Shana Abe (16 page)

H
er first sight of the island came on a day that at first seemed ill-suited for viewings.

To call the sea choppy would be kind at best, or else an outright lie. As far as she could see, which admittedly wasn’t far through the mist, the water rose and fell in sickening rows, one after the other, foamy and high, rocking the small boat she sat in so much that as each wave fell, the bow would slam down hard against the bottom of the swell. Yet she wasn’t about to let them know how she felt.

For Roland and his men seemed perfectly at ease in the topsy-turvy spin of the skiff. They must have made this crossing so many times before.

She hadn’t been expecting an island; she didn’t know why. Kyla recollected now that she was out on the ferociousness of the open sea, that someone had mentioned to her once that the Earl of Lorlreau made his home on an island. But the memory must have been buried beneath the quicksand of all that happened later in her life, and the fact that Lorlreau was the main island in a string of three that made up the earldom had completely slipped away from her.

She remembered now, of course. The sea wind bit into her cloak and made a mess of the simple braid she had attempted, scattering her hair in wild strings around her. She held on to the side of the skiff with grim fortitude, staring over the whitecaps, looking in vain for any looming shape
through the sea mist that would indicate this torture soon would be over.

They had left London the dawn after their arrival there. A sharp knock on the chamber door had preceded her husband striding in, frowning down at her where she lay, still mussed in the covers of the bed. He had ordered her to prepare for their departure.

Perhaps he was poor-humored from the night in the outer chamber, where she had not noticed any visible signs of sleeping. Perhaps it was something else, that other thing that Kyla preferred not to think of just now because she was still embarrassed, and she didn’t like feeling embarrassed.

Of course he was handsome. She had always thought that. Of course when he kissed her she would kiss him back. It was delightful, dark and delicious and unfamiliar, seeming to lead somewhere that she could not imagine but wanted to.

So yes, she had responded to him. She was helpless not to, just as she was helpless not to feel the fear and self-loathing that sprang forth from their lovemaking.

He was the Hound of Hell. How could she make love to him?

And she was his wife. So how could she not?

Kyla could not deny the part of her that was appalled that she would even think about sharing herself with this man, this murderer. The marriage was a sham, a sick joke they were now forced to play out.

Equally strong—as much as she hated it—was that other part of her, the corporeal part that cared nothing for either the marriage or the murders. Despicable, terrifying, but oh, God, still so true: She wanted him. She wanted him in a way she had never even known existed before he kissed her that first time. She craved his touch, she longed for his kiss, a million of them, another moment alone with him to press against him, to discover the end of the erotic journey he had taken her body on that London night … this murderer.…

It gave her a headache thinking of it and so Kyla dropped her focus to the sea itself, rushing past in hard steel-blue
waves, and the steady dip of the oars as the men heaved and hoed their way across the water.

Roland, beside her now, was as coolly impersonal as he had been since that morning two days ago, back at Henry’s palace. Not cold, not cruel, just polite. Distant. A stranger with the air of putting up with a regrettably rude houseguest.

A few errant strands of her hair would periodically whip up into his face no matter how she tried to contain them. He would remove them without comment and without looking at her. Other than that, nothing about this rather perilous voyage seemed to stir him.

She couldn’t believe that they had wanted to sail this surly, writhing ocean when she had seen it from the docks, especially not in the rickety skiff Roland had pointed to. It was a joke, surely.

But no, they were serious, all of Roland’s men, and all of them had piled into the four long skiffs that were now making their way to Lorlreau, except for a contingent that had stayed behind to wait for the larger boat to bring the horses across. Kyla thought the horses probably got the better deal.

They had helped her into the skiff courteously, big, rough men who called her Countess and handled her as if she were glass. The first time she heard her new title was from the maid in London who had come to dress her that morning. Kyla had let the word drift over her, just assuming that the maid, for whatever reason, was referring to someone else—until the conversation stalled, the girl waiting for acknowledgment, and Kyla realized it was her, she was the countess. It would have been amusing if it were not so strange.

