Blades of Men (on hold - sorry!)

Chapter Twelve: Athalia

Chapter Twelve: Athalia

   “No-one,” I said, stuttering over the word. It was as if it couldn’t bear to leave my mouth for the shame of the lie, holding on as long as possible in an attempt to stop the sounds being uttered. My whole body tingled from Conrad’s heat, making me feel warm and safe and protected. All the things I had never had the chance to be; all the things I always hoped to find.

   For a moment, it didn’t matter that I was there only because he longed for the promised gold and jewels. Then logic caught up with me, crashing down on my thoughts like a waterfall on rock, the sickening slap slamming me into reality with brutal, primal force. 

   He stiffened, sensing the falsehood as easily as he might snare a sleeping rabbit. I cursed my own inability to claim untruths as fact.

   “I’ll ask again. Who hit you?” He pulled back slightly, the fury evident in his eyes. Suddenly I felt as if I was trapped by the orbs of silver I was staring into, as bewitched by his charming protectiveness as a human by a fairy of the woods.

   “The answer doesn’t change just because you will it to,” I said dryly. He expected life to fall at his feet and beg for his approval. I wouldn’t follow its example. He couldn’t demand answers whenever he was so infuriatingly mysterious himself. “Besides, I think you were there whenever I was attacked by an unknown assailant.”

   He started to speak, before giving up and walking over to the limp-looking chair. With a fluid, graceful movement, he sat down and began to shuffle a pack of cards that appeared from his pocket as if by magic. I was hypnotised by the quick flicks of his wrist, the slap of each rectangle against the next as the ace of spades blurred into the five of diamonds. Each action was diligent, practised, loving. His fingers caressed the stack before splitting them into two piles.

   “Can you play?” he asked, his eyes cold and furious, yet hiding a sparkle of cunning that couldn’t be disguised by the force of his will. I mentally groaned. Something was coming. I could apprehend it as surely as I knew that the sun would rise at dawn and follow its path through the murky skies in order to set again that evening. In response to his question, I tentatively asked another.   

   “Vingt-et-un? Poker? Something else?” He hid a flicker of surprise behind a blank mask of indifference. His lips twitched, ever so slightly turning up before he hid his amusement. I interpreted his thoughts – or rather, stabbed a guess at the wilderness of his mind. “Did you think you would have the pleasure of introducing me to such games?” I asked. “Surely you should be relieved that you don’t have to corrupt me in at least one way?”

   His answer came faster than I expected, catching me by surprise as I half-turned away to face the flames playing in the grate. The sight of the tub sprawled by the fire reminded me of the impropriety of the situation as well as more pressing thoughts of a want for a steaming bath. The water hadn’t been so long standing that curls of steam had stopped rising from the top. It seemed to beckon me, inviting me to recline into the slippery smooth waters and allow the worries of the day to soak into the clarity of liquid crystal.

   “Surely you should wish that I had been able to,” he replied. Conrad saw my gaze; allowing a mocking tilt of his head to harden his stance and perhaps his heart. “Go ahead – after all, ladies first.” I scoffed, thinking that he must have lost his mind sometime before our return to civilisation.

   “Whatever happened to the phrase ‘gentlemen’? I am sure that a gallant man would leave the room while I bathed,” I said amazedly. I could see the telltale taunt in his eye, the flicker of daring that urged him to find adventures to lead.  It assuaged the fear that he would be merely normal, would never get the chance to play the hero and be forgotten in rusty old age. He wanted to be remembered, and villains were all too often the characters that played the showiest tricks on the mind. If he couldn’t live in the golden glow of approval, then he would content himself with playing out his role in the dark.

   “Very well,” he conceded. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Believe me when I say that I will return, even if it is to find you still in the tub.” I couldn’t help the flush of warmth that rose to hit my cheekbones, seemingly for the sole purpose of infuriating me to the point of blaming my own body for my embarrassment. With a smirk flung over his shoulder, Conrad left me to the company of questions and bad memories, each imprinting a unique scar on my heart.

   I sighed as I slipped into the waiting bath, my toes curling with the pleasure of experiencing cleanliness. I scrubbed my skin, feeling as if it was peeling away the remnants of hurts and wounds. Who had attacked me? I knew that he would try his utmost to find me, to put me in a cage barred with gold and silver. It wouldn’t matter what I wanted. If I was found, my life would leave me unable to do anything but comply with wishes and broken promises – chained, despite the fact that the sky above me was the limit.

   I almost grinned at the absurdity of my argument, even though in my heart I could explain everything far more accurately. I knew that in an arranged marriage, I would only have the appearance of freedom and a front of happiness.

   I had been raised to be semi-wild, the sharpness of a cane or the metal of a fist falling on me whenever I had done something so unbelievably outrageous that it was brought to the half-attention of my father. Of course, a clip around the ear was hardly enough to claim abuse, even if that same hand had previously swollen an eye shut and tainted it a fetching shade of blue.

   It wouldn’t be any different with him. A loathsome man, as intent on a match that would add to his coffers as he was in assuring that he could parade his newest possession in front of a civilized society. I wouldn’t allow myself to merely line the corridors of some stately home in return for being titled a Baroness.

   With a sigh, I dried myself off and wandered in the direction of the bed, wondering how I had managed to get myself into a situation which demanded that I sleep in the same bed as a rogue. I didn’t even have the satisfaction of calling him a reformed rogue, even if it was only a position which would have helped my mother to rest a little easier in heaven, as opposed to easing my own scruples.

   With that thought, I realised that I didn’t have a change of clothes, hairpins or a bonnet. My life could be summarised in the torn dress in front of me. It seemed so...pathetic. Lonely.

   I rifled through Conrad’s things until I found a plain shirt, soft with wear and smelling like lemons and mint, and a hint of potent male essence that one couldn’t even begin to describe. I slipped it on, liking the way it rested easily on my skin, even as I realised it only almost came down to my knees, stopping lazily at mid-thigh. I scrabbled for some underwear and wrestled it on just as the door opened. I groaned.

   “What kind of a welcome is that?” Conrad asked as his face was lit up by a dangerous smirk; full of mischief. I shot him a glare across the room as his eyes slowly perused my body, lingering on the hints of skin visible beneath the thin material. “My, we did lose our manners, didn’t we? I could have sworn that a lady would have asked before helping herself to the contents of my wardrobe.” I could feel my throat tightening, tense with a sudden longing for a home away from the stench of stale beer and the threat of being passed off to one of my father’s debtors. A cottage with a closet; a closet filled with soft dresses and pretty things.

   “I don’t have anything to wear,” I replied. “And I’m not talking figuratively.” He didn’t say anything for a moment, rather choosing to look at me in such a way that made me feel as if I was laying my soul bare on the table.

   “Cards?” he said mischievously. I cocked an eyebrow, but agreed. “Instead of gambling for money or possessions – since you don’t have either – I suggest we gamble for truths,” he said slyly. I gawped at him, unable to comprehend what angle he was coming from before I started to protest.

   “I’m tired –” I said quickly.

   “One game?” he asked, his eyes pleading. I could feel my will crumbling into ashes – just like my life.

   “If you think you can handle me,” I agreed. He laughed heartily, a cacophony of sound that made you eager to join in with the merriment, to giggle; to wear your heart on your sleeve and allow any understanding of consequences to drift away.

   It almost convinced me to abandon my misgivings.