Unicorn Vengeance (6 page)

Her heart opened to him in invitation, and she felt the barest vestige of a response flicker to life within him. More she wanted than the gentle press of his lips on hers, and she leaned closer, able to think of naught but granting him refuge from his exile.

And found herself abruptly shoved away.

Genevieve blinked at the sudden change and wavered slightly on her feet, feeling as if she had imbibed too heavily of wine. The stranger stood several paces away and regarded her as though she were a particularly dangerous creature.

“I granted you the coin for your playing alone,” he told her with a sneer. “No favor that you might grant in the street will convince me to not retrieve it.”

His words stung, and Genevieve caught her breath sharply before she saw the ruddy flush staining his neck. He was embarrassed by his own response. Genevieve eyed him carefully, imagining she detected some acknowledgment of what had passed between them in his expression before he set his lips grimly.

She had not been alone in forgetting herself in that exchange. The very knowledge made something deep within her tingle.

But no matter was that. She belatedly and forcefully reminded herself of her intent. Genevieve's kiss had been intended to draw him into her web, no more than that. Well it seemed that he had not been as unaffected as he might like her to believe.

But given her own response, ‘twould be safer for her to resolve matters between them quickly. Too readily might she succumb to his need again, and ‘twas imperative she dispatch him before she slipped again. Genevieve smiled slowly as she regarded him, knowing full well the invitation that lingered in her expression.

“Already have you ensured that I am warmed,” she purred, her heart pounding at her own audacity. “Would you not see to my warmth this night yourself? I might well be convinced to return your coin.”

His eyes widened. His brows drew together in a frown of disapproval even as his gaze slipped unwillingly over her form once more. He snorted, though the sound was less indignant than it had been earlier. Genevieve knew the idea was not without its appeal.

“Street women are all the same.” He sneered again. “Keep the coin. I have no need of anything with the taint of your kind upon it,” he growled disparagingly before he turned on his heel.

Genevieve caught her breath at the insult. No worse was it to know that his comment was deserved after her shockingly wanton suggestion. How could she have made such an invitation? Her cheeks burned at her bold behavior. Stern words would her grandsire have had for her had he witnessed her deeds this day. She pulled the lute against her chest as tears rose to blur her vision, though still she could see him walking away.

But she could not let him leave again! A pledge had she taken, and petty pride could not stand in the way of keeping her word.

“Wait!” Genevieve cried.

Her words brought the stranger to a halt, though he paused as if surprised before he glanced back with his original impassive expression. Genevieve twisted her fingers together as she sought the words, then finally simply blurted out the first words that came to her lips.

“Will I see you again?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she immediately knew she had asked the wrong question. Genevieve cursed her tongue for making such a weak and feminine demand.

“Why?” His demand was harsh. Genevieve flushed and could not help but fidget. A far cry was her behavior from that of the seductress she had hoped to be, and dismay flooded through her at her own failure.

Indeed, this plan had been a disaster from the beginning. Her cheeks flamed as she struggled to summon some of her earlier brashness.

“I would like to talk to you again,” she said with an attempt to be coy that fell curiously flat. Now there was solid reasoning, she chided herself, hating how her confidence had abandoned her. The stranger snorted in disbelief.

“You would like to know that you would coax another denier from my purse,” he accused softly. Genevieve knew her mouth fell agape in shock at that and she glared at him openly.

“Nay! ‘Tis not that at all!”

‘Twas too much that
he
should accuse
her
of such cold intent! Fury nudged aside her uncertainty and put a vigorous bounce in her step as she stalked after the cold stranger. Something flickered in his silver gaze, but she cared naught for what he might think. Genevieve poked her finger into the air in the direction of his broad chest, determined to set his perception straight.

“How dare you make such a callous assumption about someone you do not even know!” she demanded indignantly. “An honest woman am I, no more, no less, and though I must work for my keep, ‘tis not money alone that occupies my thoughts.”

Her argument might have gone unvoiced for all the softening she saw in his expression. In fact, his lip curled slightly.

“Spare me your pretty tales,” he said dismissively. “All work for their own motivation alone, and well enough do I know it. If ‘tis not coin you seek, then ‘tis something else you would have from me.”

Fear flashed through Genevieve like lightning at that assertion, and she wondered again how much of her motive he had guessed. She prayed that her response had not shown in her eyes and struggled to maintain her outrage.

“‘Tis a sorry picture of the world you would paint with such a claim,” she retorted. “Impossible is it truly for you to concede that I might wish only to talk to you?”

“Unlikely ‘tis at best.” He snorted. “But a moment past, ‘twas not conversation you pursued.” He regarded her for a long moment, his gaze flicking to the coin's repository with undeniable interest.

