The Pearl Savage (31 page)

She saw him hesitate and arched her
brow.

“I do not wish to harm you,” he
said.

Clara
crossed her arms underneath her breasts and let her face fill with
disbelief. Oh yes, he
so
did not wish to
harm
her after the whole slam-into-the-tree episode and her fainting,
yet
again
.
And the vomiting everywhere. Yes, that was it, her welfare was
so
important.

She felt battered and not just her
body.

Matthew raked a hand through his
hair, ripping a tether from his knapsack and tying it back.

She
would be difficult,
he thought. Soon he would have the entire Band hunting them both and
he would have to think of an explanation as to why he had taken her.

More and more he could not think of
one.

Clara stood, stretching the
tightness of her body, small popping sounds emitted from her back as
the tension was released. She moved her neck in a small circle, the
kinks slowly easing. She would kill for something to wash her mouth
out with. Tentatively she reached for the flask in the knapsack that
lay at her feet. Sniffing it and smelling nothing, she took a pull of
water, discreetly spitting it out behind her. Then she took her fill
of water, all the while feeling his eyes on her. She looked back at
him as neutrally as possible. She wanted no more shows of force.
Possibly, if she were cooperative, he would not be rough with her
again.

Matthew
saw her body moving to relieve the pressure of travel and he wished
to rub her neck and back. He wished to touch a female,
this
female. He clenched his fists. He would not touch her, it was too
much of a betrayal of Margaret
.
No other female could be as pure and vital as she had been. Yet his
eyes strayed back to Clara’s form again and again, watching her
drink, watching her move.

Clara watched him watching her, his
range of emotions going from indifference to pensive to resolution.
She wished very much to find out about this strange man. Why was he
not following Bracus’ commands? Was he not second-in-command?

“Why do you kidnap me? When your
captain returns he will be unhappy,” she stumbled over that word,
thinking that it may be quite a bit more than that. “Surely there
will be conflict. It has been explained to me what my potential role
is for our peoples. You put that at risk. Your actions put that at
risk.”

She gazed directly at him and that
heat licked at him. She was beginning to undo him. He walked to her
and her eyes widened but she did not back away. Clara was accustomed
to intimidation, the Queen having been an adept teacher.

When he was but a foot away from her
he asked, “Who did this to your face?” He could not stop himself
as he put a finger along the chartreuse bruise which bloomed like an
ugly flower; beginning at her cheekbone and fanning out toward her
temple.

She
felt the tender touch of his finger as it glided against her
cheekbone, in sharp contrast to his rough treatment of her earlier.
And it made Clara wonder, had he been
scared
of
her before? Scared not of her
but
what she represented
?
What was he afraid of? The melding of their peoples, as preposterous
as it sounded with the Queen’s involvement, would be a positive thing
for their peoples. She was puzzled and felt her brows knit together.

What was he doing? He saw her frown
at his caress and took his hand away, a dull warmth throbbing where
he had laid that small touch upon her face.

Her face smoothed out and as his
hand fell away she felt like she had lost a granule of comfort. It
was almost, with this stranger, as it had been with Charles. But how
could that be? She and Charles had many seasons built upon one
another, many events which bred their easy familiarity. She had
nothing with this guard, except his disregard of the rules, his rough
treatment of her, and his simmering anger which ran underneath his
skin. She could feel it boil and ripple like a fish seen through a
dark glass of water.

“I wish to know, why do you take
me? Why not let our peoples mingle? You have a need for propagation
and we need to be free of a life of only the sphere.” Clara thought
briefly of the ocean her father had told her of and had a sharp ache
of longing for that unknown sea far away.

“I believe that the Captain cannot
be objective where you are concerned,” he rubbed his hands
together. “He has shown a degree of…” he paused,
“subjectivity. He has lost his focus, our purpose.”

Clara was not entirely sure but she
threw out her thoughts, “Does he… is he…?

Matthew nodded. “He wishes to have
you. If your people were resistant to the idea…” he shrugged.

“They will come for me, you know,”
Clara stated.

Matthew’s eyebrows came together.
“It does not matter, the Band is not afraid of any that may come.”

“
What
of the
fragment?
”

“What of them?” Matthew snarled
out.

Ah
…
Clara thought, watching his fists clench, she had touched on
something tender which bled. Of course, the girl, Evelyn, had been
taken. She was obviously close to him, as Bracus had clearly been.

“Is it Evelyn? The young girl that
Bracus seeks?”

He shook his head. His expression
momentarily softening then hardening again. “It is not the girl.”

Clara cocked and eyebrow.

He
sighed. “Not entirely the girl. I…” he shifted around, “the
Band will retrieve her. But it is a personal matter between the
fragment
and I.”

Clara waited.

He
looked at her and realized that somehow he had been cornered into
saying more than he had intended. He did not wish to speak of his
time with the
fragment,
of
Margaret
.

They looked at each other, a tiny
young woman with fierce eyes and a bruised face and the warrior with
a troubled heart and an abusive past.

Could he trust her? Would it matter?
Why was it important at all that he tell her anything…?

Clara saw the conflict rage within
him without knowing what was the cause of it. Instinctively, against
every internal warning she said, “Please, tell me that which causes
you this suffering.”

He watched her silently, searching
her face for any deceit therein.

She continued, answering his earlier
question, “The Prince. He and my mother, the queen.”

