The Lord of Illusion - 3 (8 page)

Augusta’s gaze went from him to Camille, confusion crinkling her smooth brow. “But my lord. She is a slave. She should not be here.”

Talbot stepped forward before Drystan throttled the maid. “His lordship saved the girl’s life and therefore has a sense of responsibility to her. He is a man of… unusual honor.”

“How strange,” murmured the girl, and then shook her head. “Pardon me, my lord. I did not mean any disrespect.”

Drystan shrugged off her words. “Do you know who did this to her?”

“I-I’m sure ’twas the slave master, my lord. But the whippings are not usually this bad. They do not like to damage the goods permanently, ye see. Methinks she may be the slave Lady Pembridge took a liking to. I have only just been elevated upstairs meself and am not familiar with—”

Drystan slashed a hand through the air. “Enough. Just see to her.” He strode from the room, Edward hard on his heels, just as a knock sounded on the outer door. Drystan took up a stance just outside the wall of the bedroom, so he could not see her, but could hear every movement within.

Talbot answered the knock, and a diminutive woman stepped into the apartment, cricking her neck to look up at Edward with the blackest eyes Drystan had ever seen. Large faceted elven eyes. “Where is the patient?”

Drystan immediately liked her. A woman of action and few words. Captain Talbot led her across the jumble of furnishings to Drystan, and she cricked her neck just a bit higher to look up at him.

“I sensed tainted magic within her wounds,” he said without preamble. “Do you have healing magic to counter it with?”

The tiny woman twitched her rather large nose. Other than her eyes, she didn’t appear to carry any elven blood at all within her homely features. “I am a humble servant, lacking the mighty powers of the palace healer.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “But my ancestors hale from Firehame, and I have a bit of the blue healing fire.”

“Then—” A shout from within the bedroom, in a voice already dear to Drystan, made him bolt through the door, damn propriety and a lady’s sensibilities.

Augusta stood with soapy wet cloth in hand, her green eyes wide with annoyance and a touch of fear. She held her other hand over her reddened cheek. Camille sat up in the bed, those astounding eyes wide open, flashing with multiple crystalline colors in their depths. She held the edge of his fur-lined cloak over her breasts, her smooth, long legs pale against the dark cloth.

“Come any closer and I shall slap you again.”

Augusta turned to Drystan, her gaze sliding quickly to Talbot in appeal. “I swear I did not hurt her. I tried only to wash the soot from her face—”

“You,” snapped Camille, her gaze finding Drystan’s and not wavering from it. “Where am I?”

“In my apartments, my lady. Did you not understand when I told you that you are now under my protection?”

“I am in your
bed
.”

“Aye. And you are smelling it up, my dear. Captain Talbot, escort Augusta from the room for the nonce. It appears that Miss Ashton and I must discuss a few things. And tell the healer to wait.”

“Yes, my lord.” He put his arm about Augusta and led her out into the withdrawing room. A tear slid down her cheek, but Drystan suspected it a ploy for his captain’s attentions rather than any true pain from her reddened skin.

Drystan closed the door behind them and took a step toward the bed. She flinched. But only slightly. She had become adept at concealing her fear, hiding behind a fierce scowl and fingers curled into fists.

Just as he had become adept at hiding his fear of the alien mental touch of the scepters.

Drystan did not come any closer. Instead, he pulled up a stool and brushed back the skirt of his coat before he sat, adjusted the lace at his sleeves with a casual air in perfect imitation of Lord North. He had been tutored in the affectations of the gentry by the ultimate personage of the prime minister. He had adjusted to velvet instead of wool, a lace cravat instead of his worn cotton handkerchief. Tight breeches instead of well-worn leathers.

He had put his foot down, literally, at the heeled shoes with sparkly buckles. A pair of polished knee-high black boots covered his silk stockings.

Camille’s hands relaxed upon the crushed fur as he continued to sit there and just smile at her. Those eyes—Drystan thought he could gaze into them the rest of his life and never tire of it. Augusta had managed to remove most of the soot from her face, and Camille had more than her fair share of elven beauty. From sculpted cheekbones to full lips that begged to be kissed, his dreams had not deceived him. Her beauty left him breathless.

“Are you mad?” she whispered as he continued to stare at her.

Drystan wished he could tell her the truth. His dreams of her loving him at first sight, of rushing into his arms, had shattered the moment he met her. She would not believe he loved her, even if he confessed his visions of her, his connection with the scepters. She would not know about the plans of the Rebellion. And even if he explained it all and she managed to believe him, she would suspect he had come for the brand upon her skin and nothing more.

