The Lord of Illusion - 3 (10 page)

The master had wept? She always suspected him to be a coward. Lord Hawkes only confirmed it.

But she must be mistaken. Surely the viscount had not fought the man just because he had beaten a mere slave. The slave master had been employed for that very task. There must be more to the story.

“Did he insult you?” she inquired, although she could not imagine a man foolish enough to do so.

“Yes.” Those golden eyes glittered.

“What did he do?”

“He dared to harm someone I care about. And if you insist on keeping me distracted by talking until the healer comes, I need a glass of port. No, brandy. The pain is getting annoying.”

A rush of shame made Camille flee the room again, this time knocking over a tea table in the process, scattering golden teacups about the room. She did not stop to bother with it. Within a moment she returned to his bedchamber, decanter of brandy and glass in hand.

Her hand shook as she poured. Surely he had not challenged the master to a duel because of her? No one ever bothered with Camille Ashton. This honor he spoke of extended beyond the realm of anything she’d ever heard of before. She could perhaps believe saving her life gave him some responsibility for her. But to challenge a man for beating her? When his lordship knew naught of her until last eve?

When she neared the bed with the glass, he gifted her with another of his smiles. She wished he would quit doing that. His smile did not leer or demand or taunt. It spoke of a gentleness she could not afford to believe in.

Lord Hawkes glanced down at his arms. “I fear I shall need more of your help in order to drink. Can you bear to touch me again?”

Camille did not answer. She set down the glass, pushed some pillows beneath his head, brushing his wavy white hair out of the way. It felt like thick silk. Then she perched gingerly on the edge of the bed and held the glass to his lips.

He took a sip. The brandy glistened on his lips and he licked it away, making her wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

She had never kissed a man. Most of the time, the soldiers did not bother with it. And when they did, she always moved her face away. A small power of denial—but one that made her feel less impotent.

Her hand shook, and brandy spilled down his chin. “I am so sorry, my lord.”

“It is all right, Camille.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I understand. More than you know.”

What was it about this man that rattled her so? What did he think he understood? He lived a life of luxury, and could not imagine the despair and torture she had lived through. And yet…

She found a clean cloth and wiped the brandy off his chin and neck, again being careful not to touch his bare skin.

She feared she would enjoy the feel of him.

“Did you truly challenge the master to a duel because of me?”

“Yes.”

“But why? I am only a slave, no one of great importance.”

“I told you. You are my responsibility now. This will set an example to all others that I will allow no harm done to you without repercussions.”

Camille fought down a helpless feeling of frustration. “I still do not understand—”

A cough from the doorway made her jump up from the bed, as if she had any reason to feel guilty.

Captain Talbot looked at her. Then at Lord Hawkes. And had the audacity to give him a cheeky grin. “The healer, my lord.”

The small woman entered the room, and Camille backed into a shadowy corner, for Talbot blocked the doorway.

“Now what?” snapped the healer, bending over Lord Hawkes to peer at his wound. She sniffed. Loudly. “Well, no magic here to blight it, leastways.”

Camille watched with fascination as the little woman’s hands began to glow with unearthly blue fire. She almost jumped forward to stop the healer when that magical force made its way toward Lord Hawkes’s arm, then chided herself for being a goose. She had seen such power before, although never this strong, but knew it would do no harm to him.

After a few moments of that fire licking its way around his arm, the viscount leaned back with a sigh. “I was right to send for you.”

“Of course you were,” replied the healer. “But mark my words, I cannot stop the fever from overtaking you. There are times when the body is best left to heal itself, without the interference of magic. You shall keep to this bed for several days.”

Lord Hawkes did not appear offended by the woman’s authoritative tone; instead he smiled and thanked her. She immediately turned and looked up at Captain Talbot. “He needs rest tonight, broth tomorrow, solid food the day after. And as much port as he can drink. Can you manage it?”

Talbot bristled. “Of course.”

“Good. Then pay me and let me be on my way. There’s a baby to be delivered, and I refuse to waste any more time on the injuries of fool men who resolve their grievances with a sword.”

