His warm hand settled over the light blue cashmere, and she sighed.
“Do you love my grandma?” Alex asked.
The boy had dipped his chin. His black hair curled at the ends. He looked angelic. He had one arm around Jean-Pierre’s neck.
“We all love your grandmother,” he said. “All the warriors.”
The boy smiled. “She was a blood slave, but now she lives with us.”
“All that is very true.”
Fiona met Jean-Pierre’s gaze and as had happened so many times before, her heart swelled with affection—but why wouldn’t it, since he was so kind to Seriffe’s children. Jean-Pierre would be a good father. Her husband Terence had been like that as well, kind to children. He had been a strong man, powerful in business, but he knew how to leave his sword at the door when he came home at night.
Sister Quena’s voice once more sounded in the strange outdoor chapel. “And now, if the assembled guests would approach Warrior Kerrick and his family and profess once more the pledge you have made to the Creator, our ceremony will be concluded.”
Marcus and Havily began, and the warriors that ranged behind Jean-Pierre moved down the three rows of benches, stepping from bench to bench with long, heavily muscled legs.
Carolyn looked back and smiled at Jean-Pierre. She nudged her husband, who turned around and held his arms out to the boy. “Come, Alex, we’ll greet baby Helena.”
He went willingly, and Seriffe slid him to the pine needles. “Is she going to mount her wings?” Alexander cried. “I want to see her mount her wings.”
“Hush, Alex,” Carolyn said. “Be respectful. You know we don’t ask anyone to mount their wings. It’s not polite.”
Fiona didn’t turn away from Jean-Pierre. She could have. But now that she was near him, she didn’t want to be apart from him. He was close and she surrendered to it.
As her family stepped away from the benches to the right and moved down the incline toward the altar, he leaned close and asked, “Speaking of wings, how are your wing-locks doing?”
She shook her head. “Right now, I would give my life for one of those silly small bamboo hands with a long handle that you shove down your shirt.”
He laughed. “If you turn around, I will scratch your back.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I am so tempted,” she whispered.
“I will be very discreet. If you turn to face the altar just a little more, I can do it. We are the only ones up here now. No one will know.”
She couldn’t help herself. Whatever else he might be, he knew exactly how to relieve the terrible itching—and it was at least one harmless way she could allow his hands on her without losing control. She shifted as he suggested.
He moved in, much closer, and his hand slid beneath the cashmere. He petted her back through her shirt in a long gentle sweep.
She withheld a groan, not because he meant to give her relief but because his touch was heaven and the scent of him, delicious coffee and earthy male, filled her knees with water. “Ohhhh,” she murmured.
He began at the lowest wing-lock on the right side of her back. With the exact pressure she needed, he rubbed back and forth.
She groaned softly.
Heaven, heaven, heaven, heaven …
“Oh, Jean-Pierre.”
He moved to the next wing-lock and with the tips of his fingers pushed the fabric of her shirt over the offending aperture. He continued this from one wing-lock to the next, up and up, then descended the other side. The relief was so profound that by the time he finished she was nearly weeping.
Oh, God … thank you so much, she sent. She turned toward him and smiled. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to rub my back against the bark of one of these trees.”
He smiled. He had the most beautiful smile.
He laughed. His laugh made her heart ache.
Without thinking, she leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him, a soft brief kiss on his full lips.
His eyes widened. Did he stumble a little?
Fiona, he sent.
I shouldn’t have done that.
No, no, he responded straight to her mind. C’était parfait. Absolument parfait. I expect nothing. Rien.
She nodded briskly several times. She was about to tell him if he wanted another date, sooner than the allotted two weeks, she would allow it, but at that moment she heard a very faint ringing of bells.
“Do you hear that?” she asked. “It’s very beautiful.”
He glanced around. “No, I hear nothing except the warriors greeting petite Helena. What is it? What do you hear?”
“Well, it sounds like old-fashioned church bells, very soft, the lower registers, deep, sonorous, like a man’s voice.”
She searched his eyes but still he shook his head.
A headache suddenly broke over her mind and she put her hands to her head. She struggled to draw breath.
“What is it? What is the matter? Tell me, Fiona.”
“I … I’m not sure. I think it’s my telepathy.” She released her telepathic shields just a little and directed her attention to the Convent.
