Dreams Made Flesh
Page 38
“Another Prythian. Another Dorothea. Another bitch like the ones who turned Terreille into a nightmare. If you’re telling me that’s what is festering in the aristo families in Doun, then there’s going to be a purge and a blood-letting the likes of which Ebon Rih has never seen.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t bluff.” A long pause. “Let it go, Luthvian. I let her live. Let that be enough.”
Silence. Then the front door slammed.
Knees shaking, Marian crept into the kitchen. Setting the jar of fruit on the counter, she glanced over and saw Lucivar in the archway, watching her.
“You have an opinion?” he snarled. “Then say it.”
She said the only thing she could think of, the only thing that mattered. “You aren’t vicious.”
He just smiled at her. “I’m a Warlord Prince, Lady. I was born vicious.”
“Not like that,” she said, hating that her voice quivered. “Not in bed.”
She held her ground as he moved toward her, came close enough to touch her.
“Yes, I am,” he said softly. “That’s the way I was. That’s the way I could be again.” He shook his head as he raised his hand, his fingertips touching her hair. “I want to be your lover. I chose to be your lover. That makes all the difference. Being in bed with you is like soaring on a sweet wind. I chose to be your lover, Marian . . . just as you chose to be mine.”
She threw her arms around him and held on, warmed by his embrace when his arms circled her. She gave herself a few moments to enjoy being with him before she asked, “Is this going to cause trouble between you and Luthvian?”
His lips brushed her temple. “There’s always trouble between me and Luthvian. This is just another piece.”
She nodded, not sure what to say to him. “There’s steak pie for dinner. Merry brought it up a little while ago.”
“Then why don’t I open a bottle of wine and—”
He stiffened. When he stepped back from her, his eyes were hot with temper, on the borderline of wild. He bared his teeth and snarled softly.
Mother Night.
“Did you think you could hide it from me? Did you think I would have let those men into our home, would have left you alone with them when you’re vulnerable?”
“I wasn’t vulnerable,” she protested. “It just started.” And she hadn’t thought he’d be able to catch the scent of moon’s blood when there was barely a hint of it yet. Before he could start roaring, she spun around, opened a drawer, withdrew the six pieces of parchment she’d prepared as a joke, and held them out. “Here.”
He took the pieces of parchment and looked at them, then frowned in puzzlement. “A certificate for fussing? What’s—” He read it through. His eyes still held the heat of temper when he looked at her, but his mouth was curving into that lazy, arrogant smile. “This entitles me to twenty minutes of fussing with no snarls or grumbles from you?”
“Yes,” Marian said warily, wondering if she should mention it was intended as a joke. A fluttery feeling filled her stomach when his smile got lazier, more arrogant.
He handed back one piece of parchment and vanished the other five. “I’ll redeem this one now.”
“What? But—”
“Uh-uh,” he said, leading her over to a chair. “No snarls, no grumbles. Says so in your very own handwriting.”
“But—”
His mouth covered hers. When he finally stepped back, whatever she’d been about to say didn’t seem important anymore.
He laughed. “You should see your face. Such a grumpy little witch.”
Well, she thought as she watched him put together their evening meal, at least she’d given him something to laugh about.
Sitting alone at her kitchen table, Luthvian poured another glass of wine and continued brooding.
Roxie was a bitch and a thorn in everyone’s side. She couldn’t argue with Lucivar about that. But she was an educated bitch from a good family. An aristo family. Lucivar just refused to see that some leniency had to be given for the Blood who ruled society and, more often than not, made up the courts that ruled in every other way.
She’d kept an eye on him since he’d become the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. He was her son, after all. Just as she knew his father had been keeping a close eye on him. But his father . . .
Luthvian gulped wine. Poured more. Better not to think of his father.
The point was, Saetan wasn’t doing a thing to encourage Lucivar to associate with Blood who were his social equals. He should have been escorting the daughter of another Warlord Prince to dinner or the theater, should have been attending dinner parties where the guests were among the elite. Instead, he was still stopping at a tavern for an ale or a meal. And who did he escort to the theater? His housekeeper.
He was becoming too attached to the hearth witch. Oh, Marian had been useful enough cooking his meals and washing his clothes. And there was no arguing that his temper had mellowed a little since she’d started spreading her legs for him. But he wasn’t treating her as a favorite servant or even a temporary lover. He was starting to treat her like a . . . wife.
