Deamon's Daughter Part 23

"He is young," Herrington admitted. "And lamentably malleable."

"Then we'll go to our government," Roxanne said. "Ask them to protect me."

Thankfully, Philips countered that. "They might not want to protect you," he said. "You are only one person, and the Awar Accord is crucial to the Empire's security. I hate to say it, but if The Dragon does have high-placed allies, our government might prefer to look the other way."

Roxanne huffed and shifted Max on her lap, her hand cupping his head protectively. "There must be something we can do. Begging your pardon, Lord Herrington, but I am not hiding away on your estate for the rest of my life. Frankly, I'd rather not go there at all."

Her plea for pardon was hardly heartfelt, but the manners she felt obliged to put on for the children caused the ghost of a smile to tug at Herrington's mouth. Perhaps he should have involved Charles and Max earlier. "We'll think of something," he said. "In the meantime, I hope my hospitality won't prove onerous."

Roxanne's sigh was far gustier than his own. "Thank you for that," she said, then muttered, "a.s.suming you haven't engineered this whole thing."

Her addendum took a bit of the shine from his pleasure. He dreaded her response to his solution of last resort. Alas, with The Dragon fully on the move, he saw no way to avoid it.

Much as Roxanne wanted to hate her father's estate, she couldn't deny it was magnificent.

His land hugged a rolling stretch of coast halfway between Awar and Downingdale. Set on a rise of wildflower-dotted gra.s.s and shaded by large maples, the three-story mansion had been built a century earlier of b.u.t.tery brick and fine Ka'arkish gla.s.s. A spearhead fence girded the main grounds, its martial air softened by a cloak of blood-red ivy. Viewed through a mid-morning fog, with tapers glowing gold behind the tall arched windows, the house seemed a place of magical antiquity. It might have been the home of a well-heeled human aristocrat: the very best of old Ohram.

The butler who opened the tall double doors was all starched collar and snow-white hair, as if he'd stepped out of a picture book. His manner toward Herrington was proper in the extreme. No one would guess his master was a demon.

Inside, the house was much the same, conservatively beautiful. She found herself wondering if her father liked human furnishings or if he hadn't cared enough to change them. Perhaps, to a Yama, surroundings didn't matter. As he led the way up the grand staircase, however, his hand caressing the glossy mahogany rail, she rather doubted that.

He a.s.signed them a suite of rooms that interconnected on the third floor, a home within his home. As gracious as anything they'd seen yet, the rooms smelled of a recent airing and were decorated with fresh flowersa"tiny arrangements of hothouse lilacs and s...o...b..lls. The manner in which he adjusted the little vase on the mantle created the impression that, despite his army of servants, he had selected the blooms personally to please her.

As if to prove her an overimaginative fool, when he spoke, his voice was as cool as ever. "I trust you'll be comfortable here. I'll have Cook pull together a spot of tea."

She couldn't do anything but nod. Confusion had stolen her voice. As soon as he was gone, Max wriggled down from her hip. For the first time, Roxie registered the fact that he was still wearing his pajamas, his favorite footed pair with the leather soles. She was oddly rea.s.sured that getting one small boy into streetclothes had been beyond even Herrington's manipulative skills.

"I'm going to pick a room for me and Charles," Max yelled at full volume as he scampered off. "Then I'm going to write my book."

"Well, he seems fine," Adrian said. "But what's this about a book? I thought Max couldn't read yet."

Charles sighed like a long-suffering older brother. "His latest enthusiasm. He had Roxie bind a bunch of pages together, and now he scribbles in it and pretends it's a history of Awar. He's actually memorized a list of kings and queens."

"What an, er, original occupation for a five-year-old."

"Don't encourage him," Charles warned. "He's liable to quiz you and see if you know what you should. Since he makes up half the stuff, it's pretty hard to answer correctly."

