The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (14 page)

“You didn’t answer my question.” She turned, finally making eye contact. “I’m your favorite what?”

He didn’t know exactly how to answer. She wasn’t just hired help; she wasn’t a girl he knew; she was Brynn. She was special and beautiful and funny and capable and kind.

None of that was new information, but he’d never put all those pieces together.

Her neck grew red, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Don’t look at me like that, Dominic DeSilva. I’m not one of your throwaways. I’m surely not Maribelle.”

“Don’t look at you like what? How am I looking at you?” he asked. “And what does Maribelle have to do with anything?”

The bread fell from her fingers, uneaten. “Nothing.” Her tongue slipped out to moisten her bottom lip. “Why are we here? This was a long ride for a picnic, and there were a dozen prettier meadows to stop in along to way.”

He hesitated, fearful to speak, though he knew neither Brynn nor Michael would expose his plans.

“If Belem were to attack and make it all the way to Santiago, even with all our planning and preparation, we wouldn’t last long.” He eyed the ravine, knowing that if he blew the bridge that crossed the marsh, this stretch of land would be a significantly easier approach for enemy cavalry than the winding road through the forest farther to the north. “If he’s going to attack, I’d rather meet him here. Use the hill behind us to our advantage and force his troops to cross the ravine. Even with fewer men, we’d be able to hold them for a while. Then we could spread our soldiers more evenly, blockade the road coming south from Cruzamento in case he decided to try to flank us.”

She nodded, following his line of thought. “Then you could always fall back to the estate if things got bad. Smart.”

He smiled, a small thrill that she was impressed.

“How will you stop them from crossing the ravine?”

His plans were simple, stolen directly from one of the tactics books among his father’s personal things, but he was sure their strength was in their simplicity. Still, he shrugged. Getting all the elements together would be hard, and he didn’t want to say anything till he knew it would work. “Oh, I’ve got something in mind.”

“I’m sure you do.” She reached for the picnic basket and searched through the remaining contents. “Would you like some linguica?”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

Brynn looked up, her face surprised. Dom felt a little surprised as well, not because of his lack of appetite, but because he wasn’t sure what to say. He usually had a list of phrases that were certain to smooth over any little disagreement. But with Brynn he felt tongue-tied and unsure of himself.

“Do you remember when we were twelve, right after you came to work at the house, and Underlord Braulio came to visit?”

Her face broke into a smile, the first he’d seen all day. “And you kept asking me to sneak you more pudding, and I did because I was new and nervous?”

“Yes, and then I threw up under the table and Braulio stepped in it?”

They both laughed, remembering the man’s disgusted face, and his attempt to use the tablecloth to wipe away the evidence without drawing anyone’s notice.

“You’ve been my favorite ever since then.”

The happiness left her face. “Your favorite
maid
. The one you could always get to do your bidding.”

She stood and Dom followed, touching her wrist to stop her from turning away. “Never just a maid, Brynn.” One of her flyaway curls was stretched across her face, stuck to the corner of her mouth. He freed it, sliding it between his fingers. “You’ve always been more than that. You’re my coconspirator.”

“Aren’t we a little too old for mischief?”

Finally, the opening he’d been waiting for. “Are we?” Dom trailed his fingers down the side of her neck, across her shoulder, and over her back. She was soft, rounded and comfortable, in all the right ways.

He raised his other hand, cupping her jaw, and she titled her face into his touch.

“Dom . . .” Her lip quivered, and it hurt him to watch.

He stilled it with a brush of his mouth. She listed toward him, and he accepted the invitation, holding her closer.

With anyone else he would have rushed to a shady spot beneath the trees where they’d be out of Michael’s sight. But this was Brynn. He kissed her slowly, leisurely enjoying the now rather than focusing on what could come next.

“No,” she said suddenly, backing out of his reach. “This cannot happen.”

“Brynn—”

“Please, let’s go.” She turned to the blanket, throwing the food and flatware into the basket with none of her usual attentiveness. “Michael, wake up. You need to eat something before I pack it all away.”

