The Queen's Bastard Part 9

Eliza's vanity had won through as well, pluming a sparrow too enticing a challenge to pa.s.s up, or her relationship with Javier too genuine to embarra.s.s him with a poorly dressed companion at the opera. Three days was too little time to dye fabric, to make the cuts and sew the gown together, but color and size alike seemed to whisper that the dress had truly been made for her. The fabric was green silk, shot with counterwoven threads of brown, until the shade echoed and strengthened Belinda's eyes. The cut was less daring than the gown Eliza had worn-no doubt than the gown Eliza would would wear-but it flattered and was fashionable, the lines clean and long. There were fewer layers to it than she was accustomed to, the petticoats abandoned for a more natural shape, making the weight of the gown so slight as to be all but unnoticeable. It reminded Belinda a little of the gown Ana had worn-she could ride a horse astride in this dress without its weight pressing her thighs. She never would; it would damage the silk beyond belief. But the sense of freedom in the dressing was there, and made her smile breathlessly at her own reflection. wear-but it flattered and was fashionable, the lines clean and long. There were fewer layers to it than she was accustomed to, the petticoats abandoned for a more natural shape, making the weight of the gown so slight as to be all but unnoticeable. It reminded Belinda a little of the gown Ana had worn-she could ride a horse astride in this dress without its weight pressing her thighs. She never would; it would damage the silk beyond belief. But the sense of freedom in the dressing was there, and made her smile breathlessly at her own reflection.

Nina, caught between scandalized at the cut of the gown's neck-far from off the shoulders, but a more open square, with angled sides that left a little more collarbone bare than current fashion dictated-and envious of the chance to wear it, reflected in the mirror as well, finishing the last touches to Belinda's hair. It was worn up, exposing the delicate length of her neck, sc.r.a.ps of leaves and pale green flowers woven against the brunette waves.

Belinda heard carriages outside, and the thunk of the knocker that thudded through the entire house. "Will I do?" she asked Nina, amused. The girl rolled her eyes.

"I suppose, madam. I won't be completely embarra.s.sed to let you out of the house." They smiled at each other in the mirror as the bedroom door popped open, another breathless servant-Marie; Belinda wanted to remember their names, just as she deliberately failed to remember men like Viktor-Marie forgetting to knock in her excitement.

"My lady, he's here."

Belinda stood, smiling. "He's just a man, my dear. They're not worth quite all that much fuss." Her eyebrows lifted slightly, though the smile remained in place. "They're certainly not worth forgetting manners over."

Pink-cheeked guilt overcame the girl and she ducked her head, hands clasped together at her hips. "I'm sorry, my lady, please forgive me, it's only that-"

"You're forgiven," Belinda said, still amused. Ten years of playing the lesser parts, filling household roles such as the one that was this girl's livelihood, had done nothing to prepare Belinda for the constant source of delight that playing an upstairs role brought. She had let the stillness fade away far too often the last several days, allowing herself to be caught up in good cheer and the pleasantries of wealth. She could play lady disdain, but for Marius there seemed no point; he was caught already, and charmed by the openhearted and good Beatrice. Until she had to meet with his friends again-a time when reserve would more suit her anyway-Belinda could allow herself the revelry of simple joy. Capturing a light cloak from her bed where it lay, she followed Marie downstairs, fully aware the girl trailed after to watch Marius's reaction to the gown.

But it was Javier who stood alone in the lobby, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he studied a painting-a particularly awful portrait of Beatrice's late father-that hung in a place of pride near the door. The prince wore grey, both incredibly subdued and unexpectedly flattering to his complexion and hair. As he turned from the portrait, a smile of appreciation already settling on his face, the maid gave Belinda a desperate glance over her shoulder, as if to say, You see, my lady? He You see, my lady? He was was worth forgetting to knock! worth forgetting to knock!

And Belinda, astonished, gave the girl absolution in the form of a faint nod. "Your Highness." She had no need to hide her surprise, nor did she think Javier would find insult in her gaze searching the corners of the room and landing in confusion on the door before finally returning to him. Beneath the heavy brocaded vest he wore white, startling against skin to which torchlight and fading sunlight gave a golden cast.

"Please," he said, "Javier. If my friends court you, then we must be friends, too."

"Javier," Belinda said faintly, then smiled. "Not James?"

