Retribution (45 page)

Because Isobel was a widow with children
there were more questions. Dominic observed the eager young man and
the stolid woman, a dozen years older than her husband to be, with
a certain cynicism. “Do you accept the woman’s two sons?” he asked
Pavel. “Will you provide for them as for your own?” In an
unnecessary aside, he remarked, “One of them is sixteen this very
month.”

Pavel answered all the questions in the
affirmative. At the last comment he caught something of Dominic’s
meaning, that Isobel was old enough to have an adult son, closer in
age to her new husband than she was. No doubt others had been
making the same point and Pavel was getting tired of it. “Isobel’s
the woman for me,” he said. “I knew it from the moment I saw her.”
He blushed bright scarlet as he recalled that he had indeed seen
her, stark naked, on the trail when the bandits forced my guards
and servants to strip. Judging from the snickering and giggling in
the congregation, Pavel and I were not the only ones to remember
this fact.

The young guard chose to tough it out,
turning to his fickle audience. “And no shame in what could not be
helped,” he said, challenging anyone to laugh. We were all silent.
“And no shame in a man enjoying the sight of a fine woman, whatever
some people may think.” He dared to look in Dominic’s
direction.

Dominic chose not to take the comment
personally and observed the spirited performance with raised
eyebrows but no other expression.

“And whatever anyone thinks,” Pavel said,
making his final argument, “I’m a lucky man to get a woman like
her.” He spoke directly to Dominic now, man to man. “She fought
that bandit when he snatched your son from her arms. Broke her
wrist. She was braver than I was.” He put his arm around Isobel’s
thickening waist. “And if one of her sons will be a man soon, she’s
giving me a child of my own in his place.” He couldn’t keep the
proud smile off his face.

Dominic laughed at the fighting words. “Well
spoken,” he said as he returned to the business at hand. “I see
there are no impediments to this marriage.” The two made their vows
and the hall was readied for dinner.

Dominic confessed to me when the session was
over that he had never felt so threatened in his years on the bench
as when he allowed Wilmos to take Pavel’s place at Stefan’s. “The
thought of Magali’s curse on my head,” he said, shuddering in a
humorous imitation of a fearful villager, crossing his fingers and
pretending to spit, “will give me nightmares for weeks.” I had
impressed upon him how essential it was to stay on the
housekeeper’s good side. “But Wilmos is a man, after all. He must
make his own way in the world, go where he chooses.”

To Niall Dominic spoke more coarsely, making
a joke to cover his generosity. “The only reason I agreed to that
tiresome wedding ceremony,” he said as they undressed in the
Margrave’s bedroom, “was to assert my privilege as Margrave to
enjoy the first night.”

I had no idea,” Niall said, smiling up at
Dominic through long eyelashes, “that Aranyi was so feudal. And all
this time you never told me you had a taste for big, buxom
women.”

“With Pavel, smartass,” Dominic said. “He
cleans up rather better than I expected. And from what I could tell
he’s hung like—” He estimated a size with his hands.

“Then why are you wasting time here?” Niall’s
voice was unexpectedly brittle. “Better hurry to claim your prize
or his bride will be there before you.”

Dominic caught his companion around the
waist. “It’s only a joke, beloved,” he said. “And even if I were
serious, I would not interfere with his marriage.”

Niall held out his naked left arm, the skin
and muscles unmarked by any scar. “I can take a hint. First Stefan,
now Pavel. Perhaps I can convince Naomi to marry me after all. It
seems if I were a married man you’d find me irresistible.”

“You are irresistible now,” Dominic said. The
voices were briefly muffled; there was a kiss, an indrawn breath.
“And I am as married to you as if I wore your brand, had seared our
flesh in the ‘Graven Rite.”

Until death us do part,
the thought
sped from Dominic to Niall and back again. Their communion spiked
with the thrill of recognition. The odd events at Galloway, which
had seemed like a mock marriage, had reflected a deep truth, as
real as any oaths exchanged since. “I would not trade away one
minute with you,” Dominic said, “for a lifetime with another.” His
hand, reaching between Niall’s thighs, closed in a gentle
squeeze.

