Neliem, page 10
The orphans stare at me with wide eyes, their faces gaunt, their little hands and legs resembling twigs. The sisters of Divine Mercy who tend to them seem well-meaning enough, and I can’t help but notice that not one child withers at their touch.
Recalling the task at hand, I go about and give each child a gold coin, and across the tables, my stalker hands out candy. Too quickly, I run out of coins.
My knight in not too shiny armor arrives just as I hand out the last one. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve run out of coins. I brought thirty, but with the cost of the candy … I thought it would be enough.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How many more do you need?”
“Three.”
He hands them over without a word. Then, the smile reaching his eyes, he laughs. “Well, you have officially turned me into a good Samaritan. My sainted mother in heaven is now rejoicing. Will you at least tell me your name?”
I stop. Untouchables don’t believe in heaven. Just my people. Letting this bit of information sink in, I skid to the remaining children, handing them their coins before informing the sisters that I would like to make another visit in the nearby future. They are delighted to hear such good news, and hug me a bit too tight, their genuine warmth lifting my spirit. When I glance up, I am delighted to see that even my admirer gets thrown into a warm embrace. One of the tiny sisters reaches on her toes to pinch his cheeks and give his bottom a smack.
Embarrassed, he shrugs it off. But I can tell he was touched by the sincerity of their appreciation. I hide my grin while he collects himself and proffers me his elbow. We walk casually outside, my feet absorbing the texture of the cobblestones that lead directly toward the open water, where dozens of tiny bridges intersect.
My mouth falls open. There are more bridges than I can count, all interwoven to create the most breathtaking view. Channels, open waters, tall and tiny homes seemingly suck together. I openly marvel at the splendor, which escaped my notice when we rode from the opposite side of town here. The view is breathtaking. Playa Del Sol, the capital, is indeed a masterpiece of art and style.
The aroma of spices and roasted meats carries in the breeze, assaulting my senses. My stomach rumbles, the distant memory of breakfast too far away.
My admirer raises an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
I’m starving but would sooner wither away than admit it. He isn’t fooled, however; he just shakes his head, winking his eye in a way I find extremely disarming.
“You’re stubborn; I like that.”
I’m too preoccupied with the lavish architecture and the way the walls of one building lend to another. At the center of the canal, something chiseled in stone catches my eye. The Prince’s Proclamation.
“Defender of all People. It’s one of his titles.” I detect a sense of awe in my admirer’s voice. As if what is written is perhaps more than the ramblings of some entitled Prince with too much time on his hands.
“There are some who would wholeheartedly disagree.”
Behind the writing is a colorful mural of what appears to be a revolution, complete with blood pouring down these very streets. Curiosity gets the better of me; there seems to be more to this city than I previously thought. Secrets whisper in the wind, flowing in the breeze through the hidden passageways and alleys.
“Some say that it was old magic that won the Prince these lands. He was in the minority. Five hundred of his soldiers against thousands.” He points to the steeple in one building. “He was held up there for a fortnight. No food, no water, his men and the faithful few worn ragged, and yet they prevailed.”
I strongly suspect that everything about this fine city is magical. The water stretches out as far as the eye can see, the old Embrian castle ruins still clinging to the furthest cliff. Magnificent and thrilling are but a few of the words I can use to describe it. The channels surround the city with numerous bridges that connect all parts of the city as if a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. I marvel at it all, the statues of the false gods with familiars lurking about, the shops selling teas and coffees from foreign lands. Pungent incense burning at every corner. Meats and spices cooking openly for prospective customers. The enormity of it is staggering and utterly splendid.
And, best of all, in the open water directly before us, there’s a child’s boat race in process. Without thinking, I rush to the water, my heart beating with excitement. All types of boats, big and small, race from one end of the dock toward the other.
I’m so carried away, I barely note my admirer’s presence as I twist through the crowd to get a better view.
“You owe me money; who are you?” He tilts his head, becoming playful. I openly gape at the boat race, all but ignoring him. He tugs at my sleeve like a little boy. “You will tell me.”
I can’t help but smile. His good humor is contagious. And to think I thought him a stalker. Perhaps he is, but something tells me that there is much more than meets the eye with this one.
He leans his back against the railing, I suspect to get a good look of me without drawing attention. “Where are you from? You owe me that, at least.”
“Madera.”
His sharp eyes, which don’t miss a thing, narrow, scanning the crowd. But fortunately, no one’s paying any attention. The crowd’s mesmerized on the race, not interested in the slightest with the attractive man talking to the Outcast girl in the pretty frock.
Unexpectedly, he places his arm protectively around my shoulder. “You’ve never seen a boat race?”
I only answer with my own question, shrugging his arm off me. “Is it just once that they race, or do they turn around and go again?”
“It’s like watching a babe discover her mother’s milk.” He plays with a stray curl that’s escaped my bonnet, twirling it around before resting his warm hand against my cheek.
“Don’t …” I stammer, shaking him off politely.
“What?” His eyes widen.
“I don’t like being touched.”
He stares at me with a quizzical look that reminds me of someone else. Before I can put my finger on it, he laughs, almost doubling over.
