Rejar

  Female Familiars trusted their mates in all things; for they knew the male cherished and protected his family, even at the cost of his own life.

  Lilac knew nothing about instinctual reasons.

  He licked his lip, tasting the blood. He remembered her wildness and smiled halfheartedly. Well, she certainly had the passion to become like a Familiar woman. Maybe in time, she would come to understand him.

  Before leaving the dressing room, he thoughtfully retrieved her shawl, bringing it with him downstairs. The weather had a habit here in Ree Gen Cee Ing Land of turning raw.

  She would need it when he escorted her home from Lady Whitney’s.

  His dutiful wife was waiting for him in the parlor when he came downstairs.

  The picture of abject misery, she sat primly in her chair, back straight, hands folded in her lap, staring straight at the wall. Rejar shook his head disbelievingly at the tragic melodrama portrayed before him.

  Agatha and Traed entered the room from the doors which led out to the garden. Agatha was adjusting her pince-nez as she expostulated on some topic, while Traed walked at her side, hands clasped at the small of his back, listening to her with a patience only he possessed.

  “Lilac! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  In keeping with her role as the pitiful martyr, Lilac sighed dolefully. “Yes, Auntie Whumples; what is it?”

  “Why, did you not hear it? There was a terrible racket! It appears there is a shutter loose somewhere on the house—the banging was dreadful! Traed and I just went out to investigate, although we couldn’t find anything loose.”

  Lilac turned scarlet.

  She risked a glance at Nickolai. Did he realize just what banging noises Auntie had heard?

  Blue/gold eyes twinkling, her rogue of a husband slowly ran his tongue over the little red spot she had nipped on his lip. Abashed, she turned away from him.

  His low laugh just reached her.

  Oh, how she detested him!

  Traed came alongside Rejar. Glancing knowingly at the Familiar’s lip, he murmured facetiously, “Have you been to battle, Rejar?”

  He grinned, sending Traed a cocky look. “Mmm.”

  Traed’s eyes danced with sport. “Perhaps there is some Aviaran warrior in you after all.”

  “Only, in certain parts,” Rejar mouthed to him as he walked over to fetch his wife.

  Traed coughed.

  “It is a little early in the day, but what do you think, Traed?”

  Traed ta’al Yaniff gazed around the smoky interior of the gaming hell at 77 Jermyn Street. Everywhere he looked, men were engaged in various kinds of wagering.

  “This is what the men here do for a pastime?” he asked in disgust.

  “Yes. Sons often wager entire family fortunes.”

  Traed chuckled. “Krue would knock your head against a wall, Rejar.”

  “Only if I lost.”

  Both men grinned at each other.

  “What is this game here?” Traed walked over to a green baize table.

  “It is called hazard.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “Do you see those two cubes with the spots on the sides? They are called dice. A caster throws the dice until he scores spots numbering five, six, seven, eight, or nine. This score is called ‘the main.’”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he throws again. If his second score equals the main, he wins all the tokens. If he throws anything other than his main, he continues to throw until he gets the main—here he loses—or he gets his second score, in which case he wins. However, if he throws a two or a three, it is called ‘crabs’ and he loses at once.”

  Traed was not impressed. “Where is the challenge?”

  “Ah! That is called ‘hedging’ or knowing the odds. Someone good at hedging can ensure his victory by the bet he places.”

  “Show me.”

  Rejar placed a bet on the table after the caster had thrown his second score. By carefully watching the throws, he was easily able to figure out the odds in his favor. So he was somewhat surprised when he lost his tokens.

  Traed looked at him.

  Rejar rubbed his ear. “I meant to do that…to show you how the game is played.”

  “Of course you did.” Traed glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

  The caster “threw out” and the dice were passed to Rejar. He picked them up, weighing them in his palm. The hazard table at 77 Jermyn Street was notoriously crooked. Rejar, with his Familiar abilities, could tell at once that the cubes were not balanced.

  He leaned over and spoke in Traed’s ear. “The dice are askew. The game is set up for a loss.”

  “Do not play.”

