Desolate, Book I of the Immortal Rose Trilogy (18 page)

The urge to sink
into the layers of my duvet grips me as I hear the latch of my door
click. I close my eyes and slow my breathing as he crosses the
threshold of my doorway.

I am hardly in any
condition to defend myself against this man should he decide to
attack. Despite his earlier kindness, I have learned while living at
Castle Bran that everyone has an ulterior motive. Especially the men.

Is that why he
has come? Perhaps I was wrong all along. Perhaps he was working for
Lucien instead of my husband. Has Lucien sent him here to defile me
despite Vladimir’s strong protest?

The floorboards
creak as he steps heavily across the length of my room. My pulse
thumps loudly in my ears and I know I am not fooling him. He could
hear my frantic heart beating long before he entered.

His approach slows
as he nears my bedside. I breathe in when he draws close and catch
the scent of horse beneath the layer of mud that must be caked to his
legs. The fragrance of rain hangs heavy upon him. Surely only a fool
would be out in weather such as this. Not even Vladimir, with his
heart blackened by bloodlust, would want to raid in such a storm.

He has only just
arrived from beyond the wall. That would explain the smell of smoke
that surrounds him… He must have paused beside the hearth to
dry himself before coming to see me.

Where has he come
from in this foul weather? Where did he go after he left me? Was he
paid handsomely by Lucien for his services rendered?

Even
as these thoughts traipse through my mind, an image of Lucien’s
rage buried within his eyes when I stepped into Vladimir’s room
resurfaces.
He
did not know I had been set free. What if I am wrong to assume this
man is anything more than what he appears to be?

The uncertainty of
this stranger’s intentions drives me mad. I resist the urge to
turn and look at him. Partially because of the pain it would cause to
maneuver in such a way, yet mostly because I fear his presence.

Why does he not
speak? Why does he just stand there watching me?

“I
know you are great pain.” His voice is deep yet quiet, low
enough not to startle me. His accent boasts a perfect reflection,
though fails to cover the fact that his ancestry is obviously not of
our lands.
Will
I ever discover from where he originates?

I suck in a breath
and hold it. There is no use pretending any longer. I can hear the
leather of his vest shift as he crosses his arms over his chest,
waiting. I wonder how large those arms might be. Are they connected
to fists that will beat me? Or fingers that will carve into my flesh
with delicate care?

I felt his great
strength when he held me in the dungeon, fighting to free me from my
chains. His touch was firm yet tender. He never gave me any reason to
truly fear him. However, that does not make me less suspicious of his
sudden return. Surely he does Vladimir or Lucien’s bidding and
that means he is my enemy.

“I am sorry.”
His words are barely above a whisper, shocking enough to make me long
to see him for myself. When I look upon his face for the first time
from the far corner of my eye, I see that his gaze is riveted to the
blood-stained sheets that are rumpled upon the bed about me, instead
of on my nakedness.

Though he has seen
me in a similar state, this time is far worse. The light of the fire
and the dawn spilling through the window highlight every wound, every
curve of my body. I have never felt so laid bare before.

“For what do
you have to be sorry?” I grimace as I fight to shift position.
His face pales as his gaze flits up toward mine and then darts away
again. I long to capture a better glimpse of him, yet he remains on
the edge of my vision.

“No woman
should endure such tortures,” he whispers.

I close my eyes,
wishing I could believe that he truly believes these words, yet I
cannot. “You should not say such things. There are too many
ears.”

“Indeed.”
He instantly agrees. “Though I would say the same for the sake
of any lady.”

“I am not just
any lady, though you are already all too familiar with that, are you
not?” I grit my teeth against a ripple of pain that begins
somewhere near the base of my spine and shoots up toward my neck. My
skin is stretched too taut in this position, yet I am afraid to move
and lose all sight of him.

“No,” he
says as he comes to kneel beside me. “That you are not.”

