Fool's Errand (45 page)

Because knowing how very unlikeable and untrustworthy the Gorgish are
,she thought,
no one would ever dream that they might be the ones who—

Without warning, a pair of unseen hands grabbed Persephone from behind, covering her mouth so that she couldn't scream and pinning her arms to her sides so that she couldn't strike out. As her attacker dragged her behind the backhouses, she tried to stomp down with her heel but he deftly hoisted her into the air, making a good toe-mashing impossible. The next thing she knew she was flat on her back in the dirt with her powerful, broad-shouldered attacker pressing down on top of her.

“
Azriel
,” she gasped, wondering if her heart might burst right out of her chest.

“Hello, wife,” he said in a pleased voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Persephone opened her mouth to tell him to get off her, but he silenced her with a long, deep kiss.

“What was that you were going to say?” he asked as he idly brushed his lips back and forth—first across her left earlobe, then across her right.

“Uh … uh …”

“That's what I thought,” he said with a chuckle. “I know we have much to talk about, but I've missed you too desperately to think about talking just now.”

He kissed her again, then—tenderly at first, but with increasing urgency until Persephone could feel her resistance beginning to crumble.

“Azriel,
please
,” she gasped, wrenching her lips away from his.

“Well, all right—since you asked so nicely,” he murmured, leaning in for another kiss.

She was just barely able to summon the strength to turn away from him again. “Azriel, you must stop,” she pleaded. “We can't do this!”

“I bet we can if we really,
really
try.”

“No! I mean … Roark … he … uh …”

Persephone knew there was something very important she needed to tell Azriel about Roark but the feel of his hands on her was blotting out rational thought.

When he slowly started to tug up the hem of her kjole, however, rational thought returned with an unpleasant jolt.

“I said
stop!
” she blurted, sounding more snappish than she intended. Planting both hands on Azriel's shoulders, she shoved as hard as she could.

The shove didn't budge him an inch, of course, but her tone brought him up short at last. “What's wrong?” he asked dazedly.

“We can't do this,” she repeated. “After what happened on the beach—”

“That was
incredible—
”

“That. that's not the point,” she stammered, trying not to get distracted. “The point is that I can't even
imagine
what Roark and the others would think if they caught us here now.”

“I don't
care
what Roark and the others would think,” growled Azriel, his blue eyes blazing.

Persephone felt a tiny flare of annoyance. “But I
do
care what they'd think,” she grunted as she gave him another shove to try to get him off her.

This time Azriel allowed her to push him off. As he rolled away from her, he grumbled, “I think you care more about what Roark and the others think than you care about what
I
think.”

Feeling considerably more than a tiny flare of annoyance, Persephone scrambled up onto her knees and blew the hair out of her eyes. “It isn't a competition, Azriel,” she said.

“It feels like a competition,” he muttered darkly. “And it feels like Roark and the others are
winning
.”

Persephone folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes.

“I saw that!” cried Azriel, jabbing his index finger at her.

“Good!” cried Persephone, uncrossing her arms so that she could jab
her
index finger at
him
. “I'm glad you saw it, because you're acting like a great selfish baby!”

“You're the one acting like a great selfish baby!”

“No, you are!”

“
NO, YOU ARE
!”

“Daughter of Fey?” came a hesitant voice from nearby.

Looking up, Persephone was mortified to see kind, sweet Ekatarina peeping around the side of the backhouse, her eyes bugging halfway out of her head at the sight of her charge kneeling in the dirt with her kjole hiked up to her thighs, bawling at her handsome Gypsy husband like she was some lowborn tart who'd been cheated out of the copper she'd just earned on her back.

“E-Ekatarina,” stammered Persephone, scrambling to her feet. “It's not what you—”

“I waited for you in the silkworm domicile,” said the younger girl, who seemed to be taking great pains to avoid looking at Azriel. “When you didn't come I got worried and came looking for you. I never thought that I would find you …” Her voice trailed off.

“Neither did I,” said Persephone hurriedly, cringing at the fact that the girl would not look her in the eye. “Come—let's go to the silkworm domicile at once.”

“A good idea,” replied Ekatarina, who went bright pink before adding, “You'll need to replace your cloak anyway, for, uh, the one you're wearing has mud stains on the back and I do not think Roark would be best pleased if he saw that.”

Persephone opened her mouth then shut it again. Then she started walking.

“Persephone—wait,” called Azriel, sounding both exasperated and contrite.

But Persephone did not wait.

Mortified, dishevelled and on the verge of tears, she walked away from him without a backward glance.

