Seducing the Sun Fae Page 11

  “Here’s what we’re going to do…”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cleia trailed her fingers along the stone wall as she made her way to the dining hall. Eleven days she’d been here. She didn’t bother counting steps anymore, having long since memorized the route.

  Eleven days.

  Panic wrapped its chill fingers around her throat. Her time underground was beginning to tell. She was noticeably weaker, losing weight no matter how much she ate. Up until now she’d remained firm in her belief that Olivia would rescue her.

  But midsummer was just a week away. What if Olivia didn’t find her in time? What would happen to her people? They wouldn’t die immediately, of course. But even if she eventually returned, she wouldn’t be able to replenish their energy fully for another year. They’d lose the weakest—the children and old ones.

  Her head was hurting. She realized she was tearing at the binding and that it had started to constrict. With an effort, she brought her hands back to her sides.

  She had to have faith in her cousin. Olivia would move heaven and earth to rescue her. Meanwhile, Cleia’s job was to stay strong. Panicking or giving in to despair would only hasten her decline.

  As she entered the cavern, several of the cooks called out greetings. As she returned them, her spirits lifted a little. Since shelling peas, she’d returned each of the following afternoons, taking on whatever the cooks assigned her. After the first couple of days, the other women had accepted her presence, although they were still a little wary around her.

  Gabriela appeared and grasped Cleia’s hand with her strong, sturdy fingers. “Come,” she said in her brusque way. “We could use you in the kitchen today.”

  It was the first time she’d been invited into the kitchen itself. Curious, Cleia followed Gabriela. A few minutes later she was up to her elbows in water, rinsing greens in a large stone sink, but damn if she didn’t feel as if she’d been promoted.

  Around her the other four women were talking about the things women everywhere discuss when they get together: men, children, how to carve out some time for themselves, men…

  Cleia inserted a comment here and there, but mostly she just listened, enjoying their earthy humor. Across the kitchen, the two male cooks carried on their own conversation, apparently oblivious to the women having a laugh at the expense of their gender.

  Cleia shook off a head of lettuce, tore it into pieces and placed them in a colander, before reaching for the radicchio. Marina came over and asked if she’d like some help.

  “Yes, please,” she said, and the two of them fell into a companionable rhythm, with Cleia washing the leaves and then handing them off to Marina, who shook the leaves dry before tearing them into pieces and putting them into large bowls for dinner.

  To Cleia’s surprise and gratitude, Marina had taken her under her wing, bringing Xavier for visits, joining her at meals along with Rosana and Tiago. Marina was sweet and soft-spoken—Cleia’s opposite, in other words—but somehow they always found something to talk about. Cleia wasn’t sure how Luis felt about their tentative friendship—he rarely spoke to her himself—but he hadn’t tried to interfere.

  She was starting to realize that much of what she’d heard about the fada was simply not true. The women, for instance, were far from meek or downtrodden. The men might be stronger physically, but no one spending any time in a fada clan could think the women were in any way cowed by the larger, more powerful males. Isa, for example, practically ran Rock Run in her motherly way. Even Dion thought twice before opposing her.

  Several people entered the kitchen—from the sound of them, a couple of men and a young girl and her mother.

  The girl was bragging in English about a large fish she’d caught herself. “With my claws, Mama,” she stated proudly.

  “That’s wonderful, Merry,” her mother replied in the same language, although her English had a Portuguese lilt. “Now let me give this to Gabriela.”

  “She can have my fish, too,” the girl said.

  “I’ll make sure you have a taste of it,” the cook promised.

  There was the sound of baskets being placed on the counter and then the two men wished them all a cheerful “Tchau!” and left.

  Cleia wiped her hands on a towel and smiled in the direction of the newcomers. “Boa tarde,” she said, expecting to be introduced.

  But the woman inhaled sharply.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Marina rushed into speech. “Four baskets of fish—and such fine, plump ones. You always bring in the best catch, Valeria.”

  Cleia stilled. Valeria again. Who was she?

  “De nada,” the woman replied.

  There was another awkward pause in which Cleia sensed the other women looking at one another. Then Marina, bless her, tried again. “This is Valeria da Costa, Cleia.” To Valeria, she said, “Senhora Cleia has been helping in the kitchen.”

  “So I see,” said Valeria.

  “And I’m Merry,” a voice level with Cleia’s navel said. “Like Christmas: M-E-R-R-Y.”

  Cleia smiled down at her. “What a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.” A small hand touched hers. “I think you’re pretty. Is your hair really made out of metal? Trina says it’s not real hair.”

  “It’s real.” She ruffled the child’s wiry curls. “And thank you. I’ll bet you’re pretty too.”

  There was a snarl that sent a chill down Cleia’s spine and Merry was jerked away. “Don’t. Touch. Her,” Valeria gritted out.

  “I’m sorry.” Cleia held up both hands and took a careful step backward. “But she—”

  “I don’t care,” was the fierce reply. “Just keep your hands off her.”

