The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (20 page)

“You’re not married yet!”

“I can take her on the floor right now and make it official,” Tristan said blandly. “Otherwise, I suggest that you listen to me and listen well.”

Then Isla watched as her future husband took his first step toward fixing the estate’s financial situation. Rudolph, as Tristan had rightly guessed, was willing to agree to almost anything—not to secure the fair Rowena but to prove his own manhood. He’d shown himself particularly willing to sign Tristan’s proposed contract when Tristan had suggested that perhaps his reticence was due to his not having power of attorney. Rudolph had informed them all, in no uncertain terms, that he did in fact have full signatory power on his estate’s behalf and was ready, willing and able to sign whatever he was given.

Which, shortly thereafter, he did.

Rudolph’s father would, Isla thought dryly, be thrilled to hear the good news.

“I’m not entirely sure about this,” Rudolph said, gazing down at the hastily drawn contract where his signature still shone wetly. Rowena, who’d retreated to the window and was gazing out at nothing, pretended to ignore him. Isla glanced at her uneasily, but said kept her peace. She wasn’t sure if she should go to her sister and attempt to comfort her or if Rowena would be happier to preserve the illusion that no one else was in the room.

“This contract is beneficial to all parties,” Tristan repeated, “including yourself. And including your future father in law, who is now my vassal and whose lands are under my control—and thus the king’s. I suggest,” he added, “that the time has come to prove your devotion. To your beloved…and to your king.” There could be no mistaking the import of those last words. If Rudolph tried to back out, or his father did, Tristan was prepared to consider his indecision an act of treason.

The duke hadn’t, Isla supposed, become one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom or built his duchy into an economic force to be reckoned with by being kind. Or, indeed, by being decent. The whole idea made her tired. Were demons capable of being decent? Was
decent
a concept that the average demon even understood?

And…was he really a demon?

Rudolph, having proved his devotion to his king, now attempted to ameliorate his earlier mistakes and press his suit to Rowena. Who, a bit late, was giving him something of a suspicious glance. Forgetting, perhaps, that at long last she’d finally gotten exactly what she wanted—and that there was no backing out. He whispered something to her, his expression pleading, and she turned her head. Isla sighed.

I
sla had hoped to avoid another repetition of the dinnertime ordeal by pleading a headache, but such was not to be. Tristan told her in no uncertain terms that he expected her to sit with him at table. He considered her refusal to do so thus far quite rude and, if she
did
refuse, did she wish him to discuss her unauthorized wanderings with her father? Surely, if she proved so recalcitrant as to deny even the simplest of requests, then she proved herself in need of discipline? What lacked within must come from without, was that not so?

“If you’re intent on showing me how unwilling you are to listen to me, and how uninterested you are in my concerns,” the duke said, “then believe me when I assure you that better supervision can be arranged.”

Isla glared at him, furious and hurt. His words brought, not so much a feeling of hopelessness but one of impotent rage. She hated,
hated
these constant reminders that she was his property—as he knew very well. She hated, too, the constant reminder that her own father had sold her off in exchange for relief from his debts. Isla’s comparative powerlessness, as a woman, wasn’t something that had handicapped her all that much growing up as the earl’s will was no match for her own and Apple simply didn’t bother to concern herself with Isla’s comings and goings. But the duke, with his emphasis on
rules
, seemed absolutely determined to drive home the point that her will was no longer her own.

She sniffed, averting her gaze. She’d show him.

In the setting sun, he looked less like a man than ever. The shadows gathering in the broad corridor seemed to cling to him and his eyes were dark pits in his face. He moved with an almost preternatural quiet and his hand on hers was as cold as ever. His touch made her skin crawl. “You can make me do things,” she said in a low tone, “but you can’t make me not loathe you.”

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what you think.”

In that moment she wanted, more than anything, to kill him.

His smile broadened slightly. He knew, of course.
That’s what you think.
His tone, when he’d addressed her, had been insolent. And superior. Demon, man, whatever he was, he was hateful and that was that. Isla couldn’t even begin to imagine what he got out of controlling her like this, of playing with her, of alternating between treating her with the courtly manners of some lover from a ballad and threatening her, but she didn’t care. She
didn’t
.

She wasn’t thinking about this miserable mess because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t help herself! Her betrothed kept her so off balance that she had to struggle constantly to keep up. To maintain some sense of self-preservation. To remind herself that, in spite of her fear, she could and would fight him. Hard.

“I suppose that’s what you’re going to do,” she challenged, “lock me in some tower and treat me like an overgrown child.”

“You have some curious notions of what constitutes marital bliss,” he replied in that same mild, slightly disinterested tone. “I won’t do anything of the sort, unless you force me to. Behave like an adult, and I’ll treat you like one.” He held his hand out, palm up, the marble whiteness of his skin obvious even in the flickering candlelight. “Now shall we?”

Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed over it, claws scraping her skin without leaving a mark. She wondered how functional they were and why, if he’d been born a man as Cariad claimed—or if the original Tristan Mountbatten had, and this was in fact his discarded husk now inhabited by some other creature—why he had them at all. Her mind had been such a whirlwind earlier, she hadn’t thought to ask. And now…she could hardly question her betrothed on the subject. Isla was hard-pressed to decide which would be worse: if he laughed at her, dismissing her out of hand and calling her crazy, or if he answered her.

He reached up and, unexpectedly, slid his fingertips over the side of her face.

He was about to speak when Rudolph appeared, Rowena clinging to him like a limpet and beaming up at him as if he were the most wonderful man alive. She’d clearly gotten over her earlier upset. Rowena was nothing if not willing to overlook Rudolph’s periodic lapses in devotion.

