Rejar Part 33

She had never believed such things possible-even as a child. It was silly, the stuff of fairy tales. Maybe it wasn't possible; maybe her husband was very skilled at mesmerizing.

It was the only reasonable explanation for what she had seen.

There was no logical way, however, to explain exactly how he was able to speak in her mind.

When she had questioned him about it last evening, Nickolai had told her that it was a naturally occurring trait among his people and she must not fear it.

Maybe it was true; maybe some of his people did have this ability. Strange abilities like this were not unknown; she, herself, had heard stories of Gypsies who seemed to possess the ability to foretell the future. So perhaps certain tribes of people in Russia could speak without speaking.

Then why didn't his brother seem to have this ability?

Well... Traed did say they had different fathers. That could explain it. Yet, there was something altogether different about Nickolai. Different even from his curious brother, Traed, who did not appear to her to quite fit in either.

Something beyond foreign differences ...

Maybe there wasn't a logical way to explain this.

Fear rose up in her. Who was Nickolai?

What was he?

Lilac swallowed the b.u.t.terflies in her stomach. She promised herself she would not think about this! And she would not. It had no place in their lives. No place at all.

They seemed to be getting by; everything appeared to be going smoothly. Why look for trouble?

As long as she never acknowledged this ... strangeness of his, it would not have to exist openly between them. Over all, Nickolai seemed to be doing very well.

In fact, he had surprised her on many counts.

After her initial apprehension for the marriage bed-and he had proven himself most patient with her in that regard-he had shown himself to be gentle and kind with her. Even that one time in the dressing room, when his anger had almost overridden his pa.s.sion, she had sensed that he had held back for her sake.

He was constantly teasing her and caressing her and...

He always seemed concerned about her welfare.

She was loath to admit it, but Nickolai, against all expectations, was proving himself to be a very good husband.

In a labyrinthine twist, the thought almost irritated her.

Aggravated at this bizarre victory of his, she looked down at the source disgustedly, and immediately lost her displeasure with him. It was difficult to sustain anger against a man who looked so beautiful when he slept.

Nickolai was lying over her, arms wrapped around her waist, his legs tangled with hers, and his face burrowed into her throat. Fast asleep, he looked as innocent as an angel, his thick, black lashes crescents against his golden skin.

Bemused, Lilac shook her head. The man slept in the strangest positions draped over her! She sighed. In a small movement, she turned her head toward the window, idly wondering if she should get up; she wasn't very sleepy.

A little lap caressed the underside of her ear.

She smiled. Well, yes, she supposed he was very comfortable. Without thinking. Lilac pressed her lips to his smooth forehead.

A low roll of contentment resonated in his throat. Nickolai gathered her closer in his sleep, insinuating his thigh snugly between hers. He continued to doze, softly purring against her.

Awake, Lilac continued to hold him in her arms.

Something was bothering him.

Just what it was, he could not say.

A touch of that odd, restless feeling had returned. It niggled at him below the threshold of irritation. Most of the restlessness had abated when he mated with Lilac and he had thought it gone for good after that first night with her. Only here it was again.

It was different now. Changed. It seemed to be... beckoning.

Beckoning to what?

He knew not.

It was odd; while he was occupied s.e.xually with his mate, the feeling dissipated-or else his senses were too involved to notice it.

s.e.x, however, did not seem a viable solution to him.

As much as he would like to keep Lilac immersed in that activity, he did not think she was physically up to the challenge. And it would not be right of him to wear her out simply because of his unrest.

If he was going to wear his mate out, he wanted it to be for the right reasons!

Besides, he could never think straight when he was sensually engaged.

Something was building in him.

What he needed was a good hunt. Predatory challenge would clear his head.

He sought out his brother Traed, asking him if he would like to accompany him. The Aviaran readily agreed.

Together, they combed four gaming h.e.l.ls before finding the selected quarry at Pickering Place. Their Lord Rotewick was holding court at a far table, apparently fleecing the other players soundly at cards.

"There." Traed indicated the Familiar's challenge.

"I will finish him tonight."

Rejar sat down at the table to play the game known as whist.

"Good evening. Prince Azov." Rotewick gloated in a cavalier manner. "Since you were so lucky for me the other night, I will return the favor by warning you. You might wish to sit somewhere else this eve."

Rejar speared the supercilious lord with a cool look. "And why would I do that?"

"My dear man," he gestured to the high pile of counters before him. "I cannot lose."

A small smile tilted Rejar's mouth. "We shall see, Rot Wick."

Rotewick's glacial eyes narrowed.

A voice whispered rather loudly behind Rejar, "Cor, what is 'e sittin' there fer?" Neither Traed nor Rejar were overly surprised to see Jackie.

"I take it you have secured our coach, Jackie?" Rejar asked dryly.

"Tha' I'ave, yer Princeship." He leaned in to speak in Rejar's ear. "This ain't an idea, sir. Pick another spot fer ol' Jackie. 'E's a mean one, 'e is." He nodded in Rotewick's direction.

Rejar smiled slowly. "I am counting on it." The cards were dealt.

"Sir?" Jackie tugged on Traed's sleeve.

"Yes, Jackie?"

"I warned ye about 'im, I 'as. 'E's the devil's own at cards. 'E'll fleece yer brother clean 'e will. And if 'e don't..."Jackie shuddered.

Traed was attentive. "What happens if the man loses, Jackie?"

