The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (38 page)

I
sla looked around the sun-dappled glade, enjoying the scenery and wishing that it weren’t being spoiled by the hundred or so other people wandering through. They were on a hunt, except the possibility of actually
catching
anything with such a large group of people stomping around and hollering was next to nil. The silliest animal in the entire forest wouldn’t venture to approach such a commotion and Isla was sure that they could be heard for at least a mile in all directions.
Hunts
were really just excuses to picnic and drink and if someone happened to catch an animal then so much the better.

They’d only just begun and she was already exhausted, if nothing else than from sheer boredom. She didn’t hunt and didn’t want to, and was painfully aware that her current position was only a mile or so away from Cariad’s cottage. Not that anyone in their bloated
hunting party
would be stumbling across it; Cariad didn’t receive visitors if she didn’t want to.

Isla sighed.

In the daylight, everything looked normal.

Rudolph, flanked by his friends, waved his bow around and boasted about all the deer he’d kill. It didn’t seem possible that her sister’s betrothed was a full grown man; Asher seemed older. But Rowena admired him openly, waving whenever he glanced in her direction and offering various tokens of good luck. She’d already given him her second best handkerchief, as well as a ribbon from her veil. Isla had suggested tying it to his codpiece, maybe in a little bow. Rowena had glared at her.

Isla wondered where Cariad was at this moment, and what she was doing. Until a fortnight ago, Isla’s only true friend. She’d known Cariad since she was a child and now the witch had turned her back on her. Isla still didn’t know why; Cariad’s explanation had made no sense.

Almost unconsciously, she found herself watching Tristan.

Although revelry swirled around him he, as usual, was immune. She was always vaguely surprised to see him during daylight hours, as though he should be a creature of the night. She had to admit to herself, at times like these she half expected him his flesh to catch fire and for him to shrivel up into some kind of blackened husk.

But there he stood, as human as Rudolph, explaining something to his page. Asher listened attentively, asking the occasional question. Which, Isla saw, Tristan listened to equally attentively. She couldn’t hear their exchange, she was too far away, but she could read their movements and expressions easily enough. Tristan nodded, responding seriously to whatever it was that Asher had asked. Asher flashed a very small smile, too small for a child of his age but there nonetheless. Isla wondered, again, what the boy’s life was like. She supposed, she realized with surprise, that she’d find out.

The idea that she was actually going to
go and live with these people
still struck her with surprise every time she thought of it. She kept encountering the idea, too, in the strangest places: like encountering a mountain lion behind a wardrobe, or at the latrines. She shook her head slightly, to clear the thought. Beside her, Rowena waved to her beau again.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Beaming, she waved again.

To this question, there could be only one response. “Oh, very,” Isla agreed.

“He’s much handsomer than Tristan.”

“I’m pleased that you think so,” Isla said genuinely.

“Tristan is so cold.” Rowena sniffed. She was pretending now that she’d never found Tristan the least bit attractive and that they’d never been engaged. Which, in her mind, could be entirely accurate: Rowena changed her mind so frequently that she must on occasion confuse even herself.

She hadn’t wanted Tristan and then she had; she’d run from him, and then flirted with him. She’d demanded that Rudolph come and save her and, when he’d finally arrived, rejected him, too. Rowena had been, she claimed, in love with Rudolph since she was twelve—a very long time in the life of a girl with just sixteen winters. Isla was momentarily glad that she’d never been in love. Until now.

She’d been unsure of her reception with her betrothed despite, or perhaps because of, what had happened the previous night. Tristan’s suggestion that she relax and enjoy it still rang loudly in her ears. The truth was, she knew what
she
felt; she knew nothing at all about what he felt—if anything. Did demons feel?

She also remembered Cariad’s warning, that she’d be gravely remiss in assuming that his words and actions meant the same things they’d mean coming from a genuine, human man. But Isla had grown up in an atmosphere of deception and knew that one didn’t need to be a demon to lie. Apple lied to her father every day, when she told him she loved him. The contempt in her eyes told the true story. And
someone
had killed Hart’s mother. And maybe even her own.