The man kneels in
silence beside me for a moment. Neither of us speaks nor does he
expand upon his previous words. He has known my true identity from
the first moment I met him at the masquerade ball, though I am still
in the dark to exactly who he is. I do not even know his name. I
certainly am unclear as to his motive for being here.

He clears his throat
and shifts back after a moment. When he does, I can barely make out a
veil of gold that drapes over his rigid jaw. His eyes are shielded
from me. I find this secrecy to be maddening. You can tell much of a
man from his eyes.

“Vladimir sent
me to tend to you,” he says as he rises to his full height. “It
would seem he grows weary of your… exile.”

“Exile.”
I laugh bitterly. Wracking coughs bring tears to my eyes as it feels
as if a thousand knives slice through my exposed flesh. He places a
hand atop my shoulder, holding me in place until the coughing fit
subsides. The instant it does, he releases me and steps away again.

I
grimace at the lingering heat of his touch against my flesh.
He
admits he works for my husband. I was correct about him!

“I do not need
your assistance,” I whisper hoarsely. My vision swims as a
moment of lightheadedness washes over me. It passes quickly enough,
though leaves me feeling weakened.

“How long have
you been left unattended?” My pain mingles with mortification
as I feel his gaze trail down my body. In the dank dungeon, I was
clothed in shadow, yet here in I know nothing is hidden from his
gaze.

He takes his time
observing my various wounds. Several times he acts as if he means to
reach out and touch me but draws back. He tucks his hands into his
sides, clutching his thighs instead.

I feel unforgivably
exposed and my emotions lay as bare as my body. “It is none of
your concern.”

I attempt to roll my
head away; however, a light touch against my arm stops me. “Please.
I would like to know.”

Taking a haggard
breath into my lungs, I count to five before releasing the breath. It
comes out shaky, though I feel measurably calmer.

If
he was going to attack me, he would have done so already
,
I attempt to argue, though the fact that he may yet be toying with me
lingers in the back of my mind. “Three days.”

A low growl rumbles
deep in his chest as he steps away. I attempt to follow his movements
with my eyes, though it is useless. He steps outside of my vision and
I am left to wonder about his action. Weariness tugs at me, though I
fight against it, knowing I need to remain alert in his presence.
Moving has drained too much of my energy and further inflamed my
pain.

His boots shuffle
across the floor as he moves. The sound of sloshing perks my ears and
the scent that follows floods my face with heat. His steps are far
more careful this time as he moves toward the window. The latch
groans as he opens the windowpane and dumps out the contents of my
chamber pot.

“Please
leave,” I whisper, mortified beyond belief. I am too tired to
do anything more than plead and pray this stranger does possess some
small amount of dignity that the others do not.

“I am not
permitted to do that.” I hear the splashing of liquid and feel
my cheeks flame with heat as he washes the residue of my chamber pot
from his hands in a bowl of water on the side table. The sound of the
cloth rubbing against his calloused hands grates against my nerves.

Why is he doing
this to me? If this is some new form of torture Vladimir has
concocted for me, he is doing a marvelous job at getting inside my
head.

“Your wounds
are not healing well.” He tosses aside the cloth with little
care as he turns back toward me. “You have not touched your
blood.”

The sparse contents
of my stomach curdle at the thought of the cup of blood that was left
for me while I slept the day before. It reeks of Vladimir.

“You cannot
make me drink it.”

“I have no
intention of forcing you to do anything.” Glass bottles clink
together as he searches along the top of my wooden dresser for
something. “I was merely stating a fact. Nothing more. I seem
to remember your aversion to blood from our previous encounter.”

Sucking in a breath,
I rise up just enough to twist my neck so I may see him fully,
deeming the pain worth finally knowing to whom it is I speak.

My eyes widen with
surprise at the man standing before me. He is younger than my husband
and utterly beautiful. His damp blond hair flows down the back of his
neck and a brown leather thong drapes over his shoulder, darkened by
moisture. His leather tunic appears richly made, obviously
handcrafted to taper along his chest and waist to perfection. His
black riding boots are speckled with thick clumps of newly drying
mud.

