Deamon's Daughter Part 16

"The h.e.l.l you would," he growled, tugging her closer.

The press of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and thighs woke memories, memories he had no right to revisit. Desire drummed in his chest and between his legs. G.o.d help him, he didn't know how to stay away from her. A day was too long. An hour.

"Don't do this," she warned, but he gripped her beneath the arms and, with a soft whuff of effort, lifted her onto the age-silvered lid of the compost box.

"Adrian." She gripped his upper arms. "You have to either stay or go. You can't keep changing your mind. It isn't fair."

"I'm having trouble being faira"or rational, for that matter. My head knows what's right, but my body can't wrestle out from under your spell. It keeps prodding me to go to you, like you're the only cure for a fever. I can't even sweat it out except with you."

"Oh, Adrian." His confession weakened her. How good it would be to lean into him, to forget the world. He pressed closer like a penitent, his fingers brus.h.i.+ng her knees.

"Please don't say anything," he whispered, lifting stormy eyes. She saw such longing there that her breath caught in her throat. "I just wanta I need to kiss you. Just that, I promise. I'm starving for a taste of you."

Sweat p.r.i.c.kled across her scalp. He moistened his lower lip and stared at her mouth as if he meant to devour it. She closed her eyes. Heat rose through her like steam off a boiling pot. Her chest warmed, her palms, the soles of her feet. Her secret flesh seemed to have swelled shut. The sap of her hunger squeezed through the sweet constriction, drop by silky drop. When she spoke, it was weakly.

"I don't think a kiss is a good idea."

"Probably not." He leaned forward and slid his hands down her back until they encircled her bottom. "But I'm going to take one anyway."

She didn't consciously decide to do it, but her legs parted for his approach. His lips touched hers, warm and soft, whispering lightly over the tender swells. She barely felt the first brush of his tongue; only knew it had been there from the moisture it left behind. Unable to resist, she cupped his face with both hands, savoring the subtle movements of the muscles in his cheeks. A hint of a beard roughened his olive skin. He must have come straight from work.

"Open for me," he whispered, nuzzling her cheek.

When she did, he remained just as tender, just as slow. His tongue probed deeply, the intrusion more intimate than a hard kiss. She brushed her own tongue against the silken lining of his mouth. He inhaled sharply and dragged her to the edge of the box. Though he did not crush her to him, he must have felt her heat. His c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s formed a warm bundle, pulsing steadily against the juncture of her thighs. More force would have been welcome, much more, but she didn't dare encourage it.

This interlude was fragile. Apparently, he knew it, too.

He clung to her mouth as she clung to his, neither of them wanting to end the gentle torture. Slipping her arms beneath his suit coat, she dragged her nails up and down his back, enchanted by his periodic s.h.i.+vers of pleasure. The starched linen of his s.h.i.+rt made a noise like bed sheets rustling.

His hands s.h.i.+fted to cup her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He squeezed them firmly, then gentled, his fingertips circling the peaks until they'd tightened to the point of pain. She couldn't help leaning toward him to urge him on.

Heaven, she thought, running her hands over his skull and shoulders. He was here. He was in her arms. She didn't want to think about anything else.

They spun the kiss out as long as they could, but she knew it would have to end. When it did, he rested his forehead on hers. Both of them were shaking.

"So," she said, straightening his damp, disarranged collar. "We're back to where we started: a soft kiss and a trembling hand."

He surrendered a melodious breath. "Roxanne, I am sorry. About everything. Please believe me when I say I didn't mean for things to turn out this way."

"I don't doubt that." She grinned with bitter humor. "I can't imagine a man like you meets a woman like me every day."

Adrian squeezed the scruff of her neck the way one would a naughty puppy. "There's more to you than what you have to offer in bed. You're a fine woman. Any man would be lucky to find you."

"Criminy." She tried to shrug him away.

"I want you to be happy," he insisted.

She cursed him so vociferously he laughed. "Very well. I'll spare you the plat.i.tudesa"though I mean them." His mouth made a teasing feint at hers. "One last kiss for the road?"