“Hello!” Rudolph hailed them and then, seeing that he might be interrupting an intimate moment, faltered to a stop. Rowena beamed happily at nothing in particular. Isla saw Rudolph’s mind working as he fitted possible interpretations to the vision before him. And she saw that
he
saw that she and the duke were, to outside eyes at least, awfully…friendly. Her sister, naturally, noticed nothing that didn’t directly concern her.

And why should she, now of all times? She’d just gotten betrothed. A betrothal was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of a girl’s life.

Isla stepped back, and let the duke lead her into the great hall. Rowena, walking ahead of them, chatted happily about subjects ranging from puppies to wine to wedding plans. Technically, according to the strictest application of protocol, the duke should have entered first. He exceeded them all in rank and Isla, as eldest daughter and as the duke’s betrothed, exceeded her sister in rank. But Isla didn’t care about such things and if the duke did, he gave no sign. He was secure enough, or disinterested enough, not to care.

He wasn’t petty, Isla thought resentfully, like her father.

He helped her onto the dais and then into her seat, although she hardly needed such attention. It was the fashion to treat women like invalids, however, and at least in public Tristan was nothing if not correct—on the surface, at least. Much of his conversation was peppered with the same kind of veiled insults he’d given Rowena the other night.

Asher stepped forward and poured them both wine, the duke first and then Isla. A page learned to be served by first learning how to serve others. One day, assuming he survived long enough, Asher would preside over a table of his own. By having lived the life of a servant, however theoretically and however part time, the idea was that he’d grow to adulthood with a certain sympathy toward their plight and, more importantly, an understanding of just how hard they worked and for how little.

He stepped back, joining the other pages and servitors against the wall where each stood behind his respective master. The lesser guests’ attendants had to make due with standing at attention near the front edge of the dais; proximity to the far warmer fireplace was an honor reserved to very few, master and servant alike. The pages whispered to each other, giggling under their breath. Some were from exalted households and some were the bastards of hedge knights, but they were all children and the serious atmosphere affected them very little. Their concerns, in turn, were alien to the adults they served.

To Isla’s left sat the earl and to the earl’s left sat Apple. Tristan sat on her right. The earl and his wife had no page and were served instead by Apple’s ill-favored and even more ill-humored eunuch. How the man had come to be an eunuch in the first place he’d never disclosed, but he was pale and effeminate and extremely unpleasant. Where Tristan, for all his pallor, was clearly an outdoorsman, Claudius’ face had the appearance and consistency of raw dough. Beady little eyes glared out from the fleshy pouches of his eye sockets, like two currants pushed down into an unbaked loaf of bread.

The earl coughed uneasily, as the third guest of honor arrived. Father Justin was, as a representative of the church, supposed to be beyond such earthly considerations as rank. And yet he took his exalted position seriously, demanding every privilege that a father of the church might reasonably expect—and some. Father Justin wasn’t satisfied unless he’d been made the center of attention at each and every gathering he attended.

He waddled into the room, now, a vision in robin’s egg blue wool.

Ascending the dais, helped by a page of his own—a lithe and gender-ambiguous individual of about fifteen winters—he waved a beringed hand in what Isla supposed was meant to be a gesture of greeting. “Hello,” he said. He glanced around, expressing disapproval that others had arrived before him and sat, and were not rising now. “Hmm,” he added.

“Good evening, Father,” the earl said.

“Hmm.” The priest sat. His…
page
disappeared, seating himself at a table further down. He displayed absolutely no concern for the proprieties of the occasion. Unlike his supposed master. Isla, who found all this wonderfully amusing, watched with interest as she sipped her wine. She wondered idly how long man and catamite had shared a bed.

Because Father Justin was late, the first course had already been served: miniature pastries filled with beef marrow. Next, for a treat, they were having eel. Isla hated eel, almost as much as she hated beef marrow. Her preference would have been for a savory pie, or venison with a fruit sauce, but she hadn’t planned the menu and no one had asked for her input.

“Does your father choose these things just to vex me?” Tristan asked her in a low voice.

“This is the best the manor has to offer,” Isla whispered back.

“This is almost as bad,” Tristan countered, “as visiting the Earl of Strathearn.
He
only serves sturgeon and jellies.”

“Well at least it’s not jellied sturgeon!” Isla hissed back. And then, overcome by simple curiosity—the same overriding drive to
know more
that had been the bane of Isla’s existence since she and Tristan first met—she found herself once again drawn into conversation with him. “What do
you
eat, at your undoubtedly more thrilling table?”

“Venison. Boar, sometimes. Capon pasties, blanc manger, hippocras.”

He might as well have said that his socks were sewn from solid gold thread. In all her life, Isla had never heard of such a meal except perhaps as a wedding feast. What for the love of the Gods was he doing serving such things on a nightly basis?

Contemplating this question, Isla was forced to realize, and not for the first time, that she was truly far, far more parochial than she’d care to admit. An earl’s daughter she might be, but compared to Tristan she might as well be a milkmaid. Indeed, she was certain that milkmaids closer to the capital were a good deal more sophisticated than she!

“I see,” Father Justin observed rather pointedly, “that dinner has already begun.”

The disapproval in his tone was palpable as he surveyed the scattered serving dishes, bowls, trenchers, and half-drunk goblets of wine. “Therefore,” he continued, “I shall endeavor to keep our prayer short.”

Of course, Isla thought morosely. Prayer time. Father Justin, who followed none of the commandments of the church in his own life, never missed an opportunity to expound on its glories to others. Never mind that they’d already had a blessing.