And that wouldn’t do. No matter what Saetan said, it simply would not do. She wasn’t going to have some Purple Dusk witch from a nothing family dilute the SaDiablo-Yaslana bloodline. Marian didn’t have the education, the culture, the background. She would never encourage Lucivar to move in the social circles he should simply because she would never be comfortable in those circles. He’d never live up to his potential. His children would be less than they should be.
He needed exposure to women who wouldn’t set his back up the way Roxie did. Oh, not that Roxie would have been acceptable. A Rihlander, a witch from one of the short-lived races, as Lucivar’s wife? No. Not in a thousand lifetimes. But a dark-Jeweled Dhemlan witch from an aristo family? A woman like that would be perfect. Same coloring as an Eyrien but without those damned wings. The daughters from a union like that could become Priestesses, Healers, maybe even Black Widows. Maybe there would even be a Queen among them. And the sons would be something more than fighters, something more than arrogance and temper riding a cock.
Luthvian poured the last of the wine, studied the deep red color.
But Lucivar would never listen to her, would never yield to her wishes, would never even look at a different kind of woman while Marian was there making his favorite meals and keeping his cock sheathed.
Which meant she had to convince Marian it was in her own best interest to leave.
TWENTY-TWO
“They’re lovely.”
Marian turned away from the bed of spring flowers, wary of the friendly tone in Luthvian’s voice. “Lucivar isn’t here right now.”
“I know.” Luthvian opened the gate and stepped into the garden, looking around as if she’d never seen it before. “I came to see you.”
“Why?” Marian pressed her lips together, struggling for enough composure to offer hospitality. Luthvian’s opinion of her, disapproval of her, always pulsed in the air. So this unexpected warmth in the Black Widow’s demeanor made her uneasy.
“You do care about Lucivar, don’t you?” Luthvian asked, suddenly sounding anxious.
“Yes, I”—love him—“care for him very much.”
“Then do what’s right for him, Marian. Do what’s best for him.”
“I don’t understand.”
Luthvian looked distraught. “May I have something to drink?”
“Of course.” She led Luthvian to the side entrance and down the domestic corridor to the kitchen. She never thought twice about Jaenelle using this entrance, but as Luthvian’s presence seemed to gain weight behind her, she wished she’d gone around to the front door.
*Tassle?* Marian called. *Lady Luthvian is visiting.*
Sulkiness filled the link between them. *I will stay away.*
Luthvian wasn’t fond of Tassle—probably because he referred to her as “Yas’s bitch.” Which, from Tassle’s point of view, was true. It still didn’t make things easy when the two of them were in the same room.
“I’ll put a kettle on for tea.”
“Thank you.” Luthvian sank into a chair. She undid her cloak’s fastenings but didn’t take it off, a clear signal that she didn’t intend to stay long.
Neither of them said anything until Marian brought the tea to the table. She watched Luthvian take a sip, then set the cup aside.
“Lucivar and I have our problems, but I only want what is best for my son,” Luthvian said earnestly.
Marian nodded, not sure how to reply beyond that.
“And even though I’ve sometimes been harsh with you, I want what is best for you, too, Marian.” Luthvian paused and pressed her lips together as if she were waging some deep internal battle. “Don’t you see what’s happening? You’ve made it too easy for him to play house.”
“What?” Marian’s cup clattered in the saucer, slopping tea.
“You’re taking care of all of his physical needs, so he’s not making any effort to find a wife.”
“Wife?”
“Do you think this is easy for me?” Luthvian snapped. “Mother Night, woman, he comes from the SaDiablo family . They aren’t going to accept anything less than an accomplished witch from an aristo family for Lucivar’s wife.”
“But—They like me.”
“Of course they like you! You cook his meals, clean his home, give him regular sex that makes him easier to deal with. Why shouldn’t they like you? But like is a far cry from accepting you beyond your role as housekeeper and bedmate. They know you’re only a temporary pleasure for him. So why shouldn’t they be friendly? But that’s all you are, Marian. That’s all you can be. You don’t have the education, the accomplishments, or the family connections that would make you an acceptable mate for a man who can trace his bloodlines to the High Lord and Andulvar Yaslana.”
Luthvian raked a hand through her hair and looked at Marian sadly. “Even if he asks you to marry him, you’ll always be the outsider, never quite be one of them. You don’t really comprehend the power that family wields. When they start discussing spells and magic that is so far beyond you they might as well be dancing on the moon, what are you going to offer? A new recipe for nutcakes? When they’re entertaining Queens and their courts, are you going to sit in the corner with your knitting? Don’t you want a home that’s really your own? Children who won’t be measured by their father’s potential and be found wanting? And what about Lucivar? Are you going to use sex to chain him to a woman who is less than he deserves?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t bluff.” A long pause. “Let it go, Luthvian. I let her live. Let that be enough.”
