Chapter 7
Rough fabric brushed my lips.
I couldn’t see anything, but I smelled a distinct combination of oak, potatoes, and rotten apples. My body was bound so that any range of motion was near-impossible, though there was little room to move at all inside whatever container I’d been stuffed into.
My breathing hastened. I fought to control myself so that I wouldn’t pass out again, but I was fighting waves of panic and pain. Only the vibrations below me offered any sense of setting—I was moving by wheel, the wagon drawn by the uneven strides of a man.
I screamed into the cloth stuffed in my mouth, then banged my head against my container.
“That was fast,” said someone. My abductor, perhaps. His accent was familiar. Hadrian, perhaps. “Listen here, girl. People want you dead. I’m doing you a favor. Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll find a better use for it when I get you out.”
The ground shook again, and the wheels grew quieter. There was another sound, like humming, before we slowed to a halt. Someone was talking to him, but from the sound of it, they were distant.
I could scream.
Of course, that meant getting an interloper mixed in with the curse, since clearly even a muffled shout was enough of a catalyst.
My abductor was under my influence, but that hadn’t stopped him from being gruff or violent.
The specific terms of the curse only meant that he’d fallen in love, but I supposed they didn’t dictate what that love looked like.
Maybe it had been a stroke of good fortune that Prince Nicolas was the first to hear me speak. Not all men were so gentle.
“Quer tarsé peuto! Q’osa che entem barrile?”
The foreign language was melodic, fast, and animated, with rolling r’s and a staccato rhythm. Was another Hadrian speaking? More than likely, it meant the man had a fellow conspirator. Tears fell down my cheeks, soaking the sack around my face, at the thought of more dangerous men.
My earliest understanding of sex came with the caveat of its perils. I was eight or nine when Mother gave me that talk, all because I’d asked what could possibly be so dangerous about being loved.
“Love isn’t always a poetic thing,” she’d said, propping me on her lap. “For some men, it’s more like a hunt. It’s a hunger dressed in pretty words.”
The wrong man would use the feeling to condone all manner of unspeakable acts, to hurt me and use my body in ways I was too young to have so bluntly expressed.
“Ehh, batates,” said my abductor. I lost what little mastery I had over myself as my chest filled with shorter, faster breaths.
“Batates! Ba, tua atendio se enliuvella.” The stranger’s voice came nearer. I thought I heard a smile in it. “Russel?”
Something slammed against the wagon. My abductor barked a protest, and then light filtered through the top of the sack. I looked up at nothing, and then my cover was pulled free, and I stared directly into the eyes of Lord Quinn.
He wasn’t smiling now.
“Hold him, Russel,” he said, gripping the barrel.
As he tipped it slowly, he helped me out.
The endeavor shot pain up my arm, but I fought through it.
Then he cut the rope that bound my arms behind me.
I doubled forward; it took every ounce my willpower not to shriek as my limb dangled uselessly beside me.
“Lady Alana?” asked Guardsman Russel.
The viscount untied my gag. “My lady, are you hurt?”
My lips trembled in attempts to mouth a silent reply, but I could summon neither denial nor comfirmation.
A visible rage stirred within him as he studied me, whispering something I couldn’t hear.
He removed his cloak, putting it around me, and turned to where my abductor lay prostrate beneath the guardsman.
He approached them and kneeled, then took the man’s knife from its holster and plunged it straight into his neck, swiping across and letting him bleed into the grass like a stuck pig.
I collapsed, paling at the sight of my abductor’s face. He gulped frantically, his expression fixed with confusion, like he didn’t quite understand what was happening to him.
My good hand lifted as if to help the man, but what could I do? With so much bleeding, he’d be gone in moments.
The viscount cleaned the knife with practiced efficiency.
There was something unsettling about how naturally the violence came to him, yet when his eyes found mine again, they softened with worry.
He tucked the knife away into an inner pocket of his tailcoat, then drew nearer. “I’ve frightened you.”
He offered a hand and I flinched. His fingers were steady, despite what he’d done. I shook my head, but he ignored that as he took hold of my good arm and helped me to my feet.
“You’re shaking.” He frowned, his voice a lower, soothing register.
The hand supporting my arm was gentle now, his thumb stroking unconsciously against my sleeve.
“Russel, send for Captain Branning. Have him examined for anything that might hint at his affiliation. And take this.” He offered the dagger forward.
“It’s a Hadrian design. Silver, lynx embossed in the hilt.
We need to know who he is, who hired him, and why he targeted the princess. ”
Lord Quinn returned his attention to me, clinically assessing my condition. Before I could protest it, he scooped me into his arms and walked back inside.
