The Black Lily (Tales of the Black Lily) Page 8

  A chorus of “ayes” sounded with fists in the air.

  “Though they are monsters, we must remember that we are not. The assassination of the prince was our aim to destroy a pinnacle of their strength, to show we are not the weak species and class they perceive us to be. They know we are willing to sacrifice our own lives to penetrate their ivory tower, but we will kidnap, not kill, the Princess of Arkadia, the prince’s betrothed, in order to prove our willingness for diplomacy. If they refuse our demands”—Arabelle swept her gaze over the hushed crowd of hopeful faces, the firelight dancing as dusk darkened behind them—“then we will show them how monstrous we can be.”

  A great shout rose higher than all the rest. Arabelle raised her fist among theirs just as little Nate appeared, weaving quickly through the crowd toward her cart. Breathless and dustier than usual, he climbed onto the bed of the cart and tugged on Arabelle’s arm.

  She crouched down. “What, Nate? What is it?”

  He licked his chapped lips. He’d apparently run the whole long way through Larkin Wood to get here.

  “Barkley, a cup of water, please.”

  Barkley lifted her tin scooper from the barrel near the woodhouse door and passed it to her. She helped Nate guzzle down a few gulps. “Okay. Now tell me.”

  His round dark eyes pooled with tears. “They’ve got Deek. The Legionnaires. And the prince.”

  A gasp swept over those close to the cart. Grumblings erupted. Arabelle kept calm, even though her heart raced at the news.

  “Tell me. Where are they keeping him?”

  “I dunno.” He looked down, kicking the dirt. “He didn’t tell me.”

  “Who didn’t tell you?” Arabelle’s heart sank into her stomach for she already knew the answer.

  “Prince Marius, o’ course.”

  “You spoke to Prince Marius? Why did he speak to you?”

  “He hunted me down. Said if I knew how to get a message to ye, then I should do it quick.”

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, boy,” bellowed Barkley. “Tell us the message.”

  Heaving out a deep breath, Nate said, “He wants to trade Deek. Tomorrow at dawn.”

  “Trade him?” asked Arabelle. “For what?”

  “For you.”

  Silence fell on the gathering that had been jubilant with hope moments before.

  “Nay,” said Barkley. “We’ll not trade the Black Lily.”

  “Nay,” agreed Ivan, then the others.

  Arabelle stood tall and held her hand in the air. All grew silent.

  “They want a trade, do they? Well, I say we give them one. For all the lives we’ve lost, for all the blood we’ve spilt, for all the pain we’ve suffered, so that they might thrive in power and tyranny. We will trade them a dozen points of gold straight to the heart!”

  A rousing hoorah arose once more. The hell if Arabelle would be defeated by that damned prince. If he wanted a trade, she’d give him one he’d never forget. She’d get Deek free and show the prince whom he was dealing with once and for all. No more pretty masks and silken gowns. Time to meet the Black Lily.

  Chapter Ten

  Marius stood on the balcony of his bedchamber, overlooking the glittering lights of Sylus. Though small, the village was lively before the night watch set out. The peasantry knew how to enjoy good ale and fine company. He’d wondered what life must be like for them, thinking it pleasant to enjoy a simple life, free of the duties and protocol a prince must bear.

  But the blacksmith today…he had painted an entirely different picture of the peasant life. A good day’s work put food on the table and kept a roof over their heads. But the man named Deek had spoken of tyranny and fear and dread. And after seeing the raw fear in the servants’ eyes firsthand, he knew he’d been so blind all these years that he’d strode through town, thinking them a healthy, happy lot.

  His thoughts wandered to the hovel where Arabelle had been living for over a decade. She was obviously underpaid, even for a peasant, to live in such squalor. He planned to make the Pervis family suffer once he devised the proper retribution.

  Marius often sought to investigate the treatment of the peasant class to ensure the aristocrats gave proper recompense to their laborers. A monarchy which allowed such injustice would surely force the oppressed to rise up.