Dom stood with his feet on the blanket’s edge, his mouth half-open. He didn’t know if he should apologize, or joke, or smooth the moment over like it hadn’t happened. But he didn’t want to cheapen the way he felt.

He’d kissed dozens of girls, but that had been all lips and hands, sensations instead of emotions. Kissing Brynn made him
feel
. His heart rushed, seeming to grow too large for his chest, expanding till it pressed down on his stomach, filling his body with a mellow warmth, instead of a hungry heat.

It was something he wanted to experience again. Immediately. But the hunch in Brynn’s shoulders made it clear that she would not be receptive.

He stood silently, watching her, his hands hanging idle, till birds in a nearby tree squawked and took to the sky. Dom watched them fly overhead and disappear across Belem’s border. When he heard the hoofbeats an instant later, he knew what had sent them fleeing. One horse, possibly two, approached.

Brynn straightened, looking toward Santiago, and the hurt on her face morphed into fury as Maribelle rode into the meadow.

The lady’s dark hair flew out behind her as she galloped her horse down the hill. She jumped out of the saddle before the horse came to a stop. One attendant, a wiry girl perhaps a year older than Dom, followed but didn’t dismount. Her animal pranced nervously, reflecting its rider’s emotions.

“Dominic.” Maribelle was breathless, sweating, her riding dress open at the throat, as if she’d hurried to don it.

Apprehension crept on clawed feet across his skin. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She reached out to him with both hands, grabbing hold of his forearms. Her muscles trembled, strained from the hard ride. “I have information about your brother.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Brynn’s mouth work.

“Please.” Maribelle tried to pull him toward the clump of red-flowering trees that lined the ravine. “This is for your ears only.”

“Brynn can hear anything you have to say.” He said the words hoping that his demonstration of trust would fix things between them.

“No. She can’t.”

He shot an apologetic look at Brynn, but if the information really had something to do with Rafi, then it
was
important. Hurt feelings would have to be soothed another time.

Maribelle dragged him a dozen steps away and angled her body so she could watch the trail, and Brynn and Michael. Brynn did not look in their direction, while Michael, still sleepy, seemed thoroughly confused, darting glances between the groups.

“Rafi’s alive,” Maribelle said in a near whisper. “He was seen in Camaçari two days ago at an inn called the Bean and Barley.”

Dom sagged with relief as a million pounds of worry dropped off his back. “So he’s with Ceara. He’s safe.”

“He’s not. There’s been some sort of violence in Camaçari. An explosion at the prison. My contacts gave conflicting details—”

“Contacts. As in more than one?”

“One said it was a man throwing balls of flame. The other thought it was the cannon powder. Either way, most of the prisoners escaped or were killed.”

Prison? Balls of flame? Why was Rafi in Camaçari? And news of the cannon powder was bad. They had only a small storage of powder at the estate. The majority was kept at Camaçari because it had the most cannons. “I don’t understand. What does Rafi have to do with the prison?”

She took a deep breath and blew it out in a narrow column. “Ceara had Rafi imprisoned, but it appears your brother escaped after the explosion.”

“What . . .”

“Ceara’s declared for Belem. If there’s going to be a war, Camaçari will side against Santiago.”

The words slammed into Dom, and his knees wanted to buckle under the burden. Maribelle touched his elbow, offering him support.

“We’ll be hemmed in on two sides,” he said, sounding like he was the one who’d just galloped into the meadow instead of Maribelle.

“There’s more. . . .” She studied his eyes, and Dom felt like he was being evaluated. “My father’s certain he’ll be able to put down the rebellion in Maringa in the next few weeks. When it’s finished, he plans to march to Belem’s aid.”

Johanna found a game trail and stuck to the meandering path. It was the obvious choice, and pursuers would have an easy time following them, but they were able to put a greater distance between themselves and Camaçari by sticking to it instead of fighting their way through the densely packed trees.

Rafi thought they were heading north, which was neither good nor bad. Eventually they’d cross a larger road or river and follow it to a town. After ten grueling hours, and on the verge of blackout, he hoped he’d find civilization sooner rather than later.