Their conversation was so normal, Roxie had to sit down. What was she doing here in her father's house? Demons were trying to kidnap her, were hoping to study her as if she were a two-headed cow. Her father had as good as admitted to getting the Ministry to take Max. They couldn't turn to her government for help, or to his, because neither could be trusted. She could trust Adrian, she supposed, as long as she didn't ask him about his past, anda"for the life of hera"she couldn't see how to squirm out of any of these fixes.

"What's wrong?" Adrian asked as she pressed her aching temples between her hands.

"Oh, nothing," she said, not knowing whether to cry or laugh. "Everything is right as rain."

Adrian knelt beside her and squeezed her knee. She was sure he only meant to comfort hera and he did. The problem was, if they'd been alone, she wouldn't have wanted to worry about anything but him.

When his eyes met hers and went abruptly hot, she knew he was thinking the same thing.

Chapter 24.

Some say knowledge is power, but for the Yama it is an addiction. The more they learn, the more they wish to know. In truth, it is difficult to blame them when this att.i.tude has taken them so very far.

a"The True and Irreverent History of Awar With his maddening knack for guessing where her weaknesses lay, Herrington gave Roxie the key to his archaeological gallery, then sent her and Adrian there alone.

"Albert and I will take care of the boys," he a.s.sured her, Albert being his starched butler. "Max has requested a swimming lesson."

Roxie would have liked to object but could find no good reason to, especially when Max hung on her arm and said, "Please, please, please." Whatever fear the boy might have felt toward her father had disappeared. She hoped the cause was childish intuition rather than being dazzled by their grand surroundings.

Herrington's pool was heated, it seemed, and bore on its vaulted ceiling a painted version of the cosmos. Five-year-old Max wasn't sure what a cosmos was, only that his life depended on seeing it.

"They'll be fine," Adrian had coaxed quietly. "You know you'd rather see the Boral Lake collection for the first time on your own, without little voices interrupting."

So now she and Adrian toured the meandering rooms of a large sandstone building behind Herrington's mansion, marveling at the implements of long-ago life his team had dug up and fanning their faces at what her father called "climate control." However the system worked, it succeeded admirably at re-creating the hot, dry atmosphere of Southland. Defying the fog outside, a golden glow shimmered through the s.p.a.ce, the effect of his nearly hidden electric lights. Even the scent of the enclosed air, a mix of sand and coffee and spice, called up memories of Bhamjran, the more explicit of which were making her more aware of her body than she had any wish to be.

She didn't need images of naked demon dancing boys to heat her blood. Adrian accomplished that by peeling off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were wonderfully corded, his back broad beneath his snug waistcoat. The narrow streak of damp at the center of the silk in back did nothing to calm her urge to tear it off. She told herself she was a woman, not an animal. Nothing forced her to attack her lover in her dastardly father's housea"no matter how appealing her lover was.

All the same, she didn't dare sneak a look at Adrian's trouser front. Better not to know if he shared her dilemma.

Leaving the baskets and pottery behind, they pa.s.sed into a skylit chamber in which an ancient house had been reconstructed block by block. Roxie thought the concept very clever. Desert gra.s.ses had been planted, and tools were left lying out, enhancing the impression of forgotten ages brought back to life. The garden held a crumbling fountain. When she peered past it, she saw the room that overlooked it contained a low stone platform for a bed.

That spurred thoughts best avoided.

"My," she said, turning away from the deep window, "wasn't that a spread Herrington's cook laid out for tea?"

Adrian smiled and drew the tip of one finger down her cheek. His touch made her shiver. "Yes, it was," was all he said.

"And how about when Max shouted, 'I could get used to this!'"

"He did catch everyone's attention."

Roxie should have evaded the thumb Adrian was using to stroke her jaw. Instead, she nattered on nervously. "I'm sure I should be grateful. Max barely spoke when he first came to stay with me. He's finally beginning to act more like an ordinary boy."

"I doubt Max will ever qualify as ordinary, but he does seem resilient."