"Adrian," she groaned. "What are you trying to do?"

"I don't want you to forget me."

"I'd be happier if I did."

He drew back as her words sank in, all playfulness gone. His eyes were very bright. "Good-bye, Roxie," he said softly, sadly. "You'll tell me if anything unexpected happens? In case the moon was wrong?"

His wistful expression made her smile. "You act as if you wish I were pregnant."

"I'd do the right thing, Roxie."

She touched the lines bracketing the corners of his mouth. He looked so serious. Did he mean he'd marry her? A plain gold ring? A little church by the sea? Temptation hissed like a wisp of opium in the dark. It would be so easy. Bhamjran had practically invented the science of conception. Want a healthy girl? A healthy boy? They could pinpoint not just the optimal day for congress but the hour. With a shudder, she pushed the smoky lure away. She knew what she wanted from Adrian, and it had nothing to do with duty or dirty tricks.

"I wouldn't let you do anything for a reason like that."

His eyes narrowed, but he refrained from making grandiose claims. He kissed the tip of her nose.

"Contact me if you need me," he repeated, then turned to go.

She watched the garden door swing shut behind him. She doubted she'd ever stop needing him. A score of heartbeats later, an uncontrollable fear overtook her. What if this was the last time she saw him? He'd seemed so sad when he said good-bye. Maybe her hopes, always thin, were completely delusional.

Shawl hugged tight against a private chill, she dashed down the hall to the front window, the one that overlooked the street. Her worn canvas shoes screeched to a halt just short of cras.h.i.+ng. She tugged back the gauzy curtain, then pressed her nose to the panes.

One last glimpse. One lasta"

There he was, stepping down the front stairs in his plain brown suit. He looked small from up here but not ordinary. Lean and tall, he held himself like royalty. When he raked one hand through his hair, the silky strands gleamed blue on black like a raven's wing. Her fingers twitched in remembrance.

How was she going to bear this? Every time she saw him, the strain of parting grew worse.

His gaze lifted, searching the front of the twilit house. She shrank behind the curtain. He couldn't possibly feel her eyes on him, unless they shared some mystical connection.

Schoolgirl, she mocked, moving back into view. He'd already turned away. He was striding down the cobbled street, no longer looking back.

Adrian didn't see the man in the navy peacoat who peeled out from a doorway after him, but Roxie did. She squinted down at his follower. Shamble-gaited and grimy, he didn't strike her as Security material. Adrian's colleagues tended to look milk-fed. Maybe he hailed from Bow Street or somewhere even less scrupulous. Regardless, she'd bet her eyeteeth she knew who'd hired him.

"Herrington." She made the name a curse. No doubt this invasion of privacy was his warped idea of safeguarding his family blood, his precious "heritage." Bah. Had it been possible, Roxie would have drained it from her veins then and there.

If he made trouble for Adrian, she'da"Well, she couldn't think of anything awful enough that she'd actually stoop to do. If he pushed her thougha "Watch out," she muttered, her hands clenching on the sheers.

She mouthed a silent prayer that Adrian wasn't too distracted to shake his uninvited tick.

Herrington had come into the city from his estate both to gather and give intelligence. The first task taken care of, he was engaged in what had come to be a favorite hobby: human-watching in Queen's Park. The mile-long green s.p.a.ce was one of Queen Victoria's less-controversial gifts to Awar. Riding paths wound through the trees and gra.s.s, past ponds and ornamental fountains, even an electrified carousel. Though dusk had fallen, a recent bout of clear, mild weather encouraged a few working families to bring their children to play. His eye was caught in particular by a chubby redheaded toddler who kept letting a ball fall through her mittened hands. Her inept.i.tude seemed not to bother her at all. She was full of bounce and squeals of laughter.

Herrington had no doubt her parents hoped to fatigue the little monster before bedtime.

No matter his choice of words, he could not mistake the fondness of his own sentiments, nor the personal parallels. His reaction should have been impossible. Even if Roxanne had grown up in his care, her childhood wouldn't have been like this. Yamish parents guided their children in structured activities, in educational games. More to the point, if they were as well-born as he was, they hired someone else to do the job for them.