“Keep the coin,” he murmured in a low voice that echoed with a disgust that turned Genevieve cold, “for I have no intent of retrieving it from its sanctuary. But mind you tell no one from whom you gained it.”

Genevieve tossed her hair defiantly. “I shall tell whoever I so choose,” she asserted brashly.

His eyes flashed silver fire and he closed the space between them again, his voice no more than a growl when he spoke. “You shall tell no one,” he insisted vehemently, but Genevieve did not waver beneath the weight of his will. “Or I shall retrieve the coin and see that you say naught to anyone again.”

Genevieve had no doubt that he meant what he said. She recalled the cold emptiness within him and shivered in renewed fear.

No surprise ‘twas that he could have killed Alzeu. Indeed, this man had a heart of stone, and Genevieve wanted nothing other in this moment than to be quit of him. So, he thought she wanted only his coin? She would show him!

“Do we understand each other,
ma demoiselle?
” he asked silkily.

“Aye, we certainly do,” Genevieve muttered. He smiled thinly and turned away.

As soon as his gaze was averted, Genevieve fumbled in her kirtle to retrieve the coin. She flicked it after him so that it hit hard against the back of his neck. He spun in time to see it dance toward the cobbles and hastened to snatch the sliver of silver out of the air.

“Take your wretched coin, and welcome to it.” Genevieve tossed the words proudly over her shoulder as she turned away. “No need have I of the patronage of cynics.”

Naught did he say, but she knew full well that he stared after her.

He was astonished, Genevieve could feel it. Indeed, she suspected that he knew not what to do, and the awareness of that fed her pride.

Ha! The perfect move had that been! Her confidence burned with a bright flame once more and she dared to let her hips swing provocatively as she returned to her blanket. Not a sound came from behind her, though she could feel his gaze locked upon her.

Genevieve savored a thrill of victory and bent to pack her lute in her blanket as though she had forgotten he was there. In truth, she did not want him to catch the slightest glimpse of her triumphant smile.

Though, of course, there was naught triumphant about having no coin to pay for food and board this night.

T
he coin burned his palm. His lips itched, his heart was hammering in his chest as though he had run a hundred leagues.

Indeed, Wolfram felt far from his logical self.

He closed his eyes in an effort to compose himself as he passed beneath the gates of the Temple. Instead his mind flooded with the recollection of the lutenist's soft breasts pressing against him. Never had he kissed a woman, never had he been so abruptly warm from head to toe, never had he tasted anything so sweet as her lips.

He jammed the coin deep into his pocket in irritation, though it seemed ‘twould brand his skin even there.

Had he not what he desired?

Desire.
There was a word ‘twas best not to dwell upon. No place had such a word in the vocabulary of a man pledged to poverty, obedience and chastity.

He had meant to retrieve the coin, Wolfram reminded himself savagely. And he had done so. ‘Twas perfectly logical.

Although the jumble of emotions and the curious mix of ideas filling his head were far from logical. Wolfram shook his head, but they stubbornly remained.

He wondered if all of the lutenist's flesh was as soft and sweet as her lips. He cursed himself for not taking the opportunity to discover the texture of her hair before he halted his errant thoughts.

Forbidden were such pleasures of the flesh to him, and he had best recall that fact. Indeed, he had no interest in such matters. None whatsoever.

And he had the coin. No explanation or far-fetched tale would be required for the Master: Wolfram would simply return every silver denier he had been granted. ‘Twas perfectly simple.

Why then did he feel so utterly confused?

* * *

“You!”

A shout brought Genevieve's head up with a snap. She glanced over her shoulder, but the cold-eyed stranger was gone. An obviously irate man was bearing down on her in his stead, purpose lighting his eye.

Had the stranger summoned the authorities against her? Fear flooded through her before she noted the shabbiness of the man's attire. No official was this, and Genevieve's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You!” he repeated angrily, and wagged an indignant finger in her direction.

Genevieve glanced over her shoulder, but she was alone. Clearly the poorly attired man was addressing her. She looked doubtfully back at him and he shook his head.

“Aye, talking to you I am,” he growled. Genevieve noted through her surprise that a ragtag band of followers trailed behind the lanky man, hostility etched on their gaunt features. “And well should you have expected it, busking without permission in a square so close to our own.”

“I beg your pardon?” Genevieve asked in confusion. The man halted before her, his chest puffed self-righteously. She saw with alarm that the others had closed ranks around her so that she could not evade them. Panic rose in her chest, for they were a disreputable-looking lot and she could not begin to guess their intent.

Trouble it could only be and too late she wished she had not seen fit to dismiss the stranger so soon.