Lord Hawkes barked a laugh at the look on his captain’s face, and then his brow wrinkled with pain. Talbot led the woman from the room. Camille stayed in the shadows, watching his lordship. Had the healer done enough? Would he truly recover? Why did it worry her so?

Because she felt guilty for having been the cause of his injury. Because she must have time to prepare her plans for escape.

She would make sure he recovered, but that did not mean she trusted him or his motives. Camille had quit trusting in people a long time ago. It would take more than gentle smiles and a cut to the arm to even remind her of the concept of it.

Talbot returned soon enough, gave his lordship three glasses of port before his eyes finally closed and he fell asleep. Then the captain turned to the shadow she hid in. “I suppose you will watch over him all night?”

She did not answer.

Even so, Augusta appeared a few moments later with a dinner tray for Camille and set it down beside her without a word.

Camille ate automatically, her eyes fixed on the sleeping man, and afterward curled up in an overstuffed chair and continued her silent vigil until she nodded off to sleep herself.

Five

Camille woke to the sight of Lord Hawkes sitting half-upright in bed, his brow furrowed in concentration at a spot near the foot of it. A shape hovered just above the bedding, a swirl of colors that danced haphazardly to and fro, coalescing for a mere second into what might have been some sort of flower, before shattering apart into another merry dance.

“What is it supposed to be?” asked Camille.

He smiled, but kept his concentration fixed upon his illusion. For just a moment she glimpsed a bouquet of flowers: orchids, iris, bellflower, primrose, and other blooms she could not identify. Then the yellows and pinks and blues melted into a brownish spot at his feet, and disappeared.

His lordship collapsed back against the pillows. “It was supposed to be for you. Flowers in winter. Faith, I just cannot understand how to harness this magic. One moment I can turn Talbot into a demon, and the next I cannot even conjure a decent posy.”

Camille suppressed a smile. She did not think it would take too great of a spell to turn the captain into a demon. But she wondered at Lord Hawkes’s frustration, for his family had little talent for magic, despite the hue of gold in his eyes, or the elven lord would have sent them to Elfhame.

And if she feared he had put a glamour upon her, his display this morning caused her to doubt it—although perhaps he had done it for just that reason. She did not know which should concern her more. For if magic had
not
been at work to make her think of him so often, what had?

“Surely this is not your first visit to Dreamhame, my lord?”

“Err—
I
came once with my parents, long ago. To be tested.” He sighed. “I suppose it is best I have little knack for it.”

He sounded most annoyed, and she felt compelled to ease him. “It takes a great amount of energy, or so I have heard. And if you don’t mind my saying so, it is best to reserve your strength to fight the fever. You are still flushed, my lord. And you spent a restless night.” She scrambled to her feet.

“I cannot imagine that chair was too comfortable,” he said.

She shrugged. “I have slept in worse places, my lord.”

“I imagine you have. And last night, ah, last night! At least I managed to sleep through the whole of it yet again.”

Camille did not quite know what to make of that statement, but before she could ask, Captain Talbot entered the room, his muscular arms laden with a gold tray topped with steaming cups.

He set it down next to Lord Hawkes, who grimaced. “What is that?”

“Broth, my lord. On the instructions of the healer. And damn me if I would challenge that little lady.”

“Indeed.”

Talbot shoved more pillows beneath his master’s head—a bit too roughly, Camille thought—and picked up a bowl and spoon.

His lordship scowled. “Just what the hell do you think you are doing?”

“Feeding you, my lord.”

“Hell no. I still have one good arm.”

“You are so weak, you are liable to slosh hot broth all over you.”

“Then Camille will care for me.”

Captain Talbot looked over to the corner, as if he hadn’t known she had been there the entire time. “Your attentions toward the girl are… alarming.”

“And none of your business.”

Talbot’s lips curled. “Mayhap, my lord.”

“Oh, devil take you, Edward. Get out of here. I am sure you would much rather break your fast with Augusta.”

