Authors: Laura Kinsale
She smiled and leaned over him. She kissed his mouth, tasting the hard warmth. "I'm proud of you, too." She held back a little, looking down into his eyes, wondering if she was talking to Sheridan or his demon—and if she could reach either with words of reason. "You've kept us safe. But you didn't hurt anyone. You didn't kill anybody."
"I would have," he said with instant ferocity.
"No, Sheridan, you wouldn't have. Because that wouldn't have made any sense. It wouldn't have gotten you what you wanted. It would have been wrong, and you'd have felt bad afterwards."
His breathing quickened. "I wouldn't want to do it. But there's something inside me…I can't help it. I can't let it out. I have to keep it under control. If I let it out—" He groaned. "Oh, God, if you knew me—what I've done, what I am…you'd hate me."
She laid her hand against his cheek. "I won't hate you, Sheridan. I promise. With all my heart, I promise you that."
He closed his eyes. With a sudden move he pulled her down against him, burying her face in his shoulder. "Why did you leave me? Why?"
"Because I was a fool," she whispered. "A fool and a coward."
"You're afraid of me."
"No!" She raised herself, forcing him to look at her. "No. Listen to me. I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid of Julia."
He stared at her.
"I'm afraid because she's beautiful. I'm afraid because she always knows what to say. That's why I went to Francis, because I know I'll never be what she is"—Olympia bit her lip—"and you've loved her, and I'm jealous."
He just looked at her with a faint, blank frown. "Julia?"
She shrugged, ashamed of her weakness.
"Julia," he repeated slowly. An expression of incredulous comprehension came over his face. "Are you talking about Julia Plumb?"
She buried her face against his chest and nodded.
"Good God. You really do think I'm a hopeless lunatic."
Olympia kept her face hidden, wondering if she'd understood him correctly.
"I despise that witch. She's the worst of 'em all."
"Mustafa said—" She took a breath, still keeping her face against his chest. "Mustafa said she'd been your…lover."
"Much he ever knew about it."
Her heart thumped in her throat. What if his servant had been lying again? She waited, and when she couldn't stand it any longer, asked, "Was she?"
He turned on his side and stroked her hair. His hand trembled. "You're jealous? You're jealous of Julia?"
She lowered her eyes, pressing her lips together. "Oh—how could I not be?"
"Poor, blind princess. Jealous of Julia." He shook his head. "She'd love to hear this. She'd be in raptures. The icy slut, I'll wager she's been bleeding the heart out of you since you came under her control."
Olympia made an effort to smile. "It wasn't so awful as that. But I never thought she cared for me very much."
"She doesn't know the meaning of the word. And she has bled you, Princess. She's made you believe you're not beautiful; she made you dislike your own body, so that you wanted to hide from me." He put his hand on her waist and slid it down to her hip, watching her breasts through the translucent fabric. "Never believe her. You're perfect. You're so lovely."
She wanted to believe him, but it was too hard. She moved a little, so that his hand fell away. "You seem to know her awfully well."
"She was my father's mistress." He smiled bitterly as she sucked in her breath. "Ah—I've shocked you. I know Julia damned well. She first seduced me when I was sixteen and home on leave. At the time I thought it was my idea—by way of spiting my father, y'know—but the wisdom of age has enlightened me. On that point and a few others."
"Your father's mistress?" Olympia echoed numbly.
"Well—ex-mistress," he said. He moved his hand in a careless gesture. "Apparently the old man turned her off a considerable time ago and she had to go to work for a living."
Olympia could hardly comprehend the idea. Julia? That severe black elegance and obsessive concern for Olympia's reputation hid a rich old man's mistress? "M-Mustafa said—"
"I can imagine what Mustafa said. And yes, she came to me when I got back. And I took advantage of it. I've always told you I'm no saint, and God knows she owed me, considering the way she was planning to trap me into—"
He broke off suddenly, frowning.
She put her hand on his arm. "What is it?"
He looked down at the rug. "It's nothing. Nothing important."
Then he rolled over onto his back, his jaw set moodily. His features were grim and dark above the scarlet tunic, shuttered in thought. Abruptly he turned again. Without a word he took her in his arms and held her hard, pushing his hand into her hair.
