowena’s, that reminded Hart of nothing so much as a nest of adders, but simply. There were pansies tucked in, forming a simple sort of cap. She looked like a sprite, just come in from the garden.

And her eyes. Her eyes on his were a balm on his soul. She’d been having a wonderful time, he could see, her face flushed from a night spent laughing. Seeing that, along with everything else, but thrilled him and felt like being eviscerated.

He took a step forward, and then another.

She stood.

And then she was in his arms. He could hardly believe that, this time, she was real. There had been times, since he’d left, when he’d wanted her with him so badly that he’d sworn he could almost feel her. Times when he’d woken, in the dead of night, half convinced that she’d just been in his bed. The residue of her touch was still there; he could almost smell her perfume. But now, now she was here, his fingers in her hair as he pressed her to him. So tightly he might crush her, but he didn’t care. He was never letting her go.

Her braids loosened, pansies scattering across the floor. He wanted to throw her down on the table and ravish her, to kneel at her feet and beg for forgiveness. Instead he just held her, in silence.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

“Yes.” And then, truthfully, “and I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Thomasina stood. He heard the scrape of the chair. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Lissa pushed back and Hart, reluctantly, let her go. “But I should help you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” To Hart, “welcome home, son in spirit. It’s time for me to retire, regardless. Having gained one child and regained another this night, I’m quite exhausted.” She took a step toward the door. “The rest can wait until morning, unless the girls feel like cleaning in my absence. Otherwise, have a pleasant night. I’ll let Master Hamel know you’re home.”

And with that she was gone.

Hart and Lissa stared at each other for another long moment.

“Come,” he said, eventually. Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer. He might want to but, even if he could summon sufficient control, he couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t take whatever she’d offer him under false pretenses. So he held out his hand and, trusting him, she took it.

He led her to her own rooms, which were as charming as he’d remembered. Rooms he’d wished, from his first visit, that he could share with her. He wouldn’t have minded waking up in her bed, as feminine as it was, the sun streaming in through the window. Hearing the sounds of the street outside, coming alive. Turning to see her still slumbering beside him.

“You’re home,” she said again.

“Not for long.” The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to change them. The words simply flowed, from somewhere deep inside and with no attention to how he’d planned on holding this conversation. “I’m an earl now. Of a place called Chilperic. It’s beneath the border but it’ll be as Northern as I can make it. I’m no Southron and neither are you.”

Lissa’s eyes widened.

“I’m taking you with me. I can’t be without you and I refuse to be and so you’ll just have to learn to make do. But I swear to you, I will do my best to make this exile bearable. For both of us.”

Gods be damned. There was too much hope in her eyes. He couldn’t stand it.

He strode over to the fireplace, and back again. He couldn’t stand too near it; he wanted too badly to skewer one or both of them with a poker. Preferably red hot. It’d hurt more. He stopped. He knew he was pacing like a caged beast. Knew she must be wondering what was wrong with him.

“Lissa.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. He knew what she thought this meant. Hoped against hope that it meant. “I’m married.”

She didn’t respond for a long time. But she seemed to shrink in on herself. Like the snow child from the stories, who melted in spring. And when she spoke, it was just a single syllable. “Oh.”

He could have stood it if she’d screamed. Thrown things. Cursed him. All of which she had a right to do. But, of course, only in his mind. In hers, she was nothing. And worth nothing. She expected nothing, too; her life had taught her that she had no right to. That she should be grateful to even exist. That she probably didn’t even deserve that much, but should have done the world a favor and crawled under some hedge to die years ago.

She was sitting on the bench before the window. She hadn’t run from the room, at least. He moved the chair over and sat down opposite her. “Please,” he said. “Let me explain.”

The silence stretched.

And then, “I waited. At the window in Thomasina’s workroom, every day. I helped her sew but really, I waited. For you.” Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears. “How stupid I feel for having done so. How stupid I feel.” She made a small, pathetic gesture. “How stupid I feel for telling you this and how stupid I feel for the fact that, even knowing what I know now, I still would.”

“You…cannot conceive of how I missed you.”

“So much so that you took another woman to your bed. And married her. Is that why you want me to come along? So you can return to me, if you grow tired of her?”

“No!”

Lissa’s gaze dropped to her hands, which were neatly folded in her lap. “I know I’m being unreasonable. I’m just a whore. And you don’t owe me anything, including an invitation to your new home.”

“Lissa.” He reached for her and she flinched. He let his hand drop. Gods, how had they ever come to such a pass. What had he done.

“You don’t understand. I had no choice in the matter. I had to—”

“Marry someone of your own class.”

“I would have married you, if he’d let me.”

Lissa looked up. “Who?”

