SEVENTEEN

 

 

"Have you played morra?" he asked as he returned the chessboard and pieces to the coffer. The room was growing cooler. A night breeze had risen, a low sighing in the shutters.

For a moment she did not understand him, and then gave a startled laugh. "Morra! Not for years."

"Nor I. By chance we would be more evenly matched."

"At a child’s game!" she said ruefully.

"Nay, I’ve seen fortunes won and lost at morra," he said, dropping the chest closed. "Is it only for children in England?"

Elayne tucked the little sweet-scented flower behind her ear. She saw him watch the move, and felt herself grow warm. "Cara taught us when we were young. I’ve not seen it played since."

He held out his fist. "Two fingers or four?"

She frowned a little, recalling. "We played only two. You can play it with four?"

"We can play it as you like," he said. "Ten rounds, two fingers—and a fist for zero? Call the sum of all fingers. One point for each win."

Elayne gave a little shrug. It seemed quite a descent from the strategies of courier chess, but he stood before her with a serious look, one hand behind his back. She held out her hand and faced him.

"Count of three," he said. "One...two...three..." 

"Four!" they said simultaneously, and Elayne looked down at their hands. They each had two fingers extended. 

"A tie," she said.

He nodded. "One...two...three..."

Elayne blinked, caught without having considered how many fingers she would show. "One!" she said as he said, "Two!" She looked down and realized she had held out two fingers. He had extended one.

She rolled her eyes. "Stupid of me." The total sum of their fingers could hardly be one if she held out two of them herself, but that was the challenge, to guess at a sum while at the same time choosing the number to show.

"Tie again." He frowned downward. "One...two...three..."

"Zero!" she exclaimed, holding out her closed fist as he flicked out two fingers. "Oh, Mary, you—" She almost said he had won, and then looked up at him. "What did you call?"

He scowled, and cleared his throat, and then said with an embarrassed look, "I forgot to call."

She giggled. " ’Tis more difficult than I remembered."

"Aye!" he said, with a shake of his head. "Ready?"

They stood facing. She could see that he was pressing a smile from his lips.

"One...two...three..."

"Three!" Elayne exclaimed to his "One!" He held out one finger and she two.

"I won!" She felt an absurd rush of pleasure to be the first to triumph. "What round is this?"

He tilted his head. "The fifth?"

"Avoi, I am ahead."

He bowed, his black hair falling across his shoulder. "You are ahead, my lady."

She stared down with concentration at their fists, nodding faintly in time with his count. "Three!" she cried, and almost forgot to hold out her fingers. She scrambled to extend two a moment after he made his show of one.

"Oh ho! Cheating!" he said.

"No, no—I lost my concentration," she said. "Do not count it."

"Very well," he said, "but you should know that I have cheaters tossed down that trapdoor."

She glanced up, but he was grinning. "Loser must carry the chamber vessel down the stairs!" she said, flicking her tongue at him.

"A cruel fate! Ready?"

She nodded, tensing, trying to hold her two numbers in her head while he counted. "One!" she cried, thrusting out her closed fist as he snapped out two fingers.

They both looked down.

"You forgot to call again!" she said.

"God’s blood." He shook his head with a startled laugh. "You start the count. It seems that I cannot do both."

Elayne bounced on her toes as she counted. "One...two...three—four! No, three! I meant three!" They were holding out three fingers between them. She looked up. "I did! I swear it!"

He put his hand under her chin. "You are a cheat, hell-cat. A born cheat."

Elayne took an excited breath as he leaned over and kissed her mouth. She sucked quickly at his lips and then broke away. "Ready? I’m ahead."

"I will not allow you that last point."

"I’m still ahead. What round is this?"

"Six. Because you cheated," he said.

"Ready?" She drew a deep breath, her body taut with anticipation, planning to call three and show two, trying to remember which was which. "One...two... three—five!" she yelled.

He paused, holding out his two fingers near her two. "Five?" he inquired mildly.

Elayne blushed. "You confused me!" 

"How?" he demanded.

"By—standing there." She gave him a wounded look. "And kissing me."

