The Queen's Bargain Page 6

  If the pain persisted, he would see a Healer about these headaches when he returned from Riada.

  * * *

  * * *

  That evening, after he and Surreal had played a board game with Jaenelle Saetien and the bedtime story had been read, Daemon had been surprised when Surreal made it clear she expected her husband to join her in her bed. His headache had subsided, but the echo of pain had lingered, and he would have been content just to cuddle with her.

  Surreal needed more. Aggressive and demanding, she took control, riding him hard as he helped her reach a climax that should have satisfied her.

  It may have satisfied her body, but sex that night did nothing to soothe her heart or her temper.

  Daemon slipped out of her bed at first light and left the Hall before anyone but the earliest-rising servants was awake. Until last night, he had enjoyed being Surreal’s lover. Now he felt relief that he wouldn’t be required to perform that particular duty for a couple of days.

  SEVEN

  Weakness washed through Marian Yaslana as she put a pot of beef stew, a bowl of sweet cheese, and a stick of butter into the cabin’s cold box. Daemon was perfectly capable of cooking his own meals or picking up food at The Tavern, but when he stayed at the cabin, she liked providing him with one meal as a welcome.

  After she closed the cold box, her hand trembled as she pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sank into it. She stared at one of the loaves of spinach-and-herb bread she’d made that morning because she liked that bread with the stew, and the bakery in Riada didn’t make it.

  Foolish to think she could do as much as she’d done before baby Andulvar’s birth. Foolish to keep trying. But she didn’t want to be a semi-invalid who couldn’t play with her children or spend time with her husband—or bake bread. She didn’t want to watch someone else tend her garden because she didn’t have the strength to care for it.

  Nurian had told her rest was the only cure, and she did feel a little stronger on the days when she did nothing more than sleep, read, and tend the baby. That had been fine for the first week or two, but she didn’t want that to be her life. Unfortunately, Nurian’s tonics didn’t seem to do anything to restore her vitality. Nothing seemed to do that.

  Was it time to use Jaenelle Angelline’s last gift? It was a healing spell unlike any other—and impossible to duplicate.

  “Use it when you need it most.”

  What if Jaenelle had seen something else in her future? Something that a little more rest couldn’t cure?

  She knew what Lucivar would say if he was aware of the healing spell, which was why she had tucked it away since the day she’d been given that last, special gift and had said nothing about its existence.

  The cabin’s front door opened. Marian felt the dark power of a Black Jewel fill the cabin. Daemon was sensitive to any intrusion inside the cabin that Saetan had built for Jaenelle Angelline decades ago. The cabin had been Jaenelle’s private place, and then it had been hers and Daemon’s, and now it was his sanctuary from all the responsibilities he shouldered.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she called.

  He appeared in the kitchen doorway, his gold eyes glazed and sleepy—a sign and warning of a Warlord Prince who was a heartbeat away from the killing edge. Then his eyes cleared and warmed. And then he frowned.

  “Marian? Darling . . . ?” He moved swiftly, bending over her, one hand on her forehead as if checking for fever.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t you start fussing too.”

  He eased back and his lips curved in a hint of a smile as his deep voice—that voice that always held a sexual purr—caressed her. “You know saying things like that is pointless, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t mean I can’t say them.”

  “I won’t fuss.” Daemon looked pointedly at the loaf of bread. “And neither should you. I can take care of myself, especially when I don’t plan to do or be anything but lazy.”

  Marian looked at his hand resting lightly on the table. Looked at the slender fingers and the long, black-tinted nails. And remembered why he, like his father, wore his nails that way.

  Black Widow. Saetan had been the first male Black Widow, the first to be taught the Hourglass’s Craft. Daemon was not only the second male to be trained in that particular Craft; he was the only natural male Black Widow in the history of the Blood.

  “Daemon?” She moved a hand to indicate her body. “Could this be caused by something Nurian wouldn’t be able to recognize?”

  “Wouldn’t recognize because . . . ?”

  She rested the fingertips of her left hand on the black-tinted nails of his right. “Because the cause began outside my body.” She didn’t want to accuse anyone. She didn’t have any enemies that she knew of, didn’t think any of the Black Widows living in Ebon Rih had a reason to harm her. But now that the thought was there . . .

  “May I?” Daemon asked.

  Marian nodded.

  His left hand rested against her neck. His right hand pressed lightly against her chest as he used Craft to undo the buttons of her tunic all the way to her waist. His eyes no longer saw her or the room, because he was focused on something else. She felt the feathery touch of psychic probes exploring her in ways healing Craft didn’t do. This wasn’t the touch of a Healer looking for illness. This was the touch of a hunter searching for an enemy.

  His right hand moved lower, fingers spreading so that thumb and little finger touched her breasts. The hand moved lower to her belly. Then to her womb.

  Raising his hands from her body, Daemon took her left hand and used the edge of his fingernail to nick the pad of her first finger. When a bead of blood formed, he licked the skin clean—and waited.

  Releasing her, he rested one hip on the table. “I’m not sensing any kind of spell wrapped around you. Definitely no death spell designed to mimic a wasting disease. And there’s no taste of poison in your blood.”

