†
Ravan was seriously discontent. He knew this placed LanCoste in a very troubling position. He also knew LanCoste would watch him closely, for it was one thing to stand beside each other on the battle field but entirely another to languish at their current task…and Ravan, even more than LanCoste, would suffer the situation.
The disdain that Ravan adopted for Adorno was almost immediate, and LanCoste might have questioned whether Duval made a wise decision to send them here. It didn’t help that there was little to do other than stand about and watch Adorno’s lunacy—his maddening extravagance and gaudy excess.
“You must do as you are commanded.” LanCoste was uncharacteristically talkative. “Duval has his reasons. It is not for you to question.”
They loitered together in a gallery watching Adorno out on the lawn—a soiree of the sort that did not invite close quarters with the bodyguards. Adorno preened, strutting amongst his guests. Ravan stood casually with bow ready and arrow engaged.
In reality, Adorno was not without considerable risk. He could certainly be killed—stabbed without notice or suddenly bludgeoned over the head. The killer, however, would suffer immediate peril from the bodyguard who watched from a short distance away. All had seen Ravan practice, and none denied his mastery at his art. His reputation had spread quickly.
“I am a soldier, not a nursemaid. Besides, he deserves to die,” Ravan replied matter-of-factly, nodding toward Adorno, then muttered to himself, “And this keeps me from other things.” He idly dug the toe of his boot into the stone paver joint of the floor. Ravan had more recently felt the need to accomplish certain tasks, certain…unfinished deeds. He’d also, as of late, believed time was more of a luxury than he’d previously believed. Death wasn’t necessarily beckoning, but fate certainly had an appointment with him. Of this he was sure.
“That is not for you to say. We have orders.” LanCoste said it as though he somewhat doubted himself in the matter.
“Don’t worry, my friend. I will follow my orders.” He glanced up and thought silently to himself, The orders of my heart…and this foolishness delays me from them.
However, it was only a short while before Ravan’s thoughts became much less clear on the matter. He was soon preoccupied…with Adorno’s bride-to-be. He watched her later that afternoon. She was perched on a bench under an enormous chestnut tree as though she preferred not to step into the light. At first he simply observed her—a necessary consequence of his boredom. As the hours drew by, however, even from the distance, there seemed to be something very odd about this woman. The event drew on, and it made him strangely uncomfortable to observe her, and yet he found he must. He had difficulty drawing his eyes from her.
Shifting his weight, Ravan tried to recall when he’d seen her before. He considered the recent events at the castle—events where she’d been present—and he was unexpectedly overcome with awareness of a pattern. Why do I suffer the need to notice her as of late? Almost compelled to watch her? Is it my imagination that she notices me as well? And yet, she was betrothed to Adorno. Certainly she must inhabit the wretched mindset of her master, be guilty by association alone.
Of course, they’d passed on occasion. Ravan had even once, on impulse, murmured a “hello.” She’d gazed at him long and hard, her skin translucent and chalky white, her eyes piercing and deathly deep, but she’d said nothing. It troubled him that he’d felt the need to speak to her.
Today, however, she’d come to a ball for the formal announcement of her betrothal to Adorno. It was a match from birth. She was English, keeping to the tradition of the Anglo-French alliance, and though she’d spent considerable time on the estate, the moment had come to finalize the couples’ arrangement. Nicolette’s parents were present, and Adorno was in fine form, insisting upon excess to the utmost. The garden party was just the start of the festivities, and it was becoming a beautiful afternoon. This evening’s ball would be stupendous.
In Adorno’s service, Ravan had settled into a miserable existence—a job he considered not only unreasonable but immoral. Adorno should die. He deserved to die. In Ravan’s mind, Adorno was only an inadequate scrap of a man, not worthy of the earth he stood on. It was his observation that he was intentionally cruel. He’d observed the stage plays, had seen Adorno attempt to rape a chambermaid, and then, after a moment of his own impotence, he’d ordered the poor girl beaten nearly to death. Only then had the tyrant been able to gratify himself.
Ravan experienced incredible conflict with his servitude. If nothing else, the present boasted random acts of violence. It was no secret that he’d seen more than his share of unspeakable cruelty and brutality, but in all the campaigns that he'd fought, violence toward a woman or child had been his extreme sensitivity. From the pit of his being, he despised it. Ravan had never been guilty of a direct act of barbarism to a woman or child and, on some level, believed himself a better man for it.
