The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (42 page)

Tristan had, in essence, given the boy the one thing he could: freedom.

“Do you miss your father?” she asked.

Asher thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “My father—my real father, I mean—wasn’t a nice man.” And he proceeded to tell her a tale of a man who’d suffered abuse at the hands of his own father but who couldn’t see that he’d enacted the very same pattern with his son. Brandon Terrowin had treated his son as though he’d been a recruit in the worst army in the world: beatings, forced marches, and starvation diets had all been part of his childhood. Where his mother was during all of this, Asher didn’t say. “But,” he added reflectively, “I’m sorry he’s dead. He was my father and I…there were good things about him, too. Sometimes we went hunting, or fishing, and we had fun together then.”

He glanced up at Isla. “Why does he smell so bad?”

It took Isla a minute to grasp the change in subject. “Father Justin?” she asked.

Asher nodded.

“Well, because he’s been dead for some days now and…it’s been a bit warm,” she finished lamely.

“I know
that
. But wasn’t he embalmed?”

Isla had no idea what embalming was. “No,” she said.

“At home, we burn our dead.” He was, of course, referring to Darkling Reach.

“Why?”

“So they won’t rot, and spread disease. Or come back.”

Come back?
Isla swallowed. “My father, ah, was hesitant to accept His Grace’s offer to sponsor the burial. But Father Justin is now…quite dead.”

“That’s because your father’s afraid of what might happen.”

“What do you mean?”

Asher returned his knife to its sheath. “He’s afraid that Lord Tristan will resurrect him.”

“I, ah….” Isla felt faint. She couldn’t decide which horrified her more: the idea that Tristan was capable of doing such a thing or the fact that Asher, a child of not even eight winters, was discussing the possibility so calmly. What must he have seen, at his new home?

Another crow croaked, and Asher’s head turned sharply. He grew very still, then, and very watchful. Isla felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. This wasn’t a child, however much he looked like one. Something had…happened to Asher, something bad. Nearly all of the adults in his life had betrayed him, and far too young; was it any wonder that he felt a kinship with Tristan, the only person who’d taken him in and shown him any kindness?

Asher was afraid of something—even now—and it wasn’t Tristan. Of that she was now sure. Although neither of them had mentioned a thing, apart from Tristan’s oblique remark to her at the hunt, Isla got the distinct impression that Asher’s caution was in response, not to the vestiges of childhood trauma but to a current threat. As scarred as he must have been by his father’s harsh tutelage, this too-adult watchfulness was something else.

She let it pass. The boy had been interrogated enough. And, after a minute or so, he relaxed.

“Asher,” she asked hesitantly, “how do you feel about my…coming north?”

He smiled slightly. “I like you.”

“I like you, too.”

“Good. Otherwise this would be awkward.” He chuckled, and so did she.

“I’m sure it must be difficult, so much change…”

“Oh, you’re alright. You’re better than the last one, anyway.” Asher made a face. “She was a real bint.”

“Asher!” Isla exclaimed, half amused and half scandalized. “You’re not supposed to know that word.”

“Well she was. I hated her and so did he and I’m glad she’s dead.”

The question was out of Isla’s mouth before she could stop herself. “Why did he marry her, then?”

Her eyes widened in shock when she realized what she’d said. It was a totally inappropriate question to put to anyone, much less to a child. She had no right to ask and no right to know, and she didn’t
want
to know. Or so she told herself. But the picture that Asher had painted, in just a handful of words, was so unappetizing that she literally hadn’t been able to stop herself. She was simply dying of curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Asher replied, taking her question perfectly seriously as though it were a matter of course. And perhaps, for him, it was; his upbringing thus far certainly hadn’t been orthodox, so who knew what he thought was normal. He did, after all, live in an enchanted castle with a demon.

“I think it was some kind of business arrangement,” he concluded finally. “He didn’t love her and she didn’t love him, and when he found out that she was plotting against him he killed her. We were all having dinner in the private dining hall when she took a sip of wine and just keeled over. I was relieved, honestly; she really was a bint.

“She was beautiful though,” he added, almost wistfully, “but she was cold, like a glacier. She wanted power.”

Asher was describing someone who sounded a great deal like Tristan. She felt another stab of insecurity; this child was better educated than she was. The Highlands might be romantic, but a seat of learning they were not. Maybe that was what Tristan wanted: someone like him, someone urbane and educated in the ways of power, and able to move easily through the world. Isla had nothing to offer in that department: all she knew about was dyeing and carding and weaving and running a household. She was no ice queen or famous beauty; what could someone like Tristan possibly see in her?

“You’re very well educated,” Isla remarked.

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I bedevil my tutors, according to my tutors.” He sounded like he was quoting something. “I speak two languages already, too, and I’m in the process of learning a third.” He flashed a smile. “I’m learning the principal tongue of the northern tribes, from Arms Master Brom. He’s the son of a chief who was slain in battle, and now he lives with us. He’s taught me a
lot
of words.” And, judging from the boy’s tone, Isla guessed that none of them were good.

“You shouldn’t be jealous,” he said.

“What?” she asked, surprised.

“All girls are jealous. Brom says so. But you shouldn’t be.”

Isla suppressed a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I hope so,” said a different voice. She looked up. It was Tristan.

S
he hadn’t heard him approach and was shocked to see him.

He glanced at Asher. “Fetch my cloak,” he said, “the heavier one, please. And fetch your other cloak, as well. We’re attending the burial in ten minutes, and might be out there some time. It will reflect poorly on me if you freeze to death.”

Asher hopped down off the wall. “Yes, My Lord.” He bowed briefly, and left.