  “I believe I can compensate for the imbalance in my throw.”

  Traed raised his eyebrow. Familiars had an excellent sense of balance and coordination; he probably could. Traed swept his hand, palm side up, in front of the table, indicating to Rejar he thought this was an excellent idea. “By all means, brother.”

  Rejar grinned at him.

  He threw a main of 8. His second throw was also an 8.

  Shouts of, “By God, he nicked it!” ran throughout the hall. Soon, the area was swarmed with players converging on the table.

  “I’ve got some blunt on you, my man. Don’t disappoint me—deliver the ready.”

  At the insidious voice coming from across the table, Rejar looked up.

  And went stock still.

  The man, avidly watching his tokens, did not notice Rejar’s stance. Traed did. “What is it, Rejar?”

  “This man—I will destroy him.”

  Instantly, warning bells went off in Traed’s mind. “Why? What has he done to you?”

  “Nothing—to me. He killed a child in the street.”

  Traed’s features went to stone. “How?”

  “He ran over him with his conveyance. I was too late to save the boy. He did not even stop.”

  “Are you sure it is him?”

  “It is a face I will never forget.” Traed could understand that; the man had a cruel, evil look about him.

  There was one thing Traed could not abide and that was mistreatment of any living thing, especially a weaker life form. His arm went to the hilt of the retracted light saber he had concealed within his waistband.

  Rejar’s hand on his arm stopped him. “He is mine.”

  “Take my blade, then.”

  Rejar shook his head. “I will do this the Familiar way.”

  Traed did not approve. “Challenge him and be done with it.”

  “There are worse things than death to a man such as this.”

  “Such as?”

  “It will not be today, but over time, I will make his worst nightmare become his new reality. Watch…”

  Traed was surprised at Rejar’s insight. The words he spoke were wise. Wise beyond his years. There was more here than he let on…

  Rejar spoke to the man, a sharp smile carving the planes of his handsome face. “I will do the best I can. To whom do I give the pleasure of winning?”

  “Lord Rotewick. And you’d best be winning me a great deal. I’ve had a nasty day; I’m not in the best of moods.”

  “Uh-oh. That be Rotewick ’is-self.” Traed looked down, surprised to see Jackie at his side. They had left the man outside by the coach.

  “Best tell yer brother to watch ’is step; the man is a fencing master, ’e is. Killed twenty men. Rumor what ’as it ’e once skewered a man dead for spilling white wine on ’is red coat only to later quip white wine ne’er went none with red—warn ’is Princeship, sir.”

  “Do not be concerned, Jackie, my brother can fend for himself.”

  “That may be true, but an extra set of peepers ne’er ’urt no one.”

  Traed smiled. “I will watch over him. What are you doing in here? Did we not leave you by the coach?”

  Jackie grinned sheepishly. “I got a yen fer the hells sir. I met yer brother in one. ’Tis my ruination and
that’s a fact.”

  Traed nodded prosaically.

  Rejar shook the dice in his palm. “Leave it to me. Your mood is in my hands, Rot Wick.”

  “That’s Rotewick. Rote rhymes with smote, my dear fellow.”

  “Rhymes with fot.” Traed murmured in an aside to Rejar, causing the Familiar to grin. Fot was an Aviaran word referring to a certain recess in the body. The description fit Rotewick perfectly.

  “In my country, my dear fellow, we say Rot Wick.” Rejar managed this straight-faced, even lifting his midnight eyebrow arrogantly at the end.

  “And what is this country?” Rotewick disdainfully took some snuff.

  “Russia. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Prince Nickolai Azov.”

  Rotewick clicked his heels together, nodding a bow. “Forgive me, your Highness.” The pompous man was fuming.

  Traed’s peridot eyes danced with suppressed mirth. Rejar was at it.

  “Nonsense, Rot Wick. I have nothing to forgive you for.” Rejar threw the dice, scoring a 5. His second throw garnered a 9.

  “Anything but a two, three, five, eleven or twelve, yer Princeship!”

