The Wolf's Captive (22 page)

“Follow me,” she said to the waiter, and looked briefly back at Clavel, fingering her collar once more. “Be very careful, Vintner Clavel. It would be better for both of us if you had not recognized me tonight. But it would especially be better for you.”

Lucia fervently hoped that was true.

~  ~  ~

Lucia couldn’t get back to Cesare fast enough. The sight of him, sprawled out in animal splendor on one of the few couches, his broad chest gleaming beneath an open shirt, and the bulge in his groin clearly visible, made her whole body clench.

“My Lord,” she said, and gestured for the waiter to come forward. She wondered if Cesare noticed her nipples peeking through her flimsy dress, and looked up to find his eyes boring into hers while the waiter poured the wine.

“Be gone,” he said to the waiter, and waved his hand, never taking his eyes off Lucia. “Lucia, come,” he said, beckoning her to the floor by his side.

She kneeled next to him. Just the nearness of him was enough for her now. The
click
of the leash as he reattached it to her collar sent a small tremor throughout her body.

And yet, she had to confess.

“My Lord,” she said, pushing past the feeling that she’d made some grave error, that this was inevitably her own fault, “I was recognized.”

Cesare’s head snapped forward. “By whom?”

“Vintner Clavel.”

“What the hell is a vintner doing at the Player’s Feast?” Cesare demanded, leaning forward. Lucia didn’t have an explanation. She had no idea what sort of arcane rituals determined who could come to these sorts of society functions.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Cesare cursed and pulled on her leash, drawing her close. “Did he know your body so well as to recognize it?”

Lucia felt as if she’d been slapped. “No,” she said, and then again, getting angry at the unfairness of it, “No! You
know
that I had never…”

But the anger seemed to have gone from him, and his expression was slightly ashamed. He waved his hand and leaned back again, his huge shoulders slightly slumped. Something was wearing on him, something that he hadn’t told her. That he wouldn’t tell her.

“My Lord,” she started.

“It would be better if you did not speak,” he said, “until I tell you to. We must fix this before the Feast.”

Fix it?
she wondered. But already Cesare had called over an actress.

A beautiful, young actress. Lucia’s eyes narrowed beneath her mask.

“You,” he indicated to the actress, who wore a feathered black mask and a thin slip of a black dress, made up to look like the washing girl who would be raped by the god Odek and changed into a black swan for her trouble in
The Betrayal of Mellas
. “Switch costumes with her,” he said, pointing to Lucia.

The actress looked at Lucia.

“Do it
now
,” Cesare growled at the poor girl, “or go the rest of the night naked.”

Immediately Lucia rose and slipped her flimsy dress from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She held her head high as she stepped out of it, perversely proud to be wearing nothing but a collar and leash. The actress stared at her for a moment, then took another look at Cesare, and remembered who he was.

The black dress came off.

They switched, and the actress hurried to clothe herself as more and more of the crowd began to stare.

“No,” Cesare said to Lucia. “Clothe yourself.
You
will stay naked,” he said to the quivering girl, “until this one has your mask.”

Lucia understood now. Cesare wanted the gawking audience to stare at the actress’s rosy nipples and fine pubis while Lucia was unmasked. That he was ruthless was undeniable; that it was for her protection was sexy.

Of course, no one had explained this to the bewildered, naked actress. Quickly, Lucia turned her back to the crowd and switched masks. It was all over in a moment, and just in time, too, because the herald’s horn blasted over the drums, and drew all eyes to the center of the room.

“Welcome to the Player’s Feast!” he shouted, to rapturous applause. Lucia watched in awe as the brawniest members of the various troupes effected a quick set change to the heady beat of rapid drums, clearing some of the smaller stages, bringing out long tables and benches. Even this became a performance. One table was set up on the main stage at the back of the room as acrobats tossed each other chairs and dishes, and in front of it two men assembled a smaller platform, where the orchestra might have been on a normal night. Others tumbled about, somehow managing to transport steaming platters of meat and bottles of wine to all the tables, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, even while performing their tricks.

Lucia realized her mouth was hanging open when she caught Cesare smiling at her. For a moment it almost seemed like everything was back the way it had been that morning, and then she saw his face darken as he looked over her shoulder. She looked, though she was afraid to.