Blood had settled into the fabric of the viscount’s white gloves. I tried not to notice, feeling like I was in the maw of a lion, yet there was a strange benignity to him now; I could almost forget that he’d threatened to kill me on our first meeting. Almost.
“I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, Lady Alana.
Abduction is an act punishable by swift and certain death, and he injured you in the process.
The bastard deserved much, much worse,” he said quietly, carrying me to my apartments.
Once inside, he eased me onto the divided chaise longue.
“I performed my duty, but I regret that you had to witness such violence.”
My weight shifted onto my good arm. Lord Quinn’s gaze went straight to the injury.
“Let me help you.”
The pain worsened by the moment, so I had no room to argue.
I bit my lip, sat up, and turned my back to him.
The viscount took a moment to evaluate me. His hands hovered near my shoulder without touching. When he finally spoke, he did so with the authoritative tone of someone confident in his skill, as if he’d witnessed similar injuries in the past.
“I can fix it. It’ll hurt, but only for a moment. Do I have your permission?”
I didn’t recognize the person speaking to me. He’d been so callous and arrogant until now. I wanted to chalk his kindness up to mandated subservience, to my change in position since our initial introduction, but somehow it seemed possible that both facets of his personality could be true.
“Lady Alana?” he asked.
I managed a nod.
The viscount offered forth a handkerchief. The cloth smelled like spices and something tangy. When he moved closer to position me, I became acutely aware of the solid bulk of his chest against my back. He felt like armor.
“You’ll want to bite down on it,” he suggested, so I did, gagging my mouth for the second time that day.
Lord Quinn repositioned me so that my back was slightly reclined, supported against his thigh. His breathing was controlled, steady where mine was ragged. He took my wrist firmly in one hand, my shoulder in the other, and met my eyes for reassurance.
Curiously, I felt none of my usual resentment or fear. I felt nothing at all, save for the slightest awareness that his lashes were strangely pretty.
With a steady and gradual traction, the viscount pulled my arm outward, applying a counter-pressure in my shoulder.
I bit down hard on my gag, tears welling up as I fought against the pain.
Don’t scream.
Don’t make a sound.
The viscount rotated my arm, exhausting my muscles into a forced state of relaxation, and with a terrible pop and an excruciating jolt, he snapped it back into socket.
His hand immediately gentled on my shoulder, fingertips ghosting over the joint to assess his work.
The most painful relief I’d ever felt was stifled by my inability to express myself, and then it was over; I looked down to find that everything was once again in order.
I pulled the handkerchief from my mouth, panting.
“Try not to move it for a few days.”. The viscount made a whimsical, exhausted smile, and put his hands on his hips. “Your resilience has unnerved me, I must say. Most men would have screamed.”
A strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead during the procedure. He pushed it back, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Quinn!”
The two of us turned to the door, startled to find the prince standing in the entryway. He’d only just arrived, his eyes frantically searching the scene. He crossed the room at once, kneeling at my feet, his expression wild. “My lady, I was informed—how do you fare?”
I paused, observing this side of the prince with curiosity. His care was…genuine. I smiled and nodded.
“Curses; we must have a lock installed at your door.”
“I’ll arrange for a guardsman to be stationed outside,” offered the viscount.
Prince Nicolas shook his head and rose to his feet. “We’re in dark times, my good friend.”
I got the sinking feeling that this sort of event was commonplace.
The prince continued. “I cannot name a single man I trust more than you, nor any man as useful with a sword…and so, Quinn, I name you her guardian, just as you were this evening. And I thank you for keeping her safe.”
Lord Quinn made a stiff choking sound, but lowered his head obediently.
“You’ll be relocated to this wing in case of any further emergencies. You’re not to leave her side when she steps foot outside her quarters.”
My stomach dropped.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the viscount replied. There was a hint of agitation in his tone, and there it was once more: a visible loathing for me.
Another visitor entered the room, bedraggled and half-dressed. Winnie froze in alarm, ignoring the two men as she rushed to my side. “By the goddess! What happened?!”
“Lady Winnie,” the viscount greeted, but was dismissed as Winnie examined every inch of my form.
“Did he hurt you? Gods, who would do such a thing?” She cupped my face in her palms. Her touch was cold, clammy with dread. “Are you too shaken to speak, my lady?”
“I believe she’s in shock,” Lord Quinn said.
I patted one of her hands and she pulled me into a hug; it hurt, but I didn’t resist. I rested my chin on Winnie’s shoulder and thought her the kindest friend, and by the time both men had left, Winnie remained for an hour more to keep guard.
It was unlikely for lightning to strike the same place twice, but her company soothed me enough that I managed to sleep.
By some small mercy, I did not dream.