It is hard not to
notice the breadth of his chest through the low cut of his vest. The
skin beneath is golden and smooth, though it is not his physical
beauty that ensnares my thoughts… It is his lopsided grin.

“It is nice to
finally meet you in the light, face to face.” He bows low,
sweeping out his hand in greeting. Never in my wildest imaginings
could I have drawn up an image of such raw beauty.

The firm set of his
chin and the taut muscles of his shoulders draws my gaze as he rises
back up, and for the briefest of moments, I forget my pain. His smile
remains, though there is a humorous glint in his eyes as he surveys
my growing blush. “My name is Fane Dalca and I have been
charged with your personal care and training.”

I sink back down,
too weak to hold myself upright any longer. My vision darkens as the
room begins to blur. I take several calming breaths, fighting back
the growing nausea.

“I have heard
your name before,” I mutter into my pillow. The scent of sweat
seems all the more potent as I breathe in deep against the pain. “You
are a ranger. I suppose that would explain your odd selection of
clothing.”

I
roll onto my cheek and watch as he shifts to move toward a chair to
the left of the window. He lifts it off its feet and sets it closer
to my bedside so I do not have to strain to see him. My brow furrows
at the thoughtfulness that fuels this action.
Do
not lower your guard. He is cunning. Do you let him fool you once
more?

He reaches for a
pitcher of water and douses the fire. Steam rises from the grate. I
breathe out an audible sigh of relief as sweet coolness returns to
the room, soothing the fever that clings to my flesh.

Fane kneels before
the grate and works for several minutes to smother the flames,
ensuring none might spark back to life. Dusting the soot from his
hands, he sinks back into the chair.

As a chill creeps
back into the room, I find myself breathing easier. Fane seems to
sense my need and remains silent. He casts a curious gaze about my
room and I am reminded of how different this space is to my childhood
home. It is far larger than the house I was raised in. The wooden
floors aren’t warped and the ceiling is tall enough so I do not
have to stoop low when I pace the length of my room.

The space is bright
and airy, despite the dreary skies outside. Tall glass-paned windows
are scattered about the room, letting in far more natural light than
I am used to. My own home, although not the smallest in Brasov, only
had a handful of windows in the entire structure.

A handmade rug
adorns the floor, stretching nearly from wall to wall. It is soiled
with splotches of my blood. The beautifully woven tapestries that
hang from the walls attempt to conceal the dreariness of the stone
with their vivid colors. Waxed candles stand resolute in black
sconces at random places. A candelabra dangles from the pitched roof
overhead. When lit, it casts a warm glow to chase away the shadows.
The chair that Fane perches himself upon is beautifully stitched, the
fabric rich in both texture and color.

I find the way he
watches me, though appearing not to do so, to be both exhilarating
and unnerving. His gaze is somehow intense yet thoughtful at the same
time. Watching him watch me is exhausting and I am reminded how much
the pain has wearied me.

“You have a
lovely room,” he muses, fixing his gaze upon me once more.

“You are
welcome to it, if you would like, though I fear you might not enjoy
the company of the man living next door.”

His lip curls into a
smirk. “No. I dare say I would not.”

I watch him closely,
marking the steady rise and fall of his chest. His pulse is strong
and even. His breathing measured. He is completely in control. A fact
that I find both annoying and intriguing at the same time. “You
are not like the others, are you?”

He cocks his head to
the side. “Why do you say that?”

“You do not
smell of blood,” I say simply.

“Ah, I see.”
He nods in an exaggerated fashion that somehow makes it seem all the
more genuine. I search for any change in his pulse that might hint to
a falsehood, though find none. “Perhaps it has been a long day
and I have merely been too busy to feed.”

“No.” I
attempt to shake my head yet immediately fall still. I close my eyes
as I feel the new layer of freshly mended skin tear along the top of
my spine. Warm blood seeps down my neck and onto the sheet. “You
did not smell of it in the dungeon either. Nor did you seem
interested in joining in with the savagery of the masquerade.”