Moreover, her own father had told her he loved her, that he’d go to the ends of the earth to protect her, and then abandoned her to her fate at the hands of Father Justin. Who must smell quite ripe by now.

No one had come from their neighbor’s estate and Tristan’s offer had as yet gone unanswered. They’d have to do something soon, or the ground would freeze solid. Maybe then they could burn him on the river, as she’d heard the northern tribes did.

She frowned slightly. Tristan hefted his bow, demonstrating something about the draw to Asher. Asher had a bow of his own, sized perfectly for a boy of his height. He was tallish for his age, but young and still far short of even Rudolph. He strung his bow, frowned, and tried again. Tristan, who along with his page was clad in the dark green of the forest, knelt down and demonstrated.

Isla and Tristan hadn’t spoken, not since he’d walked her back to her room and given her a final kiss goodnight. He’d greeted her politely enough at the beginning of the hunt, but they hadn’t been alone and he’d made no attempt to secure such an assignation. She tried to tell herself that that didn’t mean anything.

“Isla!” Rowena patted her elbow. “I’m speaking to you!”

“Oh.” Isla shook herself out of her reverie. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, sister.” Rowena smiled indulgently. “You’re no doubt distracted by thoughts of your own wedding night.” A glint of evil humor lit Rowena’s eyes. “I don’t blame you,” she added. “I’d be horrified, too.”

“Rowena!” Isla’s exclamation was one of surprise and shock that her sister would say such a thing.

“I wouldn’t want him touching me.” Rowena glanced over at Tristan. “His skin is so…corpse-like. And he never smiles. And they say he practices cannibalism.” There was no explanation offered of who
they
was. Probably Rudolph, or his mother. She, like Tristan, seemed little keen on the association between their houses.

“I haven’t seen him eat anyone yet,” Isla replied.

“I let Rudolph take…liberties last night.” Rowena giggled.

Isla glanced around to see if anyone could hear them. Luckily, no one was close enough. Everyone seemed occupied with the hunt, which was theoretically commencing shortly. The ladies would stay behind, lounging around on blankets, drinking and gossiping, while servants saw to their needs, as the gentlemen tramped into the forest. Then, after several hours’ worth of unsuccessful questing, they’d return for a late lunch. If anyone felt up to it, there’d be another round of beating the bushes for deer before the drunken trek home.

“I let him kiss me,” Rowena continued, “and…touch places.”

Places? Isla smiled feebly. “That’s nice.”

“And look, he gave me this necklace!”

Isla barely stopped herself from asking,
as payment?
Rowena wouldn’t find such a remark humorous. Even a little. Lately, Rowena seemed to find very little humorous—while Isla herself had begun to find
everything
humorous. There was no other choice; it was laugh, or sob. Isla examined the trinket, a cabochon of amber set in what appeared to be silver. A piece of ribbon slid through the bale, which Rowena had tied about her neck.

“It’s a fine present,” Isla said, pleased that her sister seemed so happy.

“He knows that
I
wouldn’t want something extravagant,” Rowena commented.

Isla nodded. A piece of amber that large, and set in so much metal was more than extravagant by Highlands standards. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and glanced over at Tristan again. He was deep in conversation with a group of men who’d arrived for the hunt, neighbors of theirs to the east. Isla knew them by sight only; their neighbors visited but rarely, and most men didn’t waste their time chatting up young girls with no marriage prospects. Enzie Moor was an isolated place, and growing more so with each passing year as the harvests failed and mismanagement sent them further into debt.

“I’m not a perfumes and gold kind of girl.” Rowena stroked her pendant, a smug look on her face.

“Neither am I,” Isla said absently.