"Good Lord, no," Javier said with a smile of his own. He was more attractive in evening light than he had been in the club. "James is a construct, meant to hide behind, and evidently a poor one. No, my lady, please, call me Javier."

"Then you must call me Beatrice." Belinda spoke reflexively, stepping forward to take the arm that Javier offered with another smile. "But my lord...I had thought Marius would be here tonight...?"

His eyebrows drew down over eyes that ate up the color of the lights with the same faint gold sheen that his clothes and skin did. "Marius's mother has taken ill. He will not be joining us tonight after all."

Surprise splashed through Belinda with such alacrity that for the first time in days she deliberately curtained it with the stillness, letting her heartbeat slow in the few moments before she spoke again. "He hadn't sent a message. I hope she'll be all right? It was kind of you to come for me instead, then." Suspicion flowered at the back of her neck, a hot feeling of certainty that had no root. "Lord a.s.selin and Lady Eliza wait for us in the carriage?"

Javier's frown deepened a little. "They've both sent their regrets, each of them vying for who is more disappointed to not see you in your new gown, which is," he took a perfunctory breath, "lovely. I'm afraid it's my company and mine alone tonight, Lady Beatrice. Forgive us all for the change in plans." The words and the tone were perfectly matched: polite regret, a vague aura of discomfort, mild humour at the situation. It was a flawless performance.

Hot flares wrapped around Belinda's throat and crept over her scalp, making her shiver even in the warmth of the room. The stillness within her gave her room for certainty, even without being able to make sense of it: beneath the prince's words lay no surprise, no dismay, and an unmistakable air of triumph. The emotions were strong enough to be her own, as if they came from within her own skin, rather than from the prince whose arm she was on. She gazed up at him, balanced between fascination and fear. He quirked his eyebrows, waiting for her answer, and she found it in herself to smile back at him, easily.

"I think I can forgive you, my lord. I look forward to the evening's performance. We must remember it well, so we can share it with the others, and especially relate it to poor Madame Poulin. Thank you for thinking of me even as your friends were unable to attend. I'm honoured."

Thoughts awhirl, she didn't hear his reply as he escorted her to his carriage.

6

The opera held nothing of interest, compared to the man at her elbow. Belinda watched without seeing, aware of its majesty and the skill of the players, and recorded the pageantry into memory for discussion later while remaining herself unmoved. Javier put on a show as excellent as the one below them: leaning forward, eyes intent on the stage, a smile playing over his mouth from time to time, as benefited the production.

It was all a lie. Now attuned to it and focused, not overwhelmed by an onslaught of emotion as she had been at the Maglian pub, she could feel the prince's true intentions, hidden beneath the veneer of grace and n.o.bility. Not that he lacked those things in any fashion, but now they were distraction, a surface performance for the benefit of others. Below, triumph had faded into burgeoning interest, smugness into curiosity. At the edges of emotion Belinda thought she could almost pull individual thoughts free, but they slipped between her fingers and disappeared. She glanced at her hands and allowed herself a faint smile through the stillness. Metaphorical fingers, at least; she doubted she could slide her very hand into Javier's head and capture those thoughts in their entirety.

His curiosity was tempered by something more: apprehension. Fear was too strong a word, his own confidence too great to truly fear the woman at his side. But she was a new thing in his experience-from the conflict of interest and caution within him, Belinda could read that.

It hardly surprised her. The stillness she knew as a part of herself was alien to anyone else she had ever met. Especially-especially!-the moments in her childhood when the shadows had held her safe within their arms. Her father had meant her to forget, but the memory came on strong now, sitting in the darkened hall. It was unlike any theatre she had ever known, roofed over to keep in heat and to bring the full force of the singers' voices reverberating around the walls. Even the floor had seats, rather than the crowded, standing-room only areas she knew from Aulun's open-air playhouses. This was not a place the poor came into for an afternoon's entertainment, paying their ha'penny to a drunk who kept the gate. The darkness of it protected her, letting her drift in memory even as she tried to puzzle out a way to broach an unspoken brotherhood with Javier. The will of not being there not being there which she'd drawn so tightly around herself all those years ago, she could remember that. The triumph of knowing she was hidden from all eyes, and the shock of Robert discovering her. She could remember all of those things. How, then, could the moment of hiding be so fully erased from her memory? which she'd drawn so tightly around herself all those years ago, she could remember that. The triumph of knowing she was hidden from all eyes, and the shock of Robert discovering her. She could remember all of those things. How, then, could the moment of hiding be so fully erased from her memory?