Was that not a foolish thought! What manner of idiot thought that an assassin might provide protection? Clearly her wits were still addled by the shock of Alzeu's demise, or mayhap the shock of her own wanton behavior.

A sane individual knew better than to expect anything of a murderer.

”I beg your pardon.”
One of the women in the group mimicked Genevieve in falsetto as she danced a mincing step. The others chuckled, though that did naught to dissolve their hostility. Genevieve's fear rose another notch.

“You cannot play here without permission,” the evident leader asserted boldly. Genevieve looked to him in surprise.

“I was not aware that there was a law—” she began apologetically, but the laughter that erupted from the rest of the ragged band drew her words to a halt.

“A law!” mocked one.

”I was not aware,”
echoed the woman in her high voice, and Genevieve was reminded suddenly of the difference of her accent. Highborn she sounded in comparison to them and she realized too late that such a trait could readily reveal her origins. Mercifully, they appeared to have concluded that she was taking airs.

“Odo's law, ‘tis, and no other.”

“But not to be flouted, nonetheless.”

Their words revealed the truth. There was no law. At least no law of the city. These ruffians clearly believed that they, or this Odo, had some say over her fate. Genevieve guessed that this was another group of buskers seeking only to interrupt her playing for their own benefit.

Well. No intention had she of easily relinquishing her spot. She planted her feet solidly against the cobblestones, determined to stay put. ‘Twas here her quarry was drawn, after all. ‘Twas here he knew where to find her, and no doubt had she that he would return again.

‘Twas here she would stay until her quest was fulfilled, regardless of what some disreputable and filthy lot of buskers might have to say about it. She could not risk losing her prey now. Genevieve straightened proudly and looked the leader in the eye.

“‘Tis here I play and here I will stay,” she said firmly. He raised his brows high and folded his arms skeptically across his chest. The others gasped in astonishment at her audacity.

“No permission have you,” he objected silkily.

“And of no permission do I have need,” Genevieve retorted. “Particularly from the likes of you. ‘Tis no one's spot I have taken and no business of yours that I choose to play here.”

“Odo thinks differently,” warned someone in the tight cluster.

“Aye, Odo will not approve of this tone.”

“Who is this Odo?” Genevieve demanded frostily, her voice sounding more brave than she certainly felt.

The group chuckled as one and drew closer in a manner that fed her unease. They were all around her, pressing so close on every side that she could not have taken a step in any direction. Genevieve's trepidation redoubled. Had she been a fool to so quickly dissent with them? Indeed, they were numerous, and too late she saw that they had fought more foes than one to survive. A mean and hungry lot they were, and she swallowed nervously.

“Aha!” crowed a woman's voice victoriously. “A blanket just like this is what I have been needing on these cold nights.” The blanket Genevieve had been seated on,
her
blanket, was waved aloft.

“My blanket that is, and none other!” she cried. The woman danced a few steps away as though she would make off with her prize. They could not steal from her! ‘Twas wrong! Genevieve tried to push her way through the crowd to no avail. “‘Tis mine!” she cried again when ‘twas clear they did not mean to let her pass.

“And what of this lovely thick cloak?” Persistent fingers plucked at Genevieve's hood. She spun on her heel, but new fingers took up the task. They grasped at the wool from every side, and she could not manage to escape their tormenting grip, no matter how she turned and twisted. Panic reared within her, and she feared suddenly that she could not take a breath freely, for they pressed too tightly against her.

‘Twas too much to be touched by all of them at once, so close in the wake of the revelation of the emptiness dwelling within the stranger. Their bitterness filtered into her, and as she tasted their anger, she knew she would not escape this encounter unscathed.

“And shoes!” cried another. “Long indeed has it been since I had a pair of shoes as good as these!”

Immediately, hands set to tugging at Genevieve's worn shoes, and beleaguered as she was from every side, her fright could no longer be contained. She flailed at her attackers, but so numerous were they that she budged none. Cruel laughter rang in her ears and grasping hands tugged her hair. No escape was there! Despair and an overwhelming sense of failure assailed her when one shoe was wrenched from her foot.

“Nay!” she shouted, but the shoe was passed from hand to hand and immediately beyond her reach.

“Aha! A perfect fit!” A woman in a tattered blue kirtle danced across the square, showing her new footwear to advantage before diving back into the cluster. “Grant me its mate!” she shouted. Genevieve stamped and turned, but there were too many fingers grappling for her shoe to be avoided. Hungry they had been, and cold for long nights, beaten and abused all their lives. The horror of their experiences left her feeling yet more vulnerable to their irrepressible anger.

