“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t think that.” He lowered his head again, trembling. “I didn’t want to tell you. God knows, I didn’t want to tell anyone. But when I tried on the armor at your shop ... it all came back to me, then. All of it at once, all the blood and the fear and the hopelessness——”
“Why?” she asked him. Trying to understand the connection. When he didn’t answer for several long seconds, she pressed him gently. “What does the armor have to do with all this?”
In answer he disentangled his hand from hers—reluctantly, she thought—and reached across the table. The canvas roll had been tied shut with a slender cord; unknotting it, he set the string aside. He made room to spread the canvas out on the table, then did so. Handling it gently but firmly, hands trembling as he unrolled it. It was an old piece which had been torn and repaired more than once; stripes of tape had yellowed across its back, eating into the linen canvas. As he unrolled it, she saw aged paint, a webwork of fine cracks, the edges of a piece that had been hastily and carelessly hacked from a larger painting—And then it was laid out before her, and she saw. “Oh, my gods,” she whispered. Stunned. The painting was part of a formal portrait, and it was marked with several parallel slashes where a knife had scored the canvas. The object of the portrait was a young man, and even this tattered remnant of a larger painting conveyed the power of his presence, the beauty of his person. Tall, slender, he wore a breastplate emblazoned with a golden sun and a coronet decorated with mythological figures. That breastplate. That coronet. Fine golden-brown hair flowed down about his shoulders, tousled by an unseen wind. Gray eyes, cool and dominant, met the viewer’s own as if there were some living will behind them. Sardonic, seductive. Seeing him rendered thus, Narilka felt herself tremble. Because there there was no mistaking the portrait’s subject. And no denying that she knew him all too intimately. The Hunter.
“Who is it?” she managed. Finding her voice at last. “Gerald Tarrant. Founder of my family line, first Neocount of Merentha.” He hesitated; when he spoke again she sensed him picking his way through his words carefully, perhaps choosing which facets of the story to reveal to her. “In his day ... he slaughtered all his kin. All but one. His son returned home to find ... what I found ... it was he who did this.” He indicated the slash marks in the canvas, their edges cracked and yellowing. "That’s what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Do you understand? Not my face, but his. A man who could murder his entire family....”
“Shh. It’s over now.” She took his hands in hers, wanning them gently. “The armor’s just a piece of metal. And the coronet. No more.” It hurt her inside, to know what the next words had to be-her artist’s soul rebelled at the thought-but she knew they had to be said. “If they cause you pain, then destroy them. Unmake them. Commission something else, which has a better meaning for you.”
The green eyes were fixed on her, their surface glistening; were those tears gathering in the corners? “I could never destroy your work,” he whispered.
“It’s only metal,” she assured him. Trying to make the words come easily, so that he wouldn’t sense how much this was costing her. “We can melt it down and make something worthwhile out of it. Something equally beautiful, that doesn’t have memories attached.”
He managed a wry smile. “Your boss would hardly approve of that.”
“Some things are more important than Gresham’s approval,” she assured him.
And for a moment, in his eyes, it seemed that she could see into the core of him. Sensing a frightened young man who had thought that the world would always indulge his pleasures, now forced into a hellish maturity of fear and isolation. All that, masked to perfection by this practiced persona: gambler, seducer, carefree aristocrat. Where was the real Andrys Tarrant, balanced between those extremes? How did one begin to seek him out?
“I could never destroy your work,” he repeated. His hand turned over beneath hers, catching her fingers in a warm embrace. “And having these pieces restored ... it’s part of my healing. Supposed to be, anyway.” He shook his head. “I don’t really understand it. But someone I ...” He hesitated, as if seeking the proper word. “Someone I trust advised me to have these things made, and I believe in him. Enough to try it.” He laughed sadly. “Even if I can’t for the life of me see how it’s supposed to help.”
His hand folded tightly over hers: warm contact, hungry touch. She could sense the need in him, not just for communion of the spirit but a far more substantive interaction. Passion and intimacy were allied within him; it was hard for him to seek out one without the other.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “Thank you for listening. For giving me a chance.”
“I wish I could do more,” she said quietly. Knowing the words for the opening they were. Not even sure of how she meant them. “To help.”
The bright eyes glittered, viridescent in the darkness. “You’ve done more than any woman has for years. Or any man, for that matter.”
“Even your lawyers?” she eluded gently. Aware that her heart was pounding anew, in response to words not even being said.
“In a way,” he said softly. He drew up her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. Soft touch, gently erotic; she felt fire spreading up her arm, fanning out from the contact.
“Come,” he whispered. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you home.”
He made no move to call for the check, but laid a handful of coins on the table that would have paid for such a meal three times over. Then he helped her out of the booth, his touch warm upon her arm, his manner at once protective and possessive. The waiters did not question his leaving before a bill had been rendered, which meant that he had done this many, many times before. With how many women? she wondered. Had they all trembled like she did at his touch, or were they veterans of the same game, who knew what words and special gestures might be employed to maintain control of each move?
It was a long walk to her apartment, for which she was grateful. She needed the long dark streets, half-abandoned, quiet. She needed time to pull herself together. He walked by her side companionably enough, but she could sense the tension in him. Pain. Uncertainty. Desire. She could feel his warmth near her arm as their steps brought them close to each other, as his hand almost-almost-reached out and took hers. So very close. Her skin tingled with the nearness of him, but she was afraid to initiate any contact. What would such an act signify in his world, in that endless round of courtship and flirtation which was his normal venue? How did one approach a man like this, without giving him license to claim one’s soul?
And then: Her building. Her stairs. Two flights of them, wide and well-lit. A landing, with four doors. He let her lead the way, to the third door in line. Keys. They were somewhere. She fumbled for them, fearing to look at him. Afraid she would get lost in his eyes forever if she did. Afraid she might wake up in the morning to find him beside her and never know how he had gotten there, or if he would ever leave. Or if she ever wanted him to leave.
Then he took her face gently in one hand-ever so gently, a butterfly’s touch could not have been lighter—and tipped her head back until she was looking right at him. Warm eyes, living eyes, not like the Hunter’s at all. And yet the two men were linked, not just in appearance but in essence. The Hunter’s passion had sired this man; the Hunter’s blood ran in his veins. How could she look at Andrys Tarrant and not feel the power of his forebear’s presence?
“Thank you,” he said softly. “For listening.” His fingers stroked her cheek gently as he spoke, sending shivers down her spine. “It’s been a long time since anyone did that.”