  “Valeria,” Marina said, “calm down. Cleia—”

  “Stay out of this,” the other woman snapped. “Just because you let Xavier play with her doesn’t mean I want my daughter anywhere near her. Come, Merry. We need to get cleaned up before dinner.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Now,” Valeria stated.

  The little girl grumbled, but went along.

  Cleia found she was tugging at the scarf again. She wanted, no needed, to see the woman. She sensed the other cooks looking at her and brought her hands back to her sides.

  “If we don’t get back to work,” Gabriela said, “nobody’s going to eat tonight. Food doesn’t cook itself, you know.”

  The other cooks chuckled—more to relieve tension than because it was funny—and returned to their stations.

  “Sorry about that,” Marina murmured as Cleia turned back to the sink. “Valeria—that’s not what she’s like. She’s normally a nice person, but she’s bitter about her mate.”

  Cleia moved a shoulder but she was shaking inside. She’d known, of course, that she wasn’t exactly popular with Rock Run’s women, but she hadn’t realized how deep the hatred ran with some of them. And to act as if her touch was somehow harmful? What kind of monster would harm a child?

  She reached for a head of radicchio and started to methodically tear off the leaves. “Who was he? Her mate?”

  “Rui do Mar.”

  “I see.” Dion had said something about Rui’s mate that first day, but she’d been too upset to pay attention. She thought of the big, hard-eyed Rui. Of all her Rock Run lovers, he’d been the only one who’d left before she was through with him. He’d wanted her, yes, but it had been only lust. She’d had the feeling he was using her as much as she was using him, and for the same reason—to distract himself from a bone-deep loneliness.

  She hadn’t been surprised when he woke up one morning and told her he was going home.

  But something didn’t make sense. “If they were mates, why was Rui out looking for another woman?” Because he had been, that night in the bar. Her glamour would’ve brushed right off him if he’d truly not been interested.

  “It wasn’t official,” Marina explained. “They hadn’t gone through the mating ceremony. But as for what he was doing that night—who
knows? All I know is that he broke Valeria’s heart.”

  Cleia nodded. The mate bond could form even without the ceremony, but the couple often waited to make the final, irrevocable commitment so that it could be witnessed by their family and clan.

  “He never said a word. The first I knew of it was when Dion told me last week. But Rui left me over a year ago. If he’s really her mate, they could’ve—”

  “I know. I think that’s what hurts her more than anything. She waited for him to come back—wouldn’t even look at another male. But when he returned, he made it clear they were through. Instead he’s sexed any woman he could—fae, fada, human. For a while I thought Valeria would just say the hell with it and leave, but it would be hard for her to find another clan that accepts Merry. She’s a mixed-blood.”

  “I see.” Such children—part-fae, part-fada and even part-human—often had a hard time of it, shunned by purebloods of every stripe. “So she’s not Rui’s?”

  “No—and she’s not Valeria’s either. She’s adopted. But she’s Valeria’s in every way that counts.”

  “Of course. Still, it’s good of your clan to take her in.”

  “The alpha believes all children are precious. But even if he didn’t, we have too few young ones to take them for granted. And besides, Merry’s a sweetheart—everyone loves her.”

  “Mama!” called an excited voice. “Guess what?”

  “Uh-oh.” Marina chuckled as small feet pounded across the stone floor. “Here comes my ball of trouble.” She gave an “oof” as Xavier ran into her, his head thumping into her stomach. Still chuckling, she swept him up and gave him a smacking kiss.

  He started to chatter but she said, “Remember your manners, menino. Say hello to Senhora Cleia.”

  “Hello, Senhora Cleia.” A few seconds later Cleia felt his arms wrapping around her legs.

  While Marina thanked the teen who’d escorted Xavier from the creche, Cleia picked the little boy up, gave him a kiss and listened to his news, which was all about a snapping turtle that the creche had seen while swimming in Rock Run Creek that afternoon.

  Marina set a chair next to the sink for Xavier and he told the story again, the snapping turtle growing larger and more dangerous to fingers and toes with each telling. Together, Cleia and Marina finished the rest of the greens, with occasional “help” from Xavier.

  With the salad done, Marina and Xavier went back to their apartment. There was still another hour until dinner, so Cleia returned to Dion’s apartment. In the bedroom, she pulled one of the bentwood chairs under a sunbeam, and then took out the knife she’d slid into her pocket while Marina was distracted by her son.

  She weighed it in her hand, knowing it probably wouldn’t work and yet driven to try. It was stainless steel, which meant it contained a little iron, which just might break the spell. She was careful to touch only the rubber handle so that she wouldn’t blister her own skin in the process.

  Raising her hands, she slid the knife under her scarf and dug the point into the material. When that didn’t work, she tried sawing at the material. Still, the spell held firm. The scarf started to constrict. She jerked the knife from beneath it and with a curse, threw it away from her. It clattered on the stone floor somewhere on the other side of the room.