  She blinked. She hadn’t considered a slow-acting poison. Or death spells. “Have you ever created a spell like that?”

  She watched his eyes change. The man looking at her now wasn’t the man who loved her like a sister and flirted with her gently. The man looking at her now was the man who once had walked into an enemy camp where she and Daemonar had been held captive and who had tortured his own brother in order to provide a distraction so that he could get her and her son out of harm’s way.

  “Yes,” he said too softly. “I have.”

  “A Warlord Prince is true to his nature. You can’t expect him to use what he is to protect you and yours and then treat him like an outcast when you’re safe.”

  Jaenelle Angelline had understood the nature of Warlord Princes better than anyone else in Kaeleer—and she had understood the nature of the men in the family. All the men.

  “Then you would know,” Marian said in her no-nonsense mother voice.

  There were shadows in his eyes, but the terrifying side of Daemon’s nature withdrew in response to that voice, leaving the man she knew well.

  “Darling, what you need is time and rest.” He leaned toward her. “But if you ever feel concerned that someone might be using a spell to harm you, you send word to me.”

  Marian nodded and pushed to her feet. “I’m a hearth witch. I don’t like being idle.” She sounded petulant, which was foolish.

  Daemon smiled, called in a book, held it so she could read the title, then raised an eyebrow.

  A new book by one of her favorite authors.

  “There is idle,” Daemon purred, “and then there is enjoying a self-indulgent—”

  “Gimme.” She reached for the book.

  Laughing, he gave it to her. “A fair exchange for the bread and whatever else you put in the cold box.” He kissed her cheek. “Go home, put your feet up, and enjoy a good story.”

  Her smile faded almost before it
formed. Something off about him. She hadn’t sensed it while he’d been focused on her, but now, thinking about the shadows in his eyes, she wondered if he, too, was fighting some kind of illness.

  “I think I’m not the only one who could use a lazy day,” she said.

  “Which is why I’m here.”

  A breezy reply—and a lie. Whatever need had brought Daemon to the cabin this time was more than wanting a reprieve from responsibilities. He would tell her or, more likely, Lucivar when he was ready to talk about whatever was troubling him.

  “Thank you for the book.” She let him escort her out of the cabin and had the uneasy feeling that he needed her to be gone. That feeling was confirmed the moment she stepped off the porch and Black shields went up around the cabin. No one could reach him now, not even Lucivar.

  She flew home and wasn’t surprised to find Lucivar standing at the edge of the flagstone courtyard, waiting for her. Or waiting for something, since his focus remained on Riada even as he held out a hand to her.

  “Did you see him?” Lucivar asked.

  Marian tucked herself against his side. “I don’t think your brother is well.”

  “Yeah. I know. The question is why.”

  “He put Black shields around the cabin.”

  Lucivar exhaled slowly. “I’ll give him a day. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

  “He brought me a book.”

  A laugh. “Does that mean you’re going to tuck in and enjoy a quiet day?”

  Marian smiled. “Yes, that’s what it means.”

  Lucivar turned them toward the eyrie. “In that case, I’ll look after our littlest beast for a while and give you a chance to settle in.”

  Time and rest. She hoped those would be enough to make her healthy again. If they didn’t, if they couldn’t, there would be one last thing to try.

  * * *

  * * *

  That afternoon, Lucivar and Rothvar paused for a moment to watch Jillian and Daemonar sparring in the yard before going into the kitchen.

  “Coffee is fairly fresh, if you want some,” Lucivar said.

  “I don’t need anything, thanks,” Rothvar replied. He leaned against the kitchen’s archway and looked toward the big front room. “The girl hasn’t come for any sparring these past few days.”

  Lucivar poured a mug of coffee for himself. He didn’t really want it, but it served as a prop. “She’s been sparring with Daemonar before she helps Marian with some chores.”

  “Tamnar has his brains in his pants lately,” Rothvar observed, not looking at Lucivar.

  “He’s at that age.”

  “You think the boy crossed a line and that’s why the girl has stayed away?”

  Someone crossed a line. Or broke a rule. He had a bigger concern right now, so he’d give Jillian a little more time to find her backbone and tell him what was going on with Tamnar. And then he would put an end to whatever was going on.

  “You think there’s something we need to do about it?” Rothvar asked.

  “Not us. Not yet.” Lucivar studied his second-in-command. “Did you know Hallevar when he was an arms master in the hunting camps in Askavi Terreille?”

  Rothvar shook his head. “I was trained by another arms master.”

  “I had firsthand experience with Hallevar.” Lucivar smiled. “Let him deal with Tamnar. He’ll get the boy’s brains back above the shoulders.”

  Rothvar chuckled, then tipped his chin in the direction of the yard. “And the rest?”

  “I’ll wait.” Lucivar joined Rothvar, leaning against the other side of the archway. “Patience is an important part of a hunt.”

  “For this hunt, better you than me.”

  Lucivar huffed. “Seems like one day they’re cute and cuddly little witchlings, and the next they have female . . . opinions.”

