A breeze had come up with the rising moons, and Pol stood at the windows to feel its coolness. The Desert smelled different this year, rich with water and flowers, unlike the usual clean aridity, almost the fragrances of Dragon’s Rest. His grandmother Milar’s fountain rose nearly twice its normal height with increased flow from the hidden spring. As Pol looked down on it, he considered a long walk in the gardens to clear his head. He saw a man and woman strolling idly from the direction of the grotto, holding hands. The pleasure of recognizing Riyan and Ruala as they stopped for a kiss was welcome distraction from the uncomfortable jumble of his feelings.
But not distraction enough. Turning from the windows, he walked the length of his bedchamber again, soft carpet and then chill stone beneath his bare feet as he made the circuit over and over. His thoughts circled, too: Andry, Marron, Ruval, the dead Sunrunner in Gilad, Miyon, dragons, Meiglan—especially Meiglan.
She was providing exactly the distraction her father had intended. Pol muttered a lurid curse, but whether it was directed at Miyon or himself, he wasn’t sure. He’d thought to trap everyone else into thinking him in love with the girl. But by now he was beginning to think it was himself he had trapped.
She’d be gone soon, temptation with her, and at the Rialla this summer he’d find a woman more to his taste. Older, more self-assured, capable of being High Princess. Beautiful, of course, but smart and clever as well. Someone like Sionell had turned out to be.
And yet. ... He could not imagine beauty more compelling than Meiglan’s when she stood before her fenath, swaying gracefully back and forth as she plucked magic from the strings.
Just as her father had intended.
Pol stripped off his trousers and underwear and flung himself across the bed. Clever prince, he accused in disgust. He ought to be thinking about the challenge to his power that Ruval would surely make in the next day or two. Instead he was conforming to plan by fretting over Meggie. There, he had even given her the tender nickname. He doused the candles with a thought and determinedly shut his eyes. He’d be no good to himself or anyone else if he didn’t get some sleep. He needed a clear head tomorrow.
There was a whisper of lace and silk in the darkness, barely audible above the splash of the fountain below, and a faint fragrance he recognized at once. He sat straight up in bed, quickly hauling the sheet around his naked body, and heard her catch her breath.
“No—please, my lord—no light!”
“Meiglan? What are you doing here?”
“I—I made them let me in,” she breathed, gliding closer to the bed, a slender drifting shadow hinted at by moonlight.
“They told me you were sleeping. Surely you ought to—” He could hardly believe her women would allow her out of her bedchamber, let alone into his.
“I had to see you! I had to be near you—I’m so frightened, my lord, it’s all been so terrible, this whole day—”
“It’s all right now, Meiglan. Nothing to be afraid of.”
“Not here,” she said softly. “I feel safe with you.”
Pol drew in a shaky breath. Knowing he should not, that more definite sight of her would be dangerous, he gestured the bedside candle into being. Her whole body flinched and he automatically reached for her hand. It was small and chill in his palm. And he’d been right; the candle was a mistake. She wore a nightdress with a pale silk bedrobe over it and dark lace over her hair. She shifted her head and the veil slid to the floor. Her golden curls seemed to have a luminescence all their own, and their perfume was intoxicating. She took a step closer and he began to feel dizzy.
“You came to me at Tiglath,” she breathed, trembling. “Sent by the Goddess in a dream. I didn’t know until I came here—but it was you, even to your rings.” She gestured to the moonstone that had been Lady Andrade’s, the amethyst of Princemarch. “You’re faradhi, my lord. Tell me what my dream meant. Please.”
“I–I don’t know.” He cleared his throat and let go of her hand. She must be the dream. This wasn’t possible. He felt strange, light-headed, his whole body tingling but not in the usual manner of desire. “Meiglan—”
“Let me stay a while,” she begged. “Just until I’m not so frightened.”
He nodded, and she sat at the foot of the bed—out of reach, for which he was grateful. Goddess, she was magic itself by candlelight, all gold hair and dark eyes and cloud-pale skin. She must know that. Why else would she be here? He felt betrayed by his own perceptions, furious that he had been so utterly wrong about her. Her father had planned this, too, and Meiglan was about as innocent as a harborside whore.
One way to be sure.
He got hold of her hand again and eased toward her across the bed. Memories of other seductions tumbled through him—there had not been as many women as Rialt teased him about, but there had been enough. And there had been Morwenna. Dear, lusty, laughing, wry Morwenna, who had come to him in the guise of the Goddess that hadn’t fooled him for an instant, informing him that she had taken it upon herself to correct any bad habits he might have learned.
“Don’t be so clumsy! And remember there are paths and paths of pleasure. Oh, come now, Pol—subtlety! If you haven’t learned any better than that, it’s a good thing I’m here to teach you!”
Teach him she had. He stroked the back of Meiglan’s palm, turned it over to place a kiss in its hollow. With his other hand he untied the loose knot of her nightdress and before long had it off her shoulders. She was quivering, eyes closed, head tilting slightly back to expose the delicate line of her throat. An open invitation for his lips, he noted with a tight smile. She was no more a virgin than Morwenna, and he would prove it to himself and be rid of the aching tenderness caused by her supposed vulnerability.
But he was finding it difficult to breathe. The closer he got to her, the more his head spun. She lay back across the bed, her fingers locked with his, the golden cloud of her hair spread over white silk sheets. Her body was curving and slender and the only difference in color between her skin and the silk she lay upon was the faintest glow of rose, teasing at his faradhi senses.
Pol lowered himself half-across her, looked down into her face that seemed hazy in the soft fog of her incredible hair. He buried his lips in the curve of her shoulder. She gave a soft cry that was his name as his knee parted her thighs. Head reeling, he took her mouth, not caring anymore that he was supposed to be doing this, that she had come here with this in mind. He was drunk with her face and form and scent, his senses all awry, as if he’d plunged into some boiling lake whose water seeped into his blood through his skin, depths where there was no air to breathe and he would drown—and not give a damn about the death.
Neither his tastes nor his vices included raping little girls. But this was no child-woman whose body arched against his, no virgin whose nails dug into his back and buttocks, no inexperienced innocent whose kisses matched his in passion.
“Find out what a woman wants,” Morwenna had instructed. “How she likes to be touched. Where your touch will do the most good! Be responsive to her mood—sometimes, just as will be true of you, she won’t be certain which path she’ll want to take. This is especially so if she’s not experienced. But finding out can be very pleasurable!”
Meiglan knew exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it. Pol gave it to her—quickly, fiercely, without caution or finesse or caring about anything other than his lust.
When he was done, he lay on his back and stared up at the bed curtains. Bitterness like Sunrunner’s Fire seared his pride. Himself so clever, he mocked, and she so innocent. He had discovered the truth of her, and the disappointment and shame burned his heart to ashes.