Perilous Pleasures (11 page)

Her calm vanished. Obviously he hadn't done it yet, since the dull pain in her thigh was nothing like the agony she'd be feeling if he'd sliced it open. She braced herself for what must come next. But as the minutes ticked by, nothing happened.

Only when she heard him mutter something to himself did she force herself to open her eyes to find him sitting with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. His long, muscular torso was slumped against the backrest of a chair. He looked drained, stretched to the limit, much the way he'd looked after failing to heal the cottar's boy.

Had he failed again?
A bolt of fear passed through her. Was that why she felt so little pain in her leg? It must be. He must have decided her wound was too advanced to be healed by surgery and given up the attempt. And now she'd die.

“You didn't operate, did you?” she whispered, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

“I did.”

“But there wasn't any pain.”

“I told you there wouldn't be.”

She blinked her eyes a few times to clear them and then, examining him more closely, saw the small droplets of blood on his hand. Her blood.

She raised her head and peered down at her wounded thigh, bracing herself for what she'd find. But the ugly sore was gone, replaced by neat stitches that drew together the edges of what now looked to be a much smaller wound. Yet she'd felt no pain.

“It is a very powerful spell,” he said.

“Surely you must have given me laudanum.” She wasn't sure she wanted his wizard's magic to be quite
that
real.

He shook his head. “I have no laudanum. I used only the spell. That, and my skill as a surgeon. I trained at the University of Vienna, you know.” He couldn't quite keep the pride out of his voice.

“So I haven't destroyed your magic completely?”

His eyes softened. “No. Nor my skill as a surgeon. You will live, Zoe.”

She felt her breath quicken. It seemed impossible that it could be true. But the calm joy she saw in his face reassured her. “I suppose I would have been well served if my attempt to seduce you had weakened your healing powers so that you couldn't save me.”

His lip tightened as if her words had come perilously close to his own thoughts. “If I'd lost you. It would have been solely my fault. Not yours.”

“And you would never have forgiven yourself, would you? It would have been like what you felt when you lost the cottar's boy, but worse.”

“Far worse.” The words seemed to burst out of him without his having any ability to censor them. “I couldn't have lived another hour if I'd caused your death.”

His gray eyes were soft, as if all his armor had dropped away, revealing for the first time the emotions he'd worked so hard to suppress. But she mustn't let herself be deluded by his words into thinking he felt anything more for her than what he always had. If he was expressing emotion now, it must only be a reaction to the fear that had gripped him earlier. It would be fatal to let herself believe, for even a moment, that he was moved by anything else.

“You frighten me when you speak like that,” she said in her sharpest tone. “When I recover, you'll go back to hating me. Indeed, I shan't trust that I am truly out of danger until you start snapping at me. Only that will reassure me that I'm safe.”

“Then I must attempt it, if it will help you get better.”

For the first time in many days, she saw him smile. Then his expression grew serious again. “But for now you must sleep. You still have a lot of healing ahead of you.”

His tone was rich and resonant and made her feel engulfed in comfort, as if he'd been speaking the words of love she'd never hear from him. Then he whispered what seemed to be a foreign word, one that sounded like “collah,” but she had no time to ponder its meaning, for she was overcome by a delicious sense of peace and sank back into a deep slumber where she remembered nothing more.

Chapter 7

Z
oe awoke to find Ramsay again seated by her bedside, peering at her intently. “Will we resume our journey today?” she asked as she drew herself up to a sitting position.

“Hardly. It's almost dusk. You've slept the day through. But even if it weren't, surely you wouldn't expect me to make you travel so soon, after such an ordeal?” His gray eyes widened.

“Have you any choice? The moon will soon be waning and that will make it impossible to travel after dark. If we don't continue on now, how will you reach the island and begin the Final Teaching?”

“The Teaching will have to wait. Did you really think I'd force you to endure the jouncing of the carriage with your wound still tender from surgery?” His eyes were so filled with warmth, it hurt to look at them.

She must drive it away. Speaking coldly she said, “You had no compunctions about taking me from my home and tearing me away from everything I hold dear. Why should I expect you to stop your journey for me now?”

He bit his lip. “Because I'm not entirely a monster—despite the way I've treated you.”

Her plan had backfired. The concern radiating from his lustrous eyes was even stronger. It tore her heart out. Then to her horror, he took her hand in his and gently stroked it.

It would be so easy to believe he cared for her—and so dangerous. If she were to let herself believe that his feelings toward her had softened, she might easily throw herself into his arms and give way to her desire for him.

She must not believe it. When the crisis was past, just as she'd said half jokingly, he
would
go back to the way he'd been before and allow himself to feel nothing for her save lust and loathing. She was still the daughter of the woman who had killed his sister. That wouldn't change. She mustn't forget it, for no matter what had made him treat her more tenderly over these past hours, he'd soon remember. Indeed, it would be better for both of them if she were to remind him of it now. Brutally.