In quick order, Ravan comprehended the hatred that all—given enough time—felt for Adorno. On at least two separate occasions, the mercenary intercepted an assassin only to hesitate. Once, he gained brief satisfaction at the fit Adorno threw as he heaved the severed head of the assassin onto the table where Adorno dined.
“Get it away! Get it away!” he’d shrieked.
With a shrug, Ravan dragged the head purposefully close enough to his master to smear the sleeve of his ivory, silk brocade jacket. It was obvious that Adorno savored exhibition of the macabre but objected to any close proximity of it to himself. Evidently, he was comfortable with barbarity only when he orchestrated it himself.
Adorno remained vain about his bodyguard, but somewhere in the back of his mind he possibly feared Ravan. In truth, the whole township feared Ravan. Here was an alarmingly efficient mercenary with a harrowing reputation; that is what people saw in him. Beyond that, Ravan came across as mortally menacing. His purposeful stride, black facade, and the desolate approach that he took to all tasks…these things served to create a monster from the man.
Many mistook Ravan’s silent and ominous demeanor as detachment from compassion. Few knew his tortured history, and no one cared. Adorno considered him a possession, his own personal barbarian, a leashed sideshow. Ravan, however, had resolved that Adorno possessed no honor, no compassion. All would be surprised to know that the mercenary harbored such a thought.
Later that day, he asked himself, “What is it which binds me to this miserable assignment?” Muttering beneath his breath, he paced the floor back and forth outside of Adorno’s bedroom suite. He was mentally preparing himself for the betrothal ball, and he dreaded it.
LanCoste sat by, perhaps simply to offer his friend company. “Hmmm…” LanCoste had moved beyond conversation and didn’t look up from sharpening the glistening arc of one of his magnificent axes. He drew the whetstone methodically across the weapon’s edge, and it gave a satisfying ring with each pull.
“I’m tired of this,” Ravan protested. “I’m done with this miserable tyrant. I wish to be gone. I need to be gone.”
This comment caused the giant to give pause, and he scrutinized his younger comrade for a few seconds but said nothing.
Later that evening, Ravan changed his mind entirely…when he met Nicolette. She entered, escorted by her parents, and approached Adorno. She curtsied deeply and considered the dark man, standing with his arms casually crossed, behind and off to the left of her betrothed.
Ravan met her gaze boldly and squarely, but it was not Nicolette who first looked away. She was perplexing and mysterious, her demeanor again capturing him in a very odd way. It was as though she was almost not human, as though she possessed some hold of him. Even the way she moved was otherworldly as though the room moved about her instead of her about the room.
Ravan was uncertain of her nationality. True, she was English by breeding, but her accent seemed remotely Slavic. She was white, almost sickly transparent, as though if you peered close enough you might see the veins—if there were any. But her eyes were dark, and the color indiscernible through and through. She spoke French superbly as though she had been born on French soil.
He was surprised again at his own undeniable interest in her. This was wholly unlike him and had never happened before. It was an acutely uncomfortable feeling and one which he could not seem to categorize. Ravan could not deny it; he was deeply fascinated by her, and tonight, she seemed to notice him as well.
Curiously, Adorno appeared oblivious to the fleeting glances the two exchanged. He was too self-absorbed to concern himself with how his betrothed might really feel about him. He'd announced his intention to marry Nicolette Gray that evening and was reveling in the attention he commanded. Wine flowed freely.
Eventually, Adorno would retire, drunk and unable to perform. In his drunkenness, he would be mercifully impotent to cast his rage on any unfortunate wench of his choosing. As was proper for the occasion, Nicolette would sleep on the other side of the castle from him, unless she was called to him.
Nicolette maintained a subtle gaze upon Ravan, even as she murmured a greeting to Adorno. Ravan shrugged. What of it? He was simply a bodyguard—not responsible for her attentions—and so, again, what of it?’
It was later at the announcement ball that Ravan found an opportune moment, and uncharacteristically, he approached her. He'd never done something like this, but it was as if an odd force exacted control of him. He must speak to her and was not even certain what he intended to say. Perhaps, he intended to downplay the looks they’d exchanged for some time now.