Had she faded? Belinda rolled her shoulders forward, making her chest concave as she closed her eyes. Was it memory or imagination that encouraged her down that path, telling her that fading fading was right, something important about was right, something important about fading fading...

"It ends badly," Javier murmured by her ear. Belinda caught her breath and lifted her chin, called back to the theatre and the music with a pulse of irritation.

"My lord?"

"The story ends badly, in death and despair for all the princ.i.p.al actors. Perhaps we should retire early, so you might be spared the anguish?"

Belinda arched an eyebrow as she tilted her head toward his. "I am all but certain," she breathed, "that the actors will rise up anew from their death throes and live to perform another night. I think I am bold enough to sit through another half hour of make-believe. They will notice if you leave, my lord. Your exit could end this show tonight, even as it opens."

Javier quirked a smile, his head angled with interest. "You're a gentle soul, aren't you? You think of things that I never would. n.o.bility suits you, lady. The world might be a better place if all gentry were as well-heeled as you."

Belinda returned her gaze to the stage, unwilling to meet the amused admiration in the prince's eyes. "I am perhaps closer to the land than you, is all, my lord. My station is not so high. Perhaps it is easier to see those who make their livelihoods on a prince's whim from where I stand."

"Then perhaps a prince requires your wisdom." Javier's tone changed, more weight given to the words than the conversation had warranted. Impatience grew in him, pushing aside apprehension and replacing it with avarice. Belinda glanced at him again, unable to read what goal greed sought. There was always one safe gamble, though, particularly with a handsome man of power. She lowered her eyes.

"I would be proud to serve you, my lord. My wisdom is at your disposal, as are all my faculties."

He glanced at her, sharp, then allowed himself a chuckle that altered the emotions she read in him more than it broke through into sound. It was marked by desire, thick and interested, and a trace of complacency. Belinda was not the first, nor would she be the last, woman to make such a blatant, if coded, offer to the prince. The uplift of his amus.e.m.e.nt was heady, sweeping up Belinda's spine and curving around her body as needle-sharp tingles of want in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and groin. For a few seconds she rode the delicious pain of it, letting it rob her of breath, knowing Javier would note that breathlessness on a subtle level. She shivered. He put his hand over hers, and for a shocking moment, his thoughts were hers to savor.

...ckable if nothing else-but there's more. Witchbreed. The word hung in his thoughts, pulsing deep red with anguish: it was a word he would never speak aloud, one he feared, one that never strayed far from his mind. It accused and it denied all in one, forcing internal confrontations that led to an outpouring of power. The alternative was to subsume it, to swallow it up and deny its existence, but what then if the vessel, his weak body, should crack? What if the unspoken ability he held, one that no one, not even Mother, seemed to share, could burst forth if bottled too long? No, better to focus it, wield it like a sword, make use of it to influence and encourage the men around him. It could be done subtly, The word hung in his thoughts, pulsing deep red with anguish: it was a word he would never speak aloud, one he feared, one that never strayed far from his mind. It accused and it denied all in one, forcing internal confrontations that led to an outpouring of power. The alternative was to subsume it, to swallow it up and deny its existence, but what then if the vessel, his weak body, should crack? What if the unspoken ability he held, one that no one, not even Mother, seemed to share, could burst forth if bottled too long? No, better to focus it, wield it like a sword, make use of it to influence and encourage the men around him. It could be done subtly, must must be done subtly, else certainly h.e.l.l itself would rise up and take him back to its depths as one of its sp.a.w.n... be done subtly, else certainly h.e.l.l itself would rise up and take him back to its depths as one of its sp.a.w.n...

Belinda jerked her hand back, every modic.u.m of stillness, every ounce of control she'd ever known lost to her. A blush flooded her cheeks as her heartbeat crashed so loudly, so hard, that she thought it would tear her apart, and she couldn't say if it was terror or joy that drove it so fiercely. Fire danced through her, burning her face and demanding her breath to fuel it, and the heat it made spilled through her until nameless emotion was subsumed beneath raging desire.

Javier turned to her with surprise so enormous it forgot offense. There was nothing of his thoughts in his gaze, no hint at all of the flood of words that had swept her, and yet she was certain, achingly certain, that she had not imagined what they'd shared. What she'd stolen. Witchbreed. Witchbreed.