"Where shall I stand? Over the trapdoor?"

She held up both palms, and then pressed them together. "Round six. One more time. We must compose our minds."

They stood with their fists out, nearly touching. Elayne closed her eyes. For some reason the simple act of choosing two numbers and causing her mouth to produce one and her fingers to show another was quite strenuous, particularly when she seemed to want to laugh every time she met his eyes. She looked at him. He was watching her with a comical expression of inquiry.

"Are you sufficiently composed, Princess?"

She made a face at him. "You are distracting me."

"You are beautiful."

"No, sir, you are beautiful, and know it far too well for any man’s good. One...two...three—three!"’ she cried.

"One!" he shouted at the same time. She held out two fingers, he held out one.

"Ha!" Elayne jumped like a child. "Two points for me now. Seventh round."

"Your hair is like silk." He reached out to touch it, but she caught his hand.

"Round seven," she said, holding his wrist steady before her, preventing him. "One...two...three..."

"Four!" They both shouted at once. Two fingers showed on each hand.

"The Devil," he said. "I’m going down to a tie." 

"I’ll win." She gave him a smirk.

He caught her around the waist and pulled her against him, burying his face in her throat. Elayne gave a shriek and pushed him away, laughing. "Now who is cheating?"

He stood straight. Elayne began to count. "Wait!" he said.

She stopped.

"I must compose my mind," he said.

"One...two...you are a loathsome toad...three...zero!" Their voices united as he yelled, "One!" When she looked down, he held out one finger against her closed fist.

She thrust out her lower lip. "A point for you."

"You’ll never win," he growled. "I won’t abide it. Last round, hell-cat."

They leaned toward one another. Elayne counted. "One...two..." She held her free hand against his shoulder, holding him off as he pressed toward her. She could not look at him; she would have burst out in hilarity for the ferocious look on his face. "...three!" She flung out her hand. "Three!" she cried, while he shouted "Four!" at the same time, almost in her face.

They both looked down. He held two fingers extended. She had one.

She shrieked again as he took her down against the bed, falling in a shower of hair and his body tumbling beside her. "I won!" she mumbled against his palm over her mouth. "Sound and fair!" She yelped as he rolled her over and muffled her head down in the pillows. "I won! I won! Ow!"

"Say my name," he ordered, holding her into the pillow by the nape of her neck. He was nearly on top of her, his weight pressed warmly against her hips and her back.

"No!" she cried, then gave a stifled scream and a buck as he put his arm about her. "You lost!"

"Aye," he said beside her ear, "but you think I’m beautiful."

"A loathsome toad!" She giggled and gasped for air. "A great...toad!"

She found herself turned over and pulled atop his chest as he lay back on the bed. He held her tight, their legs tangled amid the white robe and scarlet bedcover.

"Allegreto," she said, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back and smiled.

She had not known he could smile so. She had not imagined he could laugh. And he was beautiful—a far vision beyond beautiful—he was her pirate, her angel, his cheek and jaw and throat a perfect form, shadowed with roughness, his lips parted. She could feel his breath rise and fall, the strength like a hunter’s longbow drawn taut, easily held, as his arm curled about her to pull her close.

"When I saw your eyes," he said, "I thought of that lake out there."

She ducked her face into his shoulder, taking a deep breath of his warm skin. "At home some said I had the Evil Eye when I looked on them."

"Fools," he said. He twined his fingers in her hair. After a moment he tugged it and said, "This is your home."

She did not answer. She had no answer. Monteverde still seemed unreal to her, a place of foreboding and violence. And yet this lake was Monteverde, the dark mountains, the water so dazzling under the sinking sun and radiance that it almost made her mind ache. And he was a manslayer, without any sense of right and wrong that she could fathom—and when he laughed with her...just once, laughed with an open delight in the moment— she felt as if some long-lost part of herself had been completed.

"You should not have to come home this way," he said. "Like a thief. I should have held it for you."

"Not for me," she said, shaking her head.

