The Lord of Illusion - 3 (14 page)

“The healer must have been right about the fresh air. Not a twinge.”

“Then let’s do it again.”

“Of course.” He blinked at her. “You look so lovely right now. I—I’m sorry, my dear.”

“For what?”

“For calling you stubborn. I would rather think you had to be, to survive all you have been through. Sometimes I forget you do not know me as I know you. Sometimes I think I shall waste away from want like poor Timias.”

Camille searched his face. She could not bear the thought of his lordship wasting away. Could she?

“How does one explain oneself,” he continued, “when they cannot be sure of their own worth?” He frowned, his pale hair curving about his angled cheekbones, his gaze downcast, those thick, dark lashes shadowing his brilliant eyes. “We are not so different, my dearest Camille. For I have also been a slave most of my life.”

She raised a brow. She could not help it. “A slave to your social position, perhaps? To the demands of your tenants, or the time you must spend relieving the boredom of the idleness of a gentleman?”

He glanced up, and the expression in his eyes made her ashamed of her words, and held her transfixed, even as the coldness of her snowy bed crept through her cloak. “Perhaps G—my father, or my mother, could explain my circumstances to you. For many years, starting as a young lad, I was afflicted by a… condition. One that set me apart from others—caused me to have fits, until I came to understand what brought them on.”

“Your dreams,” breathed Camille.

“Again, my dear, your wits astound me. Yes, my dreams. Dreams of blood and fire and death. Voices in my head that paralyzed me, that caused me to black out at times. That made my life a living hell of solitude. I retreated from the world, and in so doing became somewhat of a scholar, absorbed in my books and poetry.”

Camille nodded. Perhaps this was why he had come to court only once for his testing and not returned since—if she remembered rightly the rumors Lady Pembridge once mentioned of the Hawkes family.

“The voices retreated for a while, but…” He shook his head. “Sometimes I fear I am just as much a slave as you.”

She could swear he showed her his heart with the look in his golden eyes.

“But my dreams of you saved me, Camille. You stood among all the death and chaos in a center of calm, like an angel in a gown of white, offering me hope in a way I still do not understand. But I recognized the need in your eyes, for it matched my own, and I knew I must save you. And it filled me with purpose. To find you. To protect you.”

Camille knew he meant every single word. She thought of his poetry and his stories and his sense of honor and bravery, and knew he believed in them as well.

And somehow, he had made her believe in them, too. Had made her believe in
him
.

“But we do not truly know one another, my lord.”

“Do we not?” He cocked his head. “I feel as if I have known you forever, so it is easy for me to forget you met me only days ago.” He shifted with a crunch of snow, his voice suddenly deepening. “Damn, I wish we had more time… but I have learned patience the hard way. And you are more valuable than anyone may guess.”

Camille narrowed her eyes. All his talk of loving and protecting her hid a deeper motive. But before she could ask him what he meant, he lowered his head, sweeping his mouth across hers, the firm warm feel of it chasing away her thoughts.

His kiss started to deepen when the crunch of boots, and the sudden shout of a young boy, made him pull away from her.

“See? I told you they weren’t dead.” The voice held a note of disappointment.

“Aww, they’re just kissing,” whined another. “Let’s go back.”

Lord Hawkes sat up and brushed snow from his sleeves. Camille did the same, glancing back at the hill. They had landed several feet beyond the mound of snow.

“Bet you never saw anyone go that fast,” boasted his lordship.

The boys turned back around, the taller one shrugging. “Never saw anyone land a sled like that before.” A snicker. “But I’ve gone faster.”

Lord Hawkes stood and helped Camille to her feet, his gaze going to the sled. “It appears to be in one piece.”

She smiled. “’Tis a miracle, I’m sure.”

He echoed her grin. “Shall we take the challenge, my lady?”

“Yes, let’s. Will it be as fun the second time?”

He grasped her hand. “I will avoid the mound this time, so I promise we will not have such a rough landing.”

The boys looked a bit disappointed by this statement, but they turned and whooped nevertheless, shouting out to their fellows about the impending race.

Camille followed Lord Hawkes up the hill, basking in the pleasure of his company. In the anticipation of the race. In the memory of the sheer fun of that wild ride. And then wondered what on earth had come over her. The man always stirred up emotions within her that she thought she could never possess. She pushed them back down where they belonged. She would be a fool to trust him so easily. Wouldn’t she? Surely he had cast some sort of enchantment upon her, to make her feel the way she did at this very moment. Her sense of self-preservation warred with the fragile sense of trust he had begun to instill in her.

The boys patiently waited while Camille settled on the sled again. A small girl with freckles on her nose held a red kerchief in the air while the contestants maneuvered the noses of their sleds to the very brink of the drop. More than half the children lined up with them.

“This is quite a competition,” said his lordship while he settled closely behind her, and suddenly the scene changed. A throng of spectators appeared around them in balconies of colored snow, waving banners and cheering. The young girl’s kerchief changed into a brilliant red flag, and the slope of the hill now sported lines of red to separate the sled lanes, each with a grand finish line at the bottom with golden arches and crowns of roses.

The children gaped at the illusion, which wavered slightly yet appeared quite vivid. Camille could not resist testing him yet again. “It is probably a good thing you cannot cast a glamour upon me, Lord Hawkes.”

He bunched his shoulders and pushed them forward as the girl lowered the flag with a snap. “And why is that?”

“Imperial Lord Roden would kill you for having such strong magic.”

He appeared to choke a bit, but she couldn’t be sure as they swept down the hill again, and the rush of their slide made her squeal with excitement. They won the race, Lord Hawkes telling the children they had done a fine job, and that surely one of them would win the next.

Or the next.