It was Captain Rickle, tailing after Gaston Grimaldi like some sort of toy dog.

Cesare pulled on her leash, and put an arm around her waist. “Stay calm,” he said.

Lucia almost asked why, before she remembered his demand for silence. And then Cesare called out to Grimaldi, and she wouldn’t have been able to speak if she’d tried.

“Gaston,” Cesare said amiably. He ignored Rickle.

“My Lord,” Grimaldi bowed slightly, smiling very strangely. It occurred to Lucia that he was the only person they’d encountered who didn’t seem afraid of Cesare in some way.

“It’s been too long since we’ve talked, Gaston,” Cesare continued, and began walking toward the table on the main stage. Grimaldi fell in with him, leaving Lucia to follow on her leash with the odious Rickle at her side.

“Come sit with me for the Feast,” Cesare continued. “But I must ask that you not bring your pet.”

Rickle’s face reddened, but he said nothing. Grimaldi actually laughed.

“My Lord, you have yours!” he said, nodding toward Lucia. His eyes moved with a languid flatness, in constant evaluation of his surroundings. “But I agree, yours is much more attractive. Let’s eat.”

And with that, they turned their backs on the humiliated Captain Rickle. Once again, Cesare had directed attention elsewhere. Lucia doubted Rickle could see anything through his rage, and she slipped by unnoticed.

Well, unnoticed in the sense that no one knew her identity. She was extremely noticed in that she was the only female led onto the main stage at the end of a leash held by Lord Cesare Lupin.

Again, Lucia noticed the quiet awkwardness of those gathered around Cesare. They couldn’t avoid him now, but no one seemed particularly eager to engage, or even, apparently, look at him. The only one at the long table full of masked aristocrats who did not seem cowed and frightened was Gaston Grimaldi, but even he stood next to Lucia and seemed to wait. In fact, everyone was standing and waiting.

Lucia looked at Cesare. He was smiling an executioner’s smile.

“Let the Feast begin!” he shouted to the entire Theater, and the applause that followed was undeniably tinged with relief.

Cesare sat forcefully in a high backed chair, and, with a sigh, so did everyone else at the high table. Lucia thought she heard Grimaldi chuckle when she couldn’t find a chair of her own.

Cesare pulled her roughly onto his lap. “We won’t be needing another seat,” he said to an inquisitive servant, “but I did have a parcel sent over by my valet. Bring it to me.”

Lucia stifled a gasp. She could feel the hard length of Cesare’s cock pressing through his trousers into her ass. She was going to have to work very hard to maintain some semblance of propriety.

And Cesare wasn’t making it easier on her. His hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress and gripped her bare hip.

“I wasn’t sure whether we’d see you tonight, my Lord,” Grimaldi said, breaking the silence. “I hear the Marquis will recover, you’ll be glad to learn.”

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t afraid of Cesare: it was that he wanted Cesare to be very cognizant of how much he didn’t fear him. It was the sort of sideways challenge that a direct man like Cesare would loathe. Lucia felt his body ripple with tension for one frightening second.

Then he laughed.

“From what I hear, it’ll be an improvement, Gaston,” Cesare said, smiling. “The man’s nose needed rearranging. You could almost say he asked for the favor.”

“So what did you want to talk about, my Lord?” Grimaldi asked over his glass. “I’d love to think you only wanted my company, but you have such a beautiful companion already.”

“Always graceful, Gaston. No, you are correct, as usual. There is something specific I wish to ask you, but, if you don’t mind, I’ve arranged for something special to mark the occasion,” Cesare said, snapping his fingers at a servant who had only just entered the main door carrying a small parcel.

“Do we have something of such import to discuss?”

Grimaldi’s tone had smoothed out to a dangerous flat edge. It put Lucia in mind of a fine blade. She obviously had no idea what these two men were really talking about, but she knew a threat disguised as a pleasantry when she heard it. And she couldn’t help but wonder what this had to do with her father.

“That depends on whether you consider ambition to be important, Gaston,” Cesare said.

Grimaldi’s flat snake eyes flashed. “I suppose ambition might appear unimportant to a man born at the top,” he said. “Or near it.”

They smiled quietly at each other for a moment.

