Unicorn Vengeance Page 4

  “More?” he asked brightly.

  Mayhap the imbibing of liquor was not as infrequent for the Master as it was for Wolfram. The very idea gave Wolfram pause, and he eyed his superior dubiously. The Master, undeterred, arched a brow high, and Wolfram imagined for the barest instant that that man mocked him.

  Ridiculous.

  “Nay.” Wolfram declined with a hasty frown, unwittingly giving voice to his thoughts. Clearly he was imagining matters that were not there. The Master merely saw fit to celebrate his success at Montsalvat. ‘Twas no more than that.

  Even if the imbibing of liquor was specifically against the Rule. After all, the Master was free to make exceptions when he saw fit. ‘Twas a luxury of his exalted station.

  ‘Twas in the Rule.

  Wolfram recalled that the Master had always had a bottle of eau-de-vie at the ready. Although he had always declined to share the toast before this night, he wondered suddenly how often the Master saw fit to imbibe.

  Preposterous! Clearly the music of the lute had befuddled his thinking. He gave his head a shake, and the room cavorted before his eyes for a long moment in a slow spiraling dance before settling to rights. This was the Master he sat with, the only man on the face of the earth he saw fit to trust.

  Wolfram corrected himself savagely. The only man worthy of that trust.

  “And what of our petty lordling?” that man inquired conversationally. Though his manner was casual, there was a thread of intense interest underlying the Master’s tone. Wolfram watched the Master top up his glass and drain it again, before filling it and replacing the stopper in the bottle. “Was he wealthy and ambitious beyond doubt?”

  “Nay.” Wolfram shook his head disparagingly. He let the warmth of the liquor relax him and permitted himself to speak freely. The Master was, after all, asking him for information that he alone could supply. “Indeed, I near thought the matter a poor jest at his expense. The village has fallen into ruin for lack of use, and the fortress is a shambles. Long has it been left to crumble, and naught of value was housed within its walls. There was naught to eat and only swill unfit for dogs to drink.”

  “Ah.” Wolfram noted with relief that the Master sipped from this glass. The older man frowned thoughtfully. “But no doubt he had mustered an impressive army?”

  “Nay, again,” Wolfram supplied with a solid shake of his head. “The company were hired hands, and of the lowest order at that. No doubt have I that they departed with the rising sun.”

  “Indeed? Not the sort of men one might want at one’s back.” The Master snorted with open disdain, and Wolfram could only nod agreement. “Interesting, that is.”

  “Aye, and a pretty tale he spun for me of his legacy,” Wolfram added, feeling that the liquor had betrayed him into speaking more than was his wont. No matter, though. ‘Twas the Master alone who listened.

  His superior fired him a piercing glance that might have prompted his suspicions, had it come from another. “Indeed?” he asked with a casual air that was clearly feigned. “What manner of tale was this?”

  Wolfram shook his head deprecatingly. Incredible ‘twas that he knew some tale that the Master did not, and a surge of pride filled him that he might have something of merit to tell. “Well it seemed that Alzeu de Pereille fancied he had a divine right to the throne,” he informed the older man, not caring that his skepticism showed.

  Surprisingly, the Master did not seem to share his condemnation, though Wolfram was too warm to care.

  “Indeed? And he told you freely of this?” he asked carefully.

  “Aye,” Wolfram agreed easily. “‘Twas a high-winded bit of whimsy, to say the least.”

  The Master traced a circle on his desktop with a fingertip and dropped his gaze to follow that finger’s path. “What else did he tell you?” he asked silkily. Wolfram shrugged and frowned as he tried to recall.

  “‘Twas a tangled tale, and in truth, all I gleaned was his conviction in his divine blood right. The man was besotted when I arrived, and ‘twas no small task to make sense of his mutterings. It occurred to me that he might simply be using the gullibility of others to his own advantage.”

  “I see.” The Master smiled an inexplicably secretive smile and leisurely topped up his glass once more as Wolfram’s curiosity grew tenfold in expectation. Here lingered a tale he would dearly like to know in truth. The Master made him wait, then finally gestured in dismissal. Wolfram swallowed his disappointment with an effort.