He would have to make her fall in love with him first, and did not have the slightest idea how to go about it. “You have been abused by men. You hate the thought of any man touching you.”

She did not need to answer.

“Allow me to relieve your fears, madam. I did not acquire you to warm my bed.”

She frowned at him in disbelief. “Then why am I here?”

He leaned back in the chair, choosing his words carefully so she might believe them. “I had the misfortune of saving your life.”

Her chin rose. “And that means?”

“Why, my dear, it means I am responsible for your welfare from this moment on. The Hawkes family has always prided themselves on their honor, and it is a custom in my family that has survived over the years. It works in the reverse as well. If you had saved my life, I would be just as bound. Indeed, we flaunt the ancient system of honor as a silent defiance of the elven lords’ occupation and slavery of England.”

She still frowned at him with suspicion. “It is not possible that I have been saved a third time.”

“My lady?”

“I am not a lady—oh, never mind.” Camille stared into his eyes, as if she tried to see the man beneath the velvet and lace. “I have risen above my station as a slave, you see. Once as a nursemaid, another as a companion, and now… I draw the line at becoming a mistress, my lord. I… I could not bear it.”

She could not know that she probed a tender spot, that in spite of his elven good looks, women had avoided him due to his odd behavior. She would not be the first who could not bear to touch him. But he reminded himself that her reasons differed. Greatly.

The damage that had been done to her might even be greater than his own.

“I assure you, I do not lack for women willing to warm my bed.”

Her face altered for a moment, roaming his features, his body. Damn, she believed him.

“Then what shall you do with me, my lord?”

Drystan rubbed his chin. “That is a quandary, is it not? I have neither a need for a nursemaid nor a companion. I suppose you may assist Augusta in whatever tasks she may have. Is that amenable to you?”

“I… yes, my lord.”

That desperate look in her lovely eyes faded, and Drystan breathed a sigh of relief. She would not attempt to leave him. For the moment, he would be content with that much.

He stood, smoothed the front of his coat. “Now, you will allow the healer to tend you, and Augusta to wash you. Thoroughly. Perfume bothers my nose, and I have found a bath is more purposeful to noxious smells than layering oneself with scent. Then you shall rest—with Augusta in the servants’ quarters—and take on your duties when you feel able. If you have any questions or other needs, you will direct them to me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Drystan turned and opened the door. Glanced over his shoulder one more time to convince himself that he had found her. That she was real.

She looked bewildered, and still rather a mess, but so lovely his heart turned in his chest.

“Camille?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I vow you will never be mistreated again.”

Before he could see the expression on her face, Drystan left the room.

Four

Camille woke the next morning feeling surprisingly well. She sat up without a wince and suspected the official palace healer had less talent than the little old woman who had tended her last night. She glanced around, still in a dreamy haze over the events of the last four-and-twenty hours.

Augusta had already risen, her bedding still rumpled but empty. The fire in their grate had dwindled to glowing coals, and Camille’s breath frosted the air. She fought the temptation to snuggle back underneath the down-stuffed coverlet. Similar covering graced Augusta’s brass bed, only her coverlet had a woven design of wildflowers upon it. Even when Camille had worked for Lady Pembridge, she had not been given such luxurious bedding.

Nor such a large room, even if she shared it with another servant. A washstand stood between the beds, a ceramic bowl painted with cherubs and a matching pitcher beside it. Two small tables with beveled mirrors perched above them sat across the room from the beds, Augusta’s covered with papers and bottles of scent and ribbons and heavens knew what else. It appeared she had used both tables, and cleared the other for Camille, dumping her own things in a rather messy pile.

An enormous wardrobe carved with elaborate designs of scrolls and Gothic arches stood between the tables.

Camille rose and opened it. Half of it had been emptied, Augusta’s things once again tossed into a haphazard pile on the other side of the wardrobe. Presumably, the other woman expected Camille to fill it with her own clothing, but she must know slaves possessed only the frocks upon their backs. And the last time she had seen her only one, it had been ripped to shreds.

Camille sighed and glanced down at the borrowed nightgown she wore. It must be Augusta’s, for it lay loosely upon her shoulders, and the hem ended too high above her ankles.

Despite Lord Hawkes’s instructions to ask him for whatever she might need, Camille knew she could not. Would not. She did not trust him or his motives. Why had he bothered to rescue her? Why would a lord care about a slave? The aristocrats cared only for themselves, for their comforts and luxuries and their false allegiance to the elven lords.

She had always been beneath their notice. No more important than the hounds in their stables. Less so, for the dogs routed the birds in hunting season, providing them entertainment.

