The Seat of Magic (13 page)

She lifted her wrist to display the shackle. “I want this off, Duilio. Please.”

“I'll take you to the kitchen.” He helped her to her feet. “I've got tools down there, and Mrs. Cardoza can make you some chocolate while I work on it.”

The kitchen was warm, courtesy of the oversized stoves, and the scents of dinner still lingered: fish soup, bread, and garlic. Oriana settled at the servants' table on the far side of the room while Duilio had a quick word with the cook. Mrs. Cardoza was more than willing to warm some milk for chocolate.

He didn't want to use bolt cutters that close to her hand, so he fetched the heavy pliers and iron spike he'd located in the tool kit on
the sailboat that first night. He returned to the table to find Oriana staring dully at the oaken surface.

He sat down on the bench next to her and considered how best to pry open the first link on the chain. Once he did that, he could slip the link out and open the cuff. He took off his tie and slid it between the iron of the cuff and her wrist to protect her skin. “Now be still.”

Oriana seemed disinclined to move at all. “Your valet will be displeased, I suspect. Such an abuse of your tie.”

“Marcellin will survive,” he said. “If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“Very well,” she whispered.

“Monteiro. Who is he?”

Her head lifted. “You know him?”

Duilio slid the spike through the loop for leverage and set to work with the pliers. “I met him two days ago. He came to inquire after you.”

“Oh.” Her eyes met his, a line forming between her brows. “He's my father.”

So that much was true. “He wanted to see you. I couldn't be sure he was telling me the truth, so I sent him away.” The loop gave enough that he could loosen the cuff. He slipped the loop through one side of the cuff, enough to let him open the thing and remove it. Fortunately, her wrist was merely chafed, not raw.

“Thank you,” she said, rubbing that wrist with the other hand.

He felt a swell of warmth in his heart. Perhaps this was why he hadn't asked Luís or the coachman to remove the manacle for her. He'd wanted to do it himself to earn her gratitude, a selfish notion. Duilio set the tools aside, shaking his head.

“I'm surprised he told you,” Oriana said. “That we're related, I mean.”

Ah, back to Monteiro.
“He seemed concerned for you.”

Her eyes looked pained. “He chose his political beliefs over his children.”

Her tone held a frostiness he'd never heard from her before. “What do you mean?”

“He was exiled for sedition when I was sixteen. Marina was only twelve, and I had to take care of her. We became wards of the state and were forced to live on Quitos with our aunts. Why would he do that? He should have been taking care of us. And then he comes here and . . .” She sighed.

Duilio waited for her to finish, but after a moment decided she wasn't going to. “He said he would like to see you. And if he hadn't sent Lady Pereira de Santos to prompt me, I wouldn't have reached you in time.”

She didn't respond. Mrs. Cardoza brought the cup of chocolate for Oriana, and she wrapped her bare hands about the mug as if craving its warmth. “Lady Pereira de Santos?” she asked. “There was gossip among the servants—that he is her lover.”

That last part came out as a whisper. Oriana didn't know her father and Lady Pereira de Santos were married. Should he be the one to tell her? Or would it be better coming from Monteiro? “She came here first,” he began, and told her of the lady's visit.

Oriana listened, her expression pensive. “I see.”

That told him nothing. “I can arrange a meeting with your father,” he prompted, “whenever you feel you can handle it.”

Much as he expected, she lifted her chin and said, “I can handle him anytime.” Then her shoulders slumped. “I suppose I should talk to him. He's all the family I have left here.”

He couldn't argue that. “You called the ambassador uncle. Are they brothers?”

She took a sip of the chocolate, her eyes downcast. “No. The ambassador is my mother's brother. A different line.”

“Line?”

Her brows drew together. “Like a clan? A group of related families. My mother's line is Paredes, by Arenias. My father is Monteiro.”

Duilio didn't bother asking why she didn't use her father's name. “Your father seemed to think what was done to you was meant as a warning to
him
not to talk, but the ambassador thought it was a warning for himself.”

She cradled the mug of chocolate in her hands. “I have no idea.”

“Perhaps if we talk to your father, we can figure it out. Would you like me to arrange a meeting, then?” She regarded the remaining chocolate in her mug with bleak eyes, and finally nodded. “I'll do so, then,” he said, “for tomorrow afternoon if possible.”

