The Lord of Illusion - 3 (12 page)

“Well
you
might smile,” said his lordship when she entered his bedchamber. “You did not have to spend the last half hour listening to the idle chatter of women. How can they manage to speak so many words while saying nothing at all?”

Camille did not reply, but her smile grew wider. “It is called flirting, my lord. And you should be flattered by the attention.”

“Should I?” His golden eyes took on a calculating glitter. “Does their interest make you jealous?”

Camille’s smile disappeared. She would not admit the truth. Even if she had known what it might be. “Certainly not. You are an exceptionally handsome and charming man, and it is natural for the court to be drawn to you. Do not be surprised if your circle of admirers grows to include a few men.”

He sat up, pale hair curling across his naked shoulders to spill down his chest. “Men? Ah, wait, no; do not distract me with that comment. I wish to hear more about the
exceptional
part.”

“My lord?”

“Well, it is one thing to be handsome and charming. But quite another to be thought exceptionally so. Do you not agree?”

Camille caught herself from wringing her hands like Augusta. This man had the oddest way of setting her heart beating with thoughts she never contemplated before. “Was there something you needed, my lord? Some broth, perhaps.”

He flopped back against the pillows. “You are a tough one, Camille. I vow you have every right to be. But I am just as stubborn, you know.”

She held her face carefully neutral.

“Ah, well. There are those notes to answer. I think… I think it would amuse me to have you read them aloud. And then you may write my reply.”

Camille nodded, picked up the silver tray, and sat in her usual chair. Only by sheer force of will did she not betray herself by glancing at the book of
Robinson
Crusoe
. They had been very close to finishing.

She set down the tray and picked up the first of the notes, layered heavily in scent, and began to read. Her voice lowered to a halt halfway through. “My lord, this is highly personal. Perhaps you would like to read the rest of it yourself?”

His gold eyes had been fixed on her face as usual. Outside the windows, clouds covered the skies and candles had been lit throughout the room as a result, the gentle glow highlighting the angle of his cheekbone, the ridge of his jaw. The sensual curve of his mouth. “No, I like hearing your voice. It soothes me.”

“As you wish.” Camille took a deep breath, her face coloring as she read an intimate and detailed account of all of Lord Hawkes’s attributes. From his flowing white hair with the unusual waves at temple and brow, to his faceted golden brown eyes, to the width of his shoulders and the curve of his… bottom. Guesses could only be dreamt of as to the breadth of his member, but the writer managed to hazard a description in glowing detail. Of its size and strength and feel. And to please quench this longing that kept the lady awake at night, thinking of him, aching for him, imagining them together and how he would touch her…

At last, Camille read the flowing signature at the bottom of the letter. She could not speak, could not look at him for embarrassment. What this lady described did not resemble what she remembered of the sexual act. Indeed, it appeared to be an entirely different portrayal than she might ever have thought.

“How shall I answer, Camille?” His deep voice soothed, while the sound of her name excited.

“Firmly, my lord.”

“Firmly?”

“Indeed. But gently. For she must be discouraged without offending her. She is a great lady at court.”

“I see. Then I suppose I shall not take her up on her offer?”

“No, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“I…” Camille did not know. But the thought of her lord in bed with this woman made her want to scream.

“Then you shall have to devise an appropriate reply. My writing box is over there, with quill and ink. Read it to me when you are finished.”

And with those words he closed his eyes, and she did as he asked, only the sound of his deep breathing accompanying the scratch of her quill across paper.

When she read her reply, he pronounced it satisfactory, and bade her read another of the missives.

Camille sighed. The next note was of a more flowery nature, speaking of moonlight and stolen kisses and the meeting of eyes across the room. When she reached the signature, she recognized the name of the young lady of the court.

“You should dissuade her in a fatherly manner, my lord.”

He opened one dazzling eye. “I am not so old.”

“She is very, very young.”

“I see. Write the reply.”

After Camille read and responded to several more letters, Augusta entered the room, built up the fire, and brought them hot tea and a portion of the iced cakes Camille had fetched from the kitchens for the ladies.

Camille breathed a sigh of relief. Each letter made her feel hotter and hotter, as the thought of one of these women in his lordship’s arms set a blaze inside of her, until she finally recognized the emotion.

Jealousy. For the attentions of a
man
.

She set aside the letters and picked up a cup and saucer, the china so delicate it looked nearly transparent. She bent forward to place the cup against his mouth.

“You are an excellent nursemaid, but I think I can manage on my own this time,” said his lordship. “Please just fetch me some more pillows to prop me up. This way we can sup together.”

