Unicorn Vengeance Read online

  ‘Twas no less than such a man deserved.

  ”Return to me my lute!” Genevieve shouted furiously. She snatched at the instrument, but the stranger lifted it out of her way.

  She swore in a most unladylike fashion and cursed his height thoroughly before kicking him in the shin with all her might. He swore himself with a savagery Genevieve would never have expected, and leapt backward, obviously completely surprised by her attack. A new light gleamed in his gaze as he regarded her in much the manner one might regard a rabid and unpredictable dog.

  The lute he slipped deliberately behind his back, and Genevieve’s blood boiled anew.

  He could not take this from her!

  “Stop this thief from stealing my lute!” she cried. Though his ears burned crimson, he showed no inclination to grant her request, nor did any of those avidly watching the proceedings.

  “Grant to me your word,” he demanded in a low voice. No intent had Genevieve of fulfilling his request, especially now. She tossed her hair defiantly and knew he guessed her resolve.

  When Genevieve lunged in pursuit, the stranger stepped back with annoying ease. Genevieve attacked again, but he consistently kept a trio of steps between them, seemingly with a minimum of effort. One of the onlookers twittered with laughter, and Genevieve’s ears burned. Certain he was making her look like an imbecile, Genevieve stopped and propped her hands on her hips to glare at him.

  “Too much have you stolen from me already for this outrage to be tolerated,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

  He looked momentarily confused, and Genevieve realized too late that she had made a fatal slip. Her heart sank to her toes, but she did not dare relinquish her ground. He leaned closer, his eyes blazing with intensity and his breath fanning her cheek.

  “What have I stolen from you?” he asked silkily. Genevieve’s mind scrambled in pursuit of a plausible response until she contrived one that actually brightened her smile.

  “Kisses,” she asserted boldly. He inhaled sharply and retreated as though he would flee her very words. Genevieve stalked him across the square as he stepped yet further back.

  Ha! This was more the way she had planned it! More than one way was there to gain what she desired. He wanted none to know what had transpired? Well, Genevieve would tell them all. She snatched at the lute and harried him from either side, determined to pursue him until her lute was safely in her own hands again.

  “Kisses,” she repeated with relish. “Shall I tell them all about your kisses,” she whispered for the stranger’s ears alone, “or will you return my lute?”

  His color deepened but his lips set with a determination that to Genevieve’s mind did not bode well for her success. She watched his fingers tighten around the neck of the lute, and her heart sank.

  “You would do naught of the kind,” he muttered. “You will give me your word instead.” Ha! Unlikely indeed was that! ‘Twas true he was embarrassed, but Genevieve could well see that the matter grew worse instead of better. Embarrassed or not, he would not be compelled to do her bidding.

  And neither would she feel compelled to do his!

  Anger rippled through Genevieve again. Too much did he ask of her. Keep the embrace a secret? Never! Genevieve could not imagine why the matter should be of import, but she would deny him what he asked, simply because he had demanded it thus.

  And he had virtually dared her to tell all. Well, he would gain more than he had bargained for from that!

  “Kisses!” Genevieve shouted to the few onlookers and flung out her arms dramatically. “Took advantage of me, he did. This man,” she declared boldly as she pointed directly at the glowering man who held her lute, “this man kissed me fit to curl my toes, just yesterday. Now he returns not only to deny me, but to steal away my very livelihood, as well!”

  Indeed, she could almost feel the stranger cringe, but still Genevieve pressed on relentlessly. He threatened her pride and her lute—no mercy would she show him. Genevieve turned to a woman who watched with particular attention and summoned her almost certainly sympathetic ear with a friendly wave.

  “My kisses does he steal, and now he would deny not only me, but the very sweetness of our embrace!”

  “Men are all alike, love,” the woman counselled with a sad shake of her head. Another tut-tutted under her breath, and Genevieve appealed to her.

  “Is it not beyond cruel that he would take my lute? My lute alone ‘tis that lets me go on, my lute alone ‘tis that provides my keep. What kind of man would break my heart, then destroy the one thing that might give me the strength to go on?”