The word tasted of fire, gold and bright at the back of her throat. It was new to her, not a term she would allow herself even in the most fanciful of moments, and it fluttered in her mouth, wanting to break free and be spoken. She wondered, if she kissed him, whether Javier would taste of the same enflamed power that his word burned with. The thought caught her breath, boiling away everything else, until she remembered herself and jerked again, harder than before. Choice, that time, she told herself fiercely. Choice, and not control deserting her.

"Forgive me, my lord." She let the breathlessness of discovery turn her expression wide and open, and then embarra.s.sed at its freedom, eyes dropped as she adjusted the stays of her corset. "I hardly meant to be so rude. But it's nothing," she said quickly, softly, to the concern that overrode his surprise. "Nothing, save my corset seems to have taken a dislike to the soprano." The woman below lifted her voice to an astonishing note as Belinda wrinkled her face, twisting once more to adjust the lines of the maligned garment. Javier grinned and returned his attention to the stage.

Witchbreed . The idea hung in her thoughts now, not with the apprehension she'd felt in Javier's, but with heart-pounding curiosity. It defined him as surely as the words that had haunted her since birth seemed to define her: . The idea hung in her thoughts now, not with the apprehension she'd felt in Javier's, but with heart-pounding curiosity. It defined him as surely as the words that had haunted her since birth seemed to define her: it must not be found out. it must not be found out. So, too, felt Javier about this So, too, felt Javier about this witchbreed witchbreed; it was what he had named himself. Belinda had turned her need inward, making it internal and silent. Javier had extended outward with his; perhaps it was the difference between a man and a woman.

He knew, then. Without reflecting on it, he recognized, as she did, that they had something akin to each other. Witchbreed Witchbreed. Belinda watched the remainder of the opera in thoughtful silence, no more seeing it than she might see the wind. As the curtain fell and applause echoed through the theatre, she leaned toward the prince, her decision made.

"I'm curious, my lord."

"Mm?" Javier glanced at her, smiling, then back at the stage with arched eyebrows, clearly expecting her question to regard the performance.

"You would not have sent them away deliberately. It would have caused too much hurt among old friends. So I wonder, did each thing that arose to keep them away surprise you, or did you fashion their excuses with your own need and desire, and lay them like yokes on their shoulders?"

"What?" Javier's smile fell away and darkness clouded his eyes, a mixture of anger and fear. Belinda wet her lips, chin tilted up to give the prince a slight show of throat, one tiny acknowledgment of the power structure here.

"There is too much coincidence here tonight, and you know it as well as I. And, again, I wonder. Does the world order itself to your desire with or without your conscious will, Prince Javier? I have felt it in you, my lord."

"Felt what?" His voice snapped with fury, though Belinda noted he was careful to keep it quiet. She leaned in, close enough to brush his ear with her lips, and breathed the words.

"The witchbreed witchbreed magic." magic."

"You felt it, my lord." Belinda might have shouted the words out loud, for all the chances of being heard among applause and people leaving the theatre. She didn't; she kept them pitched for the prince's ears alone, a murmur edged with intensity. "You felt it in me, just as I felt it in you. Don't belittle us both and deny it."

There was nothing of horror or fear, no anger or deliberation in Javier's eyes. He bowed a brief gesture of approval to the opera cast, a smile playing his mouth. But standing beside him, Belinda could feel the bursts and sparkles of temper and fear, like fireworks of silver hue, snapping off him. Bending toward her, trying to shape her to his will, to shape her toward silence or caution or obedience.

Anyone so close as she would feel the energy of the man; anyone else would admire his vitality and never question that it sharpened the desire to serve him. In her, it birthed fascination at the utter opposites that choice allowed. Javier's strength poured into her, failing in his intent to dominate. Belinda folded it into herself, letting it increase the core of stillness within her. Frustration splintered the edges of Javier's power, turning it dark and blue, as if ice caught it and encroached inward. He was unaccustomed to defiance. More than unaccustomed: entirely unfamiliar with. That Belinda stood beside him without quailing or making apology was enough to put his doubts, if not his fears, to rest.

"Perhaps you would enjoy a tour of my gardens," he offered pleasantly, no hint of strife in his voice. Could she not feel uncertainty and a need to understand rolling off his skin like air over heated stones, Belinda might have believed his offer to be nothing more than seductive politeness. "The hour is late, I know, but the night should still be warm, and I can offer a cloak if yours is insufficient."