  Rejar threw a look at Jackie, who had somehow muscled up to the table to place his own bets. “Who is watching the coach, Jackie?”

  “Got that covered—don’t ye worry ’bout nothin’ ’cepting throwing that nine, yer Princeship.”

  Rejar rolled his eyes and threw the 9.

  The crowd cheered.

  Traed took his elbow. “What are you doing?” He nodded Rotewick’s way.

  “Give me some time, Traed. Leave a hunt in the proper hands.”

  Traed stood down.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Rejar threw and nicked it.

  Lilac stared petulantly at the stitches stretched across her hoop.

  The sampler was supposed to say “A Happy Home Is Blessed” but it looked more like “A Naddy Momc Is Piffed.” She sighed. She was not very good at this. Perhaps Nickolai would not ask to see her creation. Shoulders slumped, she attempted a little lilac flower on the edge, oblivious to the women’s comments around her regarding their husbands and marital duty.

  If Lilac had been paying more attention to the conversation, she would have realized just how revealing the ladies were getting. With each stitch they took, the bolder they got.

  The circle eyed the new Princess Azov with unabashed curiosity. Everyone was dying to know about the Prince. How had the handsome buck performed? Was he as promising as he looked? It was noted that the new bride, while reticent, had a becoming bloom to her cheeks which had not been there previously.

  Lady Whitney gave a knowing look to Lady Hallston and started the conversation by saying, “Philip”—Phillip was Lady Whitney’s elderly husband—“is a once-a-weeker at best. But I can always count on him after a rousing hunt; it seems to get his juices going.”

  “Lord Whitney has juices?” Lady Henry quipped, causing a round of snickering.

  “Well, he thinks he does.” Lady Whitney smirked. Philip Whitney was twice her age and three times her weight. She had been taking lovers for years.

  “What I can’t stand is when they paw you to death.” Lady Hallston took the helm.

  “Oh, I know!” Lilac stopped stitching for a moment. Even if she couldn’t sew, she could at least try to join in the conversation. “And that business when they lick you all over…”

  Twelve needle-baring hands froze in midair.

  Preoccupied, Lilac attempted a French knot, continuing on, “And then there’s that thing they do with their teeth…”

  All needlework was immediately cast aside.

  The women avidly leaned forward, eager to hear whatever choice bit the new bride was unwittingly giving out.

  “Thing they do with their teeth?” Lady Sugarton prompted.

  “You know—when they nip you like you’re a choice morsel or something! Or that other thing…”

  “What other thing?” Lady Whitney asked breathlessly.

  “When they clamp their teeth on the back of your neck to hold you in place so they can…well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Several of the women, eyes glazed, gasped.

  “I swear I must have Nickolai’s teeth marks all over me.” She didn’t—Rejar had been very careful with her tender skin, but Lilac didn’t know that.

  “Men do have their odd habits, don’t they?” That gorgeous hell-born rogue of a Prince bit her? All over. Lady Whitney began fanning herself vigorously.

  “Mmm, they certainly do.” Lilac frowned as the French knot unraveled. Attempting another, she added distractedly, “Why, when I finish—”

  “Don’t you mean when he finishes, my dear?” Lady Henry interrupted, from the lofty viewpoint of years of experience with the opposite sex.

  Lilac waved her hand. “Goodness, no! Nickolai takes forever to finish.”

  Twelve pairs of eyes bulged at the very thought.

  “Sometimes,” Lilac blithely went on, “I finish four or five times before he does.”

  Virginia Hallston’s scissors crashed to the floor.

  At that precise moment, the door opened and the butler announced, “Prince Azov—here for his wife.”

  Rejar walked into the Whitney drawing room.

  Every female eye turned to stare at him with a such an intense scrutiny that his step momentarily faltered. What was this all about?

  Briefly, he surveyed the room with a questioning expression. The women just kept gawking at him.

  Spotting his wife in the far side of the circle of women, he said, “Lilac, are you ready to leave?”

  “What? Oh, Nickolai, I didn’t hear you arrive.”

