Shana Abe Read online

  Her rejections were having a dreadful effect on him, subtle things, perhaps only the chimera could see it. There was a tension in him now, the snake trying to awaken and burrow its way through the man to take over and handle matters in its own way.

  She prayed the snake was weaker than Marcus. But looking at him, watching his coldness, the fear only grew. He was unhappy with her. He had allowed her to deny him up to now, but what if the next time would be the last, and the snake sprung up and convinced him that she should be subdued and bent to his will? What then? He was still his father’s son, after all.

  Avalon tried not to think of it. But the laird kept vigil at her lessons, a mute witness to her every move, and she couldn’t help but consider what the next moment might bring. The future was becoming a foreboding thing.

  Part of her wondered why she was still here. She had done her share for the Kincardines, after all. She had provided them with a future of bounty, she need not linger here. The battle training she offered now could stretch on forever, if she wished it to, but that was certainly not cause enough to entrench herself here at Sauveur.

  And Ellen was coming far as steward. Soon she would be able to manage the estate without Avalon’s aid. It could be as short as a month, even. And then Avalon would be at perfect liberty to go, all of her obligations fulfilled. She could leave both the man and the snake behind, to fight for his life as they would.

  But no matter how often she plotted to leave, one face would intervene in her thoughts, one voice, challenging her to stay.

  You belong to me.

  She didn’t believe that. She didn’t belong to anyone. But he had found her weakness again, asking her the appeal of a nunnery. The answer was nothing. Not any longer. But what did that leave her?

  Only Marcus, so magnificent that it terrified her.

  His eyes, crystal blue, reaching out to capture her heart.

  Come to bed with me.…

  Avalon was resting in a charming room in a corner of the keep after an afternoon that had been particularly taxing. As a sort of childish reaction to his unspoken condemnation, she had chosen today to teach her pupils the flip she had used on him, and Marcus had acknowledged her jab with only the slant of one lifted eyebrow, as if it were nothing more than slightly droll. She was determined to ignore him devoting herself to her work, but it had drained her, leaving her now in weary repose on the cushioned bower.

  Greer had first shown her this secluded chamber, claiming it was the sewing room of the mistresses of Sauveur. Avalon supposed this was why Greer had gone out of her way to take her here, but no matter. It couldn’t be that bad, Avalon thought, to acquiesce to the atmosphere of this room, no matter whose it was. The tapestries were light and lovely, scenes of unicorns and seals and fair damsels. There was an enormous carpet covering the floor, worn thin in places but still beautiful, plush lavender and rose and blue flowers on a background of sea green. The fireplace had a mantel of pink marble laced with white.

  But most wonderful of all, this room had almost an entire wall of windows, great long stretches of glass, each one ready to open and let in the outside.

  And each window had pane upon pane of beveled glass—a rare luxury in any home, much less a remote Scottish castle—which transformed the courtyard into little vistas of the same milky fog in every square.

  Avalon had no sewing to do here. She hated sewing, anyway. But it was refreshing just to lie back on the long cushion, eyes closed, listening to the quiet all around, the fog pressing up against the glass, secure in knowing that she could be inside but not afraid of shrinking walls.

  Last night, unknown to all but her, she had even slept in here, gathering comfort from the hazy glow of the stars all around her whenever she awoke.

  “Here, I think,” came a voice, shattering the calm Avalon had worked to create.

  It was Nora, opening the door to the room, letting Marcus come in, a group of people behind him.

  The chimera awoke at the sight of him, making Avalon sit up quickly.

  Marcus paused when he saw her, then came forward again, a strange twist to his mouth.

  “Avalon,” he said.

  “What is it?” Her heart began to pound wildly, harder than even after her exercise this afternoon.

  “I have news from Trayleigh,” Marcus said.

  She sat there, waiting, her hand covering her heart as if to slow it.

  “Your cousin Bryce has been killed in a hunt.”

  The chimera shook its head, the lion’s mane flowing all around, a low growl that no one but she could hear.

  “Really?” she said faintly.

  “A stray arrow struck him, apparently. No one has claimed it, but it’s being treated as an accident. They’re saying it was most likely a poacher.” Marcus looked down at her and the peculiarity draping him became more pronounced, a wolfish look. “Warner inherited the title.”

  Of course he did, Avalon realized. Without Bryce, Warner not only became the new Baron d’Farouche, but he also got Trayleigh. The lands.

  It was too much for her to unravel at once. Bryce dead; Warner the new baron. Where did this leave her? What had happened to her plans for revenge? What should she do?

  Warner would move swiftly now in pressing for her hand, she knew it without a doubt. As a baron he would have a great deal more personal power on his side, equal to that of Marcus. If Warner did contrive to win his claim for her, then the emissaries would be returning soon. And this time, they might bring an army with them.

  Dear God, and these people would fight to the death for her, whether she wanted them to or not.

  Marcus turned around and made a curt gesture to the group behind him. Avalon saw them retreat, closing the door to the room, leaving the two of them alone. The smoky light outside was fading rapidly.

