Cameo and the Highwayman (Trilogy of Shadows Book 2) (23 page)

He nodded.

“I was fascinated by Francois Mond, the young revolutionary.”

“Very young.” His voice was wistful.

Her lip curled up slightly into a bit of a crooked smile. “Yes. Very intriguing.”

“Is that what you thought?”

“It’s what all the girls thought.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“No? I think you’re being modest.”

Opal smiled at her, “I just can’t imagine you were thinking the same things as everyone else.”

“Oh, no? I think you might be disappointed to discover how mundane my thoughts can be.”

“Doubtful.”

She smiled, focusing more on the floor than on Opal’s face. “I was rather disappointed when Kyrian handed me that paperwork he believed was one of your speeches, and it turned out to be Bellamy’s. I wanted to read it.” She digressed, “I have read some of your speeches, but of course that was before I realized you and he were the same man. Now it’s imperative that I read one. I was once intrigued, but now I’m completely absorbed with curiosity.”

“Oh, really?” his expression was infinitely more inviting.

“Definitely.” She touched his arm lightly. “Perhaps you can recite something?”

He stifled a laugh. “Not very romantic.”

“Liberty is a romantic notion to me.”

“Well,” he sighed, “it’s been a long time… and I’ve tried to forget them.”

“You had a wanted poster for Francois Mond in your shoulder-pack,” she countered.

He seemed pained as he considered that. “There aren’t many images of me around anymore. I just wanted to have a picture of my youth.”

She raised an eyebrow. She guessed it was more likely that he was sentimental about the whole affair. “Yes, whatever happened to all of the pictures they painted of you years ago?”

“Burned, most likely, as soon as the distant relatives of the Belfours returned to power.”

“You don’t remember any of your speeches at all?”

He thought for a moment, “No.”

“Your essays? Poetry?”

“It’s been such a long time....” Opal seemed to drift off into memory, and then he turned to looked at her more intensely, “You do know a lot about me.”

“Oh, do I?” She moved toward the package of clothing she’d left for him two days before.

He smiled, somewhat pleased with himself now, and he was diligently trying to remember something from one of his more popular speeches.

“You haven’t had a look at the clothes I purchased for you.”

“Uhh, no. I presume you know me well enough to know what my taste is.”

She smiled gently at him, her lips marred by the scar of someone else’s mouth over her own. “Ostentatious.”

“Fashionable,” he corrected.

“Well, that’s not what I procured for you.” She unwrapped the brown paper and revealed a set of rather plain clothes, jacket and pants in deep blue. “I didn’t want you to stand out, and we do need to hide you until we’re able to get out of Shandow anyhow.”

Opal was unimpressed.

“This,” she emphasized as she touched the fabric, “should be fairly inconspicuous.”

“For a sea captain.”

She frowned at him.

He sighed, “I suppose I’ll live. Once I’m able to shave and put on some cosmetics I’ll feel like my old self again.”

“No make-up.”

He was indignant, “What do you mean?”

“No shaving either.”

Opal laughed. “You’re teasing.”

“No. You need to look as little like yourself as you can.”

He sunk deeply into the mattress, groaning in defeat.

Cameo walked back over toward him and stroked his chin, “That is quite a beard you have going there. You’ll make a fine sea captain.”

“I must look awful.”

“Not at all.”

He couldn’t repress a smile. “You clearly have some sort of girlish crush on Francois Mond.”

She smiled thoughtfully, “That can’t hurt you any.”

“No,” he sighed and reached up to touch her at the same time. Then he caught sight of the foreign thing moving toward her face and realized it was one of his broken hands. He hastily lowered it, ashamed of his appearance.

She sat down on the side of the bed fluidly, supernatural in her grace. “How is the pain?”

“More whiskey couldn’t hurt.”

She brought the flask to his lips once more. “I’ll call a bath for you. That should brighten your spirits.”

“All right,” he replied, staring down his hands.

Cameo followed his gaze. “How did it happen?” She asked knowing the answer. She had seen him being tortured through her thralls, which were shades, or as she referred to them
shadow-men
. She could attach them to other people, so she could make certain her friends were all right or keep tabs on her enemies, and she could send them ahead to find things for her.