“I am Master Adorno’s bodyguard—his personal soldier. You will frequently see me at your fiancé’s side.” He bowed ever so slightly. “My name is Ravan.” His feelings were very mixed just now. He was undeniably drawn to her, but she would be the wife of the man he hated and would be ruling beside him.
“You don’t belong here, do you?” Her question was rhetorical, and she did not bow back, only stepped closer to him.
Silently, he hesitated, taken considerably aback.
“You don’t belong in this type of trade either, is that not so?” Her eyes flashed, bottomless and civil. Her face remained blank. She moved slowly into him as he stepped away.
Her abrupt frankness caught Ravan very much by surprise. She looked him straight in the eyes, her skin ghostly pale against the inky black of her hair. Her lips were blood red, even without rouge. She was, for the most part, expressionless and translucent, like an unfathomable pearl.
“And you, Nicolette?” he countered. It sounded odd to him to voice her name in such a personal way. “Do you belong at the side of one like your betrothed?” He allowed a rare glimmer of a smile to pass fleetingly across his lips. He was not in the least bit amused, and his question was unusually candid and sincere.
Shrugging, she replied, “I am a woman in the fourteenth century. What choice have I?” She spoke as though she were a time traveler and temporarily out of place.
“You don’t strike me as one inclined to conform to the state of society in current times.” Ravan leaned his head back, eyes narrowing, curious how she might answer him. He was shocked at how easily he spoke to her and surprised at how easily she answered.
“What do you know of how I should strike you, one way or another? What do you know of me?” The question carried with it a certain amount of hazard as though one might answer it at their own peril.
There was no inflection to the voice—it was toneless, but Ravan sensed a dark authority in it as though it spoke for all time. Again, he had the sense that she was out of place but oddly detached about it. He was immediately intrigued by her, urgently and deeply attracted to her. He leaned in so that he might smell the scent of her. Breathing in deeply, he stood much too close now, but it pleased him greatly.
“Have you ever loved someone?” She quipped before he could answer her previous question. One razor thin eyebrow climbed just a bit. She peered up at him, commanding an answer, her lips slightly pursed as she waited.
He was surprised again at the personal question and even more surprised that he answered after only a moment's hesitation. “My mother and father—of course.” He was utterly honest in his answer. “Although, I have also hated them for leaving me.” He'd never spoken of this to anyone, scarcely thought of it to himself. He was shocked at how quickly he divulged this very personal thought to Nicolette.
She tilted her head to one side. “You don’t have parents.” Again, it was a statement, not a question, and almost cruel in its candor.
“My mother is dead,” he said, “but I love her.” It occurred to him that it was strange that he spoke of his mother as though she was still present.
Nicolette nodded, offering no condolence. “It is too bad fortune has tossed you about so.” She paused. “Perhaps fortune wishes that we meet.” Nicolette’s gaze never wavered, and it wasn’t coy or flirting, only nakedly forthright. There was no smile upon her lips—only cold sincerity.
She had captured Ravan, without even trying. For the first time in a very long while, a feeling other than hatred, anger, or revenge preoccupied him. It was strong—primal but elegant. There was circulation to it—a scent and sensation. It was alive, and it made his skin tingle. Most critically, it pleased him in a very visceral way. He suddenly felt a need to be with her as though for the first time he’d met someone who knew him. It was as though she knew his mind, his heart—as if she clearly saw the dark as well as the light of it and judged him not. However, his concrete thoughts did not so tidily formulate these ideas. It was more of an instinct.
“You should be with me—not him.” Ravan surprised himself and wasn’t even certain that the words escaped his mouth. He peered more deeply into her eyes, waiting for her to acknowledge what he’d just unburdened. Stepping even closer to her, he towered over her, but she was fearless.
“We are alike, Ravan—both of us sad and wicked, honest in our treachery. But the fabric of time does not necessarily care about these things. I belong with no one.” Her gaze was unwavering.
“What do we care of the fabric of time?” he murmured, his voice deep and husky. He liked very much the way he felt at this moment, with her so close to him that he could drop his head and brush his lips against her hair, should he wish. Fear was not even a whisper upon him.
“What, indeed.” She floated backwards, stepping into an alcove, and motioned to him with her eyes to follow.
He stepped with her into the shadows of the small, private sitting room. Pulling a heavy velvet curtain, she separated them from the whirling mass of dancing and drinking guests. It was incredibly unlikely that they’d not been seen, but neither considered this even for a moment. The candlelight within the alcove cast an intimate glow on them, inviting transgression. Without a word, she reached for him, pulling his mouth down to hers.