Roxie put her hand over his to stop it from edging beneath the collar of her man's-style shirt. When she had been washing up, one of Herrington's retinue of maids had brought her a fresh outfit, a beautiful blue plaid gown with all the appropriate underthings. The dress would have flattered her coloring immensely, but, perceiving it as one more form of pressure, Roxie hadn't been able to bring herself to put it on. Now she wore the same tired clothes she had the night before.

"He heard me, didn't he?" she asked.

"Hm?" said Adrian, engrossed in watching her pulse beating in her throat.

"My father. When Max said, 'I could get used to this,' and I muttered, 'Yes, well don't.'"

Adrian's soft gaze met hers. "Your father's people do have sharp ears."

Unable to face his kindness when she might not deserve it, Roxie looked at her feet. "I might have accidentally on purpose muttered it too loud."

"You might, but only you can answer that."

"Adrian," she said with a hint of exasperation for his mild response.

His gentle smile became a grin. "I don't feel right judging you, Roxie. Plus, you appear to be working this out perfectly well on your own."

"I'm mad at him," she admitted. "I don't care if he rescued us, or that he's being an annoyingly considerate host. He probably got you fired, and I'm positive he was behind Max being taken by the Children's Ministry. And don't say I can't be, because I think I am. You know that thing the Yama do, that fire-talk? I think I can read it. I wasn't sure at first because it was so vague, and his face never shows anything, but now I'm almost certain I can feel what he's feeling sometimes. When he questioned my statement that demons might take Max again, he gave off a definite whiff of guilt. There." She blew out her breath. "I've admitted it."

To her surprise, Adrian didn't seem the least bit shocked. His hands moved to her shoulders, smoothing the now-creased cotton down her arms. "Why shouldn't you admit it?"

"Because I don't want it to be true. When I was a child, all I wanted was to be like other people. To put down roots in one city, to have a house, to be able to rely on my family. Now, every time I turn around, I find I'm even stranger than I thought."

Adrian reached behind her and gave her braid a tug. "Being strange, as you put it, doesn't mean you can't have those things. You can't deny some of your Yamish qualities are useful. Being strong, being smarta""

"a"knowing what my father's feeling without him saying a word?"

"Well, that is a bit awkward, but perhaps you'll learn to block it out."

Roxanne made a face, then felt bad for having done so. "The worst thing is, I think I hurt him. I thinka I think he really cares about me, Adrian. When I'm around him, I start having this sensation like I used to when I was little and I'd see other children with their families." She pressed her gathered fingers to her breastbone. "It's a little ache, right here, and I'm pretty sure it isn't mine."

"Ah."

"Yes, ah." The confession was hard to get out, but she pushed. "I think, maybe, I've been cruder to my father than he deserves."

"And maybe you haven't," Adrian said just as gently as before. "He could care for you and be completely horrible otherwise." He smoothed her curls back from her temples. "One thing I know about the Yama is that they're an extremely patient race. Even if you have been unfair to your father, he won't expect your actions, or your feelings, to change overnight He'll wait until you're ready to accept him."

"That just makes me feel worse!" Roxie exclaimed, giving in to the temptation to rest her head on his shoulder. "Are all families like this?"

"All the ones I know have their challenges. I love my parents, but that doesn't untangle the complications of being their son. Sometimes, it makes them worse."

"Wonderful. Another treat to look forward to."

Adrian chuckled and rubbed her back obligingly. As if magnetized, her glance lit on the window to the ancient bedroom, now directly behind his shoulder.

"h.e.l.l," she said, pushing determinedly back from his hold. "Let's see what's in the next gallery."

To Adrian's amus.e.m.e.nt, the next room was no improvement. Here statues of satyrs in states of high arousal intermixed with couples twisted into copulatory postures that would challenge the most Umber of human beings. Some were diminutive, some nearly life-size, but all were graphically s.e.xual. Adrian tugged his suddenly tight collar. He could see why their Ministry of Culture might not object to leaving these objects in Herrington's care. Any one of them would cause an uproar if displayed in Awar's museum. He craned his head in an attempt to decipher the activity of a small stone woman who was balanced in a handstand in front of her slightly crouched partner.

