Books by Maggie Shayne (111 page)

Eric tossed the now-unconscious Lucien aside, and came to stand beside them.

"I should have killed him," Roland muttered, gazing toward the man on the floor of his own dungeon.

Eric lifted one brow, and tilted his head toward Lucien.
 
"Go right ahead, my friend.
 
He can't even resist, at the moment.
 
I'm sure, beast that you claim to be, it won't bother you in the least to lean over and crush his larynx.
 
Only take a moment.
 
Go on.
 
I'll take Rhiannon for you."

Roland glanced down at Lucien once more, then at the woman in his arms.
 
He couldn't murder a man in cold blood.
 
In battle, yes.
 
He'd take great pleasure in fighting Lucien to the death.
 
But not like this.
 
He eyed Eric, and sighed.
 
"I suppose there is a lesson in there somewhere, my friend.
 
But all I wish now is to take Rhiannon out of this place."

He started back through the dungeon, and then up the crumbling stairs, leaving Lucien to his own devices.
 
Likely a mistake, but there it was.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

She rested in his gentle, unfaltering embrace, sometimes conscious, sometimes not.
 
She knew little of the exact process by which they'd arrived, only that in what seemed little time at all, they were entering the great hall of the Castle Courtemanche, to the cries and embraces of Tamara, and Jamison, and Freddy.

A low snarl drew Rhiannon's gaze downward.
 
Pandora limped through the little gathering, her foreleg wrapped in a plaster cast.
 
She rose on hind legs, her good forepaw on Rhiannon's chest, and nuzzled her mistress's cheek with a cold nose.

Rhiannon stroked the cat's face.
 
"Pandora, my kitty, you're home.
 
Yes, yes, it's good to see you, too, love."
 
She kissed the cat's muzzle, before Roland shooed her away.

"We picked her up on the way back," Tamara said softly, crowding forward much as the cat had, to stroke Rhiannon's hair away from her forehead.
 
"I wanted her to be here to greet you when Roland brought you home."
 
The young one frowned, her gaze concerned.
 
"Are you all right?"

Rhiannon smiled her assurance that she was, though she felt far from all right.
 
She was rapidly growing weary, resenting the powerful effects of the drug.
 
She sought out Jamey's face, and reached out to him.
 
"Jamison.
 
I was so afraid for you."

He looked at the floor.
 
"I'm sorry.
 
I almost got you killed... again."

She shook her head, but Roland turned away from them, striding down the vaulted corridor toward his chambers, with her in his arms.
 
"We'll all have time to talk later.
 
She needs rest now."
 
As he spoke, he looked down at her face.
 
She searched his, wondering at the uncertainty, the endless questions in his eyes.
 
He seemed almost afraid of something.
 
A most unusual state of being for one so valiant.
 
Moments later, he was lowering her onto the bed, tucking her beneath the brilliant yellow comforter, propping her head and shoulders with the pillows she'd purchased such a short time ago, but seemed like aeons.

"Roland."
 
She reached up to cup his face in one unsteady palm.
 
"I have much to tell you."

"Shh.
 
I want you to rest.
 
By tomorrow evening, you'll be feeling like your old self again, I promise.
 
We can talk then."

"My old self?"
 
She blinked slowly, recalling her promise to whatever gods might be listening.
 
She would lose him unless she could keep her vow.
 
She knew that beyond any doubt.
 
"No, Roland.
 
I'll never be--"

He hushed her with a gentle finger upon her lips.
 
"Rest, little bird.
 
We'll talk later."

"Yes."
 
She let the heaviness of her eyelids pull them down, no longer wishing to fight off sleep.
 
"Yes, we can talk later."

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

But she was not herself again when she rose the following evening.
 
Nor did she return to normal in the following days.
 
Stronger, yes, Roland observed in the great hall.
 
There was no longer the film of drug-induced stupor covering her diamond-bright eyes.
 
But the mischief wasn't there, either.
 
Or the taunting, or the come-hither gaze he'd half expected to see.
 
She was like a shadow of her former self.
 
Quiet, exceedingly polite, refusing to argue, no matter what stupid remark he made to incite her.

Roland leaned sideways, elbowing Eric's middle.
 
"Do you suppose there are lingering side effects to Rogers's tranquilizer?"

Eric cocked one eyebrow.
 
"Why do you ask?"

"Look at her.
 
She's quiet, almost... timid.
 
She's been like this damn near a week now."
 
As he spoke, Roland glanced again toward Rhiannon.
 
She sat in an oversize chair Roland had hauled down from one of the storage rooms above, staring into the flames of the huge hearth, seemingly absorbing the fire's warmth in the chill room.
 
She absently stroked the head of the cat that lay at her side.

Eric shrugged.
 
"I suppose she might still be a bit shaken..."

"Rhiannon doesn't
get
shaken."

"Hush, she'll hear you," Tamara whispered, crossing the room with Jamey at her side.
 
"And this is no time to upset her.
 
Jamey's father will be here any minute.
 
We don't want him walking in on one of her indignant speeches, do we?"

"I'd pay to hear one of her speeches, right about now," Roland muttered, but they moved as a group nearer the fire, and the various chairs situated around it.

"The great hall looks much nicer, Rhiannon.
 
You've done wonders."

Rhiannon looked up, smiled softly and continued stroking the cat.

"Yes," Eric said, picking up where Tamara had left off.
 
"All the candles and lamps soften the harsh stone, and the curtains and rugs are in perfect taste.
 
