To Dishonour A Duke

Chapter Eleven

Clara's body gives out in the late afternoon and she falls asleep, nestling into the uncomfortable mattress. Sleep gifts her a short reprieve from the feelings that plague her body and mind, although darkened dreams dance across her vision. She tosses and turns for a few hours, to be roused by the clunking of heavy footsteps on the wooden floorboards below. Dazed, she sits up and wipes her face, a sticky feeling all over her body. She listens to the creaking of the stairs, the sound growing louder, creeping closer. Gripping the corners of the mattress, she shuffles away from the barred door, her eyes trained on the shadows beyond her cell.  As though sensing her wary gaze, the figure halts just out of sight, only a dark outline against the wall. 

"Harrow told me you haven't made a sound all day."

His voice washes over her like expensive whiskey, smooth, decadent, dangerous. From the first word, it sets her on edge and inspires a spark of rebellion within her blood, a match struck alight. The fading light of dusk hides his face from her narrowing eyes, the fire of insolence burning inside. Pretending to be indifferent to his presence, Clara turns away and looks up at the small window, twiddling a lock of hair around her finger. 

"I was playing a game." Her voice is hoarse when she speaks. "It's called what would Clary do."

"Oh?" 

She can hear the amusement in his tone, but she reveals nothing further and there is a pause as her captor watches from the shadows. Shuffling on the mattress, she looks into her lap, feigning disinterest while her heart thumps quickly in her chest. 

"And aside from being mute, what would she do?" 

His question makes her raise her head and seek out his face in the darkness. "I confess I barely know her so it's more of a challenge than I expected. You are free to join me if you like." 

"He might have let you out if you had pleaded with his heart." He says, shifting against the wall, "Despite his job, he is softer than he appears, and you have the perfect face for it." 

Clara shakes her head, her face screwing up at his words, bitterness in her mouth. "Tears might have granted me pity, but his fear of you would prevent my freedom, even with your absence."

"My absence?"

"You left." 

"I did. How did you guess?"

"I am not so much of a concern that you were worried. You locked me up because you had questions but had to leave," She states, "And now you are back." 

"With questions."

The sound of a match being struck hisses throughout the top floor and then he steps out of the shadows, a single candle clutched in his hand. A strangled gasp catches in Clara's throat as her eyes adjust to the sudden light, the flame casting orange light over his dark clothing, now bearing significant splatter marks. Transfixed by the vicious arc the blood has painted, she follows the stains from the collar of his black shirt to the pocket of his trousers, her mouth falling open. Logic urges her to look away but she cannot, entranced by the way the scarlet flecks decorate the left side of his neck and sharp jaw, still wet.  

 "Are you going to answer them?" 

She sees his lips move but the question doesn't register with her. Face to face, she tilts her head, a jolt of appreciation shooting through her as she studies his high, prominent cheekbones, the jagged line of his jaw and the rough stubble that lines it. She guesses by the devilish way his dark eyes roam over her that he has a few years on her, but his darker skin is youthful and flawless, the kind that can only be achieved by the rich and privileged. The eyes are made a shade lighter than his midnight hair by the eerie grey ring around his irises, piercing and frozen.