Rowena’s smile became a scowl, and she sniffed. She was about to respond, and no doubt unpleasantly, when a shadow fell over them. Isla looked up, her hand shading her eyes against the sun. It was Tristan. “Good morning, ladies.” He smiled pleasantly. Behind him, Asher looked bored.

“Good morning,” Isla said.

Tristan dropped to one knee, managing to make what on anyone else would have been an awkward movement seem graceful in the extreme. “Rowena.”

She nodded, her expression wary.

“That’s a lovely pendant you’re wearing,” he complimented her.

“Rudolph has excellent taste.”

“Indeed.” Tristan’s tone suggested that he wasn’t referring to the pendant. But where from another man such a remark would have been complimentary, Tristan made it sound like an insult. Like Rowena was, herself, a pretty item to be bought or traded. Or given as a gift.

He turned to Isla. “Darling.” The greeting was unemotional, and yet managed to convey a wealth of meaning. He kissed her on the cheek. It was as if Rowena had ceased to exist. Isla blushed, pleased. Her lips curved into a small smile, which she hid from her sister.

Rowena stood up, brushing at imaginary grass. “I’m going to talk to Apple,” she announced.

Apple, who had mostly avoided Isla since Tristan’s arrival. Apple was both a religious woman, and a fearful one. Isla didn’t believe that she had a hand in what had happened with Father Justin, or would have condoned such a thing if she had. But she’d been convinced from the first that Tristan was nothing he claimed. And on that score, of course, she’d been right. Isla looked over to where she was sitting and smiled. After a moment, tentatively, her stepmother smiled back.

“I trust that you’re enjoying this pretense of a hunt,” he said.

“Oh, indeed.” Isla’s tone was dry.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” Isla wondered if
he
slept at all.

“Soon, we’ll be retreating into the glade to shout for deer, in the hopes that some might complyingly appear.” He smiled slightly, the expression carrying more than a hint of derision. Isla doubted very much that Darkling Reach hosted many of such hunts. Her betrothed was, she suspected, the sort of man who only hunted with purpose. “Hoping to effectuate such an event,” he continued, “or, at least, convince themselves that it’s happened, a good many of the men are bringing liquid courage.”

“At least then, if they drink themselves into a stupor, they can tell themselves that the hunt was so glorious as to be scarcely contained by memory.”

“The fruits of which were stolen,” Tristan suggested.

Isla giggled.

“I doubt that we’ll return for some time.” He gestured at Asher. “And so, to that end, I’ve brought you a companion.”

Asher made a face, distinctly nonplussed at having been offered up as a glorified lap dog. “You think I’m not old enough for a real hunt,” he said petulantly, revealing a glimmer of the boy he still was. Isla was pleased to see it. Asher, usually, seemed far too old—an old man, almost, trapped in a child’s body. His eyes were so knowing, the eyes of one who’d seen too much too soon. But now he stuck his lip out, every inch the boy of seven.

“Hardly.” Tristan’s face was a mask, as some dark thought crossed his mind. “I question only who is being hunted,” he said obliquely. “Besides,” he added, addressing Asher directly, “you’ve come under my care to learn how to be a gentleman. And part of a gentleman’s job is to entertain the ladies of his acquaintance, however dull he might find the procedure. It’s really quite hard work, I can assure you,” he added seriously, “so you’d better start practicing now. I’m certain that the Lady Isla will prove a most forgiving audience.”

“I don’t need a forgiving audience.” Asher glared.

“Just so. I suggest you begin by bringing the lady a drink.”

“Is there lemon squash?” Asher asked hopefully.

“No. They don’t have lemons here.”

“Lime squash?”

“No.”

“Well what
do
they have? This place is terrible.”

Isla stifled a giggle. She and Tristan exchanged a look. There was something of humor in his eyes. Humor, and something else. She felt her heart beat just the tiniest bit faster.

Tristan stood. Behind him, the hunt was gathering. “I trust you’ll manage.”

“A gentleman,” Isla added, “is resourceful.”