Until the children finally gave up and went home, and the illusory stadium disappeared. But Camille and Lord Hawkes continued to sled down the hill in the gathering twilight, their laughter ringing out across the empty meadow.

***

Camille awoke the next morning to an imperious rap upon her door. She glanced over at Augusta’s bed, but the maid had already risen. The other girl never woke her, as if she had strict instructions not to disturb Camille. And Camille had the luxury of sleeping late most every day, something she never had before and certainly needed, what with her late-night visits to Grimor’ee.

The dragon continued to be obstinately unhelpful in her requests for help in her rescue plans, and Camille had not found an opportunity to see Molly during the day to pursue them further. Viscount Hawkes kept her by his side every day, and she would not visit Molly at night, when the soldiers came to the slave quarters.

This time her door shook a bit from the pounding.

Camille scrambled out of bed, gathered a shawl about her shoulders, and opened it.

It took her a moment to recognize the elegant lady who stood before her. “Lady Hensby?”

“Regretfully, yes.” The lady stepped aside and ushered in two servants and Augusta, each of them holding piles of garments in their arms. They carefully laid out each piece upon both of the girls’ beds.

Camille could only gape at the elegant dresses of pale lavender silk, creamy satin, burgundy velvet.

“Well, girl,” said Lady Hensby, tapping a diamond-buckled shoe against the floor, “Get undressed and let me see if I guessed correctly. I pride myself on my eye for figures, you see.”

“Figures?”

“Quite.” The lady pursed her rouged lips for a moment, and then continued, “I do not understand what his lordship sees in you. By my estimation, you possess a stick of a figure.” She patted a laced-gloved hand upon her generous bosom. “Clever of you though, to deny him your favors for so long. But I do wish you would get along with it. There are several of us ladies waiting, you know.”

Camille scowled. “I do not know what you mean.”

“La! Of course not. After being a slave for your entire life, I am sure you are quite innocent of what goes on between a man and a woman.”

Camille eyed the lady and the door, calculating her chances of dashing past the woman.

“Oh, how droll.” Lady Hensby rolled her blue eyes. They did not have the facets of an elven, but she surely possessed a healthy degree of the blood. For the skin of her face lacked any imperfection whatsoever, and her features looked so even she surpassed beauty and missed the realm of ethereal gorgeousness of the elven only by a mere fraction. “Do not tell me you are shy about undressing? Very well then, I shall leave the room, but you have my strictest instruction to let your maid dress you quickly, so I can judge the artistry of my wardrobe selection.”

“Augusta is not my—”

The lady spun in a swirl of silk, the scent of roses wafting behind her, and left the room with her two servants.

“What is happening?” demanded Camille.

Augusta brushed back a straggling lock of her brown hair. “It is Viscount Hawkes. He ordered you a complete wardrobe.” She eyed the clothing heaped across the beds with a bit of envy.

“Well, I do not want it.”

“Lud, hush! Lady Hensby might hear you and be offended. Do you have any idea of her position in the court?”

Thanks to Lady Pembridge, Camille most assuredly did. She began to undress.

“Oh, try on this one,” said Augusta, choosing a soft linen chemise heavily embroidered with white roses. “And the matching stays. How lovely.”

“She does have good taste,” agreed Camille with a grimace. “And I will show her their fit, but I cannot wear them.”

Augusta handed her the chemise. “Why on Elfhame not?”

Camille held the linen in her hand for a moment, marveling at its softness before slipping it over her head, the material sliding down her body with a whisper like a rippling sigh. “Because I shall look like his mistress.”

The other girl paused in the act of wrapping the stays around Camille’s torso. “Well, aren’t you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Lud, everyone thinks you are, so what’s the difference?”

She had a point. Camille doubted if Augusta would believe she did nothing more behind closed doors than read to Viscount Hawkes, especially given some of the conversations the maid had overheard. And a mistress stood quite a notch above a servant on the social scale. No soldier would dare to touch her. Faith, she would even be allowed into the court withdrawing rooms as a little bit less than an equal.

How astonishing.

She wished she could believe his lordship had ordered this new wardrobe just to ensure her safety. Fie! Did he truly think her so shallow that he could buy her into his bed with silk and lace? A frisson of anger replaced Camille’s confusion, and she immediately felt much better. Some of the accessories in the wardrobe would fetch a nice price, and allow her to escape sooner.

She realized Lord Hawkes had distracted her from her plans for escape. She must make more of an effort. But she enjoyed their time together, the books and conversation they shared. She must resist this glamour he had cast over her and continue with her plans in earnest.

But she held no magic of her own to counter his enchantment, and as she donned the gown Augusta handed her, a creamy satin with a pattern of pale pink roses, her chin unconsciously lifted. She felt like a lady, for although the gown had a ridiculously large oblong hoop beneath it, it was in modest taste and impeccable design. Her satin stockings made it easy to slide into the pink satin shoes, and the silk scarf wrapped about her shoulders matched the pinner Augusta put upon her head after doing up her hair. The lace lappets attached to the cap had tiny pink roses sewn onto them, and they trailed about her shoulders like a miniature garden.

Viscount Hawkes made her an equal with clothing. But when Camille glanced at herself in the mirror, the safety the costume granted her no longer seemed so important.

She could think only about the look on his face when he saw her.

Lady Hensby had apparently grown impatient, and another sharp rap on the door preceded her entry.

She folded her arms. “Faith, I have an accurate eye. Tall and thin, with a tiny bosom. Still…” She let loose an elaborate sigh. “I am too skilled, and I fear it may be several months instead of weeks before he tires of you.”

Camille raised her chin.

Lady Hensby scowled. “He said he wants to see you right away. Something about his correspondence. La! But I have patience, my dear. And with this little favor, I shall be first in line.”