The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

There was a moment of hesitation, when he gave her the chance to back away.

She didn’t.

Their first kiss had been a gift; sweet and innocent, new and hesitant. This kiss was stolen; bold, daring, and a little wicked. Johanna’s hands relaxed, slipping down his body, fingers splaying over his abdomen. The dress forgotten.

Rafi’s lips slid to Johanna’s jaw, then her neck, as his hands quested up her back, tracing over the small bones of her spine. She twined one hand into his hair and held him tighter.

He wasn’t quite sure when he’d moved, but his forearm was pressed against the room’s rear wall, his weight pinning Johanna to the rough wooden planks. Her fingertips had crept under the hem of his too-short shirt, and he was painfully aware of her skin against his.

That was the moment when a chaperone, or an angry father, or his irritating younger brother, Dom, would have burst through the door—at least, that’s how the stories went. Kissing was always interrupted when it was still just kissing, before lines were crossed, before one of them had to be brave enough to stop.

Before rules were broken.

Where’s your honor now, Rafael DeSilva?

He ignored the thought for a moment longer, before pulling away with a groan. Even if Performers’ rules were different, his behavior wasn’t in line with his own sense of right and wrong.

He pressed his forehead against hers, neither of them speaking until their breathing had calmed a bit.

“I’m sorry. I should have . . . I shouldn’t have . . .” He pinched his eyes shut. “Do Performers have betrothal contracts like nobles do? I mean, I thought that since you’d been raised a Performer, maybe those would be the standards you would want to follow, but since you’re not actually a Performer—”

“Betrothal contract?” she asked, with a wide grin and a laugh in her voice. “Rafi, what in Mother Lua’s name are you talking about?”

“I just . . .” He stepped away, needing the space, needing to breathe air that wasn’t scented with the sweet smell of Johanna. It would have been so easy to pick up where he left off. “If there’s a right way to do things, I want to know. I want our betrothal to be a success. I want you to feel comfortable and happy and—”

She held up a hand, stopping him, and for that he was grateful. He was babbling like an idiot.

“Last night you said that this would be a story to tell our grandchildren about,” she said slowly, the happiness fading from her face. “You meant
our
grandchildren.”

A tickle of trepidation, like an unseen spider, raced across Rafi’s shoulders. “Well . . . of course. You know our fathers arranged our betrothal after you were born.”

“Your father and King Wilhelm arranged it. My father was Arlo Von Arlo.”

“Your
real
father was the king. You are Princess Adriana.”

Jo turned slightly to the side, not facing him directly, almost as if she was avoiding the truth. “I don’t have to be.”

“Of course you do. You’re the heir to this kingdom.” They’d discussed her identity; he’d shared the letter his father had written. Even if she was afraid or didn’t understand her duties, there was no reason to deny them completely. Unless . . .

He ignored the bite of rejection and pressed on. “With my help and with my uncle Fernando’s, you could put Belem and Inimigo in their rightful places.” He stepped closer to her and softened his tone. “After the barrier is repaired, we could do so much good.”

“Oh, we should
definitely
get married for the sake of Santarem.” Her words nipped, sharp with teeth of sarcasm. “Or, here’s another idea, once I repair this magical barrier, I could remain an anonymous Performer and live my life without constant threats from people who want to kill me and everyone I love.”

The words he was going to say dried up on his tongue, and he swallowed a few times, forcing away the hurt. This wasn’t about him. At least, not entirely. “You’re scared. I understand that—”

“This isn’t
only
about being afraid, Rafi. Marriage? Thrones? This isn’t something two dead men should decide for us.”

“Those two dead men were our fathers,” he said, his temper flaring. “They’d want us to put our selfish concerns aside and think about our people.”

That
was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, and he watched the instant effect they had on Johanna’s posture.

She faced him squarely, spine straight as a sword. He’d seen her do this before, making herself seem bigger and more threatening, like a hunted beast facing down a predator.

“Selfish concerns,” she said, her words clipped. “Michael, my little brother, is a
selfish
concern?”