"Look what is left of Navona." His mouth tightened, the smile gone. "I knew they had pulled the walls down—but I did not realize—until I saw it..." He let out a long breath. "I have not done well."

She rested her hand on his chest. She had a strong desire to deny it, but there was not a single thing she knew of him that she could say with a whole heart was well or rightly done—except that he had saved her life. She traced the line of his collarbone with her forefinger. "You defeated me soundly at chess," she offered.

He gave a short laugh. His mouth relaxed into an easier curve. "We have two days safe here."

"Time enough to play morra again. I prefer it."

He caught her hand in his fist, running his thumb up and down the inside of her palm. "I might have other amusements in my mind."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. He raised his elegant eyebrows. She smoothed the tip of her finger along one of the scratches she had made on his skin. With no more than that, she felt his body grow taut. His lashes lowered. He ran his tongue over his lower lip.

"I won," she said in a low voice.

He turned over and lay atop her, spreading her hair on the pillows around her head. "Be cautious of me, hell-cat," he said. "Be careful. There is a brink there—and I don’t know where it is."

She felt herself as if she had long passed some precipice, and walked on thin air in this tower above the dark lake. "Do you fear it?" she whispered.

He ran his hands up behind her ears, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. "The galley drew anchor two days ago," he said. "You are certain."

"I am certain."

He closed his eyes briefly. "God help me, I cannot keep it in my head."

"In the small hours of the night, two nights past," she said. 

He looked aside, frowning. She could feel his hands tighten in her hair. "I should know the names of Franco’s men in d’Avina."

"You do not?"

He stared down at her, shaking his head slowly. "No." He lifted his head abruptly, as if he remembered something. "There should be a message tonight." With a quick move, he sat up on his elbow.

Elayne sat up also, watching him. The moment of play had vanished; he had nothing of pleasure or ease in his face now.

"I must go," he said. He started to rise, and paused. He leaned very close to her, just touching the corner of her lips. "Rest, beloved," he murmured. "Do not leave this chamber. I will return before morning."

He kissed her deeply, pressing her hard down into the pillows.

As Elayne lifted her arms around his shoulders, he pulled back and turned away, his bare feet hitting the floor lightly as he left the bed.

 

* * *

 

There were no books in Gian Navona’s chamber. If he had been a scholar and wizard like his bastard son, he left no sign of it in this tower haven. Elayne spent some of the long hours of the night in searching through his coffer and the cupboard, being careful to touch nothing that Allegreto had not examined and declared safe. She pulled the musty bedding from the mattress and replaced it with sheets from the cupboard. The scent of ancient herbs filled the room, their dry skeletons scattered across the carpet where they fell as she shook out the folded linen.

A wealth of fine tapestries lay rolled in the bottom of the cupboard—winter dress for the chamber, their rope cords coiled neatly by the hand of some long-vanished servant. Elayne looked up at a row of gilded wall hooks shaped like the heads of mastiffs, running the whole length and breadth of the chamber under a ceiling painted with silver stars. Gian Navona had not spared his comfort or expense here.

She made a pile of the old sheets. To occupy herself, she shook out Allegreto’s indigo doublet and tried to brush the dried mud and sand from the collar. She had an idea of hanging it, to ease the wrinkles, and even managed to toss one of the tapestry cords over a hook before she looked again at the stains and deemed it a hopeless task. She laid the garment over his chair instead, feeling an unfamiliar moment of housewifely enjoyment as she arranged the cloth.

She punched and poked his felt hat into shape again, too, smiling a little as she hung it over the chair, thinking of his discolored eye and criminal look from under the pointed brim. She braided her hair when it was dry, standing well back from the sunburst mirror to see as she pinned it around her head.

Raymond had called her a remarkable woman. She looked at the shadowy face in the glass, only able to discern the line of her nose and cheek and the shape of her eyes in the weak lamplight.

Everyone said she resembled Lady Melanthe. But she did not see it. Perhaps their eyes were a similar color, and unusual, and that accounted for the likeness. Her godmother looked like a queen—Elayne did not think her own face and bearing were even fitting for the princess that they said she was. There was a softness to her features, a wideness to her eyes, and an upward curve to her mouth that made her appear more like to a mischievous pup. She had hoped it would disappear as she grew older, but in the dark mirror she thought she looked no more regal than Nim.

