The Gypsy King (35 page)

Persephone went pale and swayed in her chair. “So … you saved one boy but the other one is—”

“Notdead,” said Azriel quickly. “Notdead—but perhaps wishing he was dead. For you see, when I got back to the place where I'd found the first child I found the dwelling being consumed by flames. Before I could even begin to despair, however, I saw a New Man running with the child slung over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. I followed him at a safe distance, hoping that an opportunity to free the second child might present itself, but it did not and at length I saw the little one being delivered into the hands of the Regent's henchman, General Murdock. Murdock listened as the New Man whispered something into his ear, then he shouted an order to have the Gypsy outlaw caged and delivered to the palace dungeon at once.”

“So this afternoon when Lord Bartok and the Regent spoke of a Gypsy being captured they were speaking about this
child
?” said Persephone incredulously.

“I imagine so,” said Azriel.

Suddenly realizing that someone must have identified the child as a Gypsy and had probably done so in order to save himself, Persephone was about to ask what kind of a person would do such a thing when Azriel slid to his knees before her, took her hands in his and said, “Persephone, I mean to rescue the boy or die trying.”

Even though she should have known the words were coming, she gasped and snatched her hands away. “You can't—”

“I must,” said Azriel, once more reaching for her hands. “I do not know if he is the Gypsy King, but I do know that he is where he is because I failed to save him when I had the chance, and I cannot turn my back on him now. I won't ask you to help in the rescue itself, but I am on my knees
begging
you to play your role as a noblewoman a little longer that I may have an excuse to be inside the palace walls, for without that, all hope is lost.”

All hope is probably lost anyway
, thought Persephone wildly as she recalled what the noblewomen at her table had said about the dungeon. How it was deep within the bowels of the castle; how it had but one well-guarded entrance. How it was a labyrinth so vast that some years past, a slave sent to feed the prisoners had gotten lost and his body had never been found.

And, of course, how there were only two ways out of the place: in pieces, through one of the trapdoors that opened to the underground river running beneath the palace, or intact, shortly to be chopped
into
pieces.

A vision of little Sabian thus dispatched caused
Persephone to shudder. She was no Gypsy and the child in the dungeon was no one to her. Anyone of consequence would think her a hero for even
considering
the prospect of continuing to play her role as a noblewoman and yet.…

And yet she could not imagine standing idly by while Azriel risked his life to descend into hell to rescue the boy.

And so, with a grunt that suggested she was irritated by her own compulsion to involve herself further, Persephone folded her arms across her chest, thrust her chin at Azriel and said, “I have saved your life so many times that I would consider it an affront if you were to undertake your grand rescue attempt by yourself and subsequently end up a cornered animal with your guts spilling onto your feet.”

At her words, Azriel's heart seemed to leap into his eyes. Nevertheless, his tone was mild—even mildly offended—when he replied, “You paint a rather gruesome picture, madam, and one that has the potential to cause serious damage to my manly pride. As it happens, I am perfectly content to attempt to rescue the child on my own—”

“And yet it would seem to me that two are better than one when it comes to things like rescue attempts.”

“That is true,” said Azriel carefully, “but I would not have you exposed to danger and—”

“Enough,” said Persephone, who could not resist quieting him by pressing her fingertips against his lips. “I have come this far for the sake of your little tribesman, Azriel. Come what may, I mean to go all the way.”

Without taking his eyes off of her, Azriel took her by the wrist, gently pulled her fingers away from his
mouth and pressed a long, soft kiss into the palm of her hand. “And when it is over and the child is safe?” he asked softly.

Persephone clenched her teeth to keep from shuddering with desire.

“I think we've got enough to worry about right now, don't you?” she asked.

A short while later, servants arrived with trays and platters and baskets of food. Azriel stood against the wall in respectful silence while they placed their burdens upon the long table by the shuttered windows. As soon as they were gone, he fell upon the food with such a vengeance that Persephone knew there would be more talk in the kitchens of Lady Bothwell's prodigious appetite. While he ate, Persephone told him everything that had happened to her since departing the alley in the dubious care of the Regent. Later, after Azriel was sated, she fetched a basin of soapy water and, trying hard to ignore the way the firelight played across the muscles of his bare chest—and the way his very blue eyes followed her every movement, and the way he trembled at her touch, and the way she trembled at his—she carefully washed out his various wounds while he grimaced and gasped and groaned as though she were hacking off his limbs. After she was done—having gained valuable insight into why Fayla had treated him like a ridiculous overgrown baby that first night in the Gypsy camp (namely, because he'd acted like one)—she fetched
a pillow and several blankets and fashioned a bed for him on the floor by the fire.

“What!” he exclaimed in mock dismay. “Do you mean to say that you expect me to sleep on this hard, cold floor while
you
sleep in that great, comfortable bed all by yourself?”

“That is exactly what I expect,” said Persephone primly as she clambered up onto the bed.

“But it has been such a difficult few days,” murmured Azriel enticingly. “And who knows what the future holds? I, for one, think it would be foolish of us not to take advantage of—”

“Enough!” blurted Persephone, who felt positively
tormented
by the sight of his naked torso glowing in the firelight. “I have fashioned a bed for you and that is where you shall sleep! And if, perchance, you find yourself tempted to crawl in here beside me at any point during the night, I encourage you to imagine yourself a blind, fingerless eunuch!”