  But to kill him? He slid his hand beneath his nightshirt, the drawstring untied, feeling the scar where the blade had penetrated. Then he reached inside his robe pocket and pulled out the silken glove, rubbing the soft cloth between his fingers, wishing he could caress its owner in the same way.

  She was golden in every way—hair, eyes, skin—the embodiment of his weakness. Rather than repel, she drew him closer, and he wondered how far he’d go before he lost himself altogether. He remembered the sweet weight of her on top of him. A soft groan escaped as he yearned to feel her again. Taste her deeper.

  “Why so pensive, my son?” his mother called at her approach behind him.

  He slipped the glove back inside his pocket, not surprised his mother should encroach on his privacy. She often did. It was no secret that he wasn’t happy. A stirring discontent had settled on him the past few years. Rather than shake the hollowness inside of him, the chasm grew by the day. Except for the fleeting moment he’d beheld Arabelle then tasted the sweetness of her mouth and skin.

  Rain and wildflowers.

  His mother sidled up beside him, angling her body toward him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Do not worry about this girl who dared to attempt to assassinate you. She will be found. And dealt with accordingly.”

  That was what he was afraid of.

  “Mother, have you ever wondered what life must be like for the peasantry?”

  She placed her fine-boned hands on the railing, pale against gray slate. “The peasants are here to serve us.”

  “Yes. I know.” The moonlight gilded her fair complexion to luminescence. Her cool exterior usually comforted him. Tonight, it disturbed him. “But have you considered their plight?”

  “Plight? We provide a stable life for them. I hardly count guaranteed food and shelter a hardship.”

  “They seem to feel it is.”

  She didn’t say a word, and yet Marius felt as if he’d stepped into a forbidden garden. A tingle of dread crept up his spine. After an uncomfortable silence stretched, the lights in the village beginning to dim, his mother finally spoke.

  “There is an old tale of The Girl and the Bumblebee.”

  “I remember it. You used to tell me the story as a child.”

  “Then you’ll remember that the little girl went to the field of flowers every day to watch the bumblebees gather nectar. Their soft, plump bodies and busy wings entranced her. She’d spend day after day sitting in the field. Watching. Until one day, she captured the most beautiful bee she had ever seen. Bright yellow stripes against dark black, the tiny creature circled her then landed upon her knee. Filled with absolute joy, she snatched it as it tried to lift off once more. Well, of course, the bumblebee stung her fiercely on the palm. The girl sprang to her feet, dropped the bee, and crushed it beneath her foot. She bemoaned its death, but more so, she chastised herself for wanting something she could not keep.”

  Marius heaved out a sigh. “Mother, I am not a girl entranced by a bee.”

  She turned her icy gaze up to him as if to say, “Yes, you are.” Her expression never wavered.

  “Be careful, my son. Or you will get stung.” She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders. “Good night.”

  As she exited the balcony through his bedchamber, Marius looked down once more at the village, the lights winking out one by one as the night watch approached. Suddenly, they didn’t hold the mystique they did before his mother’s visit. And her sad tale. Somehow, she already knew that he held some regard for the peasant girl, for Arabelle.

  Resigned to get some sleep with tomorrow looming large, he padded back into his bedchamber, sensing someone’s presence immediately, then smelling the
sweet, familiar scent of his concubine.

  Larissa lay upon his bed, wearing a sheer pink gown, cut deep for his pleasure. However, the thought of bedding her or even drinking from her brought him none at all.

  He crossed the room to his side of the bed where the gossamer curtains were parted.

  “Larissa, you need not come to me tonight.”

  “Your Highness, I thought you might still be…hungry.”

  She slid the knee-length hem of her gown up to her thighs. He could smell her desire and hear the rapid beat of her pulse. Normally, Marius would not only appreciate such a gesture, he would take advantage, slake his thirst and his lust, then give her the passion and tender affection she craved in return.

  Tonight, there would be no such coupling. Not only did he not desire Larissa, the thought repelled him.