She tried to make her face severe, and only succeeded in looking as if she were pouting. She tried to envision herself giving orders, dispensing justice. Even young Queen Anne looked more imperious.

It was no wonder Raymond had thought her a foolish girl. No wonder Il Corvo called her naive.

A vision of him came to her, a clear image of his body, his back to her at the edge of the lake, that moment that he stood poised before her.

She imagined him on his knees.

She stared at herself. And even she could see that her face changed, that the pouting mischief transformed into something...different. It was the same face, and yet it was as if the shadows grew sharper and finer, more dangerous, and the lips no longer held a curve of mischief, but some secret unspoken knowledge.

She twisted her hands together and turned abruptly away. She did not recognize that face. It did not look like Lady Melanthe or Cara or anyone that she knew.

He warned her to be careful of him. Well she knew it. He was simply a killer, born and bred and trained to it, as an alaunt was made to take down its prey. A wolfhound might roll and sigh under an affectionate hand in the kennel, but an hour or a moment later, it would rise to hunt again.

She took up the tiny blossom from where she had laid it carefully by the comb as she braided her hair. It was but a fading thing now, a soft, broken star of petals. She closed her fingers on it and rolled it in her hand, crushing it until the heady scent rose up and filled her nose with sweetness.

 

* * *

 

In the dawn he stood by the open window embrasure, leaning his elbow on the stone wall. He looked out, his face and body lit with brightness from below, a half-silhouette in the dim room. He wore no shirt still, but black hose and boots of undressed kid softly wrinkled about his ankles and calves. The vambrace guards were strapped to his forearms. His daggers hung from the leather waist-belt, resting gently against his thighs.

"The message came?" Elayne asked, from within a nest of pillows and fragrant linen. She had put off the white robe when she went to sleep, and lay naked now within the sheets, a strange and delicate feeling. She had been in a bed unclothed only once before. In his bed. She could feel every place where the linen touched her.

He looked over his shoulder. "Not yet," he said. "But word came to Gerolamo to expect us to arrive here." He gave a soft derisive snort. "Morosini took his good time."

She hugged a pillow to her, watching him. She had not slept much, and when she had, she had dreamed of playing morra in a dark lake where the water would not let her move her fingers.

The leather buckled to his arms gave him the look of a fighter. He leaned at ease on the wall, his hand propped behind his head. Against the pale skin beneath his arm, against the smooth taut muscle, the sight of the dark gauntlet straps made heat rise in her throat.

He turned onto his shoulders and crossed his arms, resting his foot up against the wall. "So we will wait. Though I fear there is little to provide diversion here. I brought food and drink, if you want it."

She did not want food or drink. She wanted him.

"I thought of a game," she said, turning onto the pillow on her stomach, keeping the coverings up over her to her neck.

He lowered his chin, looking at her from across the chamber. "Another game?"

Elayne nipped a bit of sheet over her nose. "By chance it is more of a story than a game." She pulled the sheet down a little, just enough to clear her mouth. "It is like...feigning the people in a tale."

"Is it?" he said.

"Yes." She lifted her head, resting on her elbows. "An amusement, to pass the time. You said you delight in games. This is a game of human character."

His mouth curved up a little. "You remember that."

She rolled over, examining one of her fingernails, the sheet draped over her arms and breasts. "My game...it is something like a play. I have one part, and you have another."

"What parts are these?"

She gave him a sidelong look, holding the sheet up to her throat. "I thought in haps I would feign to be a great queen."

He smiled openly then, tilting his head aside. "Not a minor one?"

"A great queen." She flushed. She sat full up against the pillow. "Like to the Queen of Sheba. All-powerful, with many lands."

"I see," he said dryly. "And no doubt Your Majesty requires a humble servant to serve you in this game."

"Oh, no," she murmured. She slipped down a little in the bed. "I do not require a servant."