As bound by curiosity and desire to know as was the prince, for all that hers was tightly contained, Belinda bobbed a curtsey of agreement. "I would be delighted, my lord. Eliza tells me that you grow pears."

"Yes, and they're just at the end of the season." Javier escorted her from the theatre, meaningless pleasantries exchanged for the carriage ride to the palace grounds. He himself offered her a hand in leaving the carriage, and without asking slipped her fingers into the crook of his arm. No woman would pull away from a prince; the gesture was instinctive, but also intended to confer honour. "Are you warm enough?" he asked solicitously. Belinda dropped her gaze and reveled in allowing herself a tiny smile in place of laughter.

"Yes, my lord. Thank you." Bland and polite, they left the carriage behind as Javier guided her through a series of gates and into a midnight garden. They walked in silence, the charged topic between them set aside as Belinda loosened her fingers from Javier's arm and took a few steps ahead of him into the warm, scented grounds.

Fruit-bearing trees cl.u.s.tered together thickly enough around pathways to cut evening moonlight into dapples and strips of white-blue light, shifting with the slight breeze. The air that stirred between them was warm and light with sweetness, the rich scents of ripening fruit. The paths were well-tended but not pristine; smaller bushes overflowed and tangled their thin branches into the walkways, easily torn if a wanderer did not watch his feet.

Belinda turned back to Javier, catching the prince standing still in a shaft of pale light. The moon was a harsh mistress to him; her blue tones made lilac shadows in his hair and hollowed his cheekbones. She took blood from his lips and made his skin seem fragile over the bones, too pale for life.

But she brought out the lightness of his eyes and named their true color grey. In her light he looked like a creature from another world, perhaps one of the underhill dwelling shee shee the Hibernian island west of Aulun had legends of. Belinda gazed at him, entranced, then shivered, trying to cast off his spell as she lifted her chin. "My lord?" the Hibernian island west of Aulun had legends of. Belinda gazed at him, entranced, then shivered, trying to cast off his spell as she lifted her chin. "My lord?"

Javier shook himself, as she had just done. "Forgive me. I was only admiring how well the moonlight suits you." He made a moue and brushed the words away disparagingly. "For though it sounds like it," he said, and Belinda started to smile, "that is not a line I try on most women. Forgive me; it sounded absurd."

"It sounded charming," Belinda corrected with amus.e.m.e.nt, then extended her hands a little as she turned to encompa.s.s the gardens with her embrace. "This is all yours."

"Yes."

"And we're alone here. Without guards or spies."

"Yes." Javier's voice lowered as he came closer. "No, my lady Irvine. There is nowhere in a palace without guards or spies. Your country estates may be more forgiving, but here there is nothing that cannot be bought and paid for, and so there is nothing that goes unwatched." His hands came around in front of her throat, unfastening the clasp of her cloak with an easy twitch of his fingers. The cloak fell away and Javier put his hands on her hips, stepping closer. The freedom Belinda had felt in donning the gown that Eliza had sent was compounded by shock: through thin silk, without the weight of petticoats between the fabric and her skin, she could feel the heat of Javier's hands with far more intensity than she was accustomed to. His lips brushed her shoulder and she shivered, letting go a soft laugh that had more in common with desire than amus.e.m.e.nt. Javier pulled her hips back against his, mouth brushing her shoulder a second time.

"There is one sort of a.s.signation that is hardly unexpected." His breath spilled over her skin, warm compared to the surrounding air. Belinda's stomach tightened, knots of responding need making bright aching points in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"My lord," she whispered, then wondered what she thought she might say next. A token protest? A refusal? Javier chuckled as his hand lifted from her hip and found, unerringly, the pins that held her hair up. He tugged them loose, dropping them to the ground as her hair loosened and fell around her shoulders. He inhaled the scent, then brushed it out of the way and slid his arm around her waist, mouth against her shoulder again.

"My lord?" Mocking words, although gentle. "Do Lanyarchan men not bring their women to lovely places for seduction, Beatrice? Surely you didn't think we would have an innocent walk in the gardens, a quiet talk about the witchbreed witchbreed-!" The final word was no louder than the others, but with it he pulled loose the laces that held her gown in place. It fell away more easily than Belinda expected it to, Javier pushing the sleeves from her shoulders and letting the fabric rumple to the ground around her ankles. Belinda could feel her tiny dagger pressing itself into the small of her back, bound in place by the corset that was all she wore now. Javier ran his fingertips along the lower edge of the corset, over her hips. She could feel his smile against her shoulder and the hardness of his desire pressed against her bottom.

