Chapter 2 #2
Father has already crossed the outer wall and entered the courtyard. A guard waves me forward as I approach the wall, likely aware that I am straggling behind the Earl of Fleuriste.
As Father walks his horse toward a servant, they both turn to wait for me to catch up.
The impulse to thunder toward them gives way under a reminder that these people do not know that I am the next Hunter.
I would appear a spoiled child, petulant and bedraggled.
So I ride toward them, dismount, and hand the reins to the waiting man.
Stepping back, I let myself marvel at the beauty of Maudite Castle for a moment.
The towering building is not as updated as Fleuriste Manor.
The edifice is liberally decorated with both gargoyles and grotesques.
A few gargoyles appear to be vomiting currents of rainwater, and one squats like it is urinating a wide river of rain.
I try in vain to recall the names Isabeau and I assigned the gargoyles.
We christened a few grotesques as well, but it was these few on the front of the main castle building that caught our very young minds.
I mentally list several of the names with a smile as I follow my father to the front door, which opens at our approach.
Bartholomew.
Antoine.
Gertrude.
A servant shows us in, taking our cloaks and trying not to wince at the state of my dress. At least Isa—
My entire body seizes somewhere between joy and terror as she walks toward us.
Nothing in my life has ever been as breathtaking as Isabeau, future Duke of Maudite, current Viscount of Ashmore.
I haven’t seen her in years, and though she is unmistakably herself, she is visibly stronger and leaner now.
Time has been good to her. Her eyes still seem darker than any I’ve seen, and her body carves through space like a knife in motion.
My first love has always felt like an answering violence to my own temper, and my hand almost drops to my hilt before years of lessons in being a lady kick in.
My hand drifts to my side, but I know that she noticed. Her lips curve in a brief smile that makes my knees unsteady. Horrible people ought not be so lovely.
“Fleuriste.” Isabeau bows her head politely to my father, the Earl of Fleuriste. Then she turns slightly to the side and bows a second time. Inappropriately, her bow is deeper this time, and her voice sounds like she’s purring my name as she says, “Lady Gabrielle.”
Father nods. “Ashmore.” Then he glances at me. “I will speak to His Grace and inform you after. You may join us after you”—he darts a look at Isabeau—“talk to her.”
He trudges off, and I try not to notice that he’s favoring his right leg again.
Does the magic exhaust him? Or was it the early ride and wet weather?
I am still watching him as he heads to the study when I hear Isabeau ask, “Does he still find fault with me for convincing you to dally in the pantry with me?”
My face feels warm as I snap, “My father has likely forgotten that afternoon. I certainly had.”
“Truly . . . ?” She sweeps her gaze over me, not dismissively at all, but with a bold stare like she’s appraising a trinket to buy. “Would you like a reminder? We could go back there and—”
“Stop.” I take several deep breaths, and once controlled, I meet Isabeau’s eyes. “Must you be so boorish?”
“Most people find me charming.” Isabeau’s very presence feels like a challenge, a test I shall inevitably fail.
She’s even more beautiful than I allowed myself to remember these last years.
Dressed in a shirt, vest, suit coat, and leggings that hug her visibly muscular shape without becoming vulgar, she has an elegance that transcends mere beauty.
Over it all, she has a houppelande. Although the coatlike garment is fur trimmed and trails to the ground, it does not look foolish on her.
It tells me she was likely outside. A quick look at her red ears confirms the same.
They’d be cold if I kissed them, my traitorous mind whispers.
Her raven-wing-dark hair is cut short enough that the unruly curls threaten to rebel; one seems to be wrapping around the curve of her ear, not unlike the feathers of the raven that comes to mind every time I see her.
Her beauty is the only excuse I have for sounding so cutting as I say, “No, Isabeau, most people find your future title and your proximity to the queen charming.” I pull off my sodden-wet hat.
My two thick braids drop like serpents, heavy and twisting down my back.
“I am not impressed by either title or lineage, unlike most of your paramours.”
At first, I fear she’s changed too much as she simply stares at me. Then the quick temper I remember fills her charcoal-dark eyes, and she drawls, “Most of my paramours?”
I swallow several replies. I was not intending to imply that I was still in their number, and according to court gossip, her sheets are never cold. Once, I thought she was mine. Now, I have been replaced by countless lovers.