  Both women fired accusing glances at the pale-eyed stranger. Genevieve granted him an arch glance, only to find his color yet more unnaturally heightened. A set there was to his chin, though, and her resolve faltered slightly at the realization that she had gained herself naught with this display.

  She might well have succeeded only in so annoying him that he would not return at all. And such an audience she had attracted that there was no way she could dispatch him now without witness.

  Genevieve’s stomach twisted that yet again impulse had served her falsely. Never would she learn, and the certainty of that stole the last of her anger away, leaving her empty and silent in the square.

  Much to her surprise, the stranger stalked toward her, his gaze relentlessly locked upon hers, and shoved the lute toward her. Genevieve immediately clasped its neck in joyous relief, but he did not release it to her as yet. Genevieve tugged, but his grip was relentless. Reluctantly she met his eyes and found a heat simmering there that made her wonder what she had wrought.

  “Do not play here again,” he growled. “‘Tis clear you are a woman of precarious intellect and cannot be trusted with the most simple of matters.”

  She had her lute.

  Almost.

  The very feel of it within her hands restored a measure of Genevieve’s spirit. “I shall play wherever I desire,” she asserted, with a defiant tilt of her chin.

  “Nay,” he threatened softly. The way one brow arched and his voice fell low told Genevieve that he meant what he said. “I shall see you arrested if you do.”

  Arrested? Surely not!

  But when Genevieve met the stranger’s gaze, she saw the answer there that she dreaded. Not a doubt remained in her mind once she saw his resolve that he would do precisely what he threatened.

  But why? She could not fathom a guess, but something had changed when she pressed him. Refusing to grant him that vow and making a spectacle of that refusal had changed his assessment of her in a markedly less positive way.

  Genevieve stared at him mutely as the realization of what she had done fell around her. Something she had changed that would not be readily repaired. All because of her own impetuous defiance.

  She felt remarkably bereft. Little sense did that make, for she could not even name what she had lost. Still, ‘twas impossible to dispel a feeling, near forgotten, of being caught as a child in the midst of some unforgivable transgression and knowing full well that she had erred.

  And done so for no good reason. Yet again, her impulsive nature had steered her wrong.

  The onlookers dispersed slowly, bored now that there was naught to watch, but Genevieve barely noted their departure. Fool! A chance had she had to fulfill her quest, but now ‘twas all gone awry!

  Tears blurred her vision at her own failure, and the pale-eyed stranger slipped out of focus. She felt the weight of his stare for a long moment, then he abruptly released the lute and turned away.

  Not again! Should he leave this time, he might never return! She could not simply let the matter be. Genevieve snatched at his tunic in desperation, and he glanced back in surprise.

  Yet again, she had that curious sense that she could see within his secret heart and she felt his loneliness as surely as she felt the heat of his skin beneath her hand. Its intensity was enough to send one of her tears spilling to her cheek. The ache within him drew her closer, even as she sought to
sort out the jumble of emotions he triggered within her. Genevieve was powerless to look away as her compassion rose again to the fore. Indeed, her fingers fanned out to press against his arm as though she might reassure him somehow with such a simple gesture.

  She fancied she saw understanding in his gaze, relief perhaps, before his expression abruptly became cold and shuttered. He grasped her by the wrist with strong fingers and might have flung her hand away if Genevieve had not spoken while his hand was folded around hers.

  “What is your name?” she whispered urgently. Her voice was as soft as that of a lover in the dark, yet it seemed fitting somehow to be so intimate in this time and place.

  Genevieve could permit herself to think no more than that about her response to him.

  His gaze dropped to her lips as though he were indecisive, then he frowned and met her gaze again. His lips parted, though no sound broke forth, and she knew that some part of him fought this confidence, just as another insisted upon it. Genevieve opened her lips and leaned toward him. Her breast pressed against his arm and she felt him stiffen as awareness of the source of that pressure dawned upon him. Her nipple hardened of its own accord, and he caught his breath in what might have passed for wonderment.