His glance drifted downward, along her body beneath the bedcovers. "A Solomon, to share your throne?"

She shook her head. "No," she said.

"A lover?" he asked.

Elayne drew breath more quickly. "I am told you are a manslayer, not a gallant."

"It is true, my lady." He bowed his head.

"Then haps you will play the part of a warrior." She looked up at him. "A prince."

"Will I?"

She caught the covers in her hands and sat up fully, holding them to her breasts. "Aye. A warrior and a prince, I think. From a far land, that has been—" She hesitated, burying her hands into the bedsheet. "Conquered."

A long silence followed her words. She did not look at him; she could not. She blinked rapidly, aware that there was an excited blur of moisture in her eyes, as if she had just heard some terrifying tale of goblins and hauntings. Her body seemed to grow warm all over, sensitive to every touch of the linen.

"Brought—" She cleared her throat. "Um—brought before me as a prisoner," she said in a failing voice, when he did not answer. She leaned over her knees, hiding her face.

"Do you think I would abase myself?" he asked.

She looked up. He watched her from the dimness, obscured now against the growing light in the window. She could not see his expression clearly. Only his bare muscular arm crossed over the other, strapped in leather.

"I don’t know," she said unsteadily. "It is play."

He made a soft laugh. "I fear you do no justice to the role of a great ruler—with that squeaking voice, and fortified among pillows. As your defeated enemy, I am not much impressed."

She drew herself up. The disadvantage of her nakedness was palpable between them. The white robe lay across the foot of the bed.

With a regal move, she threw aside the bedcoverings. She folded her knees in the most graceful and queenly manner she could contrive and took up the robe as she rose. She imagined a host of handmaids and pulled it on with proud leisure, not deigning to close it from neck to toe, but only fastening one button across her breasts. She looked up, but still she could not discern his face against the glare.

She swept forward a few steps and sat down in the large chair, placing her hands on the arms. "Let me see you," she said. "Come into the light."

For a moment she did not think he would. Then he moved, one step that swung him away from the wall into the growing sunlight, standing with his legs apart and his arms still crossed, a little curl of scorn on his lips.

He made a very good likeness of an enemy prince. But he did not appear conquered, not at all, though his eye was blackened and his shoulders bore scratches and bruises like fading battle marks. With some effort, Elayne kept her face composed. She found it necessary to imagine guards—a number of them. She met his faint smile with a narrow look.

"You are insolent," she said. "Lower your hands."

He looked down at her. His glance drifted in clear boldness to where the robe opened to reveal a curve of her bare thigh and knee. Elayne stared at him, unblinking. Guards, she reminded herself. If she were a queen, there would be guards enough to cause him to do what she pleased. She leaned back in her chair with a casual move, careless of the robe, not taking her eyes from his. No challenge, no contest; a simple assumption that he must obey. It was a game, though it did not entirely seem so.

He drew a slow breath. Then he gave a low toneless laugh and raised his look to the wall above her head, uncrossing his arms, his hands not quite at his side, but open, resting lightly on his thighs. It was the stance of a man who might draw his weapons in an instant.

"Disarm," she said.

His faint smile of contempt vanished. He glanced at her. A long moment passed, with a new guardedness in his look. Elayne felt the tiny hairs on her neck and arms rise. He was truly splendid, standing half-naked like a royal savage, gazing at her now as if she were a stranger to him.

"Do you fear me so much that you must have your blades at ready?" she murmured.

He put his hand to the buckle of his waist-belt. Then he dropped it away and shook his head just slightly.

"Perchance you are afraid to play this game," she said.

He turned back his head and gave a raw laugh. "Aye. I am. Hell-cat."

She stood, walking to him, and put her hand on his chest. She felt him draw a deep uneven breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them when she passed her fingers over his nipple.

"You are insolent again," she said. "Disarm."

He seemed taller than he ever had to her, standing so close—tall and barbaric and unpredictable. She gave his nipple a sharp flick.

He drew air between his teeth. He reached again for the buckle and pulled the leather loose, standing straight, staring over her head. As the belt came free, Elayne caught it in her hand. He resisted for an instant, and then let it go.