Don't you agree, Roland?"

Roland only nodded, watching Rhiannon's face, a frown tightening his own.

"I still think it would have been better if you'd let her hang your paintings, Roland," Tamara said.

Roland shrugged.
 
He did, too.
 
He'd only refused Rhiannon when she'd asked because he'd been sure she would argue and fuss and fight with him until he conceded.
 
He'd been looking forward to fighting with her.
 
He missed it.
 
Instead, she'd only nodded in acceptance and not asked again.
 
He felt like screaming at her.

He watched her, watching him.
 
"It's lovely, yes.
 
And a shame we won't be able to remain here longer.
 
But with Lucien still alive, and knowing our whereabouts, it will be better if we all move on."
 
He studied the way her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
 
At last, he thought, as her knuckles whitened in evidence of her fierce grip.
 
"I can think of no other solution.
 
Can you, Rhiannon?"

For an instant, the fire flared in her eyes, so brilliant feared sparks would leap out to burn holes in her rugs.
 
"The solution," she said, back stiffening, chin lifting, "would be to find that sniveling worm of and..."
 
She blinked rapidly, looking at each of them turn.
 
Then she sunk back into her chair like a ball slowly deflating, and shook her head.
 
"Whatever you decide to do is fine with me, Roland."

Roland pressed two fingers to his forehead, Tamara shot Eric a concerned look.
 
Eric only shook head.

A heavy knock sounded throughout the room, Rhiannon rose with her ever-present grace.
 
Her long billowed around her, touching no part of her legs or giving any clue to her shape as she moved.
 
Its waist was cinched, but the blouson bodice drooped over the waistline.
 
The neck was high, and buttoned all the way.
 
Worst of all hair, her glorious, raven's wing hair, was twisted into a sleek knot at the back of her head.

Give her a pair of wire specs and some button-up shoes and she'd be the picture of a nineteenth-century school mistress.

She touched Jamey's arm.
 
"You know Roland only this for you."

"I know."
 
Jamey touched his pocket, the one he knew held the letter from his father that had been waiting here upon their return from the mountain.
 
He hadn't expected his solicitor to find the man so easily, or that would reply so soon.
 
"I'm not angry.
 
I think... I need to do this."

Rhiannon stroked Jamison's hair, then hugged her.
 
A second later, Tamara rushed forward to do the same, while Rhiannon opened the door.

The man who stood there was six inches shorter she.
 
His build suggested an active life-style, but his dark hair was short, and thin, and he wore round glasses perched on his nose.
 
His eyes were the kindest Roland thought he had ever seen, and they focused only briefly on the beauty at the door, danced once around the great hall and the people within it, then homed in on Jamey, and glowed with emotion.

For a long moment, the two only stared at each other.
 
Several letters and phone calls had been exchanged by now, so they were not quite strangers.
 
Roland had to respect James Knudson's easygoing methods.
 
He hadn't tried to convince Jamey to become his son overnight.
 
Instead, he'd invited the boy to spend a few weeks at his home in California.
 
To get to know his stepmother, and half brother.
 
And Jamey had agreed.

Roland felt his throat tighten when Jamey moved forward.
 
He stopped before his father, and for a moment the two simply stared at each other.
 
Then the man clasped the boy in a fierce hug, and they clung for a time.
 
When they stepped apart, James Knudson removed his glasses and pressed a thumb and forefinger to his eyes.

It hurt to know he would lose the boy to his father.
 
But it was right, and Roland had known it for some time now.
 
The man was a junior varsity soccer coach, for God's sake.
 
What more could a boy wish for?

Jamey turned and met Roland's gaze.
 
"F-father, this is Roland.
 
He's saved my life... more than once, now."
 
Jamey bit his lip.
 
"And this is Eric, and Tamara, and Rhiannon."
 
He faced each of them in turn, his eyes dampening.

James cleared his throat, obviously a bit confused by the eccentric setting, and the formal clothing all but Tamara wore.
 
But he stepped forward and shook each hand firmly.
 
"I know how much you all mean to... to my son."
 
He shook Roland's hand last, and longest.
 
"I'm more grateful than I can tell you.
 
If you hadn't searched for me, I might never have known I
had
a son."

Roland nodded.
 
He couldn't have replied had he wished to.
 
His throat was too tight.

Tamara stepped forward, speaking in his place.
 
"Remember, we love him, Mr. Knudson.
 
And that this is only a trial run.
 
The decision to stay with you must be entirely Jamey's."

He nodded.
 
"I would never try to force myself on him, Miss, uh, Tamara.
 
I love him, too."

She met Jamey's gaze, then hugged him once more.
 
"You know how to reach me if you need anything, kiddo."

"I know."
 
Jamey hugged her in return, then released her and faced Roland.
 
"I'm, uh, I'm gonna miss you."

Roland's heart trembled in his breast.
 
"No, young man.
 
I'll visit so often there will be no chance of that."

Jamey held out a hand, and Roland gripped it firmly and pumped twice.

The boy turned toward Pandora, who'd been sleeping near the hearth, and up until now hadn't made a sound.
 
Jamey went to her, bent over and wrapped his arms around her neck.
 
The cat's tail swished, and she rolled, pulling the boy with her.
 
He sat up laughing, and the cat placed a paw upon his knee.

"Take care of them, Pandora."

The cat's green eyes seemed to assure him she would.
 
Then Jamey rose and returned to his wide-eyed father.
 
When the man could tear his eyes from the black panther, the two moved to the door, and stood in its opening.