Roses & Thorns (5 page)

At
first, Angelique assumed they had simply stopped to change horses again. The
lack of clink and clatter registered almost immediately, however, and she sat
up, pushing back the thick swirls of her hair. Her silver comb had come out,
she realized with a start, thinking she must be a disheveled mess! With relief
she found it had not fallen far, and she ran it through her hair a few times,
trying to get the worst of the tangle back into some order. Just as she began
to fit the comb back into place, Culdun's words became clearer, and Angelique
realized they were talking about her.

"...fine
considering," Culdun continued. "The trip has been exhausting for all
of us, yet she has not once complained. There is strength in her."

"Aye,
it is easy to forget the exhaustion of distances. I am sorry to force you
through such a long journey. You say she does well, though?"

Angelique
liked the voice. It was low but not deep, and she edged closer to the carriage
door. She wished Culdun would move or that she had the courage to open the
shade on the other window.

"What
does she know of me, Culdun?"

Angelique
flinched at the emptiness in that quiet question.

"Very
little, my Liege. Apparently her father was somewhat lax in providing
details."

A
bitterness twisted the other's laughter. "Had we expected him to be any
different from the others? Shall we wager, Culdun, that he's said nothing of
magick or perverted monsters?"

"She
is different." Culdun's solemn words sliced quickly through the sarcasm.

"How
different, Culdun?"

"She
possesses... a different perspective."

Angelique
smiled at the phrase. She had won an ally in Culdun. Whatever task lay ahead,
he would be there with his support. And if he, with all his years of wisdom,
believed in her, then perhaps she needn't question her own abilities.

Culdun
shifted and Angelique glimpsed the white flanks of a tall, skittish horse. The
animal danced away and its rider skillfully brought it around in a tight
circle. All Angelique could see was a thigh clad in dark britches and a glossy
black boot. A well-muscled steed with a competent, long-legged rider; she
almost giggled at the contrast it provided to her pot-bellied, gout-legged
fears.

"Settle
Angelique in her room." The bite had left the words and a cautious tension
had emerged instead. "Arrange for her meals if she has need."

"You'll
not greet her today?" Culdun’s tone was careful.

"Tonight
at dinner. Eight as usual. As you say, it has been a long trip. She deserves a
few hours at least to recuperate before being confronted with the wicked
magickian, doesn't she?"

"You
are overly harsh with yourself, my Liege."

"I
am overly busy," the other corrected. "The poachers were out again
last night."

"What?
Was the moon out?!"

"Aye,
one of our odd days. We slipped into their world again, and they into ours. I'm
off to unearth the rest of their traps before any of your village children
do."

"Very
well. I'll tell her what you're about."

"Do
you think she’ll understand?"

Angelique
frowned at the implied mockery in the voice, but in her defense Culdun said,
"My Liege, you have not met this sort of woman before. She is not like the
others."

For
one moment, there was silence, not even the horse's bit jingled. Angelique
gathered her courage and moved to see around Culdun's shoulder. What she saw
made her breath catch in he throat. A tall, strong figure sat motionless on a
fine looking stallion black-gloved hands holding a tight rein. The
loose-fitting jerkin belted at the waist, was as black as the shiny boots and
made a sharp contrast with the whiteness of the shirt sleeves that billowed
with the wind. A narrow, red cape draped about head and chest, rakishly flung
back over one shoulder. With the way the cape hooded and hung, it was
impossible for Angelique to see the other's face. The stallion snorted
abruptly, shifting against the reins to protest the stillness. The rider held
him easily.

"Is
she pretty, Culdun?"

"Yes,
my Liege."

"I
might have been spared that, don't you think?" The emptiness in the
rider's voice had returned.

The
horse tossed its head impatiently. Suddenly, without another word, the rider
spun the beast about and launched into full gallop. Culdun climbed back onto
the driver's bench, but Angelique barely noticed. She watched the horse and
rider until both vanished from sight.

Angelique
was a shaking mass of nerves by eight that evening. Her logic had been pushed
to the brink of rationality, and her body regretted the exhaustive turmoil of
the past night. Her corset was fashionably too tight. Her feet were protesting
the persistent necessity of real shoes. But the dress, with its pearl seeded,
peach bodice and cool, ice-blue silk was the most beautiful thing she had ever
been uncomfortably tied into.

She
had wanted to meet Drew with confidence, not insecurity. But this palace was an
endless torture of subtle reminders that she could no longer be quite sure of
what she was dealing with. How, for example, could each dress in the wardrobe
be exactly her size? How could her haphazard words sometimes alter a
ruby-studded hair comb into one with sapphires? And how could similar words
change the color of her petticoats from cream to white? It was all terribly
disconcerting. Somehow, she had never suspected that Aloysius' use of the term
"magickal" should have been taken so literally.

Culdun
had appeared just as she was preparing an elaborate excuse. He shooed her two
attendants away, muttering something about silly nieces, and assured Angelique
that she need take no notice of their silence; it was simply that they were
more afraid of her than she was of this dinner.

A
grateful smile answered his jest, and feeling slightly less adrift, Angelique
followed him downstairs. After he left her in a parlor that was nearly as large
as the ground floor of Aloysius' house, however, she again began to feel her
insecurities rise. She barely noticed the embroidered chairs and expensive
carpets, so intent was she on keeping silent. Her odd habit of talking to
herself had a decided risk in a place such as this. So she concentrated instead
on the heat from the fire, trying to warm her chilled fingers.

She
held the silver rose, ever mindful of its thorns, but unaware of its delicate
beauty in the flickering light. She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to the
flat of her stomach and forcing a few even breaths. Just when she felt she was
beginning to relax, the sound of a voice startled her into nervousness again.

