“I might ask you the same question,” he replied. Suddenly, his lean face acquired a grin that seemed altogether too wide for it. “Instead, I think I’ll do this.” He gathered her in and kissed her with a passion that struck her as altogether unfeigned. She started to bite his probing tongue as she’d almost bitten his hand, but discovered she was enjoying herself. With a small, nasty purr, she pressed her body against his.
He made the most of the embrace, clutching her backside with both hands and sliding his fingers toward her secret place. She rocked her hips forward and back and from side to side. Whatever Viscount Valnu’s other tastes might have been, she was utterly certain he wanted her at the moment.
And she wanted him, too, as much to score one off Colonel Lurcanio as for himself. Having an Algarvian protector was useful, even vital at times-all the more reason for Krasta to chafe at the short leash Lurcanio set her. Or so she told herself, at any rate.
“Well, here we have a charming picture, don’t we?”
The amused contempt in that trillingly accented voice made Krasta spring away from Valnu like a soaked cat. She stared at Lurcanio with fear and defiance in her eyes. Fear won, and quickly. Pointing an accusing finger at Valnu, she exclaimed, “He molested me!”
“Oh, I doubt it not at all.” Lurcanio rocked back on his heels as he laughed mockingly. “Were you any more molested, you would have been wearing lingerie instead of your out-on-the-town clothes.”
“My dear Count-” Valnu began.
Colonel Lurcanio waved him to silence. “I am not your dear, regardless of whether or not certain of my countrymen can make the same statement. I do not particularly blame you-a man will try to get it in. You, I gather, will try to get it in almost anywhere.” He paused. “Aye? You still wish to say something, Viscount?”
“Only that variety, as I am in the habit of remarking, is the life of spice.”
“A point to which my sweet companion would surely agree.” Lurcanio turned to-and turned on-Krasta and bowed. Algarvians could be most wounding when they were most polite. “And now, milady, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Krasta didn’t usually think fast, but self-preservation gave her strong incentive. Haughtily drawing herself up, she replied, “Only that I was having a good time. Isn’t that why one comes to an entertainment: to have a good time?”
Lurcanio bowed again. “I do admire your nerve. Your good sense leaves something to be desired. I am certain I am not the first to tell you this. I am just as certain I am unlikely to be the last. But I am also certain that if you embarrass me in public, I must do the same to you.” Without warning, without wasted motion, he slapped her face.
Heads whipped around at the sound of the slap. Then, very quickly, everyone pretended not to notice. Such things happened now and again. Krasta had seen them. She’d laughed at women foolish enough to get caught. Now, no doubt, other women would laugh at her.
She hated that. But she didn’t think of slapping Lurcanio back, not even for a moment. She’d slapped him once, when she still thought of him as a social inferior rather than a conqueror. He’d slapped her back then, stunning her and establishing a dominance he’d held ever since. What would he do if she dared rebel in any real way? She didn’t have the nerve to find out.
To Valnu, Lurcanio said, “As for you, sir, try your luck elsewhere.”
Valnu bowed low. He wore an Algarvian-style kilt tonight, as he often did, and he also aped Algarvian manners. “As you say, my lord Count, so shall it be.”
“Of course it shall.” Now Lurcanio sounded as smug as if Algarve truly were on top of the world in every way, as if her armies had not fallen short outside of Cottbus the winter before, as if King Swemmel’s men weren’t squeezing another Algarvian army in a mailed fist now, far off in the southwest.
He believed in himself. Because he did, he made Krasta believe in him, too. And he made her forget all about whatever it was she’d said that had so alarmed Valnu.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on the red mark on her cheek. Then she had to spend more time repairing her powder and paint. She got drunk afterwards, as she often did at entertainments, but stayed more circumspect than she was otherwise likely to have done.
After the driver brought her and Lurcanio back to the mansion through the cold, slippery streets of Priekule, the Algarvian went up to her bedchamber with her. That took her by surprise; she’d thought he would sleep in his own bed as a sign of his anger. Instead, he used hands and mouth to bring her to a quick, abrupt peak of pleasure. He was always scrupulous about such things.
And then he surprised her again by rolling her onto her belly. When he began, she let out an indignant squawk. “Be still,” he snapped. “Let us call this … a salute to Valnu.”
She had to lie there and endure it. It hurt-not too much, but it did. And it humiliated her, as Lurcanio no doubt intended. When it was over, he patted her on one bare cheek and laughed a little, then dressed and left the bedchamber. Go ahead and laugh, Krasta thought. You don’t know everything there is to know, and I’ll never, ever tell you.
Exile. In essence, Skarnu had been in exile from his own way of life ever since he joined King Gainibu’s army when the war against Algarve was young and fresh and still held the possibility of glory. After he found out what that possibility was worth, he’d made another life for himself, one in most ways more satisfying than that which he’d left behind. And now he’d had that one yanked out from under him, too.
Curse you, Krasta, he thought, staring up at the badly plastered ceiling of the cheap flat the irregulars in Ventspils had found for him. If not for his sister, how would that cursed Lurcanio have known to come hunting for him? He hoped Merkela was all right, Merkela and the child she was carrying. Hope was all he could do. He didn’t dare to post her even the most innocuous letter, lest some Algarvian mage use it to track him down.
Here in Ventspils, he felt suspended betwixt and between. Back in Priekule, he’d been a person of the capital, a man of the big city, who’d enjoyed everything it had to offer. On the farm, even in Pavilosta, he’d learned to find simpler contentments: a good crop of beans in the garden, a laying hen the envy of all his neighbors, a mug of ale after a hard day’s work. And he’d learned the difference between pleasure and love, a distinction he’d never bother drawing in Priekule.
He had no work in Ventspils, not yet. He had no friends here, only a handful of acquaintances among the irregulars who’d installed him in the flat. And Ventspils, off to the east of Priekule, had to be the most boring town in Valmiera. If it wasn’t, he pitied the place that was.
After a while, staring at the ceiling threatened to drive him mad. He got up and put on the coat the irregulars had given him to replace the sheepskin jacket he’d brought from the farm. With its wide lapels, the coat would have been years out of fashion in Priekule, but he’d seen plenty of people here wearing and even showing off equally unstylish garments. He also put on a broad-brimmed felt hat, and wished for one with earflaps like those the Unkerlanters wore.
Not many people were on the streets. The freezing rain had stopped a couple of hours before, but glare ice was everywhere, shining and treacherous. City workers should have been spreading salt to help melt it and to give better footing, but where were they? Nowhere Skarnu could see. He slipped and had to grab a lamp post to keep from falling.
A couple of Algarvian soldiers in hobnailed boots laughed at him. They had no trouble keeping their feet. “I hope you get sent to Unkerlant,” he muttered. “I hope your toes freeze and turn black and fall off.” He made sure the redheads didn’t hear him, though. They might have spoken Valmieran. He took no needless chances.