  Well it seemed that the time for confidences was not ripe.

  Wolfram rose hesitantly, his mind filled with more questions than answers. The Master ignored him, and he abruptly recalled his place. The Master knew best, and obedience was the cornerstone of the Rule. His stomach burning from the unfamiliar liquor, Wolfram did his Master’s bidding.

  Something nameless prompted him to glance back from the threshold, only to find the Master’s lips pursed. The older man held the glass of liquor up so that the candlelight rendered its contents the very shade of liquid gold. Wolfram could not help but wonder what thoughts filled that man’s mind.

  Whimsy, he snorted impatiently as he turned away. If this ‘twas that liquor did to a man’s mind, no need had he to taste its heat again.

  * * *

  The next morn dawned a sullen autumn day.

  Slate-bellied clouds rolled across a sky of disgruntled blue, and there was a newly vicious bite of winter in the air. The surly mood of the weather was echoed in the expressions of those who listened to the lute’s music. Genevieve was disheartened by the lack of coins falling to the cobbles before her.

  But hours since he had stood before her, and already Genevieve was beginning to despair that the stranger would ever pass this way again. Both her mood and the weather were echoed in the melancholy tune she plucked. Woefully she admitted that her choice of tune might well be another factor contributing to her meagre earnings.

  The daylight had brought a thousand questions to plague her. What would she do if he never passed through those gates again? What if there was another gate to the enclosed Temple? Genevieve dared not risk missing him by scouting around those walls in the daylight, yet once the gates were closed, ‘twould be too dark to wander alone.

  What if the assassin saw fit to send her to join Alzeu? There was a thought that stilled her heart and made Genevieve’s resolve falter. Little enough expertise had she to stave off one such as he, and yet again she marveled at her own audacity.

  Curse her own foolish impulsiveness! But what should she do, now that she was in Paris, penniless and far from home?

  Indecision plagued her, and Genevieve feared she had made a poor choice in this pursuit. A particularly dark cloud slipped over the sun, and her fingers stilled beneath its cold shadow. Mayhap ‘twas time she went home, to face whatever she might find there. Mayhap she had been an idealistic fool to ever think that she could claim vengeance for Alzeu.

  ‘Twas naturally in the darkness of that despairing moment that he came again.

  Genevieve knew he was there before she even looked. At first, she dared not believe ‘twas so, but she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her as surely as if he had touched her. Her heart skipped a beat, but still she forced her fingers to continue to pluck out the tune while she thought furiously.

  He had returned! Here was the second chance she had sought.

  But what should she do?

  Her pulse leapt in her throat, and Genevieve heard her fingers falter on the strings. Despite all her intent to do so, still she had not devised a plan of any sort. Too late it seemed that she had wasted time worrying about whether this moment would ever come and not what path to pursue if it did. Indeed, she had not thought further than this, and her mind scurried to devise some reasonable course of action.

  She felt him draw closer, heard the tread of his boot alone, despite all the other sounds in the square. Her mouth went dry. Feigning ignorance of his presence, Genevieve bent lower over the lute and played, though the tu
ne grew stilted beneath her trembling fingers.

  What should she do? What could she do? Naught could she say in such a public place, and she could hardly take her vengeance upon this spot. Avenging Alzeu was well and good, but too late Genevieve considered the possible repercussions should she manage to accomplish the deed. Should she take her retaliation publicly, no doubt she would pay for her crime. No taste had Genevieve for languishing in a rat-infested prison for her revenge. There was indeed no need to make her guilt readily clear, but in a public square there would be no escape from observation.

  Imperative ‘twas that she should find some way to draw the murderer to a secluded corner where neither he nor any other might guess her intent.

  Aye. Perfect sense it made, but how to accomplish such a goal? Naught came to mind as she thought furiously, and her tune was drawing to a close. Another tread on the cobbles brought him yet closer, and her fingers quivered in anticipation.

  ‘Twas now or never. Something she must contrive. Genevieve finished her tune with a flourish and took a deep breath before she dared to glance up.