  “Wolfram,” he murmured finally, seeming loath to make the admission but powerless to deny her. His eyes danced over her features as though he were just wakening from a dream. “My name is Wolfram.”

  “Wolfram,” Genevieve repeated softly. Heat rose within her as he watched the word fall from her lips.

  His grip upon her wrist loosened and he lifted his index finger an increment higher. It hovered before her lip indecisively, and Genevieve knew the battle he fought between temptation and restraint.

  Genevieve’s heart swelled, and she folded her hand gently around his palm before she knew what she was about. So much broader was his hand than hers, stronger and wider, the skin of a different texture, and she marveled at the contrast. She slid her hand across his skin, and the sensation of the soft tangle of golden hair on the back of his hand drifting across her palm weakened her knees. A caress ‘twas, and Genevieve marveled at her own boldness even as she guided his fingertip to rest against her lip.

  His finger trembled, but he did not move it away. She watched Wolfram shiver with every fiber of his being at the contact and could not imagine ‘twas her touch that affected him so. He inhaled deeply and impaled her with a piercing glance as his finger slipped across her bottom lip. He outlined the shape of her lips with that gently exploring fingertip, and Genevieve closed her eyes in surrender to his touch.

  A distant horn sounded abruptly within the walls of the Temple, and it seemed the sound reminded him of something. Wolfram straightened with a snap. He looked at Genevieve’s hand on his shoulder, his own hand resting against her lips, as if he knew not how this had come to be. His grip loosened slightly yet still he lifted her hand from him and gently released it.

  He did not meet her eyes again before he turned his back to her. Genevieve clasped her lute to her chest and watched mutely as he walked stiffly away. Naught did he say and Genevieve chided herself for hoping otherwise. A hard lump there was in her throat, though she could not fathom a reason why it should be there. Her enemy he was and she should feel naught but relief to be quit of him again.

  As long as he returned. Yet Genevieve felt inexplicably powerless as she never had before, and emotions warred within her as to what she should do.

  She could not halt his departure. Too shaken was she by his touch and his confession to run in pursuit. Indeed, she imagined she had not even the voice to call out to him.

  Wolfram wanted her to leave. Yet Wolfram was lonely beyond anything Genevieve might have imagined before she had sensed his solitude.

  She knew not what to do. She felt alone suddenly in his absence, bereft as she had never been before. Vulnerable she felt, yet shaken by the confidence they had shared. A tear rose at the corner of her eye, a tear that slid unhurried and unnoticed down her cheek and splashed upon the fingers gripping the lute.

  He had told her his name. How could she possibly leave?

  But what if he did not return?

  * * *

  ‘Twas later that day that Wolfram was summoned to the Master’s office once more. A relief ‘twas to have an excuse to push the lutenist from his mind, though try as he might, he could not banish either her lute’s haunting melody or the poignant memories it awakened.

  Or the other.

  He had felt something when the lutenist kissed him that he did not dare to empower by granting it a name. He cursed himself silently for so readily falling prey to her charms.

  And then today, that other sense had been there again, that curious sensation that she knew what he was. The way her eyes had widened when she touched him. Indeed, it seemed that she saw within his very heart.

  This time, it had troubled Wolfram even less. Reassuring it had been almost to see some reassurance of his earlier impression. Reassuring it had been to not feel so alone.

  He wondered what madness had taken possession of him that he should have confessed to her his name.

  He wondered what the Master wanted and feared he knew the truth of it. Business there was to attend to, no doubt, Wolfram reminded himself with forced enthusiasm. Mayhap another commission that would take him far from Paris and that cursed lute. ‘Twas that lute that lay at the root of his troubles, for ‘twas that lute that had first loosened the locks on his memories of gentler times.

  Aye, mayhap another commission would be a blessing instead of a curse. Work a man needed to focus his life. ‘Twas the idleness of the past few days that fed this folly and undermined his conviction in choices he had long made and accepted.