"I believe I approve of this new fashion, Beatrice. One single piece of outerwear is far easier to overcome than the dozens of petticoats and layers women usually wear. Did you do this for me?" He traced the corset to its lowest point, ghosting his fingers over curls. Belinda shivered, tilting her head back against the prince's shoulder and making him breathe laughter. He pressed his palm over the thatch of curls, holding her hips against his as his other hand wandered free, following the stiff lines of the corset up to where skin was bared again. He brushed his fingers over rounded flesh, then delved into the scant s.p.a.ce afforded by the bindings and forced her breast free of the corset, sc.r.a.ping her nipple against the hard edges of the stay. Belinda whimpered and Javier growled, a hungry sound of triumph as he pinched the nipple and slid his fingers between her thighs.

The liquid sound of pleasure that escaped her was loud enough to call any nearby guards with an impulse for watching. Javier pressed his thigh between hers, pushing them apart. Belinda's ankle twisted, the shoes she wore for extra height not intended to be moved sideways while weight bore down on them. She collapsed; Javier caught her with his hand hard on her breast and his fingers curving inside her. For a blissful moment there was relief, pressure against the sweet spot on the bone within, but his fingers left her again when she was steady on her feet. Belinda made a mewl of protest, opening her thighs further and winding an arm back around Javier's neck, uncertain of her own ability to keep her feet. He smiled again, against her throat.

"Now." He drew his fingers, wet with her need, up through curls, sifting the coa.r.s.e hair. Belinda gasped with dismay, pushing her hips forward and squirming her thighs further apart as he chuckled. He thumped a fingernail forward, sending a paralyzing combination of pain and need surging through her body, and she let out a strangled cry.

"Please, my lord. Please!"

"Do they grow all Lanyarchan women so l.u.s.ty?" Javier murmured, pleased. His fingertip flicked over the centre of her pleasure again, this time light and quick and repet.i.tive. Belinda whimpered, trying to hold still so the touch could build to release. Javier let warm breath spill over her neck again, a quiet sigh, and murmured, "Now. Tell me what you know of the witchbreed."

Laughter ripped from Belinda's throat, helpless and gasping. "Now?" Remembering her own name was in question; she wanted to give in to sensation, not force thought into coherent words.

"Now," Javier said for the third time. "Now is the only time listeners don't hang on every word. Who wants to listen to the soppy, false endearments spoken during lovemaking?" His own voice carried soft amus.e.m.e.nt and detachment; it was not the first time he'd used love as a guise for secret conversation. His touch glided over her again and Belinda groaned, half laughter, and tightened her fingers in his hair.

It wasn't that it was impossible. In fact, it was easier than most men's egos would like to know, detaching the physical from the mental. Calling stillness all around her helped, the use of long years forbidding the body's reaction to pain and pleasure both. It allowed her to order her thoughts, ignoring her body's shivers. Javier felt the withdrawal and bit her shoulder, contrary to his own orders, redoubling his efforts to call them to the surface again. Belinda allowed herself a tiny whimper through the distant ache of need, unwilling to divorce herself entirely from the sure touch of his hands and the pleasure they brought. If there were spies on the garden walls it did no good to stand like a stick in the prince's arms, ignoring the work he did to please her.

"I know very little, my lord." The words came as a sigh. "I've never met anyone else like me." She shuddered again, tightening her fingers in Javier's hair. "Like us." Her voice was low and liquid, a plea in itself as she pressed her hips into his touch.

Even as she spoke, though, realization sparked through her, bringing its own kind of pleasure. Her father had to share the power Javier called witchbreed, or he never would have seen her through the shadows. And if Robert carried that kernel of power inside him, so, too, did Dmitri, whose presence she was now certain had roused her from sleep in the Khazarian north a few months ago. Dmitri, who had been with her father the night he took away Belinda's memory of how to hide in the shadows. There were were others, then, but Javier's fingers had found a quick rhythmic circle that threatened to shatter her concentration. Beyond his touch was the weight of his will, impressed upon her stillness, external force to her internal. One or the other she could withstand; the two together gave her over to abandonment unlike any she'd known. For long moments she shuddered and cried out in Javier's arms, until her thighs were wet with desire and the only thing that kept her on her feet was his grip on her. others, then, but Javier's fingers had found a quick rhythmic circle that threatened to shatter her concentration. Beyond his touch was the weight of his will, impressed upon her stillness, external force to her internal. One or the other she could withstand; the two together gave her over to abandonment unlike any she'd known. For long moments she shuddered and cried out in Javier's arms, until her thighs were wet with desire and the only thing that kept her on her feet was his grip on her.