Olympia closed her eyes and pressed herself against him. Through her light silk costume, his body felt hard beneath the velvet coat, his arms taut. His fingers moved restlessly in her hair.
"Christ, I'm such a sorry bastard," he whispered against her throat. "I love you." His voice broke in hoarse intensity. "Princess, I love you so much."
She stroked his cheek. "I love you, too."
He moaned, shaking his head. His arms tightened, and then suddenly he let her go. He stood up and began to prowl the room. "You can't," he said. "You can't. You just don't know…" His voice trailed off hopelessly.
"About your father's will?" She sat up. "And that it was Julia who forced you to propose to me? Yes, I do know. Mustafa told me." She looked down at her knees. "I think I knew it must be something like that all along."
"It was worse than that," he said.
She looked up.
"I wrote a letter to your uncle. I figured I could sell you to him when we got to Rome. But that was before. Before we—"
She held his eyes, keeping her chin steady. It was growing dark, the shadows in the little garden outside their room lengthening.
He leaned back against the tiled wall with a sigh. He pressed his hands over his face and shook his head.
"I still love you, Sheridan."
He lowered his hands, staring at the floor. "That was why you took up with Fitzhugh, wasn't it? Because I've been such a blackguard."
"That's what I told myself," she said honestly. "But I think…I think it was mostly Julia. When I heard that you and she were—lovers…" Olympia shrugged and rubbed at the silk on her trousers. "How could I think I ever meant anything to you?"
"For what it's worth," he said gruffly, "you mean everything to me."
She lifted her face, gazing at him.
He bent his head and avoided her eyes. "You're the reason I'm alive. I'll get you to Rome. I'll keep you safe. I'll never let anything hurt you."
She stood up and went to him, taking his hands between hers. "What does that mean—I'm the reason you're alive?"
He stared down at their hands. She smoothed his hair, touched the little scar across his eyebrow.
He spoke quietly. "I went to sea when I was ten, Princess. My father told me I was going to Vienna to study music, but it was a joke. He liked to play jokes. I think he meant to come back and get me. I really do." His jaw worked. "Sometimes I do, anyway. But I was just a kid—another midshipman—there must have been ten thousand of us, and there was the French war…and he didn't come, or he couldn't find me, and the ship sailed."
He rubbed his thumb over hers, frowning deeply. Olympia gripped his hand. "It isn't fair," she said. "It isn't right, to take children and send them to war."
"It wasn't so bad," he said slowly. "I don't know if you can understand how it is, how you…" He seemed to search for words. "…make a bond with the others. It's more than friendship. It's as if—as if something happens to them, it happens to you. The first time we were fired on, I was so scared I couldn't cry—I wet myself—all the noise—and the way it smells; you can hardly breathe, the powder smoke bums your throat…every time we took a ball, I thought the ship would sink. And there was another middie, who'd been aboard a few years—and he saw me. I was standing there about to fall down; I was so paralyzed and terrified and ashamed of myself—and he yelled some stupid joke to me—I don't even remember what it was—but I just started laughing, and he laughed—in the middle of all that hell." His throat worked. "His name was Harry Dover." He pulled his hand away from hers and rubbed his ear. "Harry Dover. I don't know what happened to him."
She watched his face. It held distance: space and time…memories.
"The first few months," he said, "whenever I was off watch, I used to get under a blanket in my hammock, no matter how hot it was, and cry. Maybe it was longer than a few months. Maybe it was years. I wanted to go home. I was so lonely and scared and helpless." He bit his lip. "I was really scared."
She touched his cheek. "Of course you were scared. You were ten years old."
"I've always been scared. I don't want to die. Not that way. Not all torn to bits by bullets and canister shot." He shook his head. "But after a while, something happens to you. All that fear—the bodies, the noise…you just get numb. You see a man's head shot off, and you think: that's an amazing sight—and you don't feel anything. Nothing." He swallowed. "Except…you keep seeing it. Maybe not for a while. Maybe not for a long, long time. But then someday you lie down and dream about it. And then you keep seeing it, over and over." His voice trailed off to a whisper. "I can still see it."
She put her arms around him and rested her cheek against his chest wordlessly.