“You know that’s not what I meant—”

“You’re asking me to put Santarem over what’s left of my family—and I’m already doing that by going to the wall. He is the only thing I have left. What else is this country going to ask from me?”

Everything.
Rafi had been raised to serve the people, and while it was a burden, he also felt honored to bear it. Maybe it was unfair to ask Johanna to carry the same weight, but he’d harbored a humble hope that she’d be willing to share it as his partner. His wife. Working together toward the same goal.

He never anticipated how much that commonality would mean to him, and he had to look away, afraid she’d see something vulnerable and disappointed in his expression. There was a blanket on the bedside table, and he made a bed on the floor while Johanna turned her back and slipped the ugly dress over her head.

The silence between them stretched cold and uncomfortable, neither of them warming the small room with words. Eventually Johanna cleared her throat. “Were there any horses to buy?”

“No,” he said as he stepped out of his boots and lay down fully dressed. “We can ride out with the peddler who is staying downstairs. His cart is crowded, but I can spend most of the time jogging alongside.”

“We can take turns.”

“Jo—” He cut himself off before he started another argument. “Fine. We’ll take turns.”

A shaft of sunlight shone through the open hatch that led to the manor’s roof. Dom jogged up the narrow stairway and shouldered through the opening.

“Michael?” he shouted as he stepped onto the flat space. “Are you up here?”

The roof was cluttered with chimneys, stacks of terra-cotta repair tiles, and the roost that housed the DeSilvas’ messenger pigeons. Plenty of places for a child to hide.

“If you’re up here, please come out.”

The little boy tried to keep his emotions hidden, but when he was too sad, he hid himself instead. The maids found him under tables, beneath the stairs, and once, sound asleep in a pile of clean laundry. This time he’d been missing for hours, and Brynn, the head maid, was pulling her hair out with worry. She’d enlisted every household member, the off-duty guardsmen, and even the few remaining visitors to help search for the boy.

“Michael!”

Only the pigeons responded to Dom’s call. He checked the cage for any new arrivals, any message from his brother or the other group who’d gone in search of Johanna.

But there was nothing. Not a message. Not a sad, lonely little boy.

Dom crossed to the half wall that wrapped around the landing, and leaned his elbows against the railing, feeling tired and frustrated. The past week had been hellish, even without worrying about his young charge. People kept coming to him with questions he didn’t know how to answer.

Lord Dom, a representative from the Farmers’ Guild is here. Would you like to speak to him?

Lord Dom, would you prefer to have the guest situated in the east wing or the west?

Lord Dom, where should I put the cartload of pickled beets? In the cellar or the pantry?

At first he redirected everyone to his mother, but when he realized how overwhelmed she was in Rafi’s absence, Dom tried to handle the requests himself. And was certain he’d done everything wrong.

Come back soon, Rafi. I’m not capable of taking care of anyone but myself.
He looked toward the Milners’ mango orchard, where a bare patch marked the spot where the Von Arlos’ wagons once stood. At this distance he couldn’t see anything besides a black smudge in the green canopy, but he knew the bones of the wagons were still there.

Perhaps Michael had tried to go home?

Dom turned toward the stairs and saw a hint of purple fabric sticking out from behind one of the chimneys. He wasn’t particularly observant, but that precise shade had been stretched over a body that was difficult to ignore.

“You may as well come out, Lady Maribelle.” Dom stepped between the chimney and the roof’s exit, blocking off any escape attempt. “I know you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding.” She straightened from a crouch, shaking out her silky black hair. “You seemed to be having a private moment, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Hmm.” Dom folded his arms across his chest and spread his feet wide. “For some reason I’m hesitant to believe you.”

“Like you, I enjoy the view of Santiago,” she said as she stepped out of the narrow space, dragging several feet of skirt behind her. Her fashion selections were a topic of much conversation among the staff and nobles. Today her dress was decidedly bottom heavy, baring her clavicles and arms despite the slight chill in the air.

Maribelle moved with a sway, shifting her hips from side to side as she circled toward the hatch.