She was becoming more used to it. Duncan, Roland’s captain, would only address her by the title, thus setting the precedent for the others to follow. Now it was “Countess” this and “Countess” that. She thought a little sardonically that if she was ever in a room with another countess she wouldn’t be able to figure out who was who.

Without warning, the sun broke through the blanket of clouds above. Through fate or coincidence, it was just as the
fog bank reversed itself, dissolving in front of her eyes in pale, sparkling rainbows. And then there was Lorlreau.

A sort of cheer erupted from the men. She couldn’t help but want to join them.

Like an enchanted promise Lorlreau rose from the sea, full of peaks and valleys, velvet greens bright against a pinkish-golden base, cliffs and trees and long beaches, and then there, in the distance, the outline of a castle in the hills. The sun gave a shimmering glow to it all, warming the landscape’s textures in high relief, even allowing her to pick out what might have been people around the pier reaching out to the sea.

They
were
people, and they were multiplying. They were running out on the pier, waving and calling, a few jumping up and down with excitement.

The men around her seemed to put some extra effort into their already strenuous task, sweating against the wind, grinning like boys.

Even Roland’s mood lifted. The sun kissed him with yellow gold, brightening the honeyed hair, turning the turquoise of his eyes to something as magical as the place, rare and gifted. He was smiling with his men, tacking the small sail, his movements quick and glad.

It was impossible not to get caught up in their enthusiasm.

As they drew closer she could hear the happy voices calling out to them, names being yelled across the water, children racing back and forth between the adults, everyone laughing or smiling. A cluster of men waited patiently near the edge of a reddish-brown cliff that formed the inner circle of a cove, and she didn’t understand why until the skiffs veered off in that direction and she could make out the metal ladder bolted into the rockface.

The boat rocked violently as the men stood and tossed up the rope to the others to secure the skiff to the heavy iron pegs lining the top of the cliff. Water splashed into the bottom of the boat, soaking her hem.

Beyond the busy men were now the other people she had seen, calmer, waiting for them to begin the climb up the ladder.
She was seated near the back, wondering how she was going to manage the climb in her skirts, when Roland began urging her up to the front, telling her to go ahead and he would be right behind.

“Just don’t look down, and don’t let go,” was all he said, giving her a little boost up to the first rung.

Kyla closed her eyes, fighting the nausea rising up in her, clinging with one hand to the cold, wet metal while the other clutched her sodden skirts. Behind her the men were standing in the skiff, talking to the people up above.

She took one step, then another, then another. It wasn’t a long climb but to her it seemed endless: grip, step, pause; grip, step, pause. The sloshing of the water below created a wet, slapping sound that reverberated around them.

When her head reached the top, eager hands were helping her up, pulling her to the safety of the solid ground.

She thanked them, straightening her skirts, tucking her hair back again, smoothing the cape, conscious that everyone was staring at her, quiet, even after Roland came up behind her.

She looked a mess, she was positive. She could taste the salt on her lips, feel the dampness in the curling tendrils of hair that wanted to float around her face. Her gown was splashed with water, spotted and streaked in blackish stains against what used to be the color of cinnamon.

All around her were the blank faces of strangers, assessing her, drawing their own conclusions in communal silence. Kyla didn’t know where to look, at the carefully empty eyes of the people around her, the sky, the ground, her husband?

“Behold,” said Roland to the people, breaking the pall of silence. He draped an arm around her waist. “The Lady Kyla Strathmore, Countess of Lorlreau.”

Several of the women gasped out loud, covering their mouths with their hands. The men were less affected, a few exchanging looks, and the children didn’t seem to understand at all, just catching the curious spell that hung over the crowd, pushing back into their mothers’ skirts.

One man nudged his way to the front of the crowd with
unhurried ease, his face aglow with something like delight. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

“Welcome, my sister,” he said, and his words were the charm that freed the others to come forward, bowing, curtsying, some of them taking her hand.