  “And there is more news,” said Marcus. “I am told that with the addition of his baronage, Warner is now more adamant than ever to win your hand.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a graceful show of indifference, a deception to cover her alarm. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” Marcus gave a disbelieving laugh. “Are you jesting? Of course it matters! He has the means now to offer a grand payment to the church, even more than he could have before, with his holdings in France.”

  “But his documents could not be real, I’m certain my father never agreed to wed me to him—”

  “I’m certain he didn’t agree, as well,” Marcus interrupted, cold. “But that is irrelevant. Warner will produce papers that appear genuine enough. And if there are discrepancies here and there, well, a few covert payments in gold will take care of that, won’t they?”

  She stared up at him, the chimera within her now tangling and turning around her thoughts, still growling.

  “The church is about to rule in favor of him.” Marcus moved closer to her, illuminated in what was left of the fog’s ghostly light, his eyes the color of frigid waters. “They will try to come back soon and take you.”

  “I will not marry Warner,” she said softly.

  “No,” he agreed. “You will not.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I need to think.”

  “Think on this. We will be married tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow,” he repeated, firm and icy.

  Avalon stood up, faced down the twist of his mouth: the beginnings of the snake, she saw it now. Her nightmare was coming true before her eyes.

  The chimera was growing more receptive to the menace in him, and she had to speak over its muttered warnings.

  “I have told you I will not marry Warner. You are going to have to believe me, my lord. Because I am not going to wed you tomorrow.”

  “Wrong,” he said. “You are. They cannot have you.”

  “They will not have me! I have already told you this!”

  The snake was clearer now, manifesting so easily, cunning and strong. The chimera gave up the growl for a laugh; it laugh
ed and laughed inside her, wrapping around her ability to reason, growing bigger and bigger, encasing her hidden terror.

  “Marcus Kincardine,” she said clearly. “Listen to me well. No matter what proof Warner creates, it matters not. I will not be his bride. You need not fear it.”

  That one brow lifted again, arrogance and disdain. “Fear it? I don’t, my love. I know it well. You cannot be his wife. Indeed, you are already mine.”

  “I am not anyone’s wife! You are not listening—”

  “I’m listening. I’m listening to the call of my people. I’m listening to the dictates of an intractable legend. I am listening, my Lady Avalon, to the music of the stars, and all of them tell me the very same thing.”

  No, she wanted to say, but the word would not come out of her mouth, the chimera choked it off, and then it spoke suddenly in her head, in the voice of Hanoch:

  Ye belong to the curse.…

  Marcus had a smile that held no warmth at all. “Tomorrow is the day. I have no more time for niceties. We have all waited long enough. Tomorrow the curse ends.”

  He meant it, she realized. It was not just the snake putting words to its intent. These were the thoughts of the man, truly Marcus, telling her she was his wife. It was Marcus who needed her, who wanted her.

  She remembered with chilling clarity that he had said the emissaries would have to kill him to take her away. She had thought it was merely his snake speaking for him, but no, all along it had been the man himself, the laird who had to claim her, for legend or passion or whatever it was that was forged in his head. The snake was only backing him now.

  Without warning Marcus took her arms, pulled her into him and held her there tightly. He bowed his head down to her hair and his grip changed, grew more urgent.

  “Don’t you want to marry me?” he whispered against her, beginning a blaze of kisses down her temple, her cheeks. When she turned her head away he followed and found her lips, a brutal claiming of her.

  She couldn’t stop him, she didn’t even want to, but he broke away, breathing hard against her neck, still clutching her.

  “Avalon,” he said, and it was almost a prayer. “Please.”

  Hanoch spoke again, his words like the deathblow of a sword:

  Ye will marry my son. Whatever else ye want or think is nothing compared to that.…

  And the chimera grinned and sank its claws into her mind, threw her own words at her, that promise:

  I will never marry him! I vow it now.…

  She could not allow Hanoch to win. She had already given over so much of herself to him, but she could not bow in this.

  Her fingers held on to Marcus as she leaned back and looked up into his eyes.

  “I can’t marry you,” she said.

  His eyes closed. She felt his pain as her own, intensified by the fact that it was given to him by her.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said, anguished. “Please understand. I can’t.”

  He took a deep breath past his teeth; she felt him gather himself together. He set her carefully away from him, hands now light on her shoulders.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry, as well. I’m sorry it’s going to have to be this way.”

  “What way?” she asked, and at last the chimera paused, grew silent in her head.

  “Please go back to your room, Avalon.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to stay there until tomorrow. After we are married, you will be able to move about again.”

  The chimera howled at her: Run, hide, don’t let them catch you! The power of it surged through her body, made her hands tremble so that she had to close them into fists to hide it.

  “You don’t control me,” she said, fighting the lash of panic inside her.

  “Come,” he replied, as dark and meaningful as the falling night.

  She looked around to both sides, the charming room now much too small, too confining. The windows were shut tight. There were too many people waiting behind the only door.

  Her heart was a caged bird, the trembling in her fingers moved upward, clenching tight around her chest, her throat. She knew it was not rational, this overwhelming fear that took her, but she was tied to it anyway.