“There's no reason you should be kind to me,” she snapped. “My mother killed your sister.”

He dropped her hand and drew back, as she'd intended, his lips tightening as he remembered what it was he must feel for her. Losing his regard made her feel forlorn, but she'd get over it. It was only the virgin's sickness. It would heal with time—and it would heal faster, if he'd continue treating her with his accustomed coldness.

She pressed on. “If we resume our journey now, you won't have to lose another whole day of travel.”

“Why? I'd think you would take pleasure in seeing my plans come to naught, given my cruelty toward you, whatever my justification.”

“I've never seen much point in vengeful behavior.”

“Why not?” His tone became more abrupt. But, of course, his need for vengeance against her mother was the mainspring of
his
existence.

“Hatred only corrodes the spirit,” she said primly. “And besides, I'll be safer if I give you no further reason to hate me.”

“Then your behavior is motivated only by cold practicality? You'll forgive me only because to do so might make your life easier in the future?”

“What else would you expect? Sentiment can play little part in the life of one raised as I was. Would you prefer that I pretend that I act out of love for you?” She attempted a brittle laugh of the kind her mother did so well. “I think not. You've made it very clear you wouldn't wish to hear such words from me. And besides, as you say, you've given me little reason to love you.”

“Can you really be only twenty?” he asked with a puzzled look.

“I'll be twenty-one at the end of August.”

He shook his head. “It's hard to believe. Your cynicism makes you seem so much older.”

“So you weren't cynical when you were my age?”

“I was a mooncalf fool when I was twenty,” he said bitterly, “I doubt there was ever a young man so trusting and so green as I was when I ran off to France to live out my ideals.”

He dropped into an uneasy silence, but once again, his hand reached for hers and she was powerless to deny it to him. When he had taken possession of it, he cradled it in his much larger one and his thumb began absently stroking the back of her palm.

Was it to comfort her this time, or himself? His voice, when he resumed speaking, was disturbed. “I earned my cynicism the hard way, as the tumbrels rolled. It must be easier to learn your cynicism at your mother's knee, as you did, absorbing it a little at a time as a matter of logic and principle, rather than to be taught it all at once as I was, by living through catastrophe. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”

“Not even the daughter of your worst enemy?” As his eyes met hers, a thrill ran through her body. She waited for the fury to sweep over his features as it always did when she reminded him of her origins, but all he did was grasp her hand more tightly, with a touch that was both delicious and disturbing. She tensed.

She must not turn to
this
man, of all people, for comfort. She must not be tempted by the intimacy she felt with him now. She must not lose herself in the unearthly beauty of his gold-flecked eyes, even now when they were softened by an emotion so different from lust or loathing.

Ruthlessly, she pulled her hand from his and shoved it under the covers. “Yes, a courtesan's daughter is spared the pain of disillusionment, I daresay, since we start out disillusioned. But I have no regrets. It's the illusions young girls have—those foolish dreams of marriage—that ruin their lives. I'm better off without them.”

“Don't you dream of being wed?”

“How could I, knowing, as I do, that men turn to women like my mother as soon as they become bored with the charms of their innocent brides. I'd much prefer a courtesan's dishonor to a wife's slavery—as you of all men have good cause to know.” She shifted her tone to let him know she'd tired of this conversation. “So then, shall we continue our journey?”

“Of course not. I still cherish the hope of saving one patient this week. I beg you do nothing to make it impossible. I came in to see you just now only because I must examine your wound.”

“Oh,” she replied, suddenly feeling very foolish.

He motioned for her to stretch out again on the bed, then knelt down beside her and carefully uncovered her leg so that he could examine his handiwork. As she waited for his verdict she struggled to hide her anxiety from him, lest he favor her again with that caring look that made him even more handsome than before, or stroke her hand in that alarmingly comforting fashion. She had so little strength left with which to resist him if he did. But she must resist, or the virgin's sickness might prove fatal. She couldn't give in to the treacherous yearning to meld herself with him.

When he'd completed his examination, he pulled the counterpane up over her leg. “The wound is no worse. It will be several days until I can be certain it's healing, but I'm encouraged to see no new inflammation.”

He stood. “Zoe—” His voice softened as he lingered on her name.

She must make him stop before he said anything further. The emotion radiating from him was too confusing. Too tempting. Too unsafe. “If you're done,” she snapped, “you may leave.”

He shrank back as if she'd slapped him, but all he said was “I am done, so I'll trouble you no longer. We'll remain here another day. By then you should be well enough to travel.” Then he strode quickly to the door, pausing only for a moment on the threshold, where he turned back to face her, his eyes, again, luminous.

It was too much. If he were to offer her another word of kindness, she'd have to throw something at him. But he stayed silent as he made his way to the door and closed it gently behind him. When he was gone, she lay back, exhausted, wondering why, when he had done exactly what she'd wanted him to do, she felt so suddenly bereft.