" 'E never pays up is all I known. After a few days, 'e'll call yer brother a cheat and then challenge 'im to a duel. 'E's done it before. A master with the blade, the rotter is. Dead men don't be collectin' no gambolin' debts, iffen you get my drift."

"I hear you." Alert, Traed watched the play very carefully from behind Rejar's shoulder.

The Familiar possessed a clear head and a remarkable memory. He was able to make dispa.s.sionate judgments quickly and soundly. Consequently, several rounds went his way.

However, Rotewick was also an excellent player. He, too, possessed a certain lethal skill for the game.

As the night progressed, wins and losses going back and forth between the two of them, the stakes began to escalate rapidly. It wasn't long before the men were wagering upwards of twenty thousand pounds a hand. Word spread quickly and patrons crowded around the table to watch the exciting match. As the stakes grew, so did the animosity between the two men. Rejar remained cool and contained. Rotewick, however, began to jeer at the younger man in an attempt to throw him off stride.

"Your wife is quite a pretty little thing; although I must admit she never interested me much. I have a more sophisticated palate, so to speak. The suit is diamonds."

Rejar lifted his sights from the cards to capture the man in his steely regard. "Your throw," was all he said.

Rotewick discarded in a seemingly careless move. "Of course, now that she's been broken in, one can't help but wonder what kind of ride she delivers." Several of the spectators sn.i.g.g.e.red at the crude innuendo.

Traed's hand went to the light saber in his waistband. Jackie's hand on his arm forestalled him.

A muscle ticked in Rejar's jaw. He said nothing, throwing his card onto the table.

"Smooth or in the rough style? ... Thirty thousand." A gasp went up from the onlookers at the enormous bet. Rotewick discarded with a flourish of lace. Rejar calmly matched his bet, also discarding. A speculative demeanor graced Lord Rotewick's face. He hadn't expected the Prince to match his bet. The man had more mettle than was healthy for him. How far would the young blade go? he wondered.

"Now let me see ..." he tapped his pointed chin as if entertaining a mildly interesting thought. "For this next wager, perhaps a diversion for her Highness?" The area went silent.

What would the Prince do? It was not unknown for men in the heat of gambling fever to make outrageous bets. Would he accept? Would he offer up his lady's services?

Rejar's dual-colored eyes pinned the man to his chair with a predatory intensity. Just seeing the look on the Prince's face made several of the onlookers squirm nervously. He was likened to a wild animal preparing to spring. In contrast, when he spoke, the measured voice was chillingly low.

"I will rip the heart out of any man who seeks such a diversion with my wife."

By the man's savage intensity, no one doubted it. To say the Prince did not take well to the idea was an understatement. The man looked ready to kill.

The corners of Traed's lips twitched. Rip out his heart? Familiars could be so excessive.

The last thing Traed needed was an enraged Familiar defending the honor of his mate. It would take days to clean up the mess.

He bent over, speaking quietly in his brother's ear. "Come, Rejar; a slice across the throat with the saber is that much easier."

Traed's ploy to lighten the tension worked.

Smiling faintly, Rejar glanced at his brother behind his shoulder. {But not as much fun.} Traed nodded sagely. "True."

Turning to face his adversary across the table, Rejar spoke in a bored mien. "What is your wager? You are wasting my time."

Lord Rotewick's face flushed with anger. No one spoke to him that way. No one. The man was as good as dead. "So I won't be wasting your time-fifty thousand pounds."

A murmur of disbelief raced through the crowd. Fifty thousand pounds! Would the Prince match it? Could he match it? He did not have enough counters before him to cover it.

Rejar lifted an imperious hand, signalling the proprietor for paper, pen and ink. Traed's eyes widened.

Rejar could not write in this language-what was he doing?

Rejar took the quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and scribbled something across the page. He threw the sc.r.a.p of paper onto the table. Rotewick picked it up.

"What the devil does this say?" He held the paper up, facing it towards Rejar's side of the table. No one could make heads or tails out of the elaborate swirls and symbols.

Except one man. Surprising everyone, the Prince's taciturn brother burst out laughing.

Blinking innocently, Rejar stated, "It says that in the event I lose, I owe you fifty thousand pounds."

That was not what it said. The Aviaran words were quite explicit in instructing the man what he should do with a prautau beast.

Rotewick turned to the proprietor. "Is this acceptable?"

The proprietor was not about to offend a prince. Especially such a well-placed prince as this. He quickly gave his approval. "It's more than acceptable." He nodded, smiling affably at Prince Azov. "It is in the Prince's native language of Russian, which I have had an occasion to study in my youth."

Traed looked sideways at the man.

"You see?" Rejar gestured with the hand not holding his cards. It was a subtle Zarrainian gesture of insult, which complimented his written words nicely. Behind him, Traed gave a low chuckle.

Rotewick stroked his jaw. It would nearly bankrupt him if he lost. But he was not going to lose. One way or the other. He would nick it. And bury the upstart Prince.

Rotewick threw down his last card. The eight of diamonds.

There was only one card in the suit of diamonds not accounted for above the eight. Did the Prince have the ten? The crowd held its collective breath.

Rejar paused, staring at the eight of diamonds. No expression showed on his handsome face. Then he gazed up at his adversary. Slowly, he flipped his card onto the table.

"Trump," he said blandly.

A great cheer rang through the crowd. Even Traed slapped him on the back. Jackie, however, was not overly happy.