Camille did as he asked, pushing her chair closer to the bed, the tray between them. She sipped her tea, watching him do the same, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, admiring the breadth of his chest in much the same fashion as the ladies in their letters. It felt peculiar to view a man so differently.

“You are not eating, Camille.”

“Slaves are not often given such sweets, my lord.”

“Then it is high time you had them.”

Camille picked up a cake. Not a partial crumb of one, or the day-old remains that filtered back to the kitchens. But a freshly baked, sweetly delicious, mouthwatering confection. It tasted like a bit of heaven.

She did not hesitate when Lord Hawkes urged her to eat another.

“So, am I to reject all of my admirers?”

Camille froze in the act of choosing another treat. “I thought that was your wish, my lord.”

“And it seems to be yours, as well. I detected a certain… enthusiasm in your replies. Am I wrong?”

“You did not seem interested in anyone—”

“But you,” he finished.

“Because you dreamt of me.”

“Yes.”

“I fear your dreams, my lord.”

“As did I. Until they sent me you.”

Camille wondered who had sent him these dreams, for his words indicated he knew. She did not have the time to ask, because he reached out and touched her hand.

She knew snow swirled outside the palace windows. She knew Augusta had stoked the fire high to ward off the winter chill. But suddenly she sat in a meadow of wildflowers, surrounded by apple trees in full glorious bloom. White petals fluttered down around them, blossoms filling the air above her. Bees buzzed about fallen fruit, the ripe sweet scent filling her nose.

Without intending to, Camille curled her fingers around his lordship’s.

He still sat opposite her, minus bedding and pillows, his legs clad in loose breeches and his chest still bare, his skin glowing in the sunshine. His eyelids drooped lazily beneath his light brown brows, the golden color of his irises near yellow in the light.

“Your illusions are improving, my lord.”

His lips curled. “My magic is too erratic. It seems to respond only to my strongest emotions. And for
some
reason, my strongest emotions all center around you.”

Camille smiled. Truly smiled at him for the first time. Her memories of abuse suddenly faded to the back of her mind, as if they had happened to an entirely different person. She could picture only the visions of courtly love his letters invoked.

He caught his breath for a moment, held her gaze with his eyes, as if he sought to discover the truth of her heart in that bold look. When he leaned forward, Camille did not pull away. She did not have to fight the urge to do so. Faith, she found herself leaning toward him, meeting him halfway.

A gentle wind rustled in the apple blossoms and blew their sweet scent about them even stronger.

She could see her reflection in his eyes.

And then she closed hers, for he came so close she could no longer focus on his handsome face. On his dark brows and thick lashes, on the smooth sweep of his nose or the bottom curve of his mouth. She could not see his beauty.

But she felt it.

Six

At first she could not be sure his mouth had even touched hers, for it felt as gentle as if one of the petals dancing on the wind had alighted on her lips. And then she felt a light pressure, a warmth that spread through her entire body.

And then a withdrawal.

“Camille,” he whispered. “I would not do anything you do not wish for. I—”

She leaned forward and silenced him with another kiss. A kiss. She had never had one before. Oh, they tried, when she had been that other person. But most of the soldiers had not bothered, and when they did, she turned her face aside, a defiant gesture to control the situation in the only way she could.

But this… this warm touch of mouth upon mouth, this quiet exchange of tenderness, made her almost want to weep. Made her understand the letters she had read to him this eve. Letters of a different sort of passion.

Lord Hawkes groaned and she felt his hand in her hair, his mouth press harder against hers, as if her silent permission released a wellspring of desire within him. He angled her head, bringing their mouths closer, until she could taste the salty-sweetness of him.

His tongue swept across her lips, and she opened her mouth, granted him access, bringing them closer together. She still held his hand with hers, but the other sought the thickness of his hair, ran fingers through the silky strands and gloried in the feel of it.

Then she traced a path down his neck, to the smooth skin of his chest she had always avoided looking at in fear… yes, in fear of this buried desire to touch it. He felt so warm and hard at the same time, the muscle beneath his skin as taut as if he held himself in check with rigid restraint. His heart beat fast, a pounding rhythm that seemed to echo her own.

He groaned, the sound vibrating against her lips, across her fingertips, which still explored his chest. Camille felt lost in a dream, a wonderful dream of desire and tenderness and of being truly wanted for what she could offer, and not what could be taken from her.

A woodpecker knocked against the trees.

“Lord Hawkes?”

Captain Talbot’s voice made Camille start, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped upon her head, waking her back to reality. She had kissed him! Willingly! What sort of enchantment had he put upon her to break down her defenses so? She abruptly pulled away from his lordship.