Tristan studied her. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said mildly. Asher had long since vanished into the chapel, leaving them alone in the windswept yard. Tristan did not sound pleased.

Isla swallowed. “I…haven’t felt well,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. And then, “are you new to deceit, or has it always been a habit with you?”

“What?” she replied, shocked.

“The statement speaks for itself.” His tone was cold. “Now answer me.”

Isla had avoided him, because she’d been afraid that he didn’t care for her. Now, it seemed as though her fears had been justified. The look in his eyes was not friendly as he stood there, waiting.

That they’d gone from…where they’d been, when they’d first met, to where they’d been the night before the hunt hadn’t seemed possible. That a man like Tristan would see her for dust hadn’t seemed possible. She’d convinced herself, as time wore on, that he
had
been using her, amusing himself with her—even as she’d wanted desperately for that not to be so. But hearing about his last wife…she felt more wretched than ever. Had she made a complete fool of herself, throwing herself at him? Surely he must know how she felt about him. She’d been forward enough. The feeling of his lips on her still lingered and, blushing with shame and rage, she turned away.

“I was under the impression that we had an agreement,” he said softly.

She chewed her lip, and said nothing.

He was so upset with her, and she was so upset that he was upset, and she felt her world crashing down around her ears. She’d had no intention of telling him how she felt, but suddenly the words were coming. She heard herself speak, amazed at herself for being so bold and just as equally unable to close her mouth and stop the tide. It had all been too much; she wasn’t even sure that she cared, anymore, about anything. A vital part of her felt numb.

“I’m no one!” she cried. “I’m plain and mousy and boring and too thin and ill-educated and—I can’t compete! Not with the women at court. Even your page knows more about the world than I do, and as for you…I can’t imagine how you’re able to stomach our conversations!” She shook her head. “You’re too good for me. Too intelligent. Too handsome. Too perfect. And I’m just…me. I have nothing to offer.”

There. It was out.

“Except yourself.”

“And what’s that?” The small sound that escaped her was half sob, half sigh. “I know full well that you came here with…certain intentions. You were never besotted with my sister and neither of us expected
this
to be more than a marriage of convenience. Except….” Except that she loved him.

“I don’t, truthfully, know why you agreed to marry me.”

“Because I wanted to marry you.”

“Why?” She turned. “So you could murder me? Or worse?”

He tensed, as if struck, waiting. “I see.”

“No you don’t,” she insisted. “If you’re toying with me, then you might as well kill me because I don’t think I could bear to live knowing that—that I—and you didn’t—that you didn’t love me, too.” And then, surprising herself even further, she started to sob.

She felt his arms around her, pulling her to him, and she pressed her face into his chest. She didn’t care that he was cold, as cold as the air around them. “I’ve given up everything for you,” she whispered, her throat still choked with sobs, “my own sister hates me. I want to leave here,
with you
, but I’m worried that I have no place at your side.”

She couldn’t
believe
that she’d told him all this, and wondered what he must think of her. But he said nothing, only stroked her hair. The gesture was almost tender; would have been, from anyone else.

“Oh,” he said finally, the ice gone from his voice, “is that all.” He sounded amused, and almost…relieved.

She pulled back slightly, lifting her eyes to meet his. “All?” she demanded.

A smile flickered across his lips. “I’d debated the possibility that you were more like your sister than I’d anticipated, leading me on for your own purposes. Or, perhaps, that you’d revisited your earlier promises because I hit her. That you might have come to your senses and realized that you were allowing yourself to be romanced by a demon.” There was the faintest hint of dryness in his tone and, she saw, something very like warmth in his eyes. Very like…but not quite. She didn’t know what it was.

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Well, I do think that I should probably learn more about your…species,” she faltered, “but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care, truly I don’t. And as for my sister, I don’t care about that either. Or, rather, I do. She deserved that bruise and more,” Isla continued. “You should have broken her jaw. Maybe a little less beauty might force her to develop some character.” She was surprised by her own vehemence.

Tristan laughed. “That’s my girl.”

“I didn’t want to avoid you,” she said in a small voice. “I worried that I’d made a fool of myself.”

“You could never make a fool of yourself, to me.”

“But I’m so…different.”

“I want you because you’re different,” he said gently.

“Do you, truly?”

“Yes. But no more of this foolishness. We don’t have the time.”

She wondered what he meant by that, but then he was kissing her. Despite the coldness of his hands, his lips, his embrace was passionate and she lost herself in it. He wanted her, he did. That such a thing was true didn’t seem possible, but it was. It
was
. Here was the proof, right now. He’d been upset with her for avoiding him, was reclaiming her now with a force that almost frightened her but was, at the same time, thrilling. He’d taken her promise to him seriously—as seriously as she had. Her heart raced. He—if he didn’t love her, then at least he wanted her. And, gods, she wanted him.

He explored her mouth with his tongue and then, pulling back just the merest fraction, took her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged on it. The gesture was both strange and erotic. And then he bit her. She gasped, pulling back involuntarily. Exploring her lip with her tongue, she encountered the unmistakable copper and salt tang of blood.

“That,” he said seriously, still holding her to him, “is for avoiding me.” But his tone was amused. “And to remind you,” he added coolly, “that you’re mine.”

He kissed her again.

When at last she found her breath, flushed with heat despite the cold, Isla asked, “do you make a habit of marking all your prey?” She was only half joking. She couldn’t have said why she felt comfortable enough with Tristan to address him in such a fashion, only that she did.

“No,” he said, still smiling slightly. “Usually I simply eat them.”