Isabeau’s eyes are fixed on me as she lowers her voice and asks, “So you agree to be my paramour again, then? I would certainly be willing to resume kissing you.”
“That is your reply to me?” I force a scoffing noise to hide the laugh that threatens to escape. Verbally sparring with her does good things for my mood.
I bet exchanging sword strikes would be better, temptation whispers.
Isabeau steps closer than I am prepared to accept, and I stumble away hastily, awkwardly, embarrassingly all but falling until she grips my wrists to steady me.
In a low voice she demands, “Is that blood?”
“Probably.” I look down, hoping upon hope that it’s not faery blood. I could swear there was none. The dead man was mostly drained of his own blood. There was a little, though, in the pool on the ground.
I spot the wet mark; thankfully it’s human blood.
I hike up my skirt’s hem and pull out a dagger. Without a word, I sever the fabric above the blood. Trying to not seem as incredibly bizarre as I’m sure I must, I scour it with my eyes, trying to assure that no faery blood is there.
Contaminants!
I fumble around in a pocket for salt, fill my hand with it, and turn my back to her as if I’m embarrassed. Quickly, I toss salt on the marble floor, but not so quickly that she doesn’t notice.
“Did you salt my floor?”
“Never too careful,” I say, as if that answer is anywhere near truth.
She looks at me again, but this time her gaze rakes over me as if I’m vulnerable and precious to her. “Are you injured?”
“No,” I whisper. I forgot how much I liked her protective side, perhaps because it was coupled with a possessive streak that was sometimes less alluring.
“Not your blood?” she presses.
“Not mine.” Carefully, I fold the blood into the fabric and transfer it to the hand still coated with coarse salt. “Would you escort me to a fireplace?”
Isabeau offers her arm to me as if we are at a ball or something, as if I am not dressed in attire that will be sentenced to a fire when I return home, as if she did not shatter my heart into pieces a decade ago.
A lump that might be my heart chokes me, and I sound like a weathered old woman as I manage to scratch out, “I’d rather not ruin your hem if there are other . . . fluids on my dress.”
Isabeau removes her houppelande, tosses the extravagant garment onto a table, and again offers her arm.
I try not to stare at the shape of her revealed without the massive houppelande.
I fail instantly. Debauched and drunk are the rumors I hear, but what I see is strength and beauty.
If she were intoxicated as often as society swears, her face would not be so bright and beautiful.
Alcohol poisons health, and Isabeau looks healthy.
The pause has stretched too long. Seeing no other option, I rest my hand on her elbow, tentatively, as if she might sear me.
“I’ve not seen you in the city,” she says. “I watch for you.”
“My life does not often lead to the sorts of places you frequent.”
“Balls? House parties? The theater? The opera?” Isabeau glances at me, challenge clear in both her eyes and voice.
Fine, then. If she wants to discuss her carousing, so be it.
“No,” I say. “The racetracks, gambling halls, and doxy dens. Even in the quiet chambers where I can be found, I hear word of your exploits, Isabeau.”
“You wound me.” She looks away, seeming almost embarrassed. “I am not so awful as the gossips say.”
We drift to silence, and I think that surely, this is not the resolution my father bade me to seek. In truth I was not prepared to see her, to walk with my hand on her arm, to hear her voice again. I’m not sure I could be. Not to see her. Not to touch her.
Gods above, the touch of her arm through the fabric of her suit coat and blouse is not going to unsettle me so. The curl of her ear, the spark in her eye, the curve of her calf, even the way her tongue wets her lips because she’s nervous . . .
“Your hair is longer,” Isabeau blurts out.
“Yours is shorter. Have we nothing more significant to discuss?” I release her elbow and walk to the fire. I keep my back to her as I toss the cloth into the flames and salt my hands.
“How are you?” she manages. “Truthfully.”
I can feel her watching me. She’s never been subtle when she studies me. It used to send a frisson of excitement through my body. Honestly, it still does. “I am restless. Ready for the cold months to end. You?”
“Heartbroken. Weary. I’ve moved to the castle.” I turn to face her, and her eyes hold mine as if she is daring me to pursue the conversation, but I cannot.
I stand, shoulders back, chin up, and ask, “Would you let me know if there is other . . . red on my dress?”