Sadness flared in his eyes when she did so.

And then irritation quickly replaced the emotion. “Damn it, Edward, what is the meaning of this interruption?”

The vision of the apple orchard surrounding them slowly faded, to be replaced by the gilt-paneled walls of Viscount Hawkes’s bedroom, the frosted windows gloomy with dusk, the smoky smell of the roaring fire replacing the sweet scent of the blossoms.

Captain Talbot stood in the doorway, appearing not the least bit discomfited. “You told me to report to you immediately upon the completion of my task.”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Hawkes ran a hand through his pale hair, collapsed back on his pillows. “Did you have to kill him?”

Talbot shifted his feet, this time looking a bit chagrined. “I’m afraid so, my lord. He would have done
me
the favor, otherwise.”

“Outmanned, were you?”

“Devil take it. He was a
big
mean bastard.”

Camille glanced from one man to another. “Who?”

Talbot looked affronted by her temerity.

Lord Hawkes just shrugged his shoulders.

“The fight in the courtyard this afternoon,” whispered Camille. “You dealt with both of them… both of the men you rescued me from. And the slave master, as well. Do you not understand the danger you are putting yourself in on my behalf?”

“Don’t look at me,” said the captain. “I warned him.”

“I would have personally taken care of that other bastard too,” said his lordship when her gaze switched to him. “Except for this damn wound. I wanted retribution administered quickly, so there would be no doubt what it was for.
Whom
it was for.”

Camille knew she should feel grateful. But instead, anger overcame her. “You will bring yourself to the attention of the Imperial Lord, and you do not want Roden’s notice. He could destroy you with a flick of his scepter!”

Lord Hawkes reached out to her. She flinched away from his touch. “Do not worry. If anything should happen to me, my men have orders to protect you.”

He thought she worried for herself. And he should have been right. But Camille realized her fear stemmed from some harm being done to him. Because of her. What had happened? What had this man done to her? Slaves could not afford to worry about anyone other than themselves. They did not last long, otherwise.

Camille abruptly stood, swayed a moment, before clenching her hands into fists. “If you will excuse me, Lord Hawkes. I am afraid I do not feel well.”

He glanced at his captain. “Call the healer.”

“No. It is not necessary. My head aches. A bit of rest is all I need.” And Camille flew from the room, Captain Talbot barely swinging aside as she brushed past him through the doorway.

Camille went to bed, feigned sleep when Augusta entered the room, and waited.

When the palace felt quiet, she put on her borrowed dress and shoes, found a warm mantle in the wardrobe, and pulled the hood low over her head.

She quietly left the apartment, and this time took the servants’ stairs upward, past the floor where the permanent court and the Imperial Lord resided, to the attic. She stood for a moment in the dust and darkness, gained her bearings, and crept across the timbers, the chill making her shiver. She had visited Grimor’ee along this path when she started to care for Rufus and Laura, a more secretive way than the one to be had from the slaves’ quarters.

Grimor’ee had told her of it.

When she opened the door to the roof, the cold took her breath away, but she resolutely crossed the narrow bridge to the dragon’s tower, and found him waiting for her, eyes open and back covered with a light drifting of snow.

She had forgotten the sheer size of him. The illusion Lady Pembridge created for Roden had been miniscule by comparison. Even curled up with his wings tucked to his sides, and his tail wrapped about the lower half of him, he loomed like a snowcapped hill above her.

His eyes had been crafted rightly though, those golden orbs separated with lines like a pinwheel. And Lady Pembridge had done justice to his golden scales, for they shone even in the darkness of night with a light of their very own.

He opened his massive jaw and yawned, making Camille hesitate.

“Must we go through this every time?” he asked, his voice like the rumble of a waterfall laced with the hiss of steam from a kettle.

Camille shivered, despite her borrowed mantle and stockings and shoes. She could not stop her teeth from chattering. “I am not af-afraid of you. I am f-freezing.”

“You humans are so delicate. It’s a wonder you survive to adulthood.” And with that, he breathed a stream of mist, and a fireplace appeared near his snout, a cozy settee with a down blanket atop it near the hearth.

Camille immediately dove for the seat, scrambled under the blanket, with only her head appearing above it. With a breath of mist from his cavernous maw, Grimor’ee could create illusions almost as powerful as the elven lord himself. She had heard the dragons of the six other sovereignties had different powers associated with their elven lords: the black dragon of Firehame could breathe fire; the blue dragon of Dewhame, lightning; the green dragon of Verdanthame could breathe a mist that grew tangled briars and enormous trees. The silver dragon of Bladehame spat molten metal, the brown dragon of Terrahame emitted a roar that cracked the earth, and the violet dragon of Stonehame could turn anything to stone with his breath.