Though Herrington's frown of disapproval was better than a smile, it was not the expression he wished to have on his face when his handler arrived.

The man the rohn simply called The Dragon appeared silently. Few knew the famous doctor had been born rohn himself and had clawed his way up from the lower ranks with a combination of intelligence, ambition, and unwavering ruthlessness. It was whispered that he'd poisoned one of the Yamish princes he'd served as personal physician, an act that had led to the ascension of a presumably grateful rival. Because that rival was the current emperor's cousin, the whispers were very soft. Herrington was positive that, had The Dragon been able, he would have filled the stolen throne himself.

Unfortunately for Herrington, a rohn could only rise so high. Because of this, The Dragon was his problem.

"Worried?" his black-garbed contact asked. He stood slightly behind Herrington, his expression as serene as any royal son. His face was long and narrow, his cheekbones high. All Yama were slender, but the doctor's thinness looked starved. Like Herrington, he reported to the Under-Minister of Trade, an innocuous t.i.tle that really meant spymaster. Though the doctor's voice held no inflection, his aura conveyed the slightest hint of mockery.

Herrington made no move to erase his frown. "My expression discourages the children," he said. "Otherwise, they are apt to request you throw back their b.a.l.l.s."

This, he was pleased to see, caused The Dragon to flinch. Herrington turned to face him fully.

"I hope this meeting finds you well, Raymond," he said, purposefully using the human b.a.s.t.a.r.dization of his name. "Raymond's" aura flared slightly, but gratifyingly, with pique.

"I am very well," The Dragon said, "though I wonder how I find you. You led our prince to believe you would send him information about thisa creature you have fathered."

"Our prince is everything that is gracious. However, if you will permit me to say so, he is occasionally impatient."

"It is not for me to permit," The Dragon responded, at which Herrington allowed himself a tiny smile. The Dragon's mouth tightened infinitesimally at the insult.

Satisfied he'd made his point about the chain of command, Herrington turned back to the young family. "The prince will have his information as soon as I've gathered it."

"You claimed you would lure her into your sphere."

"I am doing so."

"Forgive me for suggesting otherwise, Lord Herrington." The Dragon tried to return Herrington's favor by making an insult of his human name, but because Herrington took no offense, the attempt fell flat Sensing this, The Dragon smoothed his straight black hair around his head. He'd been given dispensation to wear it long, but a true daimyo wouldn't have called attention to the honor. This time, Herrington allowed the smile to reach his eyes.

"Perhaps I am lacking in comprehension," The Dragon began again, "but it appears to me that you are doing nothing at all."

"My lures are subtle," Herrington said, "as they should be."

"The prince does not have to wait for you. He can a.s.sign me to study the girla"to collect her, if need be."

For a Yama, this threat was crudely direct. Herrington permitted himself neither anger nor fear, but banished every shred of emotion from his face and aura, stuffing his secret hopes down in the darkness of his soul.

"You do not know these people," he said, looking straight into the doctor's deep-set silver eyes. They were of a height, both tall members of a tall race. "You have cut them open and put your toys inside them, just as you have done to your fellow rohn, but you do not understand what makes them tick. You do not know how to coax them onto the path you wish them to walk."

"And you do?" The Dragon's perfect mask was stiff, his hands clenched at his sides.

"I do," Herrington confirmed, allowing his fire-talk to say soothing things. He did not want the doctor to lose his temper completely. "Understanding humans is the mission to which our princea"and our emperora"set me. It is a trust I shall not betray."

"I, too, have served our emperor," The Dragon said.

Herrington accepted the reminder placidly. "I am aware of that," he said. "Alas, many of your services cannot be spoken of aloud."

As Herrington hoped, The Dragon was disconcerted by the sympathy rippling through his aura. In the proper context, conveying emotion could be useful. A rohn would not realize fire-talk could lie. They excelled at reading auras, not at sending potentially duplicitous messages. Herrington, by contrast, had become quite mendacious in the last few years. Beginning to like the objects of his study had necessitated perfecting that talent.

