Iris Johansen - The Beloved Scoundrel

“That ‘little dove’ nearly emasculated me,” Jordan said grimly. “I assure you, she’s far more falcon than dove.”

Gregor’s eyes twinkled. “Then you did try to mount her. For shame-and in a holy church too.”

“I mounted her, but not in the way you mean. She tried to kill me with an iron candlestick.”

“Because you frightened her. Her brother is inside the church?”

“In the garden.”

Gregor frowned. “I will go and get them. They may be too frightened to approach us.”

“No, let her come to me.”

“But I think-”

“The Window to Heaven was shattered,” Jordan interrupted. “It’s completely useless.”

Gregor gave a shocked exclamation. “Who?”

“Well, we know it wasn’t Nebrov. I suspect it was broken accidentally when he tried to capture the town.”

Gregor grimaced. “I would not like to have been the officer in charge of the troop who made that mistake. I wonder why he didn’t secure Talenka before he marched on to the capital.”

“Arrogance. He thought he would wrest the entire country from King Josef and then have all the time in the world to steal the Window to Heaven. It was only when he was defeated that the urgency of the matter hit home. He needed the Window to barter with Napoleon for power and support.” He paused. “However, when they smashed the Window, it seems he tried to rectify the error. He took a troop and rode west to the cottage of Anton Pogani.”

“The man who created the Window?”

“So everyone thought. Your ‘dove’ tells me the work was done by her grandmother.” He briefly related the details he had learned from Marianna.

Gregor whistled. “Poor little girl. No wonder you’re being so kind to her.”

“For God’s sake I’m not being kind. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? She won’t admit it, but she knows the Window to Heaven. She’s been trained in glassmaking, and someday she may be as good a craftsman as her grandmother. It’s a chance, but it’s the only one we have.”

“I heard you.” He beamed. “You should not be ashamed of being kind. I know you like the world to think you wicked, but I promise I will tell no one.”

“I’m not-” He stopped and shrugged. “The girl would disagree. She’s already told me she knows I’m not kind.”

Gregor glanced back over his shoulder. “I still think I should go back and get her. What if she flies away?”

Jordan reined in his horse as he turned a corner. “She’s not going to fly away. Because you’re going to go back to the church and stand in that alcove in the shop across the street. Send Niko to watch the back entrance to the garden. Neither of you are to let your presence be known, if she sets out in the direction of the camp.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Bring her to me.”

Gregor’s expression was troubled. “She thought herself free. You did not tell her the truth.”

“I didn’t tell her a lie. She is free as long as she makes the right decision. Sometimes it’s necessary to hood a falcon to keep her from flying in the wrong direction.” He added impatiently, “And stop looking at me as if I were going to harm your little bird. The only reason I didn’t take her by force is that I know more will be accomplished by offering honey instead of lemon. I’m well aware I need to coax her into submission. I have no desire to have her claw at me again.”

The assurance didn’t please Gregor. He had seen Jordan offer honey to women before, share the sweetness, and then withdraw and walk away. “This is not a good thing. She’s not like your usual women. She is wounded.”

“You talk as if I was going to bed her,” Jordan said dryly. “As you say, she’s only a child.”

“How old?”

“Sixteen. I don’t seduce chits scarcely out of the schoolroom.”

It was true Jordan preferred older, experienced women and avoided like the plague the young innocents who were thrown at him both in Kazan and London. Yet Gregor’s instincts told him there had been something unusual in Jordan’s attitude toward the girl a few minutes ago. “The schoolroom from which this particular chit emerged teaches more interesting lessons. You need the Jedalar. I think there is little you would not do to get it.”

“Then you needn’t worry about her for a time. She’s incapable of giving it to me for at least a few years. Perhaps never.” He nudged his horse into a trot. “I’ll see you at camp.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And, Gregor, my friend, while you’re contemplating letting the little dove fly the cage, you might consider that the alternative to my guardianship is leaving her to starve or become a whore in this benighted country.”

A convincing argument, Gregor thought gloomily, as he watched Jordan ride away. Jordan was a hard man and had grown even more ruthless since he had involved himself in Kazan’s concerns, but, whatever fate he dealt the girl, it would be better than what she faced here. “Niko!” He wheeled his horse and gestured to the burly young man at the rear of the troop. “No rest for you yet. There’s work to be done.”

The campfire was burning brightly, a beacon in the darkness, luring her closer.

“Marianna?” Alex’s hand tightened on hers. “Is it all right?”

She didn’t know, she thought in sudden panic. She didn’t know if they would be safe. She had stayed for hours in the church agonizing over this decision. Draken’s followers appeared a wild band, and yet he was…

What?

Violent, hard, clever. He had demonstrated all of those traits in the short time they had been together. She had also discerned a relentless determination and a blunt honesty. Yet how could honesty live side by side with deception? Every instinct said he had not told her the truth about the Window.

Alex coughed and pressed closer to her. “I smell food. I’m hungry, Marianna.”

Food and shelter and safety for Alex, Draken had promised her, and she had promised him nothing. After all, she could always escape later if she found the threat too great. In the meantime Alex would have a chance to heal and grow stronger.

“There will be food soon.” She drew the sheepskin blanket closer about Alex’s shoulders, drew a deep breath, and strode boldly toward the campfire.

Huddled figures, wrapped in sheepskin blankets, lay slumbering a short distance from the camp-fire. Only Jordan Draken was awake, sitting staring into the flames.

He looked up as she entered the circle of the firelight. “You’ve been a long time,” he said quietly. He turned to Alex. “And you look blue with cold, lad. Come closer to the fire.”

Alex glanced up at her, and when she nodded, he edged closer to the flames. He dropped the blanket as the heat struck him and held out his hands to the flames. He gave a beatific sigh. “That feels good.”

“Yes, it does. It’s a raw night.” Jordan gestured to the pot simmering over the flames. “Rabbit stew. Take a spoon and bowl and help yourself.”

“I’ll get it for him.” Marianna stepped forward, then stopped as Draken shook his head. “He’s not well,” she said fiercely.

“If he can stand, he can use a ladle.” He stood up and unrolled a sheepskin pallet a short distance from his own and sat down again. “You’re the one weaving on your feet. Sit down.”

Alex was already eagerly spooning hot stew into a wooden bowl, and she reluctantly sat down on the sheepskin pallet. The fire was blessedly warm, and she wanted to sigh with contentment as Alex had done. “I have to help Alex.”