He stood looking beyond her, utterly still.

She let her gaze pass over him, from his waist to his hips and up again to his chest and shoulders and throat. She could see that beneath his breeches there was a thickening in his body, a growing readiness. Another prickling wave of sensation raised the secret tender places on her skin. It made her feel warm and damp beneath the robe. She paused, drinking in the sight of him. He was such a pleasure to look upon. And hers. Her captive, her prisoner—she lost herself in the fantasy of it, that he was under her command; entirely at her will.

She dropped the waist-belt on the table and touched him again, reaching up to his shoulder, running her palm down his arm. He turned his forearm up and moved his hand abruptly, as if to reach for the vambrace strap and release it.

"No," she said. She slipped her fingertip just under the leather, tracing the well-fitted edge. His skin was firm and silky at once, the blue veins showing on his inner wrist. She rested her fingers there, feeling his hard pulse. "No. Wear these. I like them."

She lifted his hand between hers. He submitted to it, his lashes lowered, making no resistance as she spread his fingers and explored the perfect masculine shape of his hand. The metal bands on the arm guards gleamed dully. His third blade, bone-handled, lay in a tight leather sheath inside the length of his forearm. When she put her hand over the hilt, her fingers slipped easily into spaces molded for them.

He made a warning sound in his throat, not quite a word. Elayne closed her hand and drew the knife, looking up at him slantwise. "Is it poisoned?" she asked coolly.

He breathed deeply, his eyes on the blade. All distance was gone from his look. "No," he said.

She nodded down toward the others. "Only the left-hand dagger."

His left hand opened and closed, as if he could feel the hilt of it. He never took his eyes from the knife she held. "Aye."

"I remember," she said, taking a step back. "Do not move." She picked up the waist-belt and walked apart from him, taking his weapons away the whole width of the chamber. When she was on the far side of the bed, she turned and stopped, watching him.

He stood still, but he flexed his hands with a motion that showed all through his body, as if he pressed against a great weight. The muscles in his shoulders and neck grew taut. He swallowed, staring at the empty space before him. "Elena," he said hoarsely. "Take care."

She ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. Take care with the blades, perchance he meant, but a fine sweat had broken out over his skin. She could see it in the morning light streaming now from the window. It was as if she held his very life and heart in her hands, in these glimmering shafts of steel.

She was well-cautious with the daggers, placing the bone-handled knife gently on his father’s coffer and leaving the others sheathed as she slid them free from the belt. His girdle was plain, made of fine strong hide, dark and well-worn, the inside lined with kidskin as soft as a lady’s glove and stitched in small even seams. The leather was still pliable with the heat of his body. She curved it around her fist, pleased by the feel of it next to her skin.

She walked slowly back to him.

He turned his head. "What have you done with them?" he asked sharply.

"Whatever I like," she said, holding her hands behind her.

"Hell-cat." His voice held a fierce warning, though he stood rooted in the place she had left him.

She looked aside at him speculatively. "I am your queen now, warrior," she said softly. She clasped her hands modestly in front of her, the belt entwined and dangling from her fingers.

He glanced down at her hands. For an instant there was something like relief in his face, and then the curl of derision came again to his mouth. But she could see the pulse beating hard in his throat.

"I will do what I please," she said in a quiet voice. "With your weapons. With you."

There was the shadow of the nightmare beast in his expression, the hollow stare of an animal caged, as if he would have his daggers and be upon her but for invisible bars between them. Somewhere far deep inside, she was frightened—appalled—at what she did, but overlying it was the dark game between them, that depth of pleasure, the thing that kept him standing imprisoned before her without any bonds at all.

"Put your hands behind your back," she said.

He turned his head a little aside. "Elena," he said low, "this is dangerous. This is too...difficult."

"Shall I go, then?" she asked. "I can leave you."

"No!" he said quickly.