The silver specks in the captain’s gray eyes sparkled at the words. Then he glanced at Camille again and the excitement faded. “If you are sure, my lord. This… whatever is happening here. It goes beyond the bounds of our… visit.”

“I know what I am doing, Captain Talbot. And you will not question my actions again.”

The guard stood at the tone of voice his master used, carefully set down the bowl and spoon, and stiffly bowed. “As you wish, my lord. Forgive me, my lord. I am a buffoon, my lord.”

Lord Hawkes rolled his eyes. “Just bring the lady a tray, so that she may eat with me.”

Talbot grinned and left the room.

Camille did not know what to make of either of them.

“That broth actually smells good,” said Viscount Hawkes, looking at her with such hopeful entreaty she could not help but smile as she stepped forward and then perched on the edge of his bed.

The intimacy of being in the same bed with him no longer made her uncomfortable. Nor did the act of spooning broth into his mouth. Nor wiping the corner of his lips. But she avoided looking into his eyes. And at his naked chest.

When he professed to be full, Camille sat at a small table next to the bed, where Augusta had set another tray a few moments ago, and began to eat the poached eggs, cold toast, and sliced mutton.

She could feel his eyes watching her every move. It made her uncomfortable. It somehow made her feel important.

“I fear I make a terrible invalid,” said his lordship. “I will be restless with nothing to do.”

Camille nodded.

“You know how to read.”

He made it a statement, and she remembered when he had entered the room last evening and caught her in the act. Her gaze traveled to the volume still lying open upon the floor.

“Is it forbidden for slaves to read?”

She shook her head.

“But unlikely. How did you learn?”

She shrugged.

“Faith, woman. Why are you suddenly so quiet? You stayed with me all night as if you cared for my health, and now you will not speak to me. Nor look at me.”

The bedding rustled and she looked up in alarm, afraid he had managed to gain his footing. He had managed only to sit upright again, swaying a bit; his perfect skin now flushed an even-brighter red.

Camille looked into his eyes. Caught her breath at the beauty of the golden color, the way the facets reflected the weak sunlight filtering through the windows. “Please do not upset yourself, my lord. I still do not understand… I have still not become accustomed…” and she threw her arms wide, encompassing him, the room, her place in it.

“Ah, Camille, Camille. You still do not trust me. You are so unused to human compassion it confounds you when you find it. Do you not realize that I know you?”

“You speak as if we have met before. But I swear I would remember if we had. And I cannot understand why you think you would know me—would know the life of a slave, when you have been surrounded only by power and luxury.”

Lord Hawkes clutched his arm, which held only a trace of his wound, the skin healed together but still red with fever. “You are right, of course. I have been surrounded by love, and you do not know the meaning of it. And although I could explain many things to you, I fear it would make things complicated between us. And I would like to start simply.”

“Simply?”

“Aye. I know you, you see, because I have dreamt of you.”

“I do not believe in dreams. Or stories. I believe in the reality of staying alive.”

“But… do you believe this much, at least? That I have dreamed of you for years, and those dreams led me to find you?”

“It smacks of magic, my lord. And that is something which has been used to hurt me more times than I care to recall.”

“But this time it brought me to you, Camille. Surely you cannot regret that, despite whatever other reasons I was sent dreams of you.”

So, she had been right. He had other motives for becoming her protector. Camille almost asked him about it, but knew he would not reveal them to her. He wished to start “simply,” whatever that meant. And she had as little right to question his actions as Captain Talbot, even less so. Lord Hawkes kept making her forget her status, and a slave who did that suffered for it. “You should beware these other reasons you speak of, my lord.”

“Believe me, they are not as important as you.” He leaned closer to her, white hair falling about his angular cheeks, the tips of his pointed ears revealed within the mass of it. “If you believe nothing else, I beg you to take my words to heart. There is nothing in this world as important to me as you.”