“I find it best not to take life so seriously,” Cesare said, and gestured out to the Theater floor with his wine glass. “All of life’s a stage, no?”

Lucia felt blind, deaf, and dumb, with only enough sense to know that something very dangerous was happening around her. Her heart was racing, and when Cesare slid his hand up to her stomach, she visibly shuddered. He fondled her breast for a moment before putting his hand flat to her chest.

He must feel my heart
, she thought. She gripped his legs with her hands and tried to stay calm.

The servant finally reached them, bearing the strangely wrapped parcel, unaware of the tension. Cesare gestured to Lucia. “Give it to her. Open the bottle,” he said to Lucia, “but leave it wrapped.”

Lucia was just grateful for something to do.

“You misunderstand me, Gaston,” Cesare was saying. Inside the parcel was what appeared to be a bottle of amberwine wrapped in butcher’s paper. Lucia held it dutifully and waited. Cesare continued, “I think ambition to be incredibly consequential, and thus, important.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Grimaldi sighed. He, too, was eyeing the wrapped bottle of amberwine with suspicion.

“I’m being circuitous, aren’t I? Unusual for Lord Cesare the Uncouth, who is always blunt. I apologize, Gaston. I only wish to discuss with you your family’s business. I’ve discovered a sudden interest in both banking and amberwine, and I wish to discuss a partnership.”

Grimaldi had the look of a man who was beginning to suspect he was being made fun of.

“Really?” Grimaldi said.

“Really.” Lucia heard Cesare’s wolfish smile play at the edges of the word. His hand was back to fondling her breasts, making it difficult to follow the conversational game of chess that was being played out between these two powerful men. Which was perhaps why it took her a moment to realize that Cesare had spoken to her.

This time, he pinched her nipple. “I said: open the bottle. Take care to keep it wrapped,” he reminded her. To Grimaldi, he said, “I’m very serious, Gaston. And as a show of good faith, I’ve arranged for a very special treat. Pour the wine, pet.”

Lucia carefully poured out the wine, noting the rich color and the delicate shine of the metal notes in the body. She couldn’t place it unless she tasted it, but the waiter had only brought two glasses. She filled both.

Grimaldi raised his glass, admired the color, smelled the bouquet. He seemed impressed.

“This,” Cesare said so softly that Grimaldi leaned in very closely, “this is the very first bottle of the Duke’s Blend, Gaston. We’ll be the very first to taste it. I trust you’ll be discreet.”

Grimaldi’s face fell to ashes. He looked at Cesare, then at Lucia, with something akin to horror, even as his mind clearly began to turn, trying to see all the angles to such a situation. Here he was, sitting with the Duke’s heir, holding a capital crime in his hand.

Lucia sympathized. Or would, if she could spare any feeling for anyone else. So many terrible thoughts had clamored together in her mind at once that she was paralyzed by a cacophony of competing fears. She turned to Cesare, who now had his palm flat on her chest, where her heart pounded as if it were trying to escape, and saw that he was watching both her and Grimaldi like a hunter.

And in the back of her mind somewhere was this: that wine did not look like the Duke’s Blend. Not the Duke’s Blend that she herself had crafted. But Cesare would know, wouldn’t he?

And worse: had he discovered the bottle she’d so
stupidly
hidden in the cavern? Had he known all along that she’d committed such a stupid, stupid crime? Why had he done this?

It was Grimaldi who felt compelled to speak. Neither man had sipped their wine.

“Are we to be criminals together, then, my Lord?” he said, trying to appear nonchalant.

Cesare affected an expression of innocent confusion. “But I’d been told businessmen are just a better class of criminal,” he explained, and then laughed. His sudden smile was brilliantly rakish. “Come on, let’s get drunk on forbidden wine, Gaston. It will bond us together. Then we can discuss the future.”

And he raised his glass.

Lucia was trying desperately to figure out what was going on. So, apparently, was Grimaldi. And Cesare watched them both with that hunter’s eye, his palm burning against Lucia’s racing heart.

There was a silence.

Grimaldi drew himself up, and raised his glass, his eyes locked with Cesare’s. “To the future,” he said, and drained his cup.

Lucia turned to watch Cesare drink, but he met her eye with a flat, expressionless look, giving nothing away.