Iris Johansen - The Beloved Scoundrel

“No!” She struggled wildly.

“Lie still, damn you.”

Alex leaped on the man’s back, his thin arms encircling his neck.

“Run, Alex,” Marianna cried. “Run!”

She felt the man above her tense. “My God!” he muttered, and then added in disgust, “Children!” He leaped to his feet, throwing off Alex’s hold. Marianna scrambled to her knees and reached for the candelabra she had dropped.

“Marianna!”

She looked up to see her brother struggling in the arms of the man. She lunged up at him, wielding the candelabra, but Alex was immediately lifted as a shield between them.

“Oh no, not again,” he said grimly, this time in Montavian. “I will not permit a second assault on my person. I have other plans for my manhood.”

As all men did. She wished she had a sword to cut his off. “Let him down,” she said fiercely.

“Presently.” He must be very strong; he was holding Alex as if he were weightless. “But only if you promise not to attack me.”

“Put him down.”

“Or?”

“I’ll find a way to hurt you again.”

“Ah, another threat. You’re a little young to deal in threats.”

She took a step closer.

He stiffened, his wary gaze on the iron weapon in her hands. “Keep your distance.” As she stopped, he relaxed a little. “One of the first things you should learn is that the man who possesses the prize dictates the terms. Now, I seem to have captured an object you value.” He backed away from her a few paces. “He’s very small, isn’t he? Small children are so easy to hurt.”

Fear ripped through her. “I’ll kill you if you-”

“I have no intention of harming him,” he interrupted. “Not if you don’t force me to defend myself.”

She studied him. His thick dark hair had come loose from its queue and framed a long face that was all planes and hollows. His straight black brows slashed over startling green eyes, and his nose reminded her of the beak of an eagle. It was a hard face, a face as inflexible as stone, the face of a man who could be cruel.

“Answer my questions, and I’ll set this young man down,” he said. “I assure you I don’t usually make war on children.”

She did not trust him, but she had little choice. “What do you want to know?”

“What are you doing here?”

She searched wildly for an answer he would believe. “It was cold, and we needed shelter for the night.”

“There’s not much shelter here with that window broken.” His gaze was on her face, reading her expression. He didn’t believe her, she realized in despair. She had never been good at lying. He continued. “Perhaps you’re a thief. Perhaps you came in here to see what you could steal. It wouldn’t be-”

“Marianna wouldn’t steal,” Alex said belligerently. “She only wanted to see the window, but it was gone. She would never-”

“Hush, Alex,” she said sharply. It wasn’t Alex’s fault. He was only defending her and didn’t know the importance of the Jedalar.

“The window?” He glanced up over his shoulder. “Hell yes, it’s gone.” That terrible anger twisted his face again. “Bastards! I wanted that window.”

He wanted the Window to Heaven. Then he must be one of them! “Who… who… are you?”

His gaze narrowed on her face. “Not Mephistopheles, as you seem to think. Who do you think I am?”

She moistened her lips. “I think you belong to the Duke of Nebrov.”

“I belong to no one.” His lips tightened. “Certainly not to that whoreson bastard. I don’t- Ouch!”

Alex’s teeth had sunk into his hand.

Marianna tensed, prepared to spring if he retaliated against the boy.

But he merely shook off the boy’s teeth. “It seems the cub is also fierce.”

“He’s afraid. Let him down.”

“I’ll strike a bargain with you. I’ll put him down if you promise not to run away.”

He had seemed sincere in his dislike of the duke, but that didn’t mean he was not the enemy. He wanted the Window. “You put him down and let him leave us, and I’ll not run away.”

“But then I’ll not have my shield.”

She smiled with fierce satisfaction. “No.”

His lips quirked, but he did not smile in turn. “Done. I think I can protect myself from one small girl. Drop your weapon.”

She hesitated and then dropped the candelabra.

“Good. Your promise?”

She had hoped he would not demand the words. “I promise,” she said grudgingly, and then quickly added, “if I see no danger to Alex.”

He set the little boy on his feet. “There’s no danger here for the boy.”

There was danger everywhere, and she must be prepared to face it. She turned to Alex. “Go to the garden and wait for me there.”

“I don’t want to go.”

She didn’t want Alex to go either. The night was cold and he was ill and she did not know how long this Englishman would keep her here. But there was no choice. Alex had to be sent out of harm’s way. She took off her wool shawl and wrapped it around him. “But you must.” She gave him a gentle push. “I’ll be with you soon.”

He started to protest, but when he met her gaze, he turned and ran toward the small door to the left of the altar.

She was alone with him. Mama. What if he hurt her the way they had hurt her mother? Fear closed around her heart, robbing her of breath, freezing her blood as she turned to face him.

You sent away my hostage,” he said mockingly. He set one of the candelabras upright, found the candle he had dropped, and relit it. “It makes me feel exceptionally insecure. I don’t know if I can tolerate-Why the devil are you shaking like that?”

“I’m not.” Her eyes shimmered with defiance. “I’m not afraid.”

He could see that she was more than afraid; she was terrified. It was probably good that she feared him; fear would produce answers, but for some inexplicable reason he felt the need to save her pride. “I didn’t say you were. It must be the cold. You gave the boy your shawl.” He took off his cloak. “Come here and let me put this around you.”

She looked at the cloak as if it were a sword pointed at her. She took a deep breath. “I will not fight you, but you must make me a promise. You must not kill me afterward. Alex needs me.”

“After what?” he asked. His gaze narrowed on her face, and he understood. “You think I intend to rape you?”

“It’s what men do to women.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ve reached my sixteenth year.”

“You look younger.” In the loose, ragged blouse and skirt she wore her body appeared to be as straight and without womanly form as that of a child. She was small-boned, delicate, almost painfully thin, with a smudge darkening one cheek. Her fair hair was pulled back in a long braid and added to the effect of extreme and vulnerable youth.

She stared at him scornfully. “What difference does it make how old I am? I’m female, and men don’t care. They care for nothing.”

She sounded so certain, he felt a surge of pity for the waif. “Has this happened to you before?”

“Not to me.” Her tone was suddenly reserved. He could almost see her withdraw within herself, sidling away from the pain she would not discuss.

“And it won’t happen now,” he said grimly. “I’m not known to be above debauchery, but I don’t rape children.”

But she wasn’t a child. The delicate beauty of her features should have reflected wonder instead of raw wariness; her clear blue eyes gazed at him with a worldliness far beyond her years, and her lips were set tight to prevent their trembling. He had seen the same look on the faces of the children in the towns and villages along Kazan’s border, and it made him as angry now as it had then. “Where are your parents?”