"I call it the stillness," she finally gasped. Javier chuckled, his hands abandoning her. Belinda locked her knees to keep her feet, swallowing hard. "It was a game. So no one could hurt me." There was very little sound as the prince disrobed. Belinda turned her head toward him, wetting her lips, but he stayed too close to see: a pale shoulder in moonlight, the play of muscle, nothing more. "I used it to hide in shadows once," she blurted, abruptly desperate to confess what she knew so she might no longer need to divorce body from soul and could focus wholly on Javier's touch. "But I-" Her breath caught, his hands on her hips again. She heard the smile in his voice, mouth brushing her shoulder.

"But you what?" His hands weighed heavy on her hips, bringing her down to the gra.s.sy earth. Her gown, wrinkled beyond repair, let blades of sharp gra.s.s p.r.i.c.kle her knees as she whimpered again and pressed them further apart. The corset was too long to let her arch her hips back in offering. Instead she fell forward, but Javier's hand in her hair stopped her with a forceful jerk. The impulse to submit weakened her and her head rolled back in his grasp, the weight of her body following. "But you what, Beatrice?" Javier asked again. He kept his fist knotted in her hair, pulling the skin of her throat taut. She swallowed against it, yielding to his strength.

"But I've forgotten how, my lord." Need parched her throat and she swallowed, raw. "The stillness is all I can do." Even as she spoke, memory washed over her, the cacophony of emotion in the Maglian pub and the very words she'd plucked from Javier's mind earlier that evening. "Oh...oh!" Thought left her in a rush as Javier claimed her, a hard thrust demanding submission without causing pain. He settled back on his heels, spreading her over his thighs. Her skin rolled at the shoulder blade, pinched between the hard line of the corset and Javier's chest. She fumbled her hand back, scrabbling for the corset cords, but Javier caught her hand and twisted it further up, until her spine arched despite the stiff boning in the undergarment. Her breath came more shallowly as he curled her fingers into the laces, a wordless command to remain as he arranged her. An ache throbbed through her shoulder joint, made worse as he teased her nipple with a touch so light she thought she might only be imagining it. She arched again, trying to press her breast into his fingers, making the ache in her shoulder worse. She bent her other arm back, half to try to alleviate the ache and more to hear Javier's low chuckle and the breath of praise that spilled over her skin. He freed her other breast from the corset bindings, the nipple tightening with desperation at the touch of cool air.

There was a deliciousness to being helpless to the prince's gentle strength. Belinda's hair tickled her own spine, her head bent back so dark waves were caught between her body and Javier's. He put his fist into her hair again, pulling her head further back until she arched more sharply into the corset bones than her lungs could bear. Her own fingers tangled in her hair, pulling hard enough for pain that blossomed into the sweet ache of desire, keeping her in the pose he had placed her in. She had had men treat her thus before, but without tenderness; for them pain and discomfort were meant for domination. Under Javier's touch she felt sculpted, shaped and made beautiful for the pleasure of extremity, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pushed forward and her hips back in an exaggeration of womanhood. She trusted his desire implicitly, knowing without reservation that he might bend and mold her, but he would never deign to break her. That was for lesser men.

"Tell me more."

That he spoke sent a paroxysm of shock through her, tightening her nipples and her belly again. He pulsed his hips upward, taking what little breath she had away and leaving her unable to catch more, the corset stays pressed too tightly against her. Black fireworks sparked and trailed across her vision, brightening as she closed her eyes and struggled to take a breath. "Can you not tell me more?" he murmured, teasing. Even teasing, his intent to pursue conversation triggered both laughter and offense in Belinda. She strained to lift her head, determined to drag in enough air to make words.