Silence. Then the front door slammed.
Knees shaking, Marian crept into the kitchen. Setting the jar of fruit on the counter, she glanced over and saw Lucivar in the archway, watching her.
“You have an opinion?” he snarled. “Then say it.”
She said the only thing she could think of, the only thing that mattered. “You aren’t vicious.”
He just smiled at her. “I’m a Warlord Prince, Lady. I was born vicious.”
“Not like that,” she said, hating that her voice quivered. “Not in bed.”
She held her ground as he moved toward her, came close enough to touch her.
“Yes, I am,” he said softly. “That’s the way I was. That’s the way I could be again.” He shook his head as he raised his hand, his fingertips touching her hair. “I want to be your lover. I chose to be your lover. That makes all the difference. Being in bed with you is like soaring on a sweet wind. I chose to be your lover, Marian . . . just as you chose to be mine.”
She threw her arms around him and held on, warmed by his embrace when his arms circled her. She gave herself a few moments to enjoy being with him before she asked, “Is this going to cause trouble between you and Luthvian?”
His lips brushed her temple. “There’s always trouble between me and Luthvian. This is just another piece.”
She nodded, not sure what to say to him. “There’s steak pie for dinner. Merry brought it up a little while ago.”
“Then why don’t I open a bottle of wine and—”
He stiffened. When he stepped back from her, his eyes were hot with temper, on the borderline of wild. He bared his teeth and snarled softly.
Mother Night.
“Did you think you could hide it from me? Did you think I would have let those men into our home, would have left you alone with them when you’re vulnerable?”
“I wasn’t vulnerable,” she protested. “It just started.” And she hadn’t thought he’d be able to catch the scent of moon’s blood when there was barely a hint of it yet. Before he could start roaring, she spun around, opened a drawer, withdrew the six pieces of parchment she’d prepared as a joke, and held them out. “Here.”
He took the pieces of parchment and looked at them, then frowned in puzzlement. “A certificate for fussing? What’s—” He read it through. His eyes still held the heat of temper when he looked at her, but his mouth was curving into that lazy, arrogant smile. “This entitles me to twenty minutes of fussing with no snarls or grumbles from you?”
“Yes,” Marian said warily, wondering if she should mention it was intended as a joke. A fluttery feeling filled her stomach when his smile got lazier, more arrogant.
He handed back one piece of parchment and vanished the other five. “I’ll redeem this one now.”
“What? But—”
“Uh-uh,” he said, leading her over to a chair. “No snarls, no grumbles. Says so in your very own handwriting.”
“But—”
His mouth covered hers. When he finally stepped back, whatever she’d been about to say didn’t seem important anymore.
He laughed. “You should see your face. Such a grumpy little witch.”
Well, she thought as she watched him put together their evening meal, at least she’d given him something to laugh about.
Sitting alone at her kitchen table, Luthvian poured another glass of wine and continued brooding.
Roxie was a bitch and a thorn in everyone’s side. She couldn’t argue with Lucivar about that. But she was an educated bitch from a good family. An aristo family. Lucivar just refused to see that some leniency had to be given for the Blood who ruled society and, more often than not, made up the courts that ruled in every other way.
She’d kept an eye on him since he’d become the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. He was her son, after all. Just as she knew his father had been keeping a close eye on him. But his father . . .
Luthvian gulped wine. Poured more. Better not to think of his father.
The point was, Saetan wasn’t doing a thing to encourage Lucivar to associate with Blood who were his social equals. He should have been escorting the daughter of another Warlord Prince to dinner or the theater, should have been attending dinner parties where the guests were among the elite. Instead, he was still stopping at a tavern for an ale or a meal. And who did he escort to the theater? His housekeeper.
He was becoming too attached to the hearth witch. Oh, Marian had been useful enough cooking his meals and washing his clothes. And there was no arguing that his temper had mellowed a little since she’d started spreading her legs for him. But he wasn’t treating her as a favorite servant or even a temporary lover. He was starting to treat her like a . . . wife.
And that wouldn’t do. No matter what Saetan said, it simply would not do. She wasn’t going to have some Purple Dusk witch from a nothing family dilute the SaDiablo-Yaslana bloodline. Marian didn’t have the education, the culture, the background. She would never encourage Lucivar to move in the social circles he should simply because she would never be comfortable in those circles. He’d never live up to his potential. His children would be less than they should be.