  Her gaze immediately locked with one that was pale beyond pale. He stood motionless, watching her like a hunter about to pounce upon his prey. Something else there was in his expression, an intensity she could not fathom, though indeed, the awareness that he watched her alone fired her blood in a most curious way. Genevieve’s heart fairly stopped, and suddenly it seemed that the autumn air held less of a bite.

  A coin hit the cobbles before her, cast by another onlooker, but Genevieve could not tear her gaze away from his to retrieve it. Trapped she felt. Stalked and cornered, though truly she had thought the reverse to be the case. Had she not sought him out? Was it not she who was the hunter? A shiver crept down her spine as the awareness of what kind of man this was she so boldly eyed, and the hairs stood up at the base of her neck.

  Still she could not look away. Though Genevieve felt the crowd of onlookers drift away, she cared naught. The only audience she wanted remained motionless.

  So impassive were his features that Genevieve almost fidgeted beneath his perusal. ‘Twas as though he were wrought of stone, not flesh and blood, and trepidation made her skin creep. Impossible it seemed that this man could not see to the very recesses of her heart and know the very reason for her presence, though she had breathed a word of it to none.

  Could he know? A wave of panic swept over her. And what would he do if he did guess her objective? Genevieve eyed him warily and was reassured naught by what she saw.

  ‘Twas a dangerous man who stood a dozen paces away from her. A man who would not be readily brought down. A man who had killed at least once before. Genevieve felt a niggle of doubt of the wisdom of her path.

  Had she truly the skill or the will to fulfill her oath? Genevieve’s spirits sank before she caught herself.

  He had come back, she reminded herself resolutely. She knew not what had drawn him, but he was here, and that was no small thing. ‘Twas a victory of some measure, and an opportunity that could not be overlooked. Genevieve had to ensure that she did not lose him again. Too far away was he for conversation, but as she held his regard, Genevieve sensed he waited for something from her. Why else would he remain?

  On impulse, Genevieve smiled.

  He straightened abruptly, but did not turn away. Well it seemed to her that his eyes grew brighter, though but a moment sooner she would not have thought that possible. His gaze danced over her face, her hands resting on the silent lute, the barely discernible outline of her crossed legs beneath her faded kirtle, then darted back to her face.

  He was surprised. And Genevieve fancied that he was not surprised often. She rather liked that she had managed to unnerve him so in such a short span of time. Well it seemed that the odds had shifted decidedly in her favor. Seemingly of its own volition, her smile broadened, and her lips parted slightly. He stared fixedly but did not move.

  A shocking thought assaulted Genevieve with an abruptness that fairly tore the smile from her lips.

  What place was more private than bed?

  Blood surged hotly through Genevieve’s veins at the idea, and she imagined that she flushed scarlet at her audacity. She was suddenly warm beyond compare, though indeed she knew precious little of such matters. Was not her virginity a gift to be cherished by her spouse alone?

  Still she could not readily cast the idea aside, particularly given the way the stranger had already responded to her smile. And she had no betrothed who would be bereft.

  Truly it might be time to face the reality that she was old to be making a match of any kind. Any man who would have her at the ripe age of nineteen might well not be fussy about details.

  Genevieve would have been a fool of the worst order to not realize that this man was attracted to her. Well could she use that fact to her advantage, and ‘twas true she might well need every advantage she could muster to emerge victorious from this mission.

  And naught said that she would have to make that final sacrifice before accomplishing her goal. Nay, should fortune be on her side, she would not even come close to such a concession. Emboldened by that thought, Genevieve straightened coquettishly and arched her back slightly. His gaze flicked to her breasts and she stifled a surge of victory.

  ‘Twould be almost too easy, she thought.

  “I would thank you for your coin the other day,” she called encouragingly. He looked momentarily startled before he hastily composed his features. He took a step forward that made Genevieve feel more powerful than she ever had before. Indeed, he stepped willingly into her web.

  ‘Twas truly the perfect strategy.

  “Your playing is quite fine,” he said carefully. His tone was stiffly formal, and Genevieve thought she detected an accent. Was he a foreigner, then?