She nodded again and, as he watched, her eyes drifted closed and her head drooped. She shook herself. “There's rum in this chocolate,” she managed. “A lot.”

Duilio cast a glance at Mrs. Cardoza, winked at the cook, and then turned back to Oriana. “Perhaps I should take you back upstairs.”

Oriana's head slowly descended to his shoulder. Duilio pushed the mug away and carefully picked her up in his arms. She tucked her head under his chin as he walked from the kitchen toward the stairs, the scent of her hair filling his nose, a hint of lily of the valley.

When he reached her bedroom, he debated for a moment, and set her on the bench at the end of the bed. He caught his breath—Oriana wasn't a featherweight—then drew back the coverlet and sheet. He removed her slippers and laid her, fully clothed, on the bed and then tucked the bedding back around her.

She reached one hand toward him. “Don't leave me,” she whispered.

Gentlemanly behavior demanded that he go, but she sounded lost, just as his mother had said. Duilio suspected he was going to spend the rest of his life unable to resist her whims. He stripped off his frock coat and shoes and pushed the coverlet back so he
could lie down next to her on the wide bed. “It's all right,” he said. “I'll stay.”

She shifted closer, her head coming to rest on his arm. Duilio wrapped his other arm about her and held her close. They hadn't discussed her staying at the house, what she would do now, or anything else important, but he wasn't going to disturb her with that. When she began to cry, he said nothing. He simply held her until the tears faded and she slipped into an exhausted sleep.

O
riana woke slowly, warm and comfortable. Duilio lay next to her, his thick lashes lowered over his seal-brown eyes. Her head rested on his extended arm, and his other hand lay on her hip. Despite her full skirt, one of his legs had tangled with hers. That explained why she was warm even though she'd pushed the coverlet away. She gazed at Duilio's sleeping face. His dark hair swept across his wide brow and his chin was shadowed with stubble.

Something in her chest tightened. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling an ache that was almost pain. She knew what it was. More foolish than she could ever have predicted, her traitor heart had fallen in love with him.

It wasn't infatuation. She knew better than that. She trusted Duilio. He didn't see her as inferior or an enemy, even though he'd known her for a spy. But before they'd had a common goal—finding Isabel's killer. Now she no longer knew what her goals were.

When she'd been imprisoned on that ship, not knowing what was going to happen to her, she'd told herself that whatever happened, she wanted to come back to the Golden City. She'd wanted to court Duilio Ferreira, even if it didn't make sense at all. She'd promised herself she would try, but that was before she'd been left to die.

Who am I now?
Surviving execution expunged any crimes from a criminal's record; it was believed the gods sent rescue only to the innocent. But she had no idea if she could ever go home.

Following orders, she'd climbed aboard a ship that was supposed to take her back home to the inlands. Instead they'd chained her and thrown her in the hold, only leading her out in time to face her execution, with no trial or charges ever read out. She'd been placed on an island to die by someone in the intelligence ministry, her own employers. She'd been used up and thrown away, like so much refuse. And what was she without her home, her avocation? Everything she'd struggled to make of herself had been shattered.

And yet Duilio was still here, like a fixed point in her world, an anchor. Oriana set her hand lightly against his waistcoat, feeling his heart beating slow and strong through her webbing.

His eyes fluttered open at her touch. For a second he seemed disoriented, and then his eyes locked with hers, as if he sought to read her soul through them. The hand on her hip flexed, settling more firmly there. He leaned closer, and his lips brushed hers. His lashes drifted closed, as if he didn't want to think about it, only
feel
as she did—the featherlight touch of his lips on hers, the warmth of his breath against her chilled skin.

He drew away, only far enough that his eyes could focus on her face, trying to gauge her reaction.

Oriana licked her lips. She had never been kissed before.
Can he tell that?
Had she made a terrible fool of herself? Surely he must feel the tie between them. In this light she doubted he could read her expression, so she raised her hand from his heart, slid it behind his neck, and pulled him back to her.

He kissed her again, more firmly this time. Oriana pressed closer. His hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her against him as his lips moved from hers to the line of her jaw. When his lips brushed against her gill slits, she gasped and arched against him.