“If it's all the same to you, I think I'd prefer to imagine myself slit from bow to stern with an old sow feasting on my innards,” muttered Azriel, sounding so grumpy that Persephone had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Suit yourself,” she said with a toss of her head.

And then, suddenly fearful of what she might do if she did not stop looking at him, she yanked closed the bed curtains, flopped back and waited fitfully for sleep to come.

The next morning, Persephone awoke late to the sound of loud giggling and even louder shushing. Poking her head out of the bed curtains, she saw Martha fretfully pacing while Meeka, Meena and Meeta gaped at Azriel, who was sitting on the floor by the fire smiling and rubbing his sleepy blue eyes, his lower body swathed in a provocative tangle of blankets beneath his taut, bare midriff.

“That's just, uh, my slave!” called Persephone as she flung back the bed curtains, tumbled out of bed and hurried over to try to explain the presence of a half-naked man in her room. “As it turns out, he also escaped death when the bandits attacked my cavalcade. Last evening, after you'd all retired, two of the Regent's New Men returned him to me.”

“And he spent the entire night here alone with you?” breathed little Meeta, her eyes bugging out at the impropriety of it.

“Well,
yes
, but I can assure you that nothing untoward happened,” said Persephone, blushing from the tips of her bare toes to the top of her brow. “I mean, Azriel is a
slave
, for goodness' sake. And then, of course, there's the fact that I'm married. Oh, and also the fact that he's a eunuch.”

“Is—he—
really
?” said Meeka, looking as though she'd like to rip the blankets aside, tear off his breeches and confirm this for herself.

“Absolutely!” squeaked Persephone. “Now, uh, I'm to go hunting with Lady Aurelia and the rest of the ladies today. Therefore, after the servants arrive with food—”

“You should hear what they're saying about you in the kitchens!” piped Meeta.

“—and I've finished breaking my fast, Martha, I should like you to select a suitable gown and cloak for me,” continued Persephone hurriedly. “Meena, you will find the yeoman of the bowman and ask him to send a bow up to my rooms that I may practise drawing it, for it has been some time since I've gone hunting and I should not like to appear … unpractised. Meeka and Meeta, you may help me bathe and dress.”

“Perhaps the eunuch could help us,” suggested Meeka with a sly, sideways glance at Azriel.

“Well, it would only be appropriate that I do so,” he said with a modest shrug. “After all, I
am
Lady Bothwell's Master of the Bath. Trained in the art of sponge and soap, gentle-handed and thorough, I never rush but devote myself entirely to the task before me—tenderly working my way up and down her body, one slow inch at a time, that my lady might eventually step from the water flushed and tingling with the knowledge that she is cleaner than any noblewoman in all the realm.” Pretending not to notice the way Meeka was looking at him (like he was a giant sweetmeat), Azriel let his words hang in the air for half a heartbeat before turning his very blue eyes upon Persephone, cocking his head to one side and innocently adding, “Then again, perhaps Lady Bothwell would prefer that I busy myself emptying the chamber pot?”

“Huh?” breathed Persephone, who was flushed and tingling at the very
thought
of submitting herself to Azriel's “gentle hand.” “Oh, uh, yes—that is what I would prefer.”

“Very good, m'lady,” he murmured. “I'll see to it at once.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

I
N ANOTHER PART of the palace, Mordecai was struggling to control his rising anger. He'd come to the king's chambers under the guise of wanting to discuss the young monarch's upcoming birthday celebrations but with the true purpose of casually mentioning that at the most recent Council meeting there'd been much talk of the many reasons the king ought to name his Regent as his heir. Instead, Mordecai found himself caught up in a discussion regarding a matter as trifling as it was tedious.

“Majesty,” he sighed, “I
agree
that the execution of Lord Pembleton's son was regrettable—”

“It was more than regrettable, Mordecai,” interrupted the king, coughing slightly as he shoved his breakfast tray to one side. “It was a grievous misjudgment on your part. I knew the man personally—he was new to court, but I liked his spirit. Just six weeks ago I gave my blessing to his newborn son!”

“That's as may be, Your Majesty,” said Mordecai soothingly. “However—”

“Not only that,” continued the king, holding his index finger high in the air, “but Moira here tells me that she heard you made an unseemly spectacle of the poor man's execution and caused his bereft father needless pain and suffering in the bargain.”

Mordecai turned his dark, glittering gaze upon the insufferable cow who had mothered the king since infancy. She blandly returned his gaze, then settled deeper into her cushioned chair by the king's bedside and resumed shuffling cards.

Promising himself for the thousandth time that someday she would die in agony, Mordecai took a deep breath and turned back to the king. Spreading his bony hands wide, he murmured, “What you say about the execution is true, Highness, but as we've discussed
many
times before, if you do not show the great lords what will happen to them if they sin against you and this realm, you can never hope to control them.”

“I do not believe that Lord Pembleton's son committed any such sins,” said the king flatly.