By now the other skiffs were docking as well, a steady stream of men were coming up the ladder, and many of the folk broke away to greet their loved ones, the rising tide of voices mingling with the water sounds below.

The man who had kissed her also embraced Roland, both of them clapping each other on the back. He wore the simple brown robe of a monk, she noticed, which would perhaps explain why he had called her sister. Except that when both of them turned to face her she was struck by the similarity between them; not much, the shape of the jaw, the line of the nose. But where Roland’s coloring was fair and bright, the monk’s was darker, chestnut browns and burnt sienna. And while Roland was one of the tallest men she had ever seen, the monk almost towered over him, over them all, actually, a gentle giant of a man.

“Kyla,” said Roland. “This is my brother, Harrick.”

She inclined her head and dipped down to the best curtsy she could manage on her shaky legs.

“Oh, come, none of that,” said Harrick, pulling her upright. “I’m only a half brother, you know.”

Roland put his arm back around her and began to lead the three of them away from the dock, leaving the others to follow as they would. “Where is Elysia?”

“With Marla at Lorlmar. We’ve been expecting you for the past month, and she has been driving everyone to distraction asking them to go look for you.” Harrick kept his pace slow and even, matching his stride to their shorter steps as they found a stone path that led back into the woods.

“We were delayed.” Roland tightened his arm around her momentarily. Harrick nodded.

“Ah, yes. And congratulations on your marriage.”

Roland laughed. “That was not the part that delayed us.”

Again he told their story, abbreviated this time, and Harrick listened without interrupting, only once throwing a quick, astute glance to Kyla when Roland got to the part about their wedding vows.

The air was cool but not chilly here, much better than it had been at sea. She heard birdsong scattered around them, noted the little starlike flowers that decorated the path of stones in trailing bands of pink and yellow and white. The thick, old evergreens around them gave off a heavy perfume, adding to the mystical atmosphere.

Kyla wondered who Elysia was.

Harrick was telling Roland about the state of affairs during his absence.

“… and Madoc has been complaining rather vigorously about what he terms the lack of manners from some of our pages, which may or may not have to do with the eel found in his pallet this Monday past.…”

Roland laughed. “I bet he put it there himself.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” agreed Harrick serenely. “Or perhaps it was Seena.”

“A novel idea for keeping him in line,” said Roland.

“She is best at it. I fear we are being rude to your bride.” Harrick turned to Kyla. “You will meet Madoc and Seena very soon, my dear. They don’t leave Lorlmar much these days. They complain that they are too old, but the truth of the matter is the castle would fall apart without them.”

Since Kyla didn’t really know what to say to this she merely nodded, reflecting back Harrick’s easy manner with her, taking in the newness of the surroundings and the surprising comfort of Roland’s arm, still around her waist.

From the edges of the thick woods she caught a glimpse of something, a liquid refraction that was gone in an instant, then back again. It was the glancing beam of sunlight off the eye of a sturdy doe, so still she blended in almost completely with the ruddy lines of the tree trunks and the hovering branches. Without slowing her steps Kyla watched the doe, who watched back, unperturbed, from her forest cover. As
they drew closer the deer even bent down and took a mouthful of something, then lifted her head up again, chewing, watching the trio walk by without a trace of fear.

The doe was long-nosed and elegant, a faint speckling of white dabbed across her backside. She blinked again in the sunlight, a creature of leaves and earth and peace, then went back to eating.

“Almost there,” Harrick was saying cheerfully. “We don’t usually take the horses to the pier, Lady Kyla, since the distance is so short and the walk is so pleasant. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she said.

It felt good to walk after the ride on the skiff, to get her blood back into her toes and the tips of her fingers, to breathe deeply of the pine-scented air. The trees climbed high up into the sky, their pointed tips and arching branches with clusters of needles and cones interspersed with ash and fir, birch and oak, and some trees she had no names for. More than a few held flowers for the spring, some white, some peach, most pink and lavender.