Narcise positioned herself closer to Belial in order to distract him from Cale as the latter packed up his satchel and prepared to leave. She was favored with one covert glance, warm and intense, from beneath the hat brim, and then her false tutor was walking out the door.
She wondered when and how she'd see him again, and realized all at once how badly she wanted to.
Was she falling in love again?
Chapter 7
Giordan Cale found a way to visit Narcise three more times during her brother's absence in Marseilles. Each time, he took her by surprise, each event was carefully planned and executed, and each time, he remained at a physical distance from her-despite the fact that she could feel the heat and desire between them the moment he walked into the chamber.
If he was trying to prove his trustworthiness to her, he was succeeding. If he was trying to breach the walls around her protected heart, his attempt was formidable.
Although she didn't fully understand why Cale was so intent that Cezar not know of their meetings-after all, he'd been instrumental in that first night they spent together in The Chamber-Narcise didn't argue, nor did she attempt to make their liaisons open. Instead she found herself growing more and more enamored with him, with his sense of humor and element of levity, and more and more desirous of tearing off his clothes and kissing him.
When she thought about what it would be like to cover those warm lips with hers, to taste a bit of lifeblood if she nipped one of them, mingling with their lips and tongues...to have their bodies lined up, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, hip to hip...Narcise could hardly imagine why she'd resisted so far.
But kissing, in her mind, was the last frontier of intimacy. The one thing that she could control; the thing that the men who wanted her body didn't particularly care about. Kissing, which was often the first stage of love and lust-and had been for her and Rivrik-was now the last step for her, and one she guarded jealously.
When Cezar arrived from his travels, he called her to his private parlor within hours. As he always did when they met alone, he had a tray of three brown sparrow feathers sitting on the table next to him. They were close enough to sap her strength, yet far enough away that she could talk and move, albeit a bit more slowly than usual. But most of all, they were a deterrent to her getting close enough to attack him.
He'd made that mistake once, fifty years ago. One thing about Cezar-he had absolute attention to detail, and a long memory.
"You look well, dear sister," he said, his eyes scoring her. He didn't appear pleased, but then, he never particularly did. "How have you been amusing yourself during my absence?"
"Other than fending off the hot-breathed stink of your friend Belial, nothing out of the ordinary," Narcise replied flatly, selecting a seat as far from the feathers as possible. Already, her body felt slower and heavier, and her lungs tight and constricted.
"Belial?" Cezar's face tightened, and for a moment, she felt a notch of pity for her brother. To believe that one of his most trusted allies and servants-for no one was a confidant of Cezar Moldavi-would betray him and his trust in that way was a blow to his carefully controlled world. "He attempted to touch you?"
Narcise gave a particularly unladylike snort. "He went further than that, dear brother," she said with a sarcasm-laden voice. "He wore a ring of feathers around his wrist one day when he came to deliver some wine to me, and attempted to convince me that I should allow him to feed on me." The tremor was more from anger than anything like fear; Belial was a make, and she could squash him like a bug if he didn't have the cowardly feather bracelet on his arm.
"Indeed." Cezar's voice was cold. "Did he succeed?"
She shrugged nonchalantly, despite the fact that her blood had begun to surge and race. "He did not, which was fortunate. I would have been powerless against him in the presence of those feathers-for no sooner had he backed me into a corner than one of the fabric merchants arrived. Monique interrupted and I was forced to decline Belial's proposition."
It must have been coincidence that the fabric merchant had, in fact, been Giordan Cale, in another of his disguises. He had sensed her upheaval, and when she told him about Belial, he became so still and quiet that she feared he would expose his identity and attack the servant. It was only her assurances that she was untouched and that Cezar would manage the problem on his return that kept Cale from throwing off his cloak and wig and going after the man.
"I suggest," she now told her brother firmly, "that you keep him away from me in the future. Or I'll kill him."
Cezar nodded, and it was to her credit that he didn't ask how she would do that. "I'll see that he won't bother you again. Perhaps you'd like to take matters into your own hands?"
Narcise smiled. "It would be my pleasure."
"Very well. I don't wish you to kill him," Cezar ordered. "But do whatever else you wish. I'll arrange for him to select his sword tomorrow night." He picked up his ever-present glass and looked into the blood-red liquid that clung to the sides when he swirled it. "But tonight, we have been invited to Monsieur Cale's private club."
Narcise's heart skipped a beat. "Have you accepted the invitation?"
Cezar looked at her as he raised the glass of blood-drenched Bordeaux, one of his favorite drinks. She wondered whose blood was in there, and shuddered at the thought-the certainty-that it might be that of a child. He sipped, then drew the glass away. "I want you to seduce him."
She didn't have to feign surprise, and quickly changed her expression to include distaste. "I have no desire to seduce anyone, let alone Monsieur Cale. Might I remind you that I've already been at his hands. Against my will."
"Consider this a different test of your skills. I'm not altogether certain you'll succeed, in fact, Narcise. And that's precisely why I wish for you to do so." He tapped his fingernail against the side of the glass.
"No," she said.
Cezar turned to look at her fully, and a dart of fear shot through her. "Are you certain of that?" he asked, the hiss in his voice more pronounced. "Perhaps I'll give you to Belial after all. And Morderin as well." His eyes burned orange-yellow. "I could dress you in that special cape I've had made for you...and then let you fight your way out of their hands."
Narcise swallowed. The cape...the very words made her knees weak and her stomach swim. It was soft and light and made of dark, gossamer lace, and it was lined with sparrow feathers. The very thought of those feathers, in such abundance and such proximity against her skin made her feel faint.