“With a hammer,” he whispered.

“I’m certain I killed the men who hurt you.”

Opal didn’t move. He could hear the chill in her voice. He muttered
thank you
, but somehow it still didn’t change anything that had occurred. It didn’t change the state he was in now.

“Well, I’ll go see one of your friends about getting a tub up here, if that’s possible.”

His head jerked up suddenly awakened by this new concept. “And you will be bathing me?”

Her mouth curved upward into a somewhat charmed smile. “Yes. Unless you would prefer someone else?”

“No.... No one else comes to mind.”

“Alright then. I’ll be right back.” And with that she was gone.

* * * * *

After a bath, she had dressed Opal in his cream-colored silk shirt and a pair of purple breeches, both of which were once the property of Derbec, a young royal related to the Belfour family. They ate dinner quietly together in his room. She combed through his long, blonde hair and plied him with wine and gin until it grew dark, and then she lay down next to him as he drifted off to sleep.

She curled up against his body. He smelled faintly of soap, which mostly masked the lingering scent of the prison within the palace tower that he’d spent time in. A week of solitude and torture. Her eyes traced the injures on his face, a split lip and a dark contusion on the side of his face, wondering what he had been through.

She watched him sleeping. He breathed deeply in a slumber induced by a hot bath and alcohol. Cameo nuzzled against his chest. Sleep was eluding her, even though she had spent the previous night on the floor of a cold mausoleum, weakened by blood loss. Somehow she couldn’t wrap her mind around the concept that they were finally together, and safe now.

Opal’s shirt was without buttons, and it puckered open, revealing his pale chest as he breathed… slowly .... She watched the rise and fall of his chest, then lingered for a little while on the curve of his neck and his chin pointed aristocratically at the ceiling. She traced the shape of his lips in her mind; they were turned up at the ends into a permanently peaceful expression.

Cameo sucked in a breath and slowly slid her fingers under the pucker of his silk shirt, caressing his skin, tenderly running the tips of her fingers over the pox scars. The room was cold and his skin was cool to the touch.

Opal’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes fluttered open.

“Yes,” he uttered breathlessly.

She raised herself up on her elbows, her mouth brushed against his broken lip, tasting the dried blood. It had an odd flavor, maybe even more thrilling than pressing her mouth against his. The taste was almost intoxicating.

“I love you,” he breathed as he scrambled to wrap his arms around her and pull her close.

“Mmm ...” she purred against his ear, still reeling from the taste of his blood. Was this that little gift Edel had given her? She had some sort of longing to drink blood? She was becoming more and more like the embodiment of the monster that children sang songs about and less and less like a human.

The moon cast a sliver of light across the floor, giving the room a hazy glow, illuminating Opal’s cream shirt and making it appear nearly luminescent.

She focused on the infamous revolutionary she had under her. Opal’s soft, golden hair spread out around him beautifully. The man who had written all of those rousing sentiments about freedom and liberty. That man was actually the one-time highwayman who professed to being in love with her. Her eyes lingered on his broken bottom lip. The reddened hint of blood that would’ve gone unnoticed by human eyes was so clearly visible, and enthralling to her now.

He muttered something endearing, and then, physically out-weighing her, he was somehow able to roll her onto her side. His loose hair swept against her face. She breathed in the scent of it.

Her lips grazed over his rough beard as she sought his mouth, desiring his kiss, and longing for the taste of his blood again.

About the author

Dawn McCullough White
grew up a keen observer of people. She spent her childhood listening to her father tell stories about history and ghosts. This left an indelible mark on her psyche. At the age of fourteen she penned her first novel and has never looked back since. In her spare time she enjoys watching documentaries on history, and playing Super Hero Squad with her son. Dawn lives in Rochester, NY with her husband and son.

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Novels

Author of Dark Fantasy series the
"Trilogy of Shadows"

Cameo the Assassin

Cameo and the Highwayman

Cameo and the Vampire

Coming Soon

The Emblazoned Red

Short stories

"The Ghastly Bath"
The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair

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: Phil White

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: Sarah White

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: Kurt Hanss and Glendon Haddix

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