  “Avalon.”

  He was waiting for her, she could see that. He was waiting for her to walk out of this room with him, to voluntarily confine herself to that little sleeping chamber, to sit and wait for fate to swallow her up whole. It was just like the pantry, when she was a child, that cramped and stifling space, utterly black, relentlessly scary, filled with whispering monsters, greedy fiends who laughed at her while she was curled up and alone, the goblin men, come back for her.…

  “No.” The word slipped out on its own, falling heavy into the silence. Her feet retreated from him of their own volition, one step at a time, until she felt the cushion of the bower against the backs of her knees.

  The pale light of the fog was almost gone, turning the room to watery gray, disguising his face so that she could not read it. Behind her she felt the cooler air next to the glass, a frosty touch on her shoulder blades. Darkness was waiting for her, crouched in the corners of her vision where she couldn’t quite see. Blackness, suffocating, endless blackness, pressing on her, filling her nostrils and her lungs until she couldn’t breathe—

  He moved. She saw the dim shape of him shift against the lighter tones of the marble mantel, an outline of a man approaching, so much larger than she was.

  “No,” she said again, but it was apprehensive now, less certain. She held her hands up in front of her, an instinctive defense.

  “Don’t fight me,” he said, savage. “Don’t do it.”

  “Stay away,” she warned, and her voice had a crack in it. “I won’t go back there.”

  “For a day …”

  … and a night in the pantry …

  “No—”

  The air was too thin here, she couldn’t manage to draw enough of it into her lungs, the trembling inhibited her, made it harder to see him, to know what to do next. He spoke again, still ruthless.

  “You don’t have a choice. You will do as I say. I know what is best.”

  Ye’ll stay in there.…

  The goblins were expecting her. She could hear them; even the chimera turned its ears to them, listening. They existed only in the blackness, they waited for her in the dark, in the pantry. Each time she was imprisoned there they were waiting with axes and knives and fire, and Ona died over and over again, scarlet blood splattered on the bark of the birch, and Avalon was next.

  The man moved again, sudden and deft, a blur of dark against dark, but the chimera warned her, moved her hands for her to block him, to duck and turn around him. She struck at him and felt his arm give way to her, and her only thoughts were escape, escape, escape!

  But he seemed to know her plan, and with cruel efficiency used his other hand to capture her waist, bending in the same direction as she did, following her, closing the trap. Fear made her clumsy; the hand she had struck came back up, found her arm and bent it tight around her, immobilizing her, then he kicked his feet between hers, lifting her up so she could not get a solid stance on the ground.

  “I learn from my mistakes, my dear,” he said into her ear. “You taught this trick to the children, and I was paying attention.”

  She let out a cry of mingled frustration and dread; she couldn’t see who it was behind her, it could be anyone, it could be Ian or Hanoch or the goblin men, come to devour her—

  Although he still held her tight, something in her captor changed, grew more attentive to her ragged breathing, the shaking that controlled her.

  “Avalon?” The voice was lower, very human. It was the voice of Marcus. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Caught, at his mercy, she bit down on her lip to keep inside the sob that wanted to burst out. She couldn’t bear it—she could have run away, she could have braved the wilds of the world on her own, but she couldn’t go back to that room. She c
ouldn’t face the tiny space, the narrow window, the encroaching darkness. The waiting.

  “Tell me,” he said, and it wasn’t a command now but an invitation. His hold on her loosened by gradual degrees, until she realized her feet were firmly on the carpet of flowers and his arms were not hurting her. She felt his breath, warm on her neck, somehow reassuring. “Tell me,” he said again, soft.

  “I can’t go back there.” The sob was still present, a hitch in her throat.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “That room. I won’t go back.”

  He seemed to think about this, finding her unspoken secrets, though she had not meant him to. “It bothers you? Your room?”

  Lucidity settled on her despite the gloom around them. She was being unreasonable. She was acting childish. Yet still he waited for her, unyielding, uncompromising, and the best thing she could think to offer up was: “It’s too small.” Her voice was thin and reedy.

  She could feel him ponder this, could almost picture the remote look in his eyes as he unwrapped her sentence, probed it. She felt inadequate suddenly, stupid, to allow herself to fall into his snare, and now what was she to do? Just the thought of that tight, closed space brought back the sob.

  “Too small,” he mused, not condemning, but very, very alert.

  At some point his grip on her had loosened enough so that she could turn in his arms, and Avalon did that now, feeling the need to make him understand what she could not say, what she could not even bear to think about. His face was almost completely obscured above her now; a short twilight approached a clouded night.

  “In the dark,” she said.

  He didn’t misunderstand. “The room is too small and too dark for you.”

  “When I was a girl,” she said, “there was a pantry in the cottage, and they used to lock me in there—” The sob bubbled up, devouring the rest of the words, and she had to clamp her lips shut to hold it back.

  Everything about him changed, softened. His hands caressed her arms, his lips were velvet against her forehead.

  “Shhh,” he said, and his breath warmed her. “It’s all right.”