  The twelve sets of eyes shifted to Lilac, incredulously. How could she be married to this magnificent specimen of a man and be so unaware? Several of the ladies present wanted to seal her up in the Egyptian sarcophagus which graced the center of Lady Whitney’s drawing room.

  “Um, yes, I’m ready.” Lilac quickly stood, stuffing her erstwhile project into her bag. She said her good-byes to everyone, thanking Lady Whitney for inviting her.

  Nickolai draped something around her, his hands lingering at her shoulders. She looked down. It was the green woolen, shawl. Still within his embrace, she looked up at him.

  “I do not want you to get cold.” He spoke in a very intimate voice.

  The shawl and his tone of voice brought to mind what had transpired between them earlier that day. Lilac’s cheeks got noticeably rosier.

  They stared at each other for an endless moment.

  Even to the casual observer, the regard they had for each other was fraught with sizzling sensuality.

  Then Prince Nickolai took his wife’s hand and, saying farewell, left with her.

  Several women began fanning themselves at once, and Virginia Hallston rang for cold drinks for the ladies.

  Ice cold, she informed the butler.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Upon their return, Lilac decided to retire to her room to read until the evening meal. They had all elected to stay home that evening, which suited her just fine. It was chilly and damp outside; it would be a perfect night for reading by the fire.

  She went into the library, picked out a few books, and carried them up to her room. Nickolai was already seated in the large chair in front of the fireplace.

  Thinking his presence was an indication he might like to nap awhile, she asked, “Will I be disturbing you, Nickolai?”

  Rejar looked at her. She always disturbed him. “Of course not.”

  “Oh. I thought you might like to…” This was not coming out right. Her speech faltered.

  “Like to what?” A dimple curved his sensual mouth.

  “Never mind. Would you like one of these books to read, then?”

  He shook his head. “Let me see what you were doing with the threads at Lady Whitney’s.”

  Her shoulders sagged. The last thing she wanted him looking at was her hideous creation. “It was nothing.
Really.”

  Rejar wondered why she was being so reticent about it. With his honed instincts, he sensed some intrigue here. Grinning, he crooked a beckoning finger at her. “I want to see it.”

  “Very well.” She sighed. Resigned to the fact that her husband usually got what he wanted, she tromped over to her bag and pulled out the disaster. He better not laugh. She peered surreptitiously at it. He was sure to laugh.

  Warily, she approached his chair, clutching the fabric to her bosom.

  Nickolai patted his lap.

  Gingerly, she perched on his thigh.

  “Well?” He held out his hand.

  “Very well—here.” She almost flung the scrap at him.

  Rejar looked down at the piece of linen. Since the letters had no meaning to him, all he saw were the tiny stitches and dainty needlework. “It is beautiful, Lilac.”

  So, he was going to make sport of her! Her chin notched up. “Don’t tease me, Nickolai.”

  “Tease you?” Rejar was genuinely surprised. “Why would I tease you? Rarely have I seen such intricate workmanship. The colors of the threads are woven perfectly—here.” He pointed to a spot where she had jumbled up the strands.

  He didn’t seem to realize the section he found so colorful was a dreadful mistake. Lilac chewed her bottom lip. “The floss sort of knotted up there.”

  “And over here”—his tapered finger traced the fabric—“a little lilac.”

  She twisted her head sideways as she stared at the clump of purple knots. “You can tell?”

  “Of course. I will treasure it always.”

  Lilac was stunned. “You want it?” No one had ever wanted anything she had made before. Especially her embroidery.

  He raised an eyebrow. “And why would I not?”

  “Because it’s…it’s…”

  “Beautiful. Like you, souk-souk.”

  Lilac’s face lit up. “Nickolai! You really like it, don’t you?”

  “Have I not said?” He smiled sweetly at her.

  Lilac was so moved by the gesture that she unwittingly took his gorgeous face between her two hands and kissed him soundly on the lips.

  Rejar was so moved by her gesture that he almost made the mistake of taking over the embrace. He stopped himself just in time. This was probably a measure of gratitude and not emotion on her part.