  What manner of man could take the task he had?

  Before a hundred questions could clutter her mind, Genevieve deliberately stifled her curiosity. Predators never showed curiosity about their prey. ‘Twould only make the deed more difficult in the end. She swallowed her lingering reservations and forced herself to continue the conversation, that he might come closer.

  “Yours was the first coin I earned in Paris,” she said in as genial a manner as she could manage.

  He took another pair of steps closer but looked away as he slapped his gloves agitatedly against one palm. Well it seemed that he might be uncertain of how to proceed.

  Genevieve almost chortled at the sight. Simple as taking a sweet from a child. Indeed, she might well accomplish her task this very day. He cast a glance over her again that made Genevieve suddenly feel so exquisitely feminine that she momentarily lost track of her intent. She forced herself to take a steadying breath and recovered herself.

  Until he spoke once more.

  “Regrettably, I must ask for its return,” he said stiffly.

  Genevieve regarded him in shock. She blinked, but he did not look away. Her composure completely lost its footing in the face of this development. Surely she had heard him incorrectly. That coin was long spent.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked breathlessly, feeling markedly less the seductress than she had planned to be.

  He cleared his throat and frowned, impaling her with that pale regard so suddenly that it fairly took her breath away. “I must ask for the return of the coin,” he repeated. “‘Twas not mine to grant.”

  “But...but, ‘tis spent and gone,” Genevieve sputtered in protest, hating the hesitancy in her voice. A far cry indeed this was from her plan!

  The stranger looked deliberately at the coin that had just been tossed on the cobbles before her. Indignation rolled through Genevieve at his presumption, and she was on her feet in an instant. She swept forward and snatched the coin from the ground before he could lay claim to it, her anger prompting her to wag it beneath his very nose.

  “Not yours is this coin, but mine alone!” she declared hotly. He moved naught, though his gaze was bright upon her. “My dinner and board
for the night this is, and I will not grant it to you!”

  “The coin was not mine to give,” he said calmly again, as though she had said naught.

  “Well does it seem that you might have considered that before you granted it to me!” Genevieve asserted. A tinge of color stained his neck, and she fancied he gritted his teeth.

  “I would have the coin returned,” he said tightly.

  “Not by me,” Genevieve maintained. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and straightened to her full height. Still she had to lift her chin to stare him in the eye and, had she not been so angered by his audacity, the coldness she found there might have been daunting.

  He leaned closer and Genevieve held her breath, though she did not dare look away.

  “Give me the coin,” he insisted. His hand rose in her peripheral vision, palm up, as though he expected her to meekly drop the requested silver there.

  Genevieve slipped her hand into the neck of her kirtle and jammed the coin between her breasts. The way his gaze followed the gesture reminded Genevieve of her original intent and made her bold beyond her wildest dreams.

  “Fetch it yourself,” she hissed impulsively.

  He swallowed and his gaze flicked away. Ha! That had surprised him! When his eyes met hers again, it seemed a flame had been lit there, and Genevieve was tempted to flee from him. But she held her ground, determined to see this matter settled between them.

  His gaze was unnaturally steady, and once again she was reminded of the cold stare of a wolf. A wolf on the hunt, a wolf stalking the quarry he would bring down with ease when he was ready to do so. A quarry that he might taunt and tease afore he struck, as surely he would. Naught would stop that wolf from his objective, and Genevieve fancied that little could stop this cold-eyed man. Fear trickled through her with renewed resolve and she wondered what demon fueled her audacious tongue.

  But she could not back down now. He had granted her a coin. It had been hers to spend and she had done so. No claim had he on the solitary coin that would ensure her room and board this night.

  Still, when he lifted his hand toward her, Genevieve shivered. He touched her wrist and she barely restrained herself from bolting, even as the shock of his intent flooded through her. Would he truly seek out the coin as she had dared him? Did he truly intend to touch her there? The heat of his fingertips slid up her arm, but Genevieve could not look away from his simmering regard. Certain she was that his hand shook as his fingers slid over the curve of her shoulder, then his hand rested gently above her heart.