That night, Persephone lay on the pallet next to Ekatarina for what seemed like hours, replaying in her head both the grapple with Azriel and the fight that had followed. Every time she thought about the grapple she felt the same hot flood of desire. The longer she thought about the fight, however, the more her view of it changed. At first furious with Azriel for his selfishness and insensitivity and convinced that he was entirely at fault, Persephone slowly—and rather reluctantly—came to acknowledge that
perhaps
she'd played some small part in their scrap.
Perhaps
it hadn't been entirely fair of her to expect Azriel to guess how important it was to her that she look well in front of her dead mother's people.
Perhaps
it was she who'd been insensitive—first eagerly opening the door on becoming his wife in every way and then slamming that door in his face the very next time he sought to open it. And
perhaps
this was especially insensitive in light of the fact that all the signs she'd been giving him (with the possible exception of dumping the steaming turnips in his lap) had undoubtedly led him to believe that she desired him just as desperately as he desired her.

Which—though the thought made her feel as skittish as Fleet near a puddle of water—she did.

Indeed, Persephone's view of the fight so evolved that by morning, she'd resolved to find a way to speak privately with Azriel so that she might apologize for her part in it—and, of course, give him a chance to do the same. That the only respectable place for a husband and wife to find privacy in the Marinese village was the “coupling domicile” was daunting—indeed, just the thought of having Roark wish her good luck was enough to make her toes curl with embarrassment—but if there was no other way for her to be alone with Azriel she would force herself to enter it.

For his sake … and her own.

Before she could make amends with Azriel, however, Persephone had to help the other women serve the men their morning meal. It was while she was hastily splashing her face with cold water so that she wouldn't be late reaching the dining domicile that Ekatarina told her she needn't hurry so.

“Why not?” asked Persephone, halting her ablutions mid-splash.

“Because they're gone,” replied Ekatarina, who—like all the other girls in the domicile—was sitting at the edge of her pallet plaiting her white-blond hair.

“Who's gone?” asked Persephone, straightening up from the stone wash basin.

“The men,” replied Ekatarina.

Persephone stared at her. “What do you mean?” she asked as droplets of cold water trickled unnoticed down her wet face into the collar of her kjole. “Where have they gone?”

“They left before dawn for the whaling camp at the northern tip of the island,” explained the girl on the next pallet.

“Azriel never said anything about going to any whaling camp,” said Persephone flatly.

Ekatarina's cheeks turned very pink. “Perhaps he was. distracted,” she said. “Or perhaps he saw no reason to tell you. After all, men's business is not women's business.”

Persephone had to breathe deeply to keep from stomping her foot and cursing aloud. “When will the men return, Ekatarina?” she asked in as controlled a voice as she could manage.

“Not until the hunt is over, the fat is rendered, the meat is salted and the bones are picked clean,” replied the girl.

“And when will that be?” asked Persephone, who did not like the sound of that one bit.

Ekatarina hesitated before replying, “The end of the storm season.”

“The
end of the storm season!
” cried Persephone, forgetting all about control. “But … but that could be
months!
”

“Yes,” said the younger girl, who sounded as though she was not without sympathy when she added, “it could.”

FORTY-FIVE

T
HERE SHE WAS AGAIN
—the princess's pretty friend!

The man in meanest homespun wandered slowly through the bustling market with his hood pulled as far forward as it could go, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He'd surreptitiously done so for many days, ever since the disguised princess and the Gypsy had boarded the ship bound for the Island of Ru. That the ship had returned to the storm-tossed harbour without them aboard had, of course, caused the man much dismay. However, as there'd been nothing he could do except wait and see if they turned up after the storms abated, he'd had to content himself with keeping an eye on the princess's friend.

Truth be told, he'd
more
than contented himself—indeed, as the days had passed, he'd come to enjoy the task very much. The princess's friend was so pretty and so pleasant and kind to one and all! She favoured vendors with such smiles that they could not resist inviting her to sample their wares, and she always had a spare coin or piece of bread for the hungry urchins that others shooed away with brooms and bellows.

At first, the man had watched her through the window of the tiny room he'd rented in the inn across the market from where she was staying, but eventually he'd been unable to resist venturing out into the market for a closer look. Before doing so, however, he'd bathed and had the innkeeper's wife launder his clothes, for the prospect of being nearer the princess's friend had made him suddenly, uncomfortably aware of his own stink and of the filthiness of his garments. Indeed, such was his desire to present himself well (even though he
obviously
had no intention of
actually
presenting himself) that the man had been sorely tempted to buy himself an outfit fashioned from velvet and brocade instead of homespun. Though he could easily have done so using only a few coins from the bulging purse his master in this matter had given to him, he'd ultimately resisted temptation. Calling attention to himself by dressing like a peacock might have jeopardized his historic mission and he could not, in good conscience, risk that for the sake of looking good for a girl.

Besides, all the velvet and brocade in the world could not camouflage some things.

That was why the man kept his hood forward now as he wandered through the market, trailing after the princess's friend. As usual, he noted the deliberate way she shopped for her food and the fact that she refused to buy herself even the most trifling trinkets no matter how sorely tempted she appeared to be. The man knew that the care with which she spent her money almost certainly meant that she did not have enough of it. And since he did not believe that the princess and the Gypsy would have deliberately left the girl behind to struggle, it most likely meant that they'd not intended to be gone for as long as they had been.