"Hm," he said. "She must get dizzy trying that upside down."

"Dizzy!" Roxanne exclaimed. "It's a wonder she doesn't choke. His thing is half as long as my arm."

To Adrian's relief, she began to laugh. Sensing her resistance crumbling, he pulled her into his arms.

"I wasn't going to do this," she protested.

"Laugh?"

"Make love to you in my father's house."

Though he'd known what she meant before he asked, the words sent a pulse of feeling through his already straining s.e.x. He locked his arms behind her waist and squeezed her close enough to know what she'd done. "Strictly speaking, we aren't in your father's house. We're in his archaeological annex."

Her moan of answer combined temptation and regret.

"What do you say?" he teased, rolling his hips a little harder into the softness between her legs. "Want to see how long you can stand on your hands?"

He knew she desired him. He'd known it since he touched her knee in their rooms. Nonetheless, her reaction took him by surprise. With a muted growl of impatience, she ripped his waistcoat open, undid the fastenings of his trousers, anda"in a single motiona"sank to her knees and took his aching hardness in her mouth.

Then he was the one who moaned. Her lips and tongue were completely fearless, her hands a sweet torment. They scratched up his exposed shirtfront, kneaded his thighs, then his b.u.t.tocks, then the swiftly tightening sac between his legs.

He found her aggression unexpectedly exciting.

"Roxanne," he gasped, his eyes tearing up with pleasure as she found a particularly sensitive spot to suck. If she kept that up, this wasn't going to last long.

He gasped again when she let him go, despite his rebef. The beat of the blood surging through his c.o.c.k felt hard enough to shake the ground.

She rose and backed a step away, beginning to wriggle out of her white trousers.

"Keep yourself warm," she said with a pointed look at his shuddering s.e.x.

His mind couldn't quite keep up. "It's sweltering in here."

"With your hand," she specified, sounding oddly fierce. "I want to see how you pleasure yourself."

He couldn't restrain the impulse to glance back the way they'd come.

"We have the key, Adrian. No one's going to interrupt us."

Though he had no way of knowing if they had the only key, at that moment, he didn't care. He wanted her enough to throw every shred of caution to the winds. They needed each other. They'd been through too much not to take advantage of this temporary privacy.

"Fine." He tore off his ripped waistcoat, then his shirt. "Let's do this."

"Take yourself in your hand," she repeated, removing her shirt with a bit more care than he'd shown. "You're supposed to be staying warm."

He forgot to be embarra.s.sed when she bared her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was naked then, more beautiful than a statue, more alluring and womanly. Her nipples were the same flushed color as her lips. His fist tightened on his shaft and pulled toward the crown without thinking. His palm was sweaty, his sensations sharp. Performing this personal act in front of her felt both strange and natural.

When she licked her lips and looked at his s.e.x, he knew he had to have her soon. He went to his knees, the same position she'd held before, thighs spread, still working himself up and down. He hadn't had a chance to remove his trousers, and he stroked himself through their opening. She watched the way his fist twisted slightly on the shaft, the way his left hand tugged his s.c.r.o.t.u.m down when the right went up. He swelled beneath her close attention, almost more aroused than he could stand.

"Come here," he ordered, his voice as rough as the unpolished sandstone pavers beneath his shins.

"I want to see," she said, her tongue creeping out to wet her lip again.

"I want to be inside you. I want to feel your heat on this skin." Beyond inhibitions, he pulled his shaft out hard enough to stretch the ligaments at its base. He hadn't meant to shock her; he'd simply needed his tightest grip. Her blush of reaction made his own face heat. His next words came out a growl. "I want to watch your eyes flutter when you spend."

He released himself, holding the same hand out to her that he'd used to rub himself. She jerked at its heat, then accepted its support to join him on her knees.

Looking down between them, she touched her index finger to the small clear bead that welled from his tip. "There's a little drop."