S
he would live, Adam told himself when he'd returned to his chamber after Zoe's abrupt dismissal. Perhaps she might even keep her leg. Perhaps, in time, only a jagged scar would remain on that soft, creamy flesh to stand witness to how close she had come to death because of his inability to control the lust she had inspired in him—and inspired in him still.

There was no way of avoiding that painful truth.

If anything, his attraction to her was even stronger, nor could he delude himself it was just lust he was feeling. Had it been, it might have been less disturbing. After all, men were lustful creatures, even those like himself who strove to become something better. But what drew him to her now was more than just the needs of his thwarted body. Her courage enticed him, as much as her long, smooth thighs.

He couldn't have enough of that cool way she dealt with the many difficulties with which her life was filled. She was so calm, so matter-of-fact. So unlike him. She wasn't tormented by an overactive imagination. And yet despite her objectivity she was so kind. She'd been willing to resume their journey because she knew what abandoning it would mean for him. She might pretend she did it cynically, but he'd felt the subtle touch of her compassion enough over these few days they'd spent together to know there was more to it than that.

He wished he had her strength. He marveled at the inner beauty that lay hidden beneath her flawed skin and crude features. Had she been anyone else's daughter—had he not been chosen as the heir—who was to say what he might have felt for her? But he couldn't change the past. She'd been right to remind him that she was Isabelle's daughter. She was the last woman alive with whom he should betray his vow and give in to his animal nature. He couldn't betray Charlotte like that.

But even so, cursed as he was—and knowing how wrong it was—his soul cried out to join itself with Zoe's.

Perhaps it was a side effect of the spell. Perhaps when he'd invaded her soul to bend her to his will he had somehow opened
his
soul to her—or given up some of his own will. Whatever it was, he hoped it would pass quickly, before he gave himself up to any more of the Piscean emotionality his teacher had so often chided him for. It might be his nature to pine for what he could never have, but he would not succumb to it.

In a few more days they would reach Iskeny, and he would find himself again in the Dark Lord's presence. But even the thought of his long-awaited reunion with his teacher brought him no comfort. For the Dark Lord had told him to bring him the virgin and had written that if he did, Charlotte, at last, would be avenged. What role would Zoe play in that Final Teaching—the virgin his teacher had summoned?

He sighed. Perhaps it was just more proof of his flawed Piscean nature, but it struck him that what he needed right now was a drink. So he made his way downstairs to the taproom and called for a pint of porter. When the bar man had pulled it and set the tall pewter tankard before him, Adam paid him and walked over to a secluded corner where a comfortable chair beckoned. It was only after he'd drunk a long, satisfying draught that he looked up and noticed that a short, burly man was making his way toward him.

The man was dressed in the characteristic costume of a lowland cottar, a shapeless hat, rough trews, and a homespun shirt with an open collar similar to the one the Dark Lord had conferred on Adam in Morlaix when he'd first taken him on as a disciple. He carried a heavy pack on his back and there were layers of dried-on mud on his boots, as if he'd recently tramped through wet fields. He must be a beggar. Adam reached into his pocket for a shilling to give him, hoping to forestall a recital of his wretched plight.

But when the man saw him bring out the coin, he waved it away. A rough smile twisted his weathered face. “Nae, keep yer siller.” He spoke in a heavy Scots brogue. “I have other business with you, milord.” Then, without waiting for an invitation, he dropped into a chair beside Adam and bent his face close to his. A rich odor compounded of horse and unwashed clothing filled Adam's nostrils, forcing him back against the wall.

“Who are you?” he demanded testily. “What do you want with me?”

The man smiled again, a slow, not entirely amiable smile.

“Does this answer yer question?” The man rooted around in his pocket before pulling something out and holding it up before Adam's startled gaze.

A black feather, notched in the ancient fashion, just like the one he'd shown Isabelle.

Adam took it, his fingers shaking. What message had the Dark Lord sent him now? Had the healer's powers shown him how shamefully Adam had betrayed his vow? Had he sent this message to warn Adam away from continuing on with his journey now that his impurity had rendered it pointless?

A curious mixture of emotions flowed through him at that thought: grief that the work of so many years had been wasted, relief that he might at last give up a struggle he'd begun to think he couldn't win. But though he tried to read the message encoded in the feather's notches, the rigors of the messenger's journey had caused it to become so bedraggled Adam couldn't make it out. Still, there was no doubt of its provenance. “You come from Iskeny?”

The man nodded.

“Does the Dark Lord still live?”

Reaching up to remove his hat, the man shook his head sadly. “Nae. He passed on to his reward this Tuesday last.”

He'd
been too late
. But if the Dark Lord had died that long ago, at least it hadn't been Adam's lust and Zoe's injury that had denied him the reunion with his teacher he'd looked forward to all these years. The Dark Lord had already been dead before the two of them had even set out on their journey north.

The Dark Lord's messenger replaced his battered hat. “Since my master's passing, I've traveled hard, restin' neither day nor night to bring his last message to you.”

“He left me a message? What is it?”