  “You are generous to think of me, Larissa. But I wish only for sleep tonight.”

  “Are you sure, my prince?” she asked, her hand sliding along her thigh to her waist.

  Larissa had never been very good at seduction. Of course, in the past she hadn’t needed to be. Marius had been attracted to her, regardless. But not tonight.

  “Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let us get you to your bed.”

  She took his hand and let him guide her to her feet. As he walked her across the room to the door, she sniffled. A pang of regret pierced Marius, realizing she was crying. He never managed well when a woman cried, especially when he was the cause.

  “Please don’t cry.”

  He pulled her into his arms to provide some comfort, caressing her hair.

  “You don’t want me anymore,” she muffled into his chest before pulling away to look up at him.

  He could not deny it, and he would not lie to her. Yet he didn’t know how to reply to her accusation. The only thought that came to mind was the image of the blond vixen, Arabelle.

  “It’s because you’ll marry soon, isn’t it? And you’ll forget all about me.”

  His marriage. Yes. He often forgot about that, pushing it well to the back of his memory. He had no desire to marry a woman he had never laid eyes upon, yet it would be done all the same. And while royals often kept their Blood Harems after marriage—for not many royal couples fed from each other alone—he knew that he would not, could not keep Larissa. It would only break her heart more to pine for him when his heart would never belong to her.

  “I’ll never forget you, Larissa,” he said sincerely, cupping her cheek. “Even after I am married.”

  Tears began to pour again. He opened the door and motioned to a guard.

  “Please escort Larissa to her bedchamber safely.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  He closed the door on the image of her retreating figure, her shoulders shaking. Chastising himself for injuring yet another woman, he combed a hand through his hair then made his way back across his chamber.

  He never intended to hurt her. Or the many other women who’d come in and out of his life over the years. Perhaps he shouldn’t treat them so well, and they’d learn to hate him. Many of his concubines had fancied themselves in love with him in the past. And perhaps they were. While Marius cherished all of his concubines, he had never been in love with even one. No, he could never be as cold as his father was with his harem, using them for a moment of satiation or pleasure then tossing them aside. Still, he paid the price when he broke their hearts unintentionally.

  He stood before the hearth, a steady fire crackling in the grate, and leaned with both hands on the mantel. Sickened by his own misuse of the human women in his past, he stared into the flames, seeing the defiant face of Arabelle. How did she expect vampires to survive if they didn’t use bleeders? Maybe that was her chief complaint, that his species existed at all, and that was why she was starting with a royal kill to get her revolution going.

  His imagination swept past her defiance and straight to her kiss, when she’d moaned beneath him. Marius’s mind spun with thoughts of seduction, passion, and the glorious feel of Arabelle in his bed. His cock stirred in his pants. He growled in frustration, now knowing he’d been deluded and tricked by her reciprocation. She’d played him just as a woman plays a harp, and he’d fallen for her trap. He was lucky to still be standing, truth be told.

  His thoughts wandered back to tomorrow’s meeting. He pulled from his trousers the note scribbled in a pretty but rudimentary hand.

  I will meet you at Chance Crossing tomorrow at dusk. Deek had better be alive for the trade. –The Black Lily

  He couldn’t help but smile as he passed the pad of his index finger over her name.

  “Arabelle…I’ll see you at dusk.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Arabelle waited atop Willow on the south side of the creek at Chance Crossing. She worried for Deek, praying they hadn’t harmed him. While a steady tremble had begun to build within her belly and spread to her limbs, she appeared cool and calm to the present members of the Black Lily. Only Barkley waited at her side, his tree-trunk legs planted apart, arms crossed over his massive chest.

  They both faced the direction from where the vampire party would come, with the sun setting behind them. The last of the sunlight would be shining in the eyes of the enemy. Another advantage. The others were well-hidden in the trees, having spent the night in the woods and covered their scent with deer dung for good measure. They waited in the wings for Arabelle’s signal.