Startled, Ravan hesitated. Nicolette seemed to sense this immediately and paused, staring pitiless into his eyes, not inviting, just waiting. Quickly overcoming his trepidation, he responded, moving into her, acting upon need, devouring her in his kiss. He was surprised at how suddenly and completely he wanted her—wanted to make her stay with him—but she controlled him even as he advanced on her.
Pushing her almost too roughly against the pillar so that her breath caught, he pressed his body against her. He stared down at her face, searching her eyes. This was all very new to him; he'd never done such a thing before. He kissed her again, roughly and deeply, inhaling the essence of her, thrilled with the unfamiliarity of it. She smelled fragrant, tribal. There was no perfume; it was all Nicolette.
The world turned slowly about as they kissed. His mouth was hard, his beard rough as it scratched her delicate lips and cheek. She coaxed him, mouth open, asking him to give in to her completely. Ravan had never kissed someone before but proved a fast study, matching her arousal, drawing her into the maleness of himself.
Reaching down, she found his trousers’ waist and pulled hard on the laces, freeing the garment enough to reach her hand in and down. She grasped him, squeezing gently while she directed his hand toward her breast. He gasped as she pulled gently but firmly on him, too overwhelmed with the sensation to question the lack of discretion.
She pulled her gown free at the bodice exposing her small breasts, gently directing his hand over one. It was hot to his touch, velvety and small, and he stroked it softly. She reached up, hand behind his neck to pull his lips to her breast. All the while, her other hand was down his trousers, rhythmically pulling on him.
Ravan had never been handled in such a way, and he groaned, closing his eyes, his tongue tasting her skin. He stood, dropping his head so that he could smell the spicy, smoky scent of her hair. She turned her face up to him, locking his mouth again in a warm, moist kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth as she drank from him.
This kiss was more than he could endure and pushed him rapidly beyond the point of no return. He threw his head forward, his back arcing as he pressed against her, his face against the cold of the stone pillar behind her. He reached down to encircle her hand with his own and moaned—a deep, carnal sound. Shuddering, his orgasm finally exploded into her hand, dripping down her fingers and spattering onto the floor.
As Ravan gasped and finished, he moaned, leaning his head heavily against the pillar, his arms on either side of her. She pushed hard against his chest, forcing him away from her. Then, she looked down at her hand as though she didn’t recognize it. Ravan just stared at her, unsteady, staggered by the immediate events.
Leaning her head casually to one side, her eyes never left his as she reached her hand up to wipe it clean upon his tunic, cleaning each finger deliberately on him, one by one. Then, she kissed him again gently, just brushing her lips against his. For the first time in his life, Ravan trembled. It was not from cold, pain, or fear. He trembled because he felt alive.
Nicolette tugged at her gown to cover her nakedness, arranged the beautiful pearl bodice, and carefully smoothed the brocade. She turned to leave and paused, almost as an afterthought.
“The fabric of time does not care about us, Ravan…not at all. Careful that you should ever think that it would.”
She turned away and did not look back as she stepped from behind the heavy curtain. Standing on the edge of the swirling mass of dancers, she paused. Then, accepting a silver cup of wine and a “congratulations,” she was carried into the sweeping crowd.
All he could do was watch, helpless to stop her. Ravan was stunned, utterly possessed by the strange beauty which had just handled him so completely—physically and emotionally. He glanced at the whirling bodies on the dance floor then across the floor to the seated Adorno.
Vacantly and with hatred in his eyes, Adorno stared back.
* * *
Late that night, LanCoste took the watch, and Ravan sat alone on the bench in his room, again overlooking the castle grounds. They were so lovely and dark on this early autumn’s night, the perfect backdrop for him to preoccupy himself with what had transpired earlier.
He repeatedly poured over in his mind what had happened at the ball, how Nicolette had spoken to him, what she had done to him, and how she’d controlled him so completely, body and soul! He could scarcely believe it was real and worried that he might have dreamed it. Ravan was consumed with his thoughts of her, and he felt more alive than ever before.
That night, there occurred a shift in the path of Ravan’s life. A dark haired beauty had given him a nudge and sent him careening wildly into very unfamiliar terrain. For the first time since arriving at Adorno’s castle, Ravan feared leaving.