Slaves entertained only the soldiers.

Camille shied away from the thought, and began to rummage through Augusta’s clothing, hoping the other woman would not mind if she made use of her castoffs. She found a gown worn at the elbows and torn at underarm and hem, stays with frayed eyelets, a tattered chemise, and thick wool stockings with multiple holes. She dared not touch Augusta’s extra set of hoops, for they looked new, but found an old petticoat that could be repaired, and since Augusta seemed to be a few inches shorter than Camille, it should suffice in lieu of hoops so the outer gown would not drag along the floor.

Thank heavens Augusta kept a sewing box in her quarters.

Camille built up the fire, lit a candle against the gloomy day outside, and spent the next few hours bent over her needlework, ignoring the growling of her stomach.

She would not dare venture out of these private chambers in a nightgown.

As she sewed, she tried not to think of her rescuer, so naturally, she spent the better part of the time thinking about him. She did not believe for one moment that he did not have some sort of ulterior motive for his actions last night, despite the story about his family honor. Camille had learned from painful experience that kindness did not come without some cost. But she could not imagine what he might have gained from saving the life of a mere slave.

With the holes in the stockings repaired, she uncovered her legs from the bedclothes and pulled on the heavy warmth. She hunted for a smaller needle and finer thread for the chemise, and started to repair the thin tears.

She just wished he wasn’t so handsome. He stood tall, not as tall as the elven lord Roden, but taller than his guard. He had the same colored eyes as Roden, faceted golden jewels that had glowed like amber last night. He must possess some power of illusion; indeed, he could be a direct descendant of the elven lord, for they looked very much alike.

Except…

Except Viscount Hawkes’s eyes glowed with warmth and compassion. And although his voice did not have the musical timbre of Roden’s, it held a deep throaty quality that for some reason soothed her. His pale blond hair lacked the silver luster of the elven, but it looked thicker, with an unusual natural wave to it, with small curls at the ends and about his pointed ears. His brows were brown and not white, his lashes thick, making his eyes appear a paler gold.

If she had not been so abused by men, did not fear to touch them, she would have been tempted by this one.

The abrupt thought confused her. Those golden eyes of his indicated a blood connection to Roden of Dreamhame. How much magical power of illusion did he possess? Had Lord Hawkes managed to cast a glamour for him upon her?

“Ouch.” Camille sucked the blood from her pricked finger.

He had promised she would not be mistreated. She might question his motives, but she believed he meant those words. He looked at her as if… as if he could not believe she existed. As if she were the most precious thing in the world. She could not mistake the tenderness in his eyes, in his voice when he spoke to her.

No man had ever looked at her like that before.

He puzzled her.

Faith! She needed to stop thinking about him. She had been thrice saved and could not count upon such luck again. When the viscount left Dreamhame Palace, she would be back in the slave’s quarters once again. If something dreadful did not happen to him first.

A man of true honor did not last long in the palace of an elven lord.

Camille chose a larger needle and a thimble to push it through the stiff fabric of the stays and repair the eyelets. The lacing had been so worn in places she would have to try to repair it as well, but even so, she would have to lace it loosely.

She must look to herself. She would never go back to being a slave again. So she must…

She steadied the shaking of her hand.

She must plan an escape. A woman on her own would never manage it. But a woman disguised as a man. A woman who had pistols for protection. It had not been as difficult to fire one as she would have guessed. Yes, she might manage to make it to another sovereignty. She just wished she knew which one of the seven her family hailed from. If she could find kin to take her in… but no, she could not count on that. Roden would soon have enough soldiers trained to march upon Verdanthame and the usurper. Surely she could blend amongst them for a time. Many of the men possessed an elven beauty similar to a woman’s.

And she knew soldiers. Knew their habits and mannerisms.

Camille realized her upper lip had curled in disgust at the mere thought of them. But she could endure it.

She would no longer seek protection from others. She would protect herself.

Her heart felt suddenly light as soon as she made the decision. Her fingers flew through the rest of the sewing, and when she finally put on the clothing, it did not fit her as badly as she feared.

She padded the toes of a pair of Augusta’s old leather slippers to make them fit, shuffled to the door, and peeked into the outer room.

The large withdrawing room took up most of the living space, along with the master’s bedroom. A dining room lay across from the main room, with a cozy parlor next to it. A water closet sat on the other side of the main entrance. She did not dare enter the master’s bedroom, but still, the silence told her she had been left alone in the apartments.

Camille opened the door to the outside hall and jumped in surprise at the guard standing there. “Who are you?”

