The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (32 page)

“Yes,” Tristan agreed. “I thought we might go for a ride, explore a bit.”

“Just so long as we don’t go near Cariad,” Isla said caustically, and without intending to. But Tristan had that effect on her: around him, her normally tight reserve just seemed to crumble. She found herself telling him things, things she’d never thought she’d tell anyone.

Tristan’s short bark of laughter was utterly mirthless. “She’s had more interaction with me than she’d have you believe,” he said. “She was young and beautiful once; not always the hag you know now.”

There was a disturbing suggestion in his words, but he didn’t explain what he meant and Isla didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. She’d spent enough time wondering about Cariad, but now the memory of their friendship left a bitter taste in her mouth. Had she and the duke been lovers, once? Somehow, Isla doubted that the witch, for all her disgust with men, was a virgin. And although the thought of Cariad herself was upsetting, the notion that she might have been intimate with Tristan was not.

Isla was pondering why this should be when Tristan reined to a halt. They were in a small natural clearing, the sunlight pouring in through a hole in the canopy overhead. In the shade, the air was chilly; here, it was almost warm. Tristan swung down, and then helped her dismount.

She sat down among the ferns and then, overwhelmed by a sudden impulse, threw herself down into them and laughed with the sheer thrill of being alive.

Ferns tickled her exposed skin. Something scampered through the underbrush near her head. Above her, the colors of autumn were glorious. Tristan sat down next to her, one leg bent and the other outstretched as he leaned back against a fallen log. A minute later, the acrid-sweet scent of pipe tobacco filled the air. He hadn’t yet unpacked his saddlebags, and there was food. Very nice food, too: bread and hard cheese and pickles and some sort of pasty in a flaky crust. Tristan Mountbatten ate better on the road than Isla did at her own table—except when he was dining with them, of course. She felt another stab of impotent rage at her father, which she forced down into her deepest recesses. She wouldn’t think about him. Now, or ever. He’d failed her too many times, in too many ways.

She’d seen him, too, as they were leaving: bleary-eyed and guilty as Hart shouted at him. Hart, who
had
gone with the duke and had just arrived home as well. Isla felt an equally strong stab of love, and appreciation, for the older brother who’d never gotten all he deserved.

Tristan passed her a flask of wine mixed with well water, the movement graceful and somehow vulpine. She accepted it, surprised and pleased to find that this wine was of a much higher quality than what she was used to. She could actually drink it without puckering up like a prune. She accepted bread and cheese as well, surprised to discover that she was ravenous. Her stomach had been bothering her and she’d doubted that she’d be able to eat more than a bite or two at the most but had wanted to be polite. Instead, with her first bite her appetite returned and she demolished the entire offering. With another small, unreadable smile, Tristan passed her more. She had part of a pasty, too, and more wine.

Soon, she began to feel pleasantly light-headed. She supposed, somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, that this was a bad thing and that she might say—or indeed do—something she hadn’t intended, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. She was enjoying herself too much; enjoying the simple, blissful feeling of being surrounded by nature and free.

Tristan, for his part, seemed content to sit in silence. She wondered what he was thinking about. “So tell me,” she asked, turning her head in the ferns and gazing over at him, “do demons need to eat, or do they do it for show?”

He seemed amused by her question. “A little of both, I suppose.”

“I never got a chance to thank you properly for my present,” she said. The scent of her perfume mixed with the dense, mineral and moss scent of the undergrowth. The sun felt warm and wonderful on her skin; there wouldn’t be too many more days like this. Already, the faint breeze held the undercurrent of decay and that peculiar scentless cold that was winter.

“Thank me properly?” he queried, a hint of suggestion to his tone.

She blushed; he was far too sophisticated, and that hadn’t been what she’d meant at
all
. But thankfully he didn’t pursue that line of thought. “You’re welcome,” was all he said. And then, several minutes later, after repacking his pipe and lighting it, “attar of roses becomes you.” He inhaled, and smoke curled upward. “In the East,” he told her, “women are a sign of status. The number of women a man can afford reflects on the wealth of his household.”

“And his stamina,” Isla added darkly, before blushing an even deeper scarlet as she realized what she’d just said.

Tristan conceded the point with a small gesture. “Indeed. Women live in private apartments called
harems
, which comes from an ancient eastern word meaning
forbidden
. Forbidden to men, that is, although in practice they’re not. The sultan I stayed with for a time, his sons were frequent visitors to the harem where they desported themselves with their father’s less popular concubines. He had five hundred, and most were rather starved for attention.”

“Five hundred women?” Isla repeated, aghast.

“I would find such a herd rather vexatious, as well.”

“What do they do all day?”

“Many are slaves, either bred to pleasure or broken to the practice. More often than not, they’re drugged.” He sounded disapproving. “A certain…fondness for the warming and seductive effects of opium keeps them pliable, and suitably disinterested to not mind the long periods of the sultan’s absence. More to the point, perhaps, opium also arrests the appetite and thus keeps them svelte and beautiful.”

“And men find this…pleasurable?”

“Men find power pleasurable,” he corrected her. “At least some men do. I do. I merely prefer to gain it in different fashion.”

“I see.”

His eyes met hers. “Do you?” She sensed that he was asking her something other than what he was asking her. She waited, confused. At length, he continued. “Women, in my experience, find power equally aphrodisiac—if not more so.” Which, she had to concede, was true. “The issue isn’t so much the existence of power, or the craving for it, but the legitimacy and efficacy of its exercise. That particular sultan was a good man, but weak. His son, who is a far better sultan, married one of his father’s concubines that he’d grown attached to after murdering his father. From what I understand, his rule so far has been a success.”

