Crossing The Chasm (Sequel to Given to the Prince)

Crossing The Chasm - Part 4

Jessica washed and dressed in the clothes left for her by Califar. The luxurious smell of almond-scented soap and the clean, crisp texture of the cotton blouse, in a small way, made her feel less like a victim.

She slid the tip of her tongue over her clean teeth and savored the pristine smoothness. The comforting familiarity of mint-flavored toothpaste impressed her as both trivial, and monumental. With the shampoo and small jar of water available, she'd managed to remove ten days of sweat and grime from her hair. Without conditioner, she now faced the inevitable tangles that plagued victims with naturally curly hair. Sitting cross-legged on the small cot, she picked up the brush and began to work the knots from her hair. In the morning's heat, the strands dried quickly, shaping themselves into swirling copper ringlets.

The ordinary task relaxed her body, but her thoughts raced in circles with the speed of a supercollider. The panic she'd felt on awakening and finding herself alone, convinced of Califar's abandonment, still upset her. But she could feel some of her usual tenacity returning, a trait that she'd used to equal the odds on many tough occasions in the past.

Reason and circumstance told her he wouldn't bother to come for her and then just walk away. If he did, who could blame him? A man of his pride and position would not be pleased to have a crybaby-woman clinging like an extra appendage to his leg. She cringed with the return of the humiliating memory.

The object of her thoughts broke through the door as if it were a barricade. Startled, she stiffened and studied the man blocking the light by the mere bulk of his frame. He lingered, as if having entered by mistake, and glared at her with intense displeasure. Could she look as bad as his scowl indicated? She measured his steps as he shut the door and advanced toward her.

"You are looking improved. How do you feel?"

His words were solicitous enough; however, the tone had an edge of reckoning. The man was a walking contradiction, an illogical puzzle, and a source of pending disaster. Not knowing how he intended to affect her life, she could only hope he had a merciful gene somewhere in his DNA.

"Better, thanks for the clothes and things," she managed to answer with clarity.

"It is Prince Davar you should thank. He is responsible for the arrangements. The Princess provided the personal items, of course."

"Am I to thank you for nothing, then?"

He cocked an eyebrow, and with an exasperated shake of his head, accented his words with undisguised mockery.

"Believe me, Miss Heathly, as the day progresses you will not be so eager to thank me for my intervention."

The man was a sinkhole of complexity and one she was tired of falling into. "Look, I was just trying to show some gratitude. As I'm sure my conduct last night revealed; I'm not exactly a tower of unshakable nerve right now. In truth, I'm terrified and want out of this place as quickly as possible. I'd thank the devil himself if he could accomplish that. No comparison intended," she added.

His scowl deepened the lines around his eyes as his mouth curved with a diabolical sneer. "I believe you Americans have a saying; better the devil you know..."

Thrown off balance by the heightened degree of antagonism, Jessica stood and circled the cot to stand on the other side. "I don't want to expend my energy in verbal combat with you."

"But you cannot help yourself, can you? Your contentious nature has always made it so between us." He glared at her, frowning.

"Can't you, for once, talk to me without your ever-present disapproval? I need to know what is going to happen next. How do I get out of here?" A scream of frustration threatened to rise in her throat.