He needed exposure to women who wouldn’t set his back up the way Roxie did. Oh, not that Roxie would have been acceptable. A Rihlander, a witch from one of the short-lived races, as Lucivar’s wife? No. Not in a thousand lifetimes. But a dark-Jeweled Dhemlan witch from an aristo family? A woman like that would be perfect. Same coloring as an Eyrien but without those damned wings. The daughters from a union like that could become Priestesses, Healers, maybe even Black Widows. Maybe there would even be a Queen among them. And the sons would be something more than fighters, something more than arrogance and temper riding a cock.
Luthvian poured the last of the wine, studied the deep red color.
But Lucivar would never listen to her, would never yield to her wishes, would never even look at a different kind of woman while Marian was there making his favorite meals and keeping his cock sheathed.
Which meant she had to convince Marian it was in her own best interest to leave.
TWENTY-TWO
“They’re lovely.”
Marian turned away from the bed of spring flowers, wary of the friendly tone in Luthvian’s voice. “Lucivar isn’t here right now.”
“I know.” Luthvian opened the gate and stepped into the garden, looking around as if she’d never seen it before. “I came to see you.”
“Why?” Marian pressed her lips together, struggling for enough composure to offer hospitality. Luthvian’s opinion of her, disapproval of her, always pulsed in the air. So this unexpected warmth in the Black Widow’s demeanor made her uneasy.
“You do care about Lucivar, don’t you?” Luthvian asked, suddenly sounding anxious.
“Yes, I”—love him—“care for him very much.”
“Then do what’s right for him, Marian. Do what’s best for him.”
“I don’t understand.”
Luthvian looked distraught. “May I have something to drink?”
“Of course.” She led Luthvian to the side entrance and down the domestic corridor to the kitchen. She never thought twice about Jaenelle using this entrance, but as Luthvian’s presence seemed to gain weight behind her, she wished she’d gone around to the front door.
*Tassle?* Marian called. *Lady Luthvian is visiting.*
Sulkiness filled the link between them. *I will stay away.*
Luthvian wasn’t fond of Tassle—probably because he referred to her as “Yas’s bitch.” Which, from Tassle’s point of view, was true. It still didn’t make things easy when the two of them were in the same room.
“I’ll put a kettle on for tea.”
“Thank you.” Luthvian sank into a chair. She undid her cloak’s fastenings but didn’t take it off, a clear signal that she didn’t intend to stay long.
Neither of them said anything until Marian brought the tea to the table. She watched Luthvian take a sip, then set the cup aside.
“Lucivar and I have our problems, but I only want what is best for my son,” Luthvian said earnestly.
Marian nodded, not sure how to reply beyond that.
“And even though I’ve sometimes been harsh with you, I want what is best for you, too, Marian.” Luthvian paused and pressed her lips together as if she were waging some deep internal battle. “Don’t you see what’s happening? You’ve made it too easy for him to play house.”
“What?” Marian’s cup clattered in the saucer, slopping tea.
“You’re taking care of all of his physical needs, so he’s not making any effort to find a wife.”
“Wife?”
“Do you think this is easy for me?” Luthvian snapped. “Mother Night, woman, he comes from the SaDiablo family . They aren’t going to accept anything less than an accomplished witch from an aristo family for Lucivar’s wife.”
“But—They like me.”
“Of course they like you! You cook his meals, clean his home, give him regular sex that makes him easier to deal with. Why shouldn’t they like you? But like is a far cry from accepting you beyond your role as housekeeper and bedmate. They know you’re only a temporary pleasure for him. So why shouldn’t they be friendly? But that’s all you are, Marian. That’s all you can be. You don’t have the education, the accomplishments, or the family connections that would make you an acceptable mate for a man who can trace his bloodlines to the High Lord and Andulvar Yaslana.”
Luthvian raked a hand through her hair and looked at Marian sadly. “Even if he asks you to marry him, you’ll always be the outsider, never quite be one of them. You don’t really comprehend the power that family wields. When they start discussing spells and magic that is so far beyond you they might as well be dancing on the moon, what are you going to offer? A new recipe for nutcakes? When they’re entertaining Queens and their courts, are you going to sit in the corner with your knitting? Don’t you want a home that’s really your own? Children who won’t be measured by their father’s potential and be found wanting? And what about Lucivar? Are you going to use sex to chain him to a woman who is less than he deserves?”