He drew back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

Oriana shivered. “No. They're just very sensitive.”

Duilio reached up and ran gentle fingers along one side of her neck, his clear eyes shaded by those thick lashes. Oriana pressed her
face into his shoulder, trying to control her response to that touch. His thigh lay between her legs, though, and she'd pressed her legs tightly around it, giving away exactly what sort of reaction he'd drawn from her.

He leaned over her and lifted her braid away from her neck. “You're badly bruised here. Who did this?”

“One of the guards,” she whispered.

He settled back on the sheets, farther away. His hand touched her face gently, though, easing the sense of rejection she'd felt at that retreat. “You had nightmares,” he said. “What happened?”

“It's not important.” She wanted to hide now. The physical weakness was bad enough. She didn't want to cry yet again and convince him of her emotional fragility as well.

Duilio ran fingers across her brow, sweeping her hair back. “Did they beat you?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not really. I was held prisoner on that ship—the one that was supposed to take me home—for ten days. The guards were afraid to hurt me much because they knew there hadn't been a trial.”

“I don't understand. Why would they be afraid?”

She sighed. “If a person is innocent, the gods will find a way to release them. They feared that if they hurt me, I would come back and destroy them. That saved me from worse treatment, I know. It could have been worse.”

“Then what is this bruise on your neck? And your cheek?”

“I didn't fight them until they put the chains on me. One of the guards grabbed me by the neck and pushed me into the wall. And then apologized.” A bitter laugh welled up from her throat. “When I heard that, I knew I was going to die.”

His hand touched her hair. “Did you not think someone would save you?”

That had been the worst part, the knowledge that her fate was
out of her own hands. She had never felt so helpless in her life. “It's hard to believe when you're offered the knife.”

“The knife?”

“It's tradition. Once the condemned person is chained to the post, they are offered a knife. If they take their own lives with it, it's seen as an admission of guilt. I wouldn't take it.” She had opted for a slow death, refusing to validate the implied sentence.

“I'm grateful you didn't,” Duilio said.

“I had to tell myself someone would come,” she admitted. “I had to believe that or I would have died.” Her eyes began to water, and she wiped them quickly.

“I wish I had come sooner,” he said regretfully.

“You came soon enough,” she whispered.

He stroked her cheek, his eyes searching hers. “Can you get some sleep now?” he asked her then. “If I leave, I mean.”

Oriana took a deep breath. She wanted to beg him to stay. “Yes,” she said anyway.

He slipped away from her, the warmth of his body going with him. He tugged the coverlet higher to cover her shoulders, and his fingers brushed her cheek. He turned down the gaslights over the mantel and, while Oriana pretended to sleep, gathered his coat and shoes and slipped out the bedroom door.

*   *   *

I
n the library, Duilio poured himself a glass of brandy, which helped cool the initial flush of his anger. He drank the glass down and poured another. He wasn't a drinker. He'd seen where that reckless path had taken Alessio, but at the moment he wanted to stop thinking.

He had known
before
he let her return to her people. He'd known he was in love with her. But he'd decided to say nothing and let her go. Her treatment at their hands was his fault. He slumped down in one of the chairs, cradling the second glass of brandy and
deciding if he wanted to drink it. It shook him to think how frightened Oriana must have been, imprisoned without explanation and then learning they intended to put her to death.

“Duilinho?” His mother stepped into the library, a lamp in her gloved hand. “What are you doing, sitting in here in the dark?”

He set the glass of brandy on the table. “I should never have let her go. When I think how she was treated . . .”

His mother pulled out another chair and sat next to him. “What did she tell you?”

He met his mother's eyes. “It could have been worse. That ship that was supposed to take her back to the islands? They threw her down in the hold instead. The guards were afraid to touch her, she says . . . which is better than the alternative.” He heaved out a sigh. “I just hate that . . . that anyone would treat her like that, like she was of no import.”

“Especially when she's so important to you.” His mother rose and set a hand atop his head. “Try to help her heal. It's a far better use of your time than self-recrimination. Now go upstairs and go to sleep.”

His mother, as always, gave very good advice. Duilio left the second glass of brandy untouched on the table and headed upstairs for his own bed.