The grizzled old warrior gave her a lopsided grin. “Arthur Drinkwater, miss.”

“Am I a prisoner here?”

He frowned. “Why, no, miss. Ye are free to go about whatever business ye may have. My orders are to make sure ye are not molested by anyone. I’m to protect ye, miss.”

The viscount wasted one of his men just to protect her? A man of his word, indeed.

“Where is Viscount Hawkes?”

The old man scratched his cheek. “Well now, him and the captain don’t bother to keep me informed of their whereabouts.”

“I see. What about Augusta?”

“The maid? Not my concern either, but I believe she went to oversee the washing of his lordship’s bedding. The coverlet belonged to his great-great-grandmother, ye see, and it is old and might easily tear from the boiling and whatnot.”

Camille tried not to look guilty. It might take Augusta all day to get the smell out.

Her stomach suddenly growled.

Arthur smiled. “Perhaps we should visit the kitchens.”

And face the other slaves? And the soldiers? Not yet. “No, I think not. I shall just wait here until she returns.”

The old man narrowed his eyes, eyes that held the same silver sparkles as the captain’s. Not surprising, as the best soldiers hailed from Bladehame, where the elven lord Lan’dor ruled with his power over metal, and turned the north central part of England into a land of mines and forges. And warriors skilled in battle with enchanted weapons.

“Ye need not fear going anywhere, my lady.”

Perhaps. But even this hardened soldier could not withstand the magic of Roden of Dreamhame. She wondered what his response might be if she requested he follow her to the Imperial Lord’s private chambers. And then chided herself for her lack of graciousness, when the man sought only to offer his protection.

“I would rather wait for Augusta to return. Yet I would ask you a question, sir.”

“Aye?”

“Would you… could you… is it possible for a woman to learn how to use a sword?”

His gray eyebrows rose. “There are many female warriors trained in Bladehame. The Imperial Ladies hire most of them for their bodyguards and army, so few make it into the ranks of the five male elven lords’ sovereignties.”

“I see. But they are trained from birth, are they not?”

“Indeed.”

“Then… then I imagine it would take a long time to train a woman who has never held a sword.”

He shrugged. “Well, now, that depends. On her stature and strength… most of the women fighters rely on speed rather than strength, so their swords are magically crafted differently anyway. I suppose a woman who held an enchanted sword might be able to defend herself against an ordinary weapon in a short amount of time.” He suddenly scowled, transforming his grizzled features into a man who may be old, but had the hardened experience of battle to make up for it. “If ye doubt my ability to defend ye, lady, ye may ask the viscount for a new man.”

Camille backed up a step, his anger uncoiling the constant knot of anxiety she held within her. She had not meant to offend him, and now she owed him an explanation. She lifted her chin and curled her fingers into fists. “I do not doubt your skills, sir. It is just that… I have resolved not to rely on others for my protection anymore. It has not served me well.”

His face softened, a touch of sadness in his silver-speckled eyes. “I know a little of your lot, and I think I understand. Ye might be better off learning the pistol.”

Camille breathed a sigh. “I have managed to shoot one.”

“So I have heard.” His voice held a hint of lightness to it now. “But half the time a pistol don’t shoot where ye aim it. We use it for the first volley in battle, but in close quarters, we must rely on the sword. It takes too long to load the pistol, ye see, and that is the knowledge ye would need. How to care for the weapon, I mean.”

“Ah. I don’t suppose… well, do you think you could teach me?”

He shuffled his feet, his worn-polished boots the only sound in the empty hallway. “Ye would have to ask Viscount Hawkes such a question, my lady. I do not have the right to answer such a request.”

He truly looked saddened by his admission.

“I understand. Please forgive me for asking.”

Camille gently closed the door behind her, so he would not think her angry. In truth, she had hoped to find someone to teach her. There must be another way to gain such knowledge. Still, she had to get a weapon first! She’d been a fool to think she could plan an escape.

No, she would not think that way. Perhaps Molly. The slave girl might be able to steal a soldier’s uniform. And she had such a way with the men. Perhaps she could talk a soldier into teaching her how to shoot…

The thought of one of Roden’s men standing that close to her made her shudder.

Well, then, she would just have to give this more thought.

Camille stared around the empty apartments. She must take advantage of this opportunity the viscount provided her. Time to make plans. And perhaps she had been too hasty in thinking to refuse his offer to ask for what she needed, although she doubted that extended to uniforms and pistols. But besides providing Molly with ink and paper, she could also offer coins for bribery.

If Viscount Hawkes had some ulterior motive for acquiring her as his slave, then she now had her own secret motive for staying in his household.