"Then do not tell me what is too difficult." She walked beside him. "Come, I will make it easier." With a light touch she drew his wrist behind his back, thrilling to the faint angry sound he made while his shaft answered with a swell of desire. "Sweet warrior," she whispered, lifting his hair and kissing his back, running her tongue over the tight muscles between his shoulder blades. "So well-made. I wish to make best use of my vanquished foe."

"Ah...damn you," he said, shuddering as she drew his other hand into place.

"You are impudent." She used the end of the belt against him, a light slap like a tutor with an unruly student. But the leather had a solidity that magnified the flick of her wrist. It struck his skin and the inside of his wrist with a crack that made them both jerk.

Elayne drew back. She stood an arm’s length behind him, startled. She’d felt the sting of punishment across her own hands often enough as a child—Cara had never had the heart to do it herself, but Elayne’s strict Italian duenna had known just how to apply the rod, for the little good it ever seemed to do in recalling Elayne to proper behavior. She wet her lips.

He held his hands crossed behind him in rigid fists, the tendons and muscles standing all along his arms. She walked beside him. A slow drop of sweat made a trail below his ear. He stared straight at the wall before him, his member straining hard at the black cloth and lacing.

She lifted the belt softly, tracing the inside tip of it down his arm, barely touching him. He flinched. And she could not help herself; she loved him when he stood so, like a man braving fire and Hell, and then made that tiny spontaneous jerk under her touch.

She turned the belt and snapped the outside leather hard against his skin. His chin came up. He stood sweating and taut, like a stallion worked into obedience that might yet explode at any moment. Yet it excited him—he was full and stiff, heavy with desire. She put her hand on him gently, outlining his shape. He sucked in his breath and took a step backward.

"Do not move," she said. She struck him, the tip of leather like a nip across his ribs, his flinch like a brand to the torch lit inside her. It left a reddening mark on the pale skin under his arm.

She stepped before him. He swallowed, blinking at her, with a glancing look down at the belt and back up again.

She lifted her hand, and he took another step back. One pace behind him, dangling from the tapestry hooks, was the silk cord she had thrown there.

"Stand still," she said softly. "I want you still."

She reached toward him again, and she could see that he tried to keep his stance. But he took one more step back as she moved closer, his lips tight together, breathing like a winded animal. His fingers touched the wall behind and he stood stock straight, yanking his fists apart. He brought his hands up as if he would seize her and shove her back.

Elayne used the belt on him, full across his chest. He froze; they both did, at the sound. He stood with his hands open.

"If you will not be still, I will have my warrior bound."

He made a sound deep in his throat as she grasped the cord. He must have known it was there—he would have noted anything, every small detail in the room, she was certain. And yet he looked as if the sight of it in her hand stunned him. She had never before seen so much of his feeling show in his face; he looked near to some encounter with the Devil himself. But his body was flushed; hard and ready for coupling, the red line of her strap glowing across his chest.

"Your hands," she said firmly, before he could find his sense and refuse. "Cross them before you."

"No," he said, his voice grating. "Elena!"

It was a plea. She answered by touching his face, stroking him as she would a frightened beast. "For me," she said tenderly. "I want to use you, sweet warrior."

All the breath seemed to leave him in a rush. He turned his head under her touch, as if she had struck him across the face. "Oh, God and Mary," he whispered.

"Do it," she said gently.

He put one hand across the other, breathing as if he might begin to weep.

For a moment she looked down at his arms—his strong wrists crossed, the dark leather guards and gleaming metal, his hands working faintly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat. Inside the robe she felt as if her body thrummed some deep answering note of sensation, as if she were the very string upon a harp.

She drew the cord about his wrists, holding it lightly. She could feel that he was nearly frantic, though he held himself rigid and did not break away. The twist of fine silken threads felt soft in her fingers, a luxury, the tassel a fan of creamy elegance against the hard-tanned leather and steel of the vambrace guards.

She looped the cord twice around his wrists and tied it as she would have secured a horse’s lead, a knot that would not loosen, but draw tighter with any pull or struggle. He watched her work with a glazed look, as if he did not believe she did it.

"Raise your arms," she said.