“He fell in love with her?”

“Indeed. Her father had sold her to the sultan in exchange for the forgiveness of a debt. There are enough women who are quite willing to laze about half-naked, waiting on an almost total stranger to take pleasure from them, that taking them captive should be quite unnecessary. Such proclivities are, in my opinion, the mark of a weak man. The true challenge,” he added, his voice darkening, “is in teaching them to want it.”

“A willing captive is the only true captive,” Isla mused, “because they’re giving you something you can’t take—that can only be given.”

“Precisely.”

“You know, I’m surprised that you’ve never wanted such a thing for yourself: one or two…or ten women reclining on pillows, perfuming their naked breasts and waiting on your attentions.”

“Maintaining such a stable—and I know several who do, even here, although they keep it to themselves—is too much work.” That strange, enigmatic half-smile returned. “I prefer my lovers to be doing something useful while I’m not using them. Moreover, generally, I’m not interested in the tedium of seeing to their needs. That responsibility is so much easier to outsource: to other servants, husbands….” He gestured dismissively. “The few lovers I have kept all served other purposes as well, and I tired of them quickly. I have no meaningful assignations.”

No mistresses, he meant. At least, not as she might understand the term. She felt a brief stab of—she could scarcely believe it—jealousy at the idea of another women sharing his bed. With an effort she dismissed the unworthy emotion. He was free to consort with whomever he chose. She knew from Hart that to most men the act had little more emotional impact than polishing their boots.

“So is the court as licentious as they say?” she asked.

“What have you heard?” His tone was conversational.

“That it’s a hotbed of evil.” She giggled. She’d had too much wine. Right now, she couldn’t believe that she was having this conversation. With him! And that she was enjoying it!

“If you mean, does the king host orgies, then the answer is yes. Piers is devoted to Celine but what pleases him most of all is to watch her with other men. And she in turn seems willing enough; most likely because her husband has excellent taste in the men that he chooses. I doubt any woman in the kingdom has suffered the attentions of so many gloriously handsome and gloriously well endowed lovers. Further, I imagine most would enjoy the experience, if they only had the courage to admit such a thing to themselves.”

“I imagine you’re right.” She tried to picture such a thing, and couldn’t. But she thought she’d like to meet the queen; Celine must be a fascinating woman indeed. “Have you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said frankly. “But without the benefit of an audience. I don’t share.”

“Well that’s good to know.” She laughed again.

He favored her with a flat look.

T
hey rode home as the shadows lengthened, having spent the afternoon together in the glen. Isla had been surprised and relieved that Tristan hadn’t taken advantage of her intoxicated state. Indeed he’d been the perfect gentleman, relaxing and smoking his pipe and studying her with that inscrutable look. His
conversation
, however, had been the furthest thing from gentlemanly: harems, his sexual exploits, his thoughts on women in general and on relations between the sexes. She’d never heard anyone talk about these things before or even admit to thinking about them, and she found
his
willingness to talk about them both alluring and alarming.

She’d had fun with him, though, in spite of herself. He was urbane and educated and his stories about life in the East made her feel like she was there. She leaned against him, pleasantly tired but not sleepy. She was looking forward to dinner, and to that priest being gone. Tristan had an excellent seat and his confidence in the saddle—and, indeed, in everything he did—was relaxing. He, at least, was a known quantity; she knew that if he hurt her, it would be because he intended to do so and for no other reason. He’d never let her be hurt through incompetence, or cowardice.

She must have fallen asleep, because she was surprised to open her eyes and find herself in the courtyard. She remembered blinking, and thinking just how little tired she was, and then…this. She straightened up, embarrassed to have been caught napping on Tristan. He, for his part, seemed unperturbed. He swung down and then, reaching up, caught her around the waist as she braced her hands on his forearms and swung her down too.

She couldn’t believe how long they’d been out; their time together had felt like mere minutes instead of hours. But full night was almost upon them. The days were shorter now, and twilight passed quickly. Still, sounds of chatting and laughter already drifted from the great hall. Isla wouldn’t have time to change; dinner had been served!

Tristan’s groom came for Arion, seemingly forming from whole cloth out of the ground mist that gathered at night. Tristan spoke a quiet word to him, and the other man nodded. Isla faltered, wondering what to do. Her father would surely be furious with her, and with that thought the full horror of her morning came rushing back to her.

Tristan must have seen something of that horror on her face, because he took her hand and slipped it into the crook of his arm. His grip was gentle, but extremely firm and she knew his fingers would turn to steel in a moment if she tried to pull back. There was nothing of tenderness in the gesture but an odd sort of affinity; once again, he understood. His skin was cold.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“I haven’t changed,” she said lamely, feeling self-conscious.

A different man would have rushed to assure her that she already looked beautiful and was perfectly attired for dinner; that her morning’s simple shift and kirtle wouldn’t look the least bit out of place in a formal setting. But Tristan only replied, in that calm and emotionless voice of his, that everyone else would look just as bad.

“Nothing you own, little starling, remotely touches my own standards for personal dress. Although you have made a valiant effort, which is to be commended.” He flashed that inscrutable, brief smile again. “And, unlike your brother, at least you do not bed with swine.”

Isla wondered if Tristan meant that last rebuke literally or metaphorically. Hart did tend to share certain odors in common with his favorite pet, Bessie the sow. “Thank you for your concern,” she said dryly, “but I find my present wardrobe quite adequate to my purposes.”

“Nevertheless, I intend to purchase you a new one,” he replied.