Camille feared the fever had made him distraught, to think the opinion of a slave mattered a whit. Yet he spoke so earnestly, his face so intent upon hers that she feared he might do himself some harm. She glanced toward the door, also fearing Captain Talbot’s return and his anger at his master’s upset. “Please, my lord, do not fash yourself. Lie back down before you make yourself more ill.”

“I shall. But only if you make me a promise.”

From the other room she heard the faint sound of Augusta’s laughter, the answering deep reply of a male voice. Despite her anxiety that the captain would return and blame her for Hawkes’s upset, she would not readily make a blind promise, and suspicion laced her voice. “What is it?”

“Will you read to me?”

The request took her aback.

“It will relieve my boredom. And perhaps teach you of love and faith and honor.”

She gave him a scornful glance. “They are only fairy tales.”

“Written from the heart. Based on imagination, yes, but with truth at the core of them. Come, I will show you.”

“If you will lie back down.”

He sighed and did as she bade him. “There. Now tell me the books you have unpacked.”

She listed a few of the names, and he made her stop when she read the title,
Robinson
Crusoe
.”

“Ah, Defoe. A good place to start.”

He turned as Captain Talbot entered the room, Augusta in tow, and asked him, “You will handle the matter we discussed?”

Captain Talbot bowed. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.”

Augusta exchanged a glance with Camille, who shrugged her shoulders. She had no idea what they spoke of. But that Augusta would treat her as if they would exchange a confidence to one another made Camille feel warmly toward the other woman for the first time.

And the maid had not said a word regarding the clothing Camille borrowed.

Augusta cleared the trays, and Captain Talbot bowed out of the room. Camille pulled up a chair next to his lordship’s bed and opened the leather-bound volume. She tried not to betray her excitement at the task. She never imagined she would be given the opportunity to read a real book. The children she had taken care of, Rufus and Laura, kept a governess, and Camille had not been allowed in the schoolroom. And Lady Pembridge had no desire for books, only gossip.

Camille read slowly at first, afraid her skills might embarrass her, but Lord Hawkes did not show any signs of frustration if she struggled with a word or two. Indeed, he would help her to decipher it, then praise her as quick-witted when she did.

She soon found herself engrossed in the story, the world of the author vivid in her mind’s eye, shuddering at the black magic of the natives when they tried to sacrifice the slave. She glanced up at his lordship when she read how Crusoe had rescued Friday. Glanced up again when the perils of their life on the island strengthened their relationship to a deep friendship—when the line between slave and master disappeared.

“You see?” he said, when she paused at the end of the chapter, a smile tugging at the corner of his handsome mouth. “Others may define us by our circumstances, but in truth we are all equal as human beings.”

Augusta entering the room saved Camille from a reply.

“There is a messenger at the door, my lord. You have been extended an invitation for tea.”

Lord Hawkes appeared confused. “Reply that I am indisposed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Camille picked up the story only to be interrupted again a short time later.

Augusta held a silver tray in her hands, heaped with cards and letters. “I am most sorry, my lord. There is another person at the door. A Lady Hensby, who insists on seeing you. She says she will not leave until she has assured herself of your good health.” She held out the silver tray. “And these are all inquiries and invitations from members of the court.”

Lord Hawkes still looked confused. Camille hid a smile. Apparently he had charmed the court—and she imagined most especially the ladies. It was endearing, the way he could not quite comprehend it.

“Tell the lady I am indisposed.” His eyes fell upon the pile of notes. “And throw those things away.”

“But—but, my lord.” Augusta set down the tray and proceeded to wring her hands. “The lady is
quite
insistent. She had a fit of vapors when I refused her entrance. And the letters must be answered, or it shall only get worse. They will come themselves, you see, if they do not receive a reply.”

He scowled. “You don’t say?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Then his expression changed, became calculating. “Lady Hensby, you said. Styles her hair in a tremendous heap, with hoops nearly as wide?”

Augusta swallowed. “She is, uh, quite elegant, my lord. And very pretty.”

“Indeed.”

Something twisted in Camille’s chest at his lordship’s agreement. Something odd, a feeling she could not identify.