Javier's fingers slid between her thighs and clasped the swollen nub of flesh there. Her words were taken by a shallow cry, too little air behind it to give it full voice. She shuddered around him, too breathless to struggle violently as o.r.g.a.s.m smashed through her. In moments she was boneless in his arms, held there by the stern corset lines rather than any willpower of her own. Her head was fallen so far back the corset pressed painful lines into the flesh of her shoulder blades, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s offered up to the moonlight. Javier kissed her throat with a murmur of appreciation, ghosting his hand over her nipples again. When she shivered he laughed and captured her c.l.i.t between his fingers again, drawing out a whimper of pain brought by too much pleasure.

"Then let me tell you what I know," he breathed. He lifted his hips into hers, purposeful strength burying himself more deeply in her. Half swooning with breathlessness, Belinda gasped and fell further into his grasp, spreading her thighs another scant inch to afford him greater access. His mark of approval came with another torturous touch around her aching c.l.i.t, and as she shuddered he whispered secrets of sorcery against her skin.

Dew soaked the green silk of the dress, morning too young to warm the air yet. Belinda shivered under her summer cloak, curling her legs up to move her feet under the comparative warmth beneath the cloak. She found Javier's shin with her feet and tucked her toes between his legs, making him inhale a sleepy laugh. "Why do women always have cold feet?"

"In this case, because I've been sleeping on wet, cold ground for hours." Belinda rolled onto her back, still keeping her body pressed as closely to Javier's as possible. "Why are men always warm?"

He slid his arm over her ribs and the still-stiff lines of her corset. "Because the human race would surely die out if we couldn't keep our mothers and wives from turning to ice every night. Unbend your knees, woman. Now my feet are uncovered." He crunched up, resettling the cloak over them, and threw the hood over their heads. The cool air warmed almost instantly and Belinda realised her nose was numb. She clasped it between her fingers and Javier chuckled, moving her hand to cover her nose with his hand instead. She could smell her own scent on him, musky and faint hours later. As if sensing her reaction to that, Javier shifted the cloak and lowered his head to cover her nipple with his mouth. The heat was exquisite and shocking after hours of chill. Belinda arched into it and he let go another low laugh, lifting his head again. "Do it."

"My lord-"

"Beatrice." Command filled his voice, expectation bordering on irritation. "Power is begotten by desire, and I know you desire." He put his hand over her lower stomach, just where the corset ended. The warmth of his hand was distracting, waking heat in other places-but that was the point. Belinda inhaled deeply, watching Javier's gaze snap back to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was something, at least, and thus sated she wrapped the stillness around her, letting it protect her more thoroughly than any cloak could do.

They had done this twice during the small hours of the morning, once with Belinda following Javier's guidance and once on her own. There was a wall of resistance in her, one that weakened as she shoved against it, calling her need need through it and to its other side. That wall, she didn't understand how, tasted of her father, as if his broad shoulders and scent of chypre had somehow taken up residence inside her own mind. Beyond it was the power that had let her hide in shadows when she was a child. Robert's very will lay between her conscious desire and that power, making a barrier to her accessing it. through it and to its other side. That wall, she didn't understand how, tasted of her father, as if his broad shoulders and scent of chypre had somehow taken up residence inside her own mind. Beyond it was the power that had let her hide in shadows when she was a child. Robert's very will lay between her conscious desire and that power, making a barrier to her accessing it.

But there was a weakness in the barricade: she could almost see the words around the place where it ran thinner. It cannot be found out. Not yet. It's still too early. The time has not yet come for you to know such things. It cannot be found out. Not yet. It's still too early. The time has not yet come for you to know such things.

Not yet. yet. That admonishment had been made well over ten years earlier. Now, finally, whether her father meant for it to be or not, it was time. Belinda was no longer a child. She served her queen and her country, but her will was her own, and the long years of wondering were coming to an end. That admonishment had been made well over ten years earlier. Now, finally, whether her father meant for it to be or not, it was time. Belinda was no longer a child. She served her queen and her country, but her will was her own, and the long years of wondering were coming to an end.

She had broken through twice, and now felt it giving way before her desire again. It didn't shatter, but rippled and spread outward, as if she'd thrown a stone into a pool and her point of access was the tiny centre of the vortex it created. She pushed through that centre, widening it, then withdrew. A trickle of power spilled forth, golden and warm as sunlight. It was the stillness, made visible within her own mind. In itself, it was nothing, not even potential; it merely lay beyond the barrier in her mind and waited.