The wounds on his side were closed and his fever was gone, but he was altogether wasted.

Johanna wasn’t doing much better, trudging along beside him at a pace much slower than her usual clip. Her pale face, the circles beneath her eyes, the quiet rasp of her breath, all concerned him.

They didn’t waste energy speaking, moving forward as silently as possible, till the sun drooped in the sky and Rafi knew they needed food. And soon.

“Look,” she said, raising a quivering finger. Ahead, right off the trail, hung a very green bunch of bananas.

Rafi sent a silent prayer skyward and hurried forward to rip down a few. They were hard and would taste horrid, but they were food. He passed one to Johanna and peeled his own. It was full of bitter seeds and coated his tongue with a thick layer of starch, but it was edible.

He opened a second and realized Johanna wasn’t eating. “What’s wrong? Do you hate bananas so badly . . .”

Then he saw her fingers. The first two knuckles on her left hand resembled overripe plums. The skin had grown taut and shiny with swelling, and the black-blue color seemed to drip down her palm before disappearing into her wrist.

“What happened?”

“The guard stepped on my hand to make me stop singing.” She offered him a wan smile. “I bet he never expected it to start a riot.”

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” He took her good arm and guided her to a tree trunk.

“While we were running for our lives or when we were lost in the forest?”

She sat down on the ground and ate the banana he peeled for her, while he looked for something he could use to splint her hand.

Two flat, straight sticks would work, but he needed something to secure it with. “What are you wearing underneath that dress?”

Johanna gave a half laugh. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question for our situation.”

Rafi actually blushed. “I wanted . . . wondered . . . can we use part of your dress for a sling?”

“I have on my hunting breeches. I was hoping to get rid of this ugly sack at some point, but it has proved unfortunately sturdy.” With a wave, she gave him permission.

Kneeling, Rafi reached for the hem and drew the material up over her knees. Even though he knew her legs would be covered, his hands shook as he found the dress’s seam.

I’m hungry and exhausted. There’s nothing interesting about tearing Johanna’s clothes off. . . . I mean tearing her clothes.

He sliced a fat strip, leaving her dress a knee-length tunic. Then he tore it into several long pieces. Tying the ends together, he made a makeshift sling and looped it over her head.

Settling her arm into the pocket made her breath rush out in a hiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he tightened the fabric so that her arm hung at an angle across her body.

“That’s twice that you’ve apologized for something that isn’t your fault.” She ran her finger along the thin scar that marked the underside of his chin, as if seeing it for the first time. “Why is it so much easier to say you’re sorry for something out of your control than for something you’re responsible for?”

“I think apologizing is like admitting you’re wrong—it’s easier to do when you’re not at fault.”

“I’m sure,” she said with a teasing grin, “that you aren’t at fault all
that
often.”

“We both know that’s not true,” he said with a humorless laugh. “It’s just . . . the more I travel, and the more I see of my own countryside, the more I realize that even the way I
think
is wrong.”

“Rafi, that’s not what I meant.”

“But it is true. Look at Camaçari, if you don’t believe me. I always thought that because the township was part of my state, the people would be loyal to the DeSilvas. Yet the soldiers—men I’m supposed to be able to call on to protect our borders—didn’t even recognize me.”

“When have they ever had a chance to meet you?”

“That’s just it. I should have made time to meet them.”

“You’re not even duke yet.”

“I know, but . . .” He let the thought hang, and fiddled with the fraying hem of her dress. “Every day feels like a reminder of all the ways I’ve fallen short of my father’s memory.”

“No, Rafi. That’s not fair. Memory is an impossible thing to compare yourself with,” she said, covering his hand with her good one. “We roll it around in our minds until we’ve buffed away all the flaws. Memories, especially when they are of someone we love, are an unblemished version of the things we’d
like
to remember.”

He felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness, a need to hold her close and block out the rest of the world. Instead he raised her good hand to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist.

She gave a coy sort of smile in response. “That was a very Performer thing to do.”