Just below us, one of the boats accidentally hits the wall and crashes. The little boy wearing the same colors drops his flag and falls into a fit of tears against his mother’s chest. And I feel this child’s pain. To have something you love taken away.
My face flushing, I step backward, the lump growing in my throat. That strange sensation I’d convinced myself didn’t exist trickling down, plaguing my thoughts.
Za-Za.
I startle, noticing that he’s even closer than before. “What?”
“You.” He whispers sweetly and non-predator-like. With those wide eyes and soft lips, I would probably confuse him for a saint if I didn’t know better. He plays with the rope on the ledge before explaining. “Watching you, I like it.”
His gaze seems to convey two emotions, sincerity and a trace of confusion over his confession. The city clock strikes, and I wince. I’ve been gone for too long and Ralio will be fretting right about now. Perhaps he’s already in the shop, discovering that I fled soon after I entered.
The crowd’s loud cheering and yelping distracts me. I press up to the railing to get a better view of the race.
But I am not alone. He follows like a hound, right on my tracks, not letting me out of his sight.
“I’m Tristan.” And he grins in that irresistible way.
When I turn my attention back on the race, his hand for the briefest second brushes against mine and a sudden tingle ignites, a current linking us. I ignore it, using every ounce of strength to focus back on the race.
Another boat capsizes as a smaller boat speeds through. It’s exhilarating, and I find myself squealing uncontrollably.
“Look, Tristan, at the small red boat; it’s so fast!” He frowns, but just the same turns to get a better look. The expression on his face alters. All intensity washes away, and he beams as if a small child, thrilled with the excitement of the race.
“I used to have one of those.”
“I had an eagle once. I bet my eagle was faster than your boat.”
“An eagle?” He stares at me in awe.
“Some …” I scan the crowd, avoiding using the word Untouchable. “Boys had killed her mother, but I saved one egg and hatched it …”
“You did not.”
“I raised her, fed her worms and fish. And when she was ready, she spread her wings and flew away. And she was faster than any boat.”
Tristan nudges closer, his arm slinking around mine before he remembers. He lowers it and lets out a shrill whistle. “But my boat, The Lady, won every race.”
I raise an eyebrow, teasing, “The Lady? How very fitting.”
He throws me an innocent look. “I have absolutely no idea what you refer to. Now tell me your name.”
And the scoundrel has the audacity to tickle me.
I fight him off playfully, but he doesn’t back down. “I told you mine.”
Something in his eyes flicker, and I stop playing. This is neither overly-passionate or overly-protective, ‘I’ll-carry-the-money-purse,’ Tristan. If, in fact, that is what his name is. It might very well be Sergio, and he has a wife that beats him black and blue and five hell-raising children at home, waiting to tackle him the second he steps foot in his house.
But then again, I might have it all wrong. Because the Tristan standing before me, the who follows me around like a puppy, is all sweetness and shy smiles, so playful and boyish. He’s laughing and doing that thing with his eyes to make him even that more impossible to resist.
Without thinking, I brush back one of his dark curls, and he kisses my gloved hand, embracing it as if he would never let go. I inch back, forcing my feet to move. “I didn’t ask you your name.”
The urge to flee intensifies with each step I take. He matches my pace, his arm sliding protectively closer. He blinks, blocking my path so that I’m forced to stop. Our faces are inches apart, his breath beating over me, demanding the truth. I sway slightly at a loss for words, dizziness overtaking me.
Carefully, as if I was made of fine china, he positions me against the wall and waits for the spell to pass, his face studying mine.
“Did someone … a man …” His voice takes on a dark, delicious intensity. “Someone in Madera, is that why you’re here?”
The image of those two brutes flash before me vividly, their long red hair, the way their gaze sliced into me, cutting me, wishing me all sorts of evil. Without my dagger to protect me, the panic I should have felt then breaks free, and I’ve overwhelmed in terror. I close my eyes and nod my head. “But they didn’t …”
His face tightens, squeezing the space between his brows. “Tell me their names, and I will kill them.” When our eyes connect, I see it isn’t some idle threat, but a promise. A guarantee.
This complete stranger will do this for me. Kill those brutes.
“They didn’t; I got away.” I barely manage to get the words out. Emotions whirl around me. At the time, I wasn’t even slightly scared, but now, so far away from it, I’m frightened. When I dare steal a peek, his face is still red, but some of the tension has left his forehead. Remembering the worst part, I whine, “But I lost my dagger.”
Tristan’s face brightens, whether in relief or sheer amusement, I don’t know. Then, without asking, he moves closer and holds me tight against his chest. It’s sunshine and happiness and everything good in this world. But, more amazingly, I allow it. Like it even. In one fluid movement, he unties my bonnet and runs his fingers through my hair as if I was the most precious thing in this world. The knot in my stomach settles, and my shoulders relax, and my lungs fill.
I know without asking that he’s used to touching women. And that they respond accordingly, giving in without hesitation. Unlike me.
His fingers glide up my side, possessively and urgent. “They will never hurt you again.”
And I believe it. I let out a breath. “Thank you, Tristan.”