  The sound of horses’ hooves grew closer. Arabelle gripped the pommel of Willow’s saddle, her fingers whitening with her clutch. She wasn’t afraid. Anticipation had set her nerves to quivering as they waited for the riders to come into view. They didn’t have to wait long.

  Around the bend and out of the shadow of trees, a party of ten trotted toward the creek then stopped. Marius led them with his second, Nikolai, at his side. Legionnaires fanned wide behind them, one pulling a horse with Deek on top, whose hands were bound.

  “Deek,” Arabelle whispered, capturing his steely gaze.

  Deek shook his head, blackened eye puffy. She swiveled her attention back to the prince. The trembling that had built inside her chest finally stopped when she took in the man she had nearly killed a few nights earlier. His expression—hard and unyielding—was unreadable. He watched her with frightening scrutiny, as if he sought to delve into her thoughts with those vampire eyes. She hardened her own countenance, even while she noticed how his lovely black hair brushed his shoulders in the breeze.

  “Greetings, Prince Marius.”

  “And you, Arabelle.”

  She shivered, the tremble rippling through her bosom when he said her name.

  “You are looking well…considering,” she said, pretending she wasn’t surprised when he said her name.

  “Considering you embedded a gold-tipped blade in my chest last we spoke? Yes, I am. Thank you.”

  “Too bad I missed your heart. Or perhaps you don’t have one?”

  The one called Nikolai jarred his horse forward a step. “Enough, woman.”

  The prince waved him down, since Nikolai looked as if he were going to barrel across the stream and strike her. Of course, when vampires were well fed, they could move faster than the horses. Arabelle scanned the lot of them. Yes, they all had the appearance of being at full strength, an uncommon blush to their pale cheeks. All except the prince. Arabelle frowned, wondering why he wouldn’t be drinking from some meatsack night and day to strengthen himself after the good piercing she had given him.

  “We’ll pass over your man to him,” said Marius, nodding to Barkley, “if you come across the water.”

  She snorted. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “Quite the opposite. I know you’re clever.”

  “Then you know I will not trust you to keep your word, that you’ll simply pass Deek over once I surrender. The idea of trusting a vampire’s word is laughable.”

  Barkley grunted agreement at her side. If Nikolai could kill with a look, she’d be dead already.
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br />   “Let us meet halfway,” said the prince. “You must understand that I do not trust you, either.”

  Arabelle smiled, proud that she’d put some notion of doubt into the arrogant royal.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “You bring Deek across, and I’ll meet you in the middle.”

  “No,” said Nikolai. “I will bring him.” He grabbed the reins of Deek’s steed and pulled him forward.

  “What’s wrong, Prince Marius?” she asked. “Are you afraid of little old me?” She patted her hands along the thin fabric of her boys’ breeches and linen shirt, up her thighs, hips, stomach, ribs, and breasts. “I can’t have a hidden weapon in this.”

  Marius’s eyes flared fire-bright. “Give me the reins, Nikolai.”

  “But, Your Highness—”

  The prince cut him a look. The lieutenant handed over the reins with a sigh, then Marius nudged his horse to enter the shallows of the creek. Arabelle did the same, clicking for Willow to edge forward slowly. The horses waded through, sloshing water, until finally Arabelle stopped right in front of the prince’s black steed.

  Once more, the prince’s keen gaze and blank expression gave her no signs of what was going on inside the man’s head. It was certainly not the look of the enraptured man at the ball, but neither was it the face of one riddled with anger and revenge as she’d expected. If anything, he seemed amused.

  “I have never seen a woman ride astride. Of course, I’ve also never seen a woman wear a man’s clothes.”

  “Do I offend your royal sensibilities, Your Highness?” Arabelle arched a brow, having fun toying with the man.

  “Not at all. I find you quite…surprising.”

  “I imagine a vampire of your years isn’t often surprised.”

  “Never, actually.”

  “Well, I do so love to be original. No sense in being part of the crowd.”

  “That you could never be.”

  “So you like surprises, do you, Prince Marius?”