"Are
you well, my Lady?"

The
tall, cloaked figure stood a few steps inside the doorway, a dark shadow
silhouetted by wavering torch light. The stance was a nervous one, as hands
clenched and weight shifted uncertainly. It had not occurred to Angelique until
that moment that Drew would also be nervous.

"I
am well," Angelique managed. "Only somewhat nervous."

Fists
uncurled and weight settled. "That is understandable. Forgive me if I
startled you."

"You
did not." Suddenly, she remembered who she was addressing and gathered her
skirts to sink into a hurried curtsy murmuring, "It is I who should beg
forgiveness, my Liege."

"No!"

Angelique
looked up without rising and waited. It was disconcerting to find that the
cloak hid both shape and face of this stranger.

"Please."
The other approached slowly. "Please get up."

Angelique
rose, but the unspoken question of 'why’ remained between them.

"I
would prefer we dispense with such formalities."

"If
you like." Angelique smiled.

Drew's
swift intake of breath was audible, and Angelique glanced at the gloved hand
that clutched the chair's back. "My Liege?"

"Culdun
said you were pretty, my Lady. But he never mentioned the sheer beauty of your
smile."

Her
chin lifted defiantly as Angelique remembered the overheard words and the
feeling behind them: that beauty was not necessarily cherished here.

"Now
I have insulted you. I am sorry. I find my manners suffer from lack of
practice."

Almost
unwillingly, that brought another small smile. "Your elegant apology
belies any rudeness, my Liege."

"Then
you were not insulted?"

Angelique
ducked her head, hiding the urge to smile again The curiosity in that voice had
been all too apparent, and she thought that interest could be to her advantage.
Black-booted toes came into her vision, blocking her study of the carpet, and
Angelique relented quietly, "No, my Liege. I was not insulted."

She
raised her head, finally daring to seek the gaze of the noble.

She
gasped, sharp and sudden, a hand going to her throat and her companion backed
quickly away. The deep shadow hiding Drew's face was disconcerting. The stark
contrast between white shirt and red cloak, which hung over Drew’s chest and
was flung back across the other’s shoulders, was almost frightening. Crimson
threads, embroidered in glistening vines, were stitched into the black velvet
jerkin. But the rest was unadorned darkness. The supple leather of the short
boots, the shimmering satin of loose trousers, the vest, the gloves — all
brought her focus back again and again to the empty black void where a face ought
to be.

"Are
you even human?" The words came out in a hushed, frightened whisper.

Drew’s
shoulders stiffened. The tall figure turned away. Trembling, Angelique watched,
desperation growing into fear.

"I
have been called many things. Some of them human, some — not."

"But,"
Angelique, denying the evasions, demanded, "are you a man?"

"No."

Angelique
cried out. In her consternation she had failed to pay attention to the rose's
silver thorns and they sliced into Angelique's fingers. The silver rose
dropped, laced with blood, to the carpet.

Drew
was beside her in two swift strides. Taking Angelique's hand in a gentle
embrace, Drew massaged outward from Angelique's palm, and Angelique felt the
pain diminish. With her free hand she wiped away tears, glancing up again at
that darkness where Drew's face should be. The edges of that emptiness seemed
blurred, and she was again reminded that this was a place of magick.

"You
do have a face, don't you, my Liege?" Angelique ventured in a whisper.
"The blackness is an... illusion?"

Drew's
fingers paused for a moment then resumed their tender ministrations. "Yes,
I have a face, if that's what's worrying you. Here now, is that better?"

Angelique
stared at her palm, flexing her fingers. Neither a trace of blood nor scratch
remained. She bent and carefully
retrieved the silver rose. A gloved
hand covered her fingers again as she stood, and when it lifted, the crimson
smudges were gone. The silver was sparkling and unblemished.

Her
companion withdrew. Angelique felt guilt stir within her. She gazed at her hand
and again at the rose. Her mother had been right: this was someone who knew
tenderness. Yet she had offered only ignorant fear.

She
grasped the tattered edges of her courage and came to stand before the hearth.
Angelique could not blame the cowled figure for not acknowledging her, but it
would have helped. She swallowed hard and offered, "I pray you may be
patient with me my Liege. I have had little experience with magick and — and
with those who are not-quite-mortal."

For
a moment there was no response, and then Angelique was rewarded with a soft,
rich chuckle. "I see you have been talking with Culdun."

"Have
I misunderstood him?" Angelique breathed, entranced by that soft note of
laughter.

"No,
you have not. May I ask what else my dear friend has said of me?"

Angelique
thought of the laws against poachers and the sanctuary given to the Old Ones.
"He said you are a man of different perspective."

"A
man of a different perspective..." The tone was one again hollow. The
tension returned. "No, my Lady, I sincere doubt that Culdun would ever
have said I was a
man
of any sort."

"Forgive
me!" Impulsively she laid a hand on the silk-clad arm, forestalling an
abrupt move away. "But then what should I call you?"

Drew
shifted uncomfortably and, blushing at her impulsiveness, Angelique removed her
hand. "Now you find me too brash."

"No.
Just... startling." The words were spoken in a whisper. "I am amazed
by your courage, my Lady. Few women have ever dared touch me."

Angelique
frowned, then resolutely placed the silver rose in the palm of that black
glove. "Has a woman not the right to touch the man who... the one who...
" She stumbled over the words she feared would again cause pain. In
frustration, Angelique repeated, "What shall I call you, my Liege?"

A
breath, then two, passed and Drew slowly placed the rose on the mantel.
"My name is Drew. I would be honored if you would use it."