For an instant he stood motionless. He blinked, and she could see the glitter of moisture in his eyes, that spontaneous wetness of fear and pleasure that she’d felt herself, imagining this moment with him bound before her.

She lifted the belt and ran it over his shoulders, down his arms, up again beneath his throat. She snapped a cruel flick against the smooth silky skin beneath his ear, and then across his nipple. He sucked in his breath and closed his eyes, his body racked by faint shivers, his full member pumping. He lifted his hands above his head.

Elayne drew the slack cord taut and leaned up and kissed his mouth, because he was so beautiful and helpless and exposed to her this way. He opened his lips, half-turning his head away from her, and then bowed down and sucked and strained against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers as she pulled his arms higher. It was a desperate kiss, like a battle in which she would lose if she released the hard tow on the cord in her hand.

She broke away, feeling her grip on the silk slipping.

She held it with both hands, searching out the anchoring cleat in the wall. With a quick loop, she made the cord secure and stood back, staring at him, her palms heated by the slide of the silk in her hold.

He was trembling all over, standing with his legs spread and his head tilted back to the wall, his blackened eye like a painted design in the half-light. It was not a game now. She was not certain that it had been from the start. Her mischievous reverie of a warrior prince faded before the reality: dark murderous perfection bound before her, and he had let her do it.

"Allegreto," she whispered, her voice filled with wonder at herself, at the sight of him. "God save, I love you."

It was as if the words had come from someone else, some other place. He grew utterly still—for a long moment she could not even see him breathe. He squeezed his eyes hard shut and gave a tiny sound. He dragged his hands down so that the cord went tight and straining all along its length. The muscles in his arms swelled. His chest heaved with his sudden effort to break free. The silken cord drew taut, squealing against the hooks.

He went abruptly still again, panting. "Kill me," he said in a broken voice. "I can’t bear it. I can’t—bear it."

She stared at him. She hugged herself, shivering.

"Please," he said, the one word an ache in the room, an echo of torment.

She went to him and put her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. He jerked the bonds when she touched him, and then the tension in his body seemed to crumble; he swayed against the cord and pressed toward her, rubbing his cheek on her hair like a child seeking comfort.

"Elena." He breathed a laugh. He put his head back and yanked at the cord that held him. "Christus, do you know how much I fear you? I’ll die like this."

She let go, standing away as he hauled and fought the bonds. "I love you," she said again, as if some evil angel had her tongue.

He gave a bestial groan and lowered his face, looking at her with his teeth bared. "I’d like to ride you until you can’t draw breath to beg or squeal."

The sudden raw threat hung between them. Elayne felt it like the sting of the strap, the crude recovery of his power. But it brought something vital between them, an armor against what had been in his face and in her voice.

She gathered herself, took refuge in the game. She paced slowly, observing him as if he were a piece of merchandise displayed for her pleasure, trying to drag her mind back into safe imagination.

"But you cannot, can you?" she asked. Her words at least came out with something that resembled cold confidence. "My so-fierce enemy. You cannot."

He was silent, watching her like a chained demon glowering from the shadows. Elayne stopped, facing him. He raked her with a look from head to toe, and she realized for the first time that her robe had come unbuttoned and fallen open. He meant to intimidate her with that devouring stare, but she tossed back her head and shoulders and let the gown slide from her body. She held it delicately, as if she were about to step into a bath. Guards and handmaids and a queen...she conjured them for courage and banished them in the same instant, leaving her alone in this chamber with him.

"I have use for you, warrior," she murmured, pulling one pin at a time from her hair. The belt dangled from her hand as she did it, the kidskin soft on her cheek and shoulder. "I could give you to the guards, or have you enslaved—but I do not." She shook her head, feeling the weight of her braids tumble down her back and brush against her naked buttocks. She paused and let him look at her as she fingered the plait and worked her hair free, reveling in his hot dark stare. "I find you well-formed and favored. A worthy sire of princes."

He pulled down slowly on the bonds, his arms flexing. "If you be a mare in heat," he said coarsely, "then set me loose, and I’ll service you without mercy."

"Oh, no," she said demurely. "I need not set you loose."