And well it seemed that she would bear the brunt of their hostility. Hearing their thoughts and feeling their destitution was no consolation when ‘twas she they attacked.

“Aha!” The cloak was torn from Genevieve's shoulders, and a man swung it over his own with all the grace of a highborn noble. He struck a pose, and the others, at least those not involved in removing Genevieve's second shoe, applauded.

“Most distinguished.”

“As though ‘twas made for you.”

“Well you look to the manor born.”

The second shoe was ripped from Genevieve's foot, and she nearly lost her balance in the process. She swatted at the laughing attackers to no avail. The woman wearing her shoes and man wearing her cloak began a cavorting dance around the square. A bourgeois couple, evidently taking an evening stroll, paused on the far side of the square, and Genevieve immediately appealed to them.

“Help me!” she cried. “I am being robbed of all I own!”

The couple spoke quietly to each other, then tossed a coin toward the ragtag group. Nay! They thought this but a performance!

To Genevieve's disbelief, they smiled, waved and strolled away, blithely leaving Genevieve to her fate. Three of her attackers dived on the coin and scrabbled for possession.

“Ooh... A lovely warm kirtle,” cooed another fingering Genevieve's garments.

They would strip her naked! Genevieve bolted at the thought in the hope of preserving some scrap of her raiment. She lunged against the tight crowd in a bid for freedom, and to her astonishment, they parted to let her pass.

Before Genevieve could consider their reason, someone stuck out a foot. Too late ‘twas to avoid the obstacle, and though she stepped high, the foot was raised to ensure she tripped. Genevieve fell facefirst toward the cobbles, and her heart skipped a beat in that timeless instant of her falling.

Her grip must well have loosened on the neck of her lute in her fear, though she had clutched it resolutely so far. ‘Twas torn from her grasp in a heartbeat.

“Nay! Take not my lute!” Genevieve shrieked. Something ground as she hit the road, but she rolled immediately to her hip.

Naught could she see but her attackers fleeing from the far side of the square.

They had taken her lute! She could not lose her lute at any cost! Genevieve shoved herself to her feet and hobbled in pursuit, her heart pounding in her ears with fear that she would lose sight of them.

What should she do if she lost her beloved lute?

* * *

Sleep eluded Wolfram that night as it never had before.

His lips burned.

The other brothers slumbered on either side of him in the dormitory, and he listened to their snores even as he lay restlessly in the darkness. The single lamp sent a flickering light to play against the ceiling, and though that sight usually soothed him, on this night it but reminded him of the inferno within him. He had run cool water over his lips, he had pressed his lips with his fingertips, he had ignored their burning, but naught made a difference.

Branded he was with the touch of a woman, and certain Wolfram was that any who looked at him could see the truth.

Against the Rule ‘twas to have any converse with women, except one's mother and sisters, let alone to embrace them. He had broken the Rule for the first time since he had pledged to adhere to it, and the knowledge chafed at his uneasy conscience.

Still worse, he had enjoyed the transgression. Wolfram fidgeted minutely on his hard pallet, but that fact could not be avoided. He could not move restlessly lest he attract the attention of the others, but neither could he lie still. He could not be revealed. His desire could not be guessed. His blankets itched as they never had before and Wolfram longed to rip his sensible long shirt from his back.

Never had he been plagued with sleeplessness.

But never had he broken the Rule.

He could confess and be fined, he
should
confess and do penance, but Wolfram knew ‘twould matter naught. Confession and even penance would not ease this burning. Truly the woman had tempted him deliberately, certainly she had initiated the embrace, but he had wanted her to do so. There was no escape from that. And lecherous thoughts were no less damning than lecherous actions.

Indeed, he wanted her even now. The admission did naught to ease his mind.

Mayhap ‘twas penance enough to endure this self-inflicted torture. Wolfram's body recalled the lutenist's kiss with unprecedented enthusiasm, though he had repeatedly tried to quell its response. He had but to think of her dark tangle of hair, or picture those startling green eyes, or see the delicacy of her hands darting across the lute strings.

Or worse, hear the echo of her music in his mind.

He tried to regulate his breathing and slow his pulse, endeavored to lull his body into sleep, all to no avail. The snores of the others troubled him, well it seemed that his blanket tormented him, and the dormitory was too cold. But moments later, ‘twas too warm, or his dinner troubled his innards, though Wolfram knew ‘twas all an excuse.

He wondered where she was.

Wolfram writhed inwardly with the guilty certainty that she had no pallet this night, and all because of his insistence on retrieving that coin. Not his fault was it that she was without a hearth, but still Wolfram could not dismiss the sense that she paid overmuch for his folly.

Indeed, he could have lied to the Master.

No consolation was it that that thought came too late to his aid.