Camille decided she liked Grimor’ee’s magic the best.

The dragon twitched a wing, shifting some snow off his back. “So, he has finally come for you.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I feared he might be too late, but I saw him save you in the courtyard below.” He sniffed, a whoosh of roaring air. “He is not bad with a sword, but his magic is pathetic.”

First this mad talk of dreams, and now this. “How do you know of Viscount Hawkes?”

“Ah, my dear. We dragons are… attuned to the scepters, for lack of a better word—the human language is much more limited than the elven.” His golden eyes seemed to twirl for a moment, making Camille dizzy. “This affinity for the scepters means we dragons know things others do not.”

“Even more than the elven lords?”

“Bright girl. Yes, even
them
.”

Camille scowled. She had grown used to the dragon and could anticipate that he would not answer, yet had to ask anyway. “Who sent him? He said he dreamt of me. Who would send him such dreams?”

“Ah, little human. So full of questions. I could tell you, but then you would not have the adventure of finding out for yourself now, would you?”

Fie. Just as she had suspected. “All right then, what
can
you tell me?”

“A more astute question would be: What can
you
tell
me
?”

Grimor’ee could answer one question with another for hours. Camille huffed a breath that the cold turned to white mist, and just gave up and answered him.

“Lord Hawkes is strange,” she began, her gaze straying to the blazing fire. “It is as if he has known me his whole life, and yet I met him only a few days ago. And he will tell me only that he dreamt of me, and these visions brought him to save me. But why? I am just a slave, with not a speck of magical power, despite these odd eyes of mine.”

“Did you ask him that question?” rumbled Grimor’ee.

Camille scowled. “He says it is complicated, and he would like to start things simply between us.”

“I see. He is either very clever, or very much a fool. Events progress too quickly for him to indulge you.”

She did not bother to ask him what events he alluded to. But this time, it was because she feared the answer. Feared she might play a small part in something on a much grander scale than… than the viscount’s feelings for her.

Camille shook her head. How could a mere slave be of such importance? No, there had to be something more to Lord Hawkes’s interest in her.

And yet…

“I think…” she whispered to herself. “I do believe the viscount cares for me. And he is making me feel things… making me care for
him
.” She raised her voice. “I fear Lord Hawkes has put a glamour upon me, or at the very least, is starting to infect me with his mad talk of love and faith and honor.” Her hand crept to her lips. “But he has shown me there is a difference between lust and love, and now it has made the thought of a soldier’s hands upon me even more unbearable. Yet I cannot stay with him much longer, either. He is a dangerous man.” She raised her chin. “I had thought death would be preferable to becoming a slave again, but now… now I have discovered a new resolve.”

“Ah.” If he had not been a dragon, but a human, Camille would have thought that one word vibrated with intense curiosity. “You have a plan?”

“Yes. I shall escape Dreamhame Palace.”

“And why do you think you shall succeed this time?”

Camille scowled. She had tried to escape several times over the years. She had always been caught. Had been lashed until she thought she would rather die than continue to suffer with the pain. She then decided to rise above the station of a slave, instead. But fate kept interfering with her plans. Perhaps this time she would be luckier. “You have heard of this half-breed, Dorian? That he has killed Mi’cal of the green scepter and taken over Verdanthame?”

“Yeeeesss.” Was that sarcasm in his reply?

Camille ignored it. “The elven lords are gathering vast armies to march upon Verdanthame—”

“And Firehame.”

“Indeed? I did not know they continue their war games for the king as well.”

The dragon did not reply, and Camille suspected more to a unified invasion of Firehame than the usual game of “capture the king,” who had become a mere trophy to the elven lords, an excuse for them to pit their human armies against one another for amusement. Firehame had held on to the king and his court far longer than any other sovereignty in history.

But these things were far beyond the concerns of a mere slave.

“Well,” she continued, “there are men conscripted into Roden’s army every day. So many that they cannot be kept track of properly. So would another be noticed when they march?”

Grimor’ee made a sharp grunting sound, like a knife smacked upon a stone. “So that is your plan? To disguise yourself like a man? Like the soldiers you so despise?”

“Why not? I should finally gain some advantage from my knowledge of them. And the army will be crossing several sovereignties. I can choose which one to run to.”

“If they don’t shoot you for desertion first—no, do not make that human face at me. I think your plan might actually work, even though a soldier is as much a slave to the elven lords as you. But it requires you to use a sword. And at least be able to fire a pistol without it flying from your hand.”