"We shall not wait much longer," The Dragon warned as he turned away.

"You will not have to," Herrington murmured.

His curses he kept even from himself until the man was gone. d.a.m.nation. He was going to have to pry Roxie from her sticking place, and by less gentle means than he'd tried thus far. She was too comfortable in her life, too girded about by support. She needed to understand how precarious her position was.

If that meant destroying any hope of developing a true father-daughter bond, they would both have to live with it.

Chapter 18.

Every culture knows love: romantic love, parental love, even love for ideas. To suggest a race is incapable of feeling, simply because they express their emotions differently, is not only ignorant but dangerous. After all, if a people cannot feel, we are justified in treating them as barbarously as we wish. As the merchant said, "If you p.r.i.c.k me, do I not bleed?"

a"The True and Irreverent History of Awar Roxanne was in the studio when Charles staggered in, coat askew, hair plastered to his forehead by perspiration. She dropped her palette in alarm.

"Max," he gasped, sagging against the parlor arch. "Max." She reached his side in an instant, touching his dripping face, clutching his elbow to support him. "What happened? Did Max get hurt at school?"

His chest heaved. "He wasn't there. The Headmaster told me someone from the Children's Ministry took him away in a van. They had official papers. I couldn't rind a cab. I"a"he was sobbing for aira""ran all the way here."

Roxie's blood ran so cold her fingers tingled. Herrington. She clenched her fists. "That b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Charles stared at her. She knew she should have told him, should have warned them both. Now it was too late. When he recovered from his shock at her language, he gripped her arms with the strength of the desperate. "We have to do something. We can't let them take him. What if we can't get him back?"

She closed her eyes. It took exactly two seconds to make up her mind. "I want you to change into your most conservative outfit. We'll take a cab to Little Barking. I'm not tackling those bloodsuckers without someone official to back me up."

Charles blinked. "You're asking Adrian Philips to help?" Then he nodded in answer to his own question. "Yes, he won't turn you down."

"What about me?" asked her model, a scantily clad tin peddler. His laurel wreath was drooping over one eye, but he had a wonderfully n.o.ble nose.

Roxie smiled despite her panic and tossed him two silver coins. The peddler caught them neatly.

"I'll send a message if I need you," she said and hurried off to make herself appear respectable.

She scribbled furiously throughout the hansom ride, aware that Charles was bursting with questions. She would tackle the challenge of answering them when she had to. Now she needed to focus on Max.

Though they'd hired an electric hansom, it was almost dark by the time they pulled up before the rough red hulk of Little Barking Station. On the street ahead, a lamplighter was igniting Victoria's pride and joy with his long bra.s.s pole, this neighborhood not yet converted to electric power. The gas-powered wicks sprang to life with a sound like pillows being punched. Roxie prayed Adrian hadn't gone home.

"You'll have to go in by yourself," she told Charles. "I don't want to cause any more trouble for Adrian. Give him this note. If you can bring him back with you, well and good. Otherwise, we'll meet him wherever he says, as long as it's soon."

Charles didn't look comfortable with this charge, but he tucked the note into his breast pocket and sprinted off. Minutes later, he returneda"out of breath and alonea"with the address of a tavern where Adrian promised to meet them within a quarter-hour.

"Tavern" was too kind a term. Roxie cast a wary glance around the bas.e.m.e.nt barroom. Sawdust blanketed the floor. It stuck to her shoes as if it hadn't been changed recently. Fortunately, the crowd was light, a spattering of workmen's caps and humble corduroy trousers. Regulars, she judged, eating a bachelor's dinner: a roast and pickle, according to the waitress who seated them in a booth toward the back. The greasy aroma stuck in her throat. She ordered a cup of tea, more to wash down the smell than because she wanted it.

Seated across from her, Charles drummed the table with nervous fingers. Max was tough for a five-year-old, but they both knew every second they delayed was a second more of fear for him.

He didn't deserve to face that. He'd been through enough already.

When Adrian arrived, he looked harried. Though she hadn't the faintest notion whether he could help, her heart lightened at the sight of his dear, serious face.