A woman’s mind suddenly shrieked within hers. Help me, goddammit! Help me get out of this fucking place!
The headache released and she opened her eyes to once more meet Jean-Pierre’s. “I think a woman inside the Convent is asking for my help. Her mind … wow, it’s incredibly powerful, although for a moment there she sounded just like Her Supremeness. What do I do?”
He shrugged. “If I were you, I would try to contact her. There must be a reason for such a sudden, unexpected event.”
Fiona closed her eyes and directed her mind once more toward the Convent.
Beyond the military parade,
War has no luster,
Just gore.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 3
Marguerite paced her cell, the ankle guard banging around her leg. She had calluses now, thick ones. She could feel that Thorne was maybe a hundred yards from her and she couldn’t get to him. She couldn’t reach out to him telepathically, either, since she had a guard dog monitoring her and she didn’t want to give away the fact that she had a very close, personal, hot-as-hell relationship with the leader of the Warriors of the Blood.
But she could send out random cries into the void, cries that her poor guard dog could hear, but no one else.
“Devotiate, I beg of you,” Henrietta said. She was stationed just outside Marguerite’s door. “Please do not send another telepathic plea. I realize no one is there to hear you, but you know the rules. Sister Quena was most specific. No telepathy of any kind. I do not want to get you into trouble.”
Marguerite always tested the waters, even when the waters were boiling hot. She’d test them and test them. She would test them until she was blistered up to her elbows.
Henrietta was too much of a do-gooder doormat to be a real threat so Marguerite powered up her telepathic ability and all but shouted out into the universe, Someone help me get out of this fucking shit-box!
The groans from the hallway pleased her to no end. She smiled.
“Please, Sister Marguerite. You do not understand the level of your powers.”
“Sister Marguerite? You would say that to me, Hetty? That’s a goddam laugh. I’m not a sister. I’m a prisoner.”
A long-suffering sigh followed. Henrietta sat on a hard stool outside the cell. She wouldn’t even appear in the small barred window near the top of the door. Although to be fair, Hetty had cause. Marguerite had enthralled her once, made her unlock the heavy cell door, and Marguerite had invaded the kitchens and gorged on pastries until Sister Quena found her sitting on the floor, a blanket of flaky crumbs covering her chest.
She laughed when she thought about it. Her pleasures were simple these days if very short-lived. She’d spent a month in solitary for that little stunt. Of course, Sister Quena didn’t call it solitary. Private meditation was her euphemism for being forced to fast for a month in a room that had a bucket for a toilet, no bed, and no light whatsoever.
She paced the ten feet that formed the length of the cell. The ankle guard jumped up and down a few times. God, she hated everything about this place including the way the stiff handwoven fabric caught around her legs.
She wanted Thorne.
She wanted him now.
She wanted out. But if she couldn’t be out, she wanted Thorne in her bed. Knowing he was near was causing her serious agony of a purely sexual nature. She flopped down on her back on the stiff mattress that lay cradled on ropes, beds from the dark ages. She had to tighten the ropes to keep the mattress from eventually sagging to the floor.
Thorne had been her saving grace for how many decades? Oh, yeah, ten, since she’d first gotten dumped in this joint by her loving parents.
Who are you? A voice sounded through her head, a woman’s voice, an unknown woman’s voice.
What the hell?
Marguerite sat up. Someone had penetrated her mind, but who? How? Her shields were said to be like flint. Holy shit. She was careful, however, not to answer. “Henrietta, did you say something to me mind-to-mind?”
“No, Sister. Of course not. I would never disobey Sister Quena, you know that.”
The new voice flowed through her head once more. Are you all right? Are you in danger? I heard your call for help.
Her call for help? Someone else had picked up on her telepathy? What the hell?
Now who the fuck was trying to communicate with her? Was it a trick? Could Hetty detect this new voice? Apparently not, because she didn’t interfere.
She lay back down and rolled her thoughts inward. She closed her eyes and began searching for the origin of the telepathic questions. As far as she knew, no one could invade her mind. She had extraordinary shields and she knew it, so how had an unknown woman gotten inside her head without even a hint of her presence?
She took her time following what proved to be a gold stream of light. She traveled slowly, hoping to avoid Henrietta’s scrutiny. After a good long moment, she got very close and realized that here was a woman of tremendous power situated near Thorne, which meant that the woman had attended baby Helena’s baptism.