He closes his eyes as if in prayer and presses closer, his body hovering over mine. I let his warmth fill me, feeling safe and secure. Everything else fades, the world, the universe, the stars. All that exists is us.
But it doesn’t last. The image of Tristan touching someone else makes me miss a step. I would’ve crashed to the ground if it hadn’t been for his arm wrapped around me.
We are face to face, and all I can think about is some other girl that he’ll be batting his long eyelashes at tomorrow. The thought’s unsettling, so much so that I do something I haven’t done in years. I tremble. He’s staring at me, pinning me down with that look, those eyes, and then he does something unexpected. He lets go.
I have to ask. “Why do you care?”
“I’ve made it my business to care. And your safety warrants my immediate assistance.” His gaze travels down the walkway we just crossed, which is crammed full of people and merchants trading their wares. It seems that market day is over, and now the merchants travel freely up and down the river peddling their goods.
Unflinching, his gaze studies them as if reading their minds. “It’s still not safe.”
I glance down at my feet, wondering if he would have cared enough to have given me a second thought if he had seen me dressed in boy’s clothes with my dagger. Would we have played this game of cat and mouse? Gone together to the orphanage or taken the time to stop and watch the boat race?
The answer is obvious. No, never.
The thought chills me. But regardless, I know what he says to be true regarding my safety. I was given strict instructions to never leave Ralio’s side for an instant. I breathe deeply, muttering under my breath, “You shouldn’t trouble yourself.”
He lifts up my chin with more force than necessary. “It is my prerogative to care. And I do.”
My insides quiver at his unspoken words. My breath accelerates, making my throat dry. How can he speak, implying these obvious wanton thoughts so openly, so brazenly? But most important, why does my body have to react to him as if I was on fire? Positive that everyone around us has overheard his indecent proposal, I glance at the spectators, but their only focus is watching the end of the boat race.
I gather what remains of my wits and attempt to shake him off. “Regardless of how appealing that might sound, I have no desire to birth your bastard son nine months from now.”
To prove that I will not be swayed with honey words and false promises, I tighten my fist. Before, I was momentarily swept away. But now, I know better. My mother never thought to warn me of the dangers of irresistible men with blue eyes and honeyed words. But I have had life to teach me. Girls who disappeared from our village without a word of their whereabouts, only to reappear months later shattered and worn out, with a despondent look of unfathomable loss in their eyes.
With more determination, I shake off his hold until his arm falls to his side. But he doesn’t seem affected in the least. He dares pout. “But he would be so beautiful.” And the scoundrel has the audacity to bat his long eyelashes.
“His lack of intelligence and indiscretion would more than make up for that.”
I stomp off in the opposite direction, shifting my shirts and picking up my pace. But once again, he’s too quick. He easily corners me and whispers, “See, you like me touching you.”
Affronted, I slap him, narrowly missing. He darts back like a boxer, prepared for another round but well-aware that I can’t draw any unwanted attention. Like the snake he is, he uses this advantage to rub his shoulder against mine, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Don’t worry. I’m not ready to be a father …” He pauses briefly, his brow lifting. “At least not yet.”
I’m in too much shock to respond. Not that he waits for an answer. His lips trail hot kisses down my cheek. My heart practically leaps out of my chest when he repeats the assault on the other side of my face before pressing down on my mouth. His tongue tantalizes like a thousand feathers swirling down to my core.
What’s left of my mind shuts off. Instead, a foreign sensation tugs, unbridled, wild, like running full force down a hill, wind in your hair, arms flailing as if you could soar into the heavens.
Never had I imagined a kiss could be like that. Relations between man and woman were whispered to be obligations. For his pleasure, not hers. But this contradicts everything I’ve ever been told. Because one moment his lips are hot and unrelenting; the other soft and tame, taking me places I’ve never been. My body yields to his as if we were two halves of the same whole. Pure exhilaration.
Tristan’s kiss ignites sparks within my belly, spreading like wildfire as his tongue claims mine again and again. But what’s more surprising is that I’m matching him, caught in the same whirlwind of emotion.
He breaks hold of me, momentarily coming to his senses. “We might not make it to the Inn. And I wouldn’t want to sire my son in some dark, yet convenient, alleyway.”
Tristan’s mischievous side is in control, panting in my ear, pulling me away from the crowd. But what’s more amazing is that I let him.
If my face matches my heart, I am crimson red. My blood searing hot in my veins, a strange feeling of euphoria washes through me. My natural instinct to flee pumps fiercely, telling me this man is dangerous in a way I have never encountered before. Because in this moment, I wouldn’t have to be convinced to join him in the Inn. I would eagerly race alongside him, not giving it a second thought.
That indescribable desire to throw caution into the wind and just act, not think, takes control of every cell in my body. Especially the ones below my waist.
This stranger has this uncanny power to make me forget everything. A first. And the thought infuriates me enough to shut down my wayward desires running havoc. My first rational thought is that I would give almost anything to be able to wrestle him right now. Throw him against the railing and tumble with him for hours. But being in public and making a spectacle of myself isn’t something even I’m capable of. The frock will tear. My gloves soil. And there are too many spectators who would take notice and possibly notify the authorities.