On my own bed, in my own room, my body arced
in a triple pleasure, of Dominic’s and Niall’s, and mine; a moan
rose in my throat, although the sound that emerged had something of
the bass and the baritone entwined with my soprano. The strange
noise startled me, breaking my communion with the men. I lay still,
restraining myself from resuming the connection. It was past time,
I told myself sternly, that I allowed my husband and his companion
some privacy, at least during what was, after all, their
honeymoon.

Several weeks later I noticed Dominic had a
new piece of jewelry, a silver ring on the third finger of his left
hand, the exact mate to Niall’s. He has never removed it, so I
cannot say if their initials are engraved on the inner surface.

It was at Midwinter that Niall and I filled
our side of the cell, as Dominic had urged. The festivals at summer
and winter allow us freedom, a night to enjoy what is otherwise
forbidden. Niall danced with me after supper, our steps
synchronizing easily; marriage with Dominic had accustomed me to
matching the stride of so tall a man. Niall’s arms enfolded me in
our last dance, a slow waltz, and our
crypta
fields buzzed
and prickled with anticipation. When the music stopped he left one
arm around my shoulders as he led me to one of the many readied
bedrooms.

Our hearts were beating strong, the blood
flushing our cheeks, but we need not worry about betrayal or
dishonor on this longest night of the year. We kept one lamp
burning as we undressed—first ourselves, for the outer garments,
then the other down to the skin. Niall’s kiss was as sweet as the
one we had shared on my bed when he had come to say good-by, only
this time he did not startle away in panic nor take his hand off my
breast when it found its way there so naturally. After that first
kiss, the touch of Niall’s hand on my tingling flesh, I had no more
reservations but opened myself to my husband’s companion,
luxuriating in what would be mine for this one permitted night.

When Niall’s sword sheathed itself in the
scabbard of his lord’s wife, there was no doubt that Dominic was
with us, reveling in the incomparable pleasure of lover and wife
together. Dominic made communion first with Niall, sharing the
man’s familiar demanding rush of need, then joined with me to
experience a woman’s deep, rolling waves of orgasm—something he had
never known directly, from the inside.
Now I see
, Dominic
said the next time we made love, smiling with his new understanding
and taking special care to please
.

But when Niall entered me the second time,
and the third—for we wasted little time in sleep on our one
night—we were alone.
Amalie,
Niall thought, his mouth on my
nipple as I held his head to keep him there,
there are no
secrets between us, no shame.

As Dominic could have told me had I thought
to challenge him with it, we three were one, although it had taken
us a little longer than it ought for us to recognize it. Dominic
had told Niall the story of our first night together, the horror of
the telepathic weapon, but it had been no betrayal of me. Only
Niall, his true love, could ease the terrible burden of guilt that
was too heavy for a man to bear alone. And Niall could begin to
discover the truth of my love for Dominic and his for me. He saw
that our love did not depend, any more than did his and Dominic’s,
on property and family, but on something that transcended the
traditional roles of marriage. Dominic and his companion were both
learning that the love of a woman can occasionally be as selfless
as the love of men. Their own love had survived its perils in no
small part because of the generosity of women.

It took another year, another Midwinter
festival, for Dominic and Naomi to make true peace at last. From
the radiant energy that infused our little cell the next day, it
was clear that Dominic and the forest witch had filled the last gap
that separated us. “You planned this.” Naomi had thrown my
accusation to her back in my face at that horrible breakfast at
Galloway. As usual with her, I had not understood. It was the cell
I had planned, nothing more. But with my memories of seminary
training I should have expected this—the outgrowth, sometimes the
prerequisite, of any successful cell.

We never spoke directly of these nights, even
in so close a family. The etiquette of festival nights is strict,
and what is never acknowledged or proclaimed cannot cause jealousy
or rancor later on. The love of festival night should be like a
beautiful dream that fades on awakening, just as the partner should
be a different one each time.