"I don't know what's gone wrong," he said in a shaky voice. "I used to be all right. I had dreams, sometimes, but it wasn't like this. It wasn't with me—waiting for me; I didn't look in the mirror and remember…these thoughts didn't come to me in the middle of trying to hold a conversation, or dress, or just eat. I didn't wake up in the middle of the night and see things. They get hold of me, and I can't make them go away. I push one off and there's another—worse." He rested his mouth on her hair with a soft moan. "I think I'm being punished. I think I was supposed to die—I'm supposed to be in Hell…but I can't go yet. I have to protect you."
"Sheridan. Oh, Sheridan."
"Don't cry." He held her tight. "Don't be afraid. I'll take care of you. I won't fail this time."
"It's you I'm afraid for!"
He took her face between his hands and kissed her. "Don't be afraid for me. I don't even care where I am, except you're here, and I love you." He kissed her nose, and her forehead. "I love you."
She gazed up at him, her eyes leaking tears. "I w-wish I knew what to do."
"You can't do anything. It's me. It's not your fault."
"I love you, Sheridan!"
He put his forehead to hers. "Don't love me, Princess. I just want to hold you, just for a little while. I think about you all the time while we ride out there—I was so proud of you when you got mad and took that damned camel; you're so beautiful and brave and clever—and I just want to have a little while, like it was on the island." He held her close, burying his face in her hair. "But you can't believe in it, Princess, you can't. Life isn't like that. There's now, and there isn't anything else, and if you let yourself believe, if you take it for granted, it'll crush you into little pieces and there won't be anything left when you lose it."
"No," she said, "that's not the way life is."
He held her to him. "Innocent princess. Beautiful, sweet princess."
"You can't go on like this. We have to—"
A quiet voice broke in on her, foreign words that made Sheridan look up. His arms loosened.
Three tall, soft-skinned eunuchs in rich brocade tunics and fezzes stood just within the chamber. The foremost bowed toward Olympia and gestured at the door with the whip that was his badge of office as keeper of the seraglio. She picked out the word
hareem
from the flow of Turkish.
"No. She stays with me," Sheridan exclaimed, and took a step in front of her. He jerked his chin and gave a sharp order.
The servant bowed again, apologetic, profuse in his salutations, but firmly repeating the gesture for Olympia to accompany him.
She grasped Sheridan's arm, unwilling to leave him for the sequestered hareem while he was in this uncertain mood. She felt his muscle grow taut and looked up at his face. He seemed to pale in the dimming light—she could see the change come in him, the wolf spring to life. His eyes locked on the servant. He didn't move, but his balance shifted and his body went fluid in anticipation.
"Sheridan," she said, tightening her hand on his arm.
He ignored her.
The eunuch walked forward, his beardless face serene. He bowed again to Sheridan.
"I'm sure there must be some mistake," Olympia said, shaking her head to get the notion across. She could feel the tension in Sheridan's arm grow with every inch the servant moved forward. She silently countered the force, pressing his arm downward with her fingers as she pointed to herself and to the ground. "I always stay with him."
The eunuch bowed again, and reached out to guide her away.
Sheridan moved. The power pulled her forward like a dangling stake jerked free of the ground. His first blow sent the servant staggering back with a shrill cry, plump arms lifted to fend off his attacker. But Sheridan didn't stop. The other two ran forward with high-pitched shouts as Sheridan went after the first, hit him again and knocked him to his knees. Olympia threw herself forward, ducking the whips, trying to drag Sheridan back before he could kill the man.
Suddenly there were stronger hands than hers hauling at his arms, the clatter and shouts of real guards. While he wrestled in their hold, the limp eunuch was carried bodily from the room, his pale skin already showing bruises. Sheridan still struggled, his face marked with red welts, his breathing harsh and furious as he strained like a chained dog to reach the remaining two eunuchs. He swore at them in English and Arabic and languages Olympia had never heard, while they stood near the door, speaking in wild, palpitating voices.
"Sheridan," Olympia repeated, over and over. "It's all right; I won't leave—Sheridan, listen to me—please—I'm here; I won't leave." But he never even seemed to hear her. He simply fought himself into exhaustion, imprisoned at every point by fresh guards. His curses turned to grunts, and then to painful gasps. Finally, the guards were holding him up instead of holding him still. They pulled him against the wall and let him slide down to his knees.