Dom wasn’t distracted by her curves or her ploy to slip past him, and kept himself between the lady and her escape. “I could take you to a few places that have excellent scenery.”

“That would be lovely, my lord,” she said with a coy shrug.

Neither of them moved, each waiting for the other to make an excuse to leave or to stay on the roof.

I can play this game all day.
Dom grinned at Maribelle without showing his teeth. “Since you were up here enjoying the view, you didn’t by chance notice Michael out on the grounds anywhere?”

“I didn’t.” She moved one hand to her waist. “I’ve always found that haylofts are a perfect place to hide. Perhaps we should check there?”

Brazen. I like that.
“Sounds like an excellent plan.”

“I’ll follow you down.”

Dom held out his arm. “Let me escort you.”

Maribelle’s smile faded. “Perhaps after lunch? I promised my ladies I’d join them.”

Dom withheld one of a dozen caustic remarks about Maribelle and her two attendants. The women spent all their time strutting around the estate or fluttering to the township to gossip with every highborn and—if the rumors were true—some significantly less savory fellows.

“Shall I call a maid and have the kitchen bring something up?”

“I’m fine on my own.” She softened the edge to her words with a quick, “Thank you.”

Dom knew he’d won. “How about you give me the message you’re so desperately trying to send to your father?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lord.” She looked away, but her left hand twitched on her skirt. “Please excuse me.”

He stepped to one side, nodding toward the stairway. Maribelle hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking to the roost and back, then hurried toward the exit.

As she passed, Dom snatched her wrist. She twisted away, hunching as if expecting a blow.

“Please . . .” She raised her free arm to protect her head.

Guilt nipped, and Dom loosened his grip. “I’m not going to hit you, Lady Maribelle,” he said in the gentlest voice he could muster.

The girl had certainly faced her father’s anger a time or two, most recently as Inimigo had rushed to depart Santiago a few days earlier. It had been an ugly scene, starting at the dinner table, where the duke received an urgent message from one of his underlings that described problems rising in Maringa, and then continuing into the courtyard.

Inimigo dragged Maribelle by the arm out to his waiting carriage, whispering fiercely. Dom wasn’t able to hear the words they exchanged, but their body language was clear. She kept her head down, waiting for a blow to fall. The audience of DeSilvas and staff on the stairs might have been the only thing that saved her from a beating.

“Is everything well, Maribelle?” Lady DeSilva asked as Inimigo’s carriage bumped down the road.

“Yes, my lady,” Maribelle said, folding her arms to cover the red marks her father had left behind. “My father cannot abide disobedience, and one of his closest advisors has gone against his word. With that and the peasants’ rebellion, he’s quite discomfited.”

“Is that what he was reminding you of?” Lady DeSilva’s tone was kind, concerned, but the question was worded so as not to pry.

“As always,” Maribelle said with a dramatic sigh. It would have been a believable act, but Dom caught the quick grin she exchanged with one of her attendants—a bit too pleased, considering the circumstances.

Now, standing on the manor roof, and knowing the stories of Inimigo and his gift for treachery, Dom was certain something nefarious was afoot. Leaving Maribelle behind had supposedly been an effort to foster a good relationship between families and to allow her to seek Rafi as a suitor. But with Rafi on the hunt to find Johanna and her kidnappers, Maribelle had every opportunity to gather information about the DeSilvas and stir up trouble in the household.

Dom was determined to stand in her way at every turn.

“What’ve you got?” He took her hand.

“Nothing.” She kept her face down and wouldn’t open her fist.

“This doesn’t look like nothing.” The edges of a crumpled paper stuck out from between her fingers.

Gently he pried it free. The paper was rolled into a tight scroll, ready to be attached to a pigeon’s foot. He released her so he could slide off the twine that held it shut.

She snatched the roll and lunged toward the nearby chimney, where a hint of smoke was rising.

Dom reacted instantly, grabbing the girl around the waist, tripping on her skirts, and landing them both in a heap on the rooftop. He scrambled up her body and knelt over her, snatching the paper before she could shred it to oblivion.