Hart stood, and began pacing again. He wished he had a drink. A strong one. “Tristan.” He stopped, collected his thoughts, and then started again. “I am not my own man, in many things. He and I made an…agreement, whereby I was allowed to keep you. And part of that agreement was that I sever my heart from my head and—Gods—do my duty!”

No nobleman, however great his rank, could marry without his liege lord’s express permission. Marriage, at their level, was political. Not personal. Had Lissa been born a the daughter of a duke, it still might not have made a difference. Not unless that duke could offer an alliance that Tristan needed.

“Beaufort is our southern neighbor, and the duchy is slowly falling into the hands of traitors. Chilperic is the most significant site within it, far more than its supposed capital. It sits closest to Chad, controlling the channel that divides us. It couldn’t be left to Maeve.

“And Solene,” he explained, “she allied me to her people. With her brother and father gone, her husband would be the best—the only—claimant to what they’d left. Even under Maeve’s bizarre interpretation of our laws.” Which was why Piers should have married Maeve, instead of Eleanor.

That, or killed her.

“What happened to her brother and father?”

“I killed them.”

“Oh.”

As if she expected different. “They were traitors. She
is
a traitor. And a dangerous one at that.” She was unwell, yes. But she was also, quite possibly, evil. Which was a strong statement, coming from him. “Chilperic is beautiful, I suppose. After its own fashion. I can assure you, though, that if I never had to see it anywhere but in my mind, ever again, I’d consider myself blessed.”

He stopped at the window.

“I wanted power. For power I made…certain sacrifices.” For a long time, there was no sound but Lissa’s breathing. And his own. And the popping and crackling of the fire.

“You know what I am.”

“So you…don’t love her?”

“Lissa,” came the explosion, “I loathe her! She was the price I paid, along with my soul. She is vile and corrupt, just like me. A fitting punishment.” His eyes sought hers, willing her to understand. “Would that I’d met you…before. But by the time I did, it was too late. The man I was, was gone and in his place was what you met. What you see now. A shell.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“If I’d known…I would have made different choices. I would have been content to be a farmer, with you. Even if it meant that I never got to know what it truly was to be myself.”

And he meant every word.

But it was too late.

Too late.

“I don’t want you to be different.” Her voice was still very quiet.

“I have no home without you. Please come with me.”

“What about your wife?”

“What about her?” To Hart, she could not be more irrelevant. And—love her? This was a business arrangement.

“She might object.”

He knelt before her. He hated to see her in such pain. Hated more to know that he was its cause. “I don’t care. I care about you. I thought of nothing but you the whole time I was gone. Please forgive me. And please, please. Come with me. Bear my children and be the wife I’ve dreamed of having since our first night together.”

She ran her hand through his hair. She still wasn’t smiling, but she was touching him. At least that was something. “I don’t want you to change,” she said. “I love you just as you are. And I can’t stop.” She shook her head slightly. “Which is my curse.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Please don’t make me live without you.”

Something almost like hope bloomed in her eyes. “You…truly want me?”

“You’re all I want.”

Her hands on either side of his face, she leaned down and kissed him.

The touch of her lips was feather light but it was all he needed. He felt feverish with need, more than lust. He pulled her down from the bench, onto him. She didn’t resist but she showed no great enthusiasm, either. Letting him wrap his arms around her and, turning, lie her gently on the floor.

He had to force himself to do this. Not to ravage her. Again and again, until there was nothing left. Of either of them. Instead he gazed down at her. And she up at him. She’d let him do what he wanted; he knew that. She’d experienced a lifetime of suffering horrors when she didn’t let men—all men, from her father to the man he’d near gutted when he came back from the mountains, to the man he had—do what they wanted. Because she’d been young, and powerless, and afraid of being turned out to starve in the street.

“But Lissa,” he asked. “I need to know. If you want me.” As a lover, this night and in the nights that followed. As a companion for the rest of her life.

For an agonizingly long time, she didn’t respond.

Hart wondered what he’d do, if she told him no.

“Is it warm in Chilperic?” The smallest smile. There and gone, as she considered. “I’ve heard that in the South, it’s warm.”

This time, when Hart’s lips met hers, she kissed him back. Her fingers dug into his scalp, making him hiss. She might be drawing blood. She wrapped her legs around him as he raced to free himself from his breeches. He was so hard that it was almost an agony. His skin was on fire. He pushed up her skirts, not bothering to undress her. One thrust and he was sheathed to the hilt. She cried out, her hold on him tightening.

Let her draw blood. He wanted her to. And then there was no more thought.

He lost himself in her. He didn’t know, after, if he’d brought her pleasure. He hoped he had. He wanted to give her everything. Most of all, he wanted to give her himself. In every way that he could. He wanted to beat her, to control her; he wanted to worship her. And if Solene ever laid a hand on her then, so help him, he’d kill her. No matter what Tristan said.