Yet Niall returned to me twice despite
convention—at Midsummer one year, Midwinter another. While he used
most of his nights of freedom from marriage vows to pursue the men
he must ignore the rest of the year, there were times he craved the
comfort of the woman whose love and marriage mirrored his own. On
those nights, festivals that found us alone at Aranyi without a
choice beyond the members of the household, we were compelled one
to the other by the force of our connection, our union with
Dominic. I have never adapted well to this Eclipsian custom,
preferring to go alone to my room after a few drinks and dances.
Only with Niall did I truly desire the night of full communion with
a man who was not my husband.

In their deep love, Niall dared tease Dominic
with it. “I was warned,” he said, during a break in their sword
practice, “that you were a dangerous man. But I didn’t know the
half of it.”

“And what is that, beloved?” Dominic asked,
pouring himself a goblet of watered wine from the sweating pitcher
nestled in its bucket of snow.

“Since becoming your companion,” Niall said,
“I have fathered a child, married a woman in all but the ceremony,
and—” He grinned at Dominic’s unreadable face. “—enjoyed a most
intimate night with the wife of a powerful Margrave known for his
swordsmanship.” He hung his head in mock despair. “I had a spotless
reputation in the Royal Guards, exclusively
vir
. But I
suppose that’s gone now.”

Dominic laughed. “I have ruined you,” he
said. “But all experience is valuable. Besides, with hard work and
dedication, you may redeem yourself.” He held out the goblet and
Niall took a long drink, careful to place his lips where Dominic’s
had been.

Dominic picked up the practice sword and
swept it in a challenging arc. “Shall we make it interesting?”

“Isn’t it always?” Niall said, meeting his
lover’s blade in midair. The clang of steel on steel ended much too
soon. “You did that on purpose.” Niall’s voice rose in
exasperation. “Even a novice wouldn’t leave himself exposed like
that.”

“No, beloved.” Dominic’s voice had a tremor,
like a strangled laugh. “You’re simply a better swordsman than you
give yourself credit for.” He laid down his weapon, clasped hands
behind his back, a prisoner awaiting sentencing. “Name your
penalty.”

Niall shook his head. “You’re impossible.” At
Dominic’s insistence, he said, “You know what I like.”

Dominic fell to his knees, the day’s lesson
ended. When, for no transgression but love, Niall knelt to
reciprocate, Dominic pronounced his judgment. “To be truly
vir
, like becoming a master swordsman, requires constant
practice. Every day.”

If Niall did express a longing occasionally,
quoting his father, for the all-male world of the “Royal fucking
Guards,” it was with his casual manner that precluded any hurt
feelings. Dominic promised to recommend Niall for promotion to
first fucking lieutenant, “
If
you maintain your fucking at
its present high standard of performance.”

When Katrina’s third child was born Marcin
made an effort to help. Although he and Katrina have no ‘Graven
blood and are not telepaths, Marcin came to Aranyi Fortress when
the baby was due, made sure Naomi was available and stayed with his
wife every minute of her labor. All in vain. The little girl was
dead in a matter of seconds, her heart defective. She turned blue,
not breathing, as soon as the umbilical cord was cut.

Katrina wept like a defeated general watching
her last troops being mowed down. “She was mine,” she said to
Marcin. “All mine, not yours.”

“My love,” Marcin said, “she was mine as much
as the others. You know what you said was a lie.”

“It was the truth of how you felt about me,”
Katrina said. “It doesn’t matter whether it really happened. You
saw me that way.”

“I was stupid,” Marcin said. “But it was
because I love you. Please, Katrina, forgive me.”

Whether or not Katrina forgave her husband,
she grew happier in the months that followed. Over the years there
were times when I could have sworn she was pregnant again, but she
never had another child. “Not all pregnancies are healthy,” Naomi
said when I questioned her. “Many more abort naturally than most
people realize.”

It was two months after Midsummer, over a
year since my captivity, that Naomi was delivered of a healthy boy.
Her labor was difficult for all her strength, her body trying to
force too large an object through narrow hips not built for
childbirth.

Niall held her hands in the communion of
husband and wife, sweat pouring from him, his handsome face lined
with pain. They struggled for an entire day and a night, while
Dominic groaned and cursed in sympathetic communion, while my loins
ached in their memories of two deliveries of my own.