  “Like I said. Better you than me. I’ll make a final sweep around this part of the valley and check in with the camps at the northern end.” Rothvar hesitated. “The Black is in the valley.”

  “My brother is staying at the cabin for a day or two.”

  After Rothvar left, Lucivar poured the coffee down the sink and rinsed out the mug. If he reached out now, who would answer? Daemon? The High Lord? Or the Sadist?

  ٭Bastard?٭ he called on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

  ٭Prick?٭

  Thank the Darkness, he felt warmth, not ice, running through the thread between them.

  ٭Thanks for giving Marian the book. She’s been tucked away in her private room since she got home.٭

  ٭Good.٭

  ٭You want to come to the eyrie for dinner?٭

  ٭Not tonight.٭ Daemon retreated from the link.

  Yes, there had been warmth, but there had been something else, too, leaving Lucivar to wonder whether it was physical fatigue or weariness of the heart he’d heard in his brother’s voice.

  EIGHT

  Daemon clenched his teeth and gripped the edge of the examination table as Nyssa, the newly qualified Healer, ran her hand down his bare back—a possessive, inviting touch rather than a professional one. At least, that’s what it felt like, but the headaches had become severe enough in the past week for him to seek help, so he could be mistaking her intentions.

  He hoped so, for her sake.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you, Prince,” Nyssa said as she caressed his back again. “You’re in prime condition.”

  Too much emphasis on the word prime?

  Wishing he had waited to see the older Healer who had been taking care of the residents of the village as well as SaDiablo Hall, he wondered why Nyssa had chosen to relocate to a small village like Halaway. She’d been introduced to him upon her arrival in the village, and he’d gotten the impression that Nyssa wasn’t a woman who enjoyed village life, that she craved the excitement of the larger towns and cities in Dhemlan.

  He could think of one reason why Nyssa would relocate to Halaway, and he hoped again, for her sake, that he was mistaken about that too.

  “The headaches?” He tightened the leash on a temper turning cold—and reminded himself that he could be hearing something that wasn’t there.

  Her hands rested on his shoulders. Her thumbs pressed into muscles that were painfully tight. “Perhaps you’re not getting enough nocturnal exercise.”

  Daemon exploded off the table. Grabbing his shirt off the chair in the room, he put it on with a grace that didn’t betray—or give any warning of—his growing rage.

  “Thank you for that . . . illuminating . . . diagnosis.” A flash of his temper slipped the leash and turned the air in the room so frigid he could see his breath.

  “I didn’t mean . . .” Nyssa stumbled away from him until her back hit the wall.

  The room reeked of fear. Good. The bitch finally realized she’d gone too far.

  “I can put together a mixture of herbs that should help your headache,” she stammered. “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “You do that,” he said too softly.

  As soon as he gave her enough space to reach the door, Nyssa fled from the examination room.

  Daemon finished dressing, giving the bitch enough time to put together the ingredients for a healing brew. Not that he’d trust it—or her—enough to drink any brew made from those herbs, but he wanted to test it. If he couldn’t trust the witch who was taking over the Healer’s House in Halaway, he would have to make other arrangements whenever anyone in his family—or in his employ—became ill.

  As he finger combed his thick black hair into the disheveled style he now preferred, he wondered if Surreal had seen the young Healer recently. Had his wife said something that might lead another woman to think he was open to such an invitation? As for nocturnal exercise, lately he was getting more than he wanted.

  He kept the sexual heat leashed as tightly as he could, but Su
rreal met him in bed with a blend of hunger and anger, as if she blamed him for making her want him. Keeping his distance didn’t please her, and being a considerate lover didn’t please her. And the headaches had become severe enough that it was hard to give a damn about making things right between them.

  Judging he’d given Nyssa enough time to make up the mixture so that he could take it and leave with limited interaction with her, Daemon walked out of the examination room.

  “Here you are, Prince.” Nyssa held out a glass jar filled with an herbal mix. “This should help.” She held on to the jar moments too long, her fingers brushing against his as he took it from her. “I apologize if there was some misunderstanding during my examination.”

  There was no misunderstanding, Daemon thought. And her apology was as false as her attempt to sound contrite.

  He walked out of the Healer’s House before he gave in to the desire to wrap a death spell around the bitch and explode her heart in the middle of the night. The main reason he resisted was that if she made the transition to demon-dead, he’d still have to deal with her. Of course, she wouldn’t like dealing with him when he stood as the High Lord of Hell. She wouldn’t like it at all.

  He’d make sure of it.

  Shaking off those thoughts, at least for the moment, Daemon vanished the jar and headed for his next stop, letting the crisp afternoon air battle with his cold anger.

  Might not be the Healer’s fault. Might not. Which was why he intended to get a second opinion.

  His gliding walk covered ground with deceptive swiftness, and a few minutes later, he reached the walkway of a tidy cottage. Manny’s home. Since he was expected, he knocked on the front door once, walked in—then jerked to a stop as he crossed the threshold.

  Manny stood in front of him, her hands on her ample hips, giving him the stare that had warned the boy he had been that he was in trouble. And damn it, that stare could still make him wary, despite the fact that he was the most powerful male in the entire Realm of Kaeleer.