“What?” Matthew asked, confused.

“Your question,” Clara answered.
“That is who put this abuse upon my face.”

Matthew stood stunned. He had known
that the Prince was a viper, as the Band had come upon him in the act
of assaulting the Princess. But her mother the Queen? It made no
sense.

Seeing his expression, Clara gave a
harsh cough of a laugh that ended in a sob. She put her hands over
her face so that she could not see him. Her shame shone as bright as
the orb which burned Outside.

Matthew
was moved, his soul churning. This tiny female had suffered abuse but
not by strangers as he had within the
fragment
but
by flesh and
blood.
He could not reason it out. But his heart, which ached for no one,
now ached for her. He thought that he might comfort her but did not
know how, could not
.
So he stood awkwardly watching her misery, powerless to help her,
hating his incompetence.

Finally Clara removed her hands. She
swiped at her useless tears. Embarrassed beyond words by her stupid
weakness as this huge male stood staring at her, expressionless,
probably bored to weeping by her tirade. She straightened, building
herself back up.

Matthew
watched her gather herself together and grudging admiration began.
Beaten, almost raped, and kidnapped twice
.
And
yet here she was
gaining
her composure. His hands ached to hold her but he remained where he
was. There was one gift he could give her and he did; his trust.

It
was a larger thing than his comfort
.

“I was twelve when the Band found
me starving and delirious from thirst, hunger and neglect,” he
began. His mind wandered a million miles from that spot remembering:

Matthew
lay down in the meadow, his head swimming with dizziness, flies
buzzing above him, impatient for his death. He looked down at his
body, the planes of it like weaponry: sharp hipbones, ribs like poles
of a house, tethered together with skin. His eyes rolled, dry and
swollen within their cavities to where he had heard a noise. He
raised a hand at the alien noise, knowing it was not the
fragment.
Hoping, as only a young boy can, that someone would help him, that he
could either end forever or begin with new hope.

A shadow fell over his body and he
had not the strength to shield his eyes from the sun. The shadow form
seemed to realize this and fell over his line-of-sight. A great
warrior stood over him, weaponry hanging off his body like the leaves
of a mighty tree. Matthew was too weak to feel fear but his heart
paused its rhythm, stuttering.

The great male crouched down in
front of him, grabbing him gingerly by the wrist, firm but gentle.

He seemed to pause for a moment,
head cocked. Then he spoke to someone just behind him, “He is
Band.” As he turned his head, Matthew saw a bow shift with his body
and the boy took in his weapons: daggers lay at the small of his back
in a complicated contraption of leather, a bow rested upon the back
of his right flank and a quiver down his spine. A small dagger lay at
his right hip and another at his ankle.

His eyes flitted to the great male
above him and he smiled down at Matthew. “Where do ye hail from,
lad?”

Matthew opened his mouth to answer
but was too parched to form words. The male saw his problem and said,
“Bracus, fetch me the flask. His heart beats steady but not for
long. If we had not arrived…”

“Yes, father,” a young voice
came from behind him.

Suddenly, a second shadow crossed
the first and Matthew was looking into the face of a male that he
instinctively knew was the same as he.

Finally, Matthew belonged.

Beleaguered, starving, thirsty…
near death…he had come home. These were his people. He gave a weak
smile, drank the water, the large male’s hand cupped underneath his
neck and then passed out.

Clara
listened to Matthew quietly tell of his recovery by the Band. Why,
she asked, had he been with the
fragment?
Why had they beaten him, starved him, treated him so terribly?

“Why does your mother beat you?”
Matthew countered.

“I do not know,” Clara said, her
eyes filling with unshed tears. Realizing, perhaps for the first
time, that she wished that her mother loved her.

Matthew saw the loneliness and fear
rise in her eyes like a poisonous tide and could have struck himself
for being insensitive in his comment.

He
tried to salvage things, “I think it may be because I was different
and they knew that. I was threatening to them, their
way.
”
He thought carefully about his next statement. “You may also be a
threat to your mother.”

“The Queen,” Clara corrected
automatically.

Matthew inclined his head in
acknowledgment, watching her distance herself from the familial tie.

“I do not threaten her. She is in
ultimate control of all,” Clara said, sweeping her hand around the
forest, visualizing it as her kingdom.

Matthew saw the marks on her throat
from his fingers. They were reddening, just shy of bruising and he
was ashamed.

Clara saw him flick his eyes at her
throat and back to her face, an uncomfortable expression laying
there. She narrowed her eyes, what was he thinking?

She
asked the next question instead, the most obvious one, “What is
this
fragment
?”

His eyes became hooded and dark.
“They are a people bent on taking. They take whatever they can,
from whomever they can. Use it until it is no longer worthwhile then
discard it. As the locust.”

Clara stared at him, watching his
fists clench. The cords on his neck stood out, his huge hands bunched
into fists the size of the reticule she had used, now laying by the
hot springs.

“Bracus said that they kidnap
women, for forced breeding.”

Matthew nodded, once.

So,
it was true
.
Suddenly,
Clara became acutely aware that it was just she and Matthew. Band or
no, here in the forest they were quite vulnerable.

Matthew saw the emotions pass over
her face and knew what she was thinking before she did.

“
Fear
not. They would not dare try to take you.” Clara watched his
posture change, becoming
more.
He would be something
for
them to fight against.