  The torches mounted on the walls flickered and cast intriguing shadows on the stone that belied the hour. Well might it always be the dead of night within these halls for all the light of the sun that gained access. Now that the evening meal was past, there were not even brethren in the corridors. All were about their chores before compline.

  ‘Twas likely that was why the Master had summoned Wolfram at this time. None would be about to note the incongruity of a sergeant being summoned to the Master’s offices.

  He gained the outer office without seeing another, though on this eve there was no esquire, deaf or otherwise, in attendance. The room was still, all documents neatly filed away as though no esquire would soon return.

  ‘Twas odd. Never had Wolfram been here unescorted. He shifted his weight uneasily, unable to dismiss the sense that he intruded in a private domain.

  Had there been a mistake? Was the Master here? Should he be so bold as to knock on the Master’s door? ‘Twas ever so slightly ajar, that heavy portal, and Wolfram wondered what to do. ‘Twas not his place to disturb the Master, yet he had been summoned.

  Since he had been summoned, the Master would want to know that he had arrived. Reassured by the simple logic of his thoughts, Wolfram knocked resolutely on the door.

  No one answered his summons, but the door swung slightly inward at the impact of his knock. ‘Twas almost as though he were being invited into the office, but Wolfram knew that was but a bit of whimsy.

  “Good evening?” he said.

  No response carried to his ears.

  Wolfram glanced about the deserted outer office, but no esquire appeared from the shadows. Mayhap the Master had fallen ill. He hesitated, then stepped on the threshold of the Master’s office. With one fingertip, Wolfram pushed the oaken door open yet wider.

  The office was empty, the shadows falling long within.

  A small disarray there was on the Master’s desk, a scroll left unfurled, the red wax of its seal casually discarded on the blotter. The Master’s small round spectacles lay atop the flattened scroll, and his inkwell held one corner down while an empty glass anchored the other. A candle flickered, its long wick indicative that it had not been long lit.

  Mayhap ‘twas this missive that had called the Master away
unexpectedly.

  Wolfram knew he had no right to look. He knew he should not even think to steal a glimpse of the parchment, yet the flourish he could discern from the doorway beckoned him closer. Despite his knowledge that this was not his to see, he was sorely tempted to see what the Master had been reading.

  Mayhap ‘twas another contract. Mayhap ‘twas a matter that concerned him.

  That was all the rationalization Wolfram needed. He crossed the threshold in a heartbeat and was peering at the mysterious document before he could reconsider the wisdom of his move.

  A genealogy ‘twas. Wolfram exhaled shakily and regarded the marvel unfurled before him. A genealogy. The bloodline of some blessed soul. What might he have done to have such a legacy himself? What a great gift ‘twas to know whence your own roots sprang. What could Wolfram have been had he but known the identity of his sire? He almost touched the document before he caught himself.

  Nay, ‘twas not his to either touch or examine.

  But a genealogy. Naught else could have tempted him so. Wolfram’s fingers itched with the desire to pick up the document, to examine it at his leisure, to run his fingertip over dates and names.

  He longed to imagine, however briefly, that such a glorious possession might be his.

  Mayhap ‘twas the Master’s genealogy. Well could Wolfram imagine that that man came from a distinguished lineage. And not unreasonable was it for a humble sergeant to express some curiosity about the heritage of the man who led him onward. Wolfram permitted himself one quick glance and stopped cold when he read the name Pereille.

  Pereille. A man name of Pereille ‘twas whom Wolfram had last dispatched.

  Pereille. Wolfram frowned and scanned the parchment with a familiarity born of years of examining similar documents. He found the name Alzeu quickly enough, born 1285 he was. Younger than Wolfram might have thought.

  A lump rose in Wolfram’s throat at the date 1307 recently added beneath Alzeu’s name in a slightly different shade of ink.

  No doubt could there be. ‘Twas this very man he had dispatched. Was it the Master who had added the date? Did the Master keep records of all? Wolfram’s gaze lifted to the rolled scrolls piled on the shelves that lined the office walls with new respect and more than an inkling of dread.