  She supposed she should retrieve it. But why bother? So Dion knew she’d tried to escape—what difference would it make?

  Her hands were trembling. She pressed them together.

  Goddess. What was she going to do? She was so damn helpless.

  She thought of the animosity emanating from Valeria and the panic that had threatened earlier rushed back. She gulped for air but her chest was too tight.

  She moaned and shook her head from side to side.

  The sunbeam touched her face: warm, calming.

  Breathe, she told herself, and emptying her mind, raised her face to it.

  She was still there fifteen minutes later when Dion returned to the apartment. Her skin tingled in recognition even before he entered the room. She rubbed her hands over her forearms. He was the only man who’d ever had this effect on her. She didn’t want to consider what that meant.

  She turned in his direction. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  “Good afternoon.” He moved the other chair next to hers and sat down. “I brought you something.” He set a paper bag in her lap.

  “Oh?” she said dully. She could tell by the feel that it was fruit. She opened the bag and took one out. It was round and fuzzy in her hand, still warm from the sun.

  Peaches. He’d brought her peaches. How had he known they were her favorite fruit? Tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip and willed them not to fall.

  “They’re the first of the season—” He halted and traced a finger down her cheek. “Querida? What’s the matter?”

  Sweetheart. Damn him anyway. She briefly closed her eyes beneath the scarf. She could handle his cold dislike, but kindness was unfair.

  She turned her face away. “Nothing.”

  He rose and crossed the room in the direction she’d thrown the knife. She briefly closed her eyes, wishing she’d made the effort to retrieve it. She just couldn’t face his anger today.

  But when he sat down again, he didn’t seem angry. Instead, he silently took each of her arms in turn and turned the wrists from side to side, examining them.

  “I didn’t try to kill myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Her voice sounded too loud in her ears.

  “Deus, Cleia.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Promise me that you won’t,” he said. “I…just promise.”

  She touched his face. His jaw was stubbled under her fingers. She felt him swallow awkwardly.

  She wanted to ask why he cared. Wouldn’t her death solve his problem? But that seemed childish—and besides, she knew why. There was something between them, something that neither of them could deny, however much they might pretend to themselves—or each other.

  “All right,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  She felt his exhale of relief. He pressed a light kiss to the corner of her mouth and then sat back.

  The bag rustled as he removed a peach. “Here. I’ll wash you one.” He rinsed it in the pool, and then cut a slice and brought it to her lips. “Eat. It will do you good. You’re getting too thin.”

  She turned her head away. “That’s because I need sunlight. Food alone isn’t enough.”

  He sat back. “You’re in the sunlight right now.”

  “This?” She made a disgusted noise. “It’s not enough to keep a child alive.”

  “I’d take you above if I could.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I can’t,” was all he’d say. “But I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask Branco to take a look at you. He’s our oldest healer. Maybe there’s something he can do to restore your energy.”

  “Thank you,” she said, even though she knew it was hopeless. She was a sun fae. She needed sunlight.

  “Now, no more questions. Eat.” He brought the peach to her mouth again.

  As disappointed as she was at his refusal, she was also smart enough to realize that if Dion was keeping her inside, it was because he was afraid someone would see her. That must mean that Olivia—or whoever she had helping her—was getting close.

  The slice nudged her lips. “Please, Cleia.”

  This time she obeyed, biting off a piece. It was good, sweet and juicy with a hint of tartness. She chewed slowly, savoring the taste.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, holding the slice to her lips again so that she could finish it. Some of the juices dribbled onto her chin and she swiped at them with her hand. “Here…let me.” A cloth dabbed at her chin.

  She licked the juices from her lips and he drew a slow breath. She heard the knife cut into the peach again and then another slice was against her lips. “Have another one.”

  She opened her mouth. This time he was holding the napkin under her chin, ready to catch the juices. But
instead of wiping her mouth, he let her finish the slice and then brought his lips to hers and licked them clean with leisurely sweeps of his tongue.

  Ah, Goddess. Not today, when she was so vulnerable. She heard herself moan.

  “Here.” He urged her to take another bite, and when she did, licked her mouth clean a second time.

  Almost against her will, she caught his head and drew him closer, opening her mouth to kiss him slow and deep. His chest rumbled in a sound that was half-purr, half-growl. His hands remained by his sides but he willingly returned the kiss: sliding his tongue over hers, nibbling at her lips.

  When he lifted his head, her heart was slamming against her rib cage. Without saying a word, he fed her the rest of the peach, slice by slice. She ate, knowing he watched her—each bite, each swallow, each lick of her lips.

  When she was finished, he wet the cloth in the pool and cleaned her face and hands. “Come.” He drew her to her feet. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

  She nodded mutely, wanting more than anything to press her body against his, to beg him to do what both of them ached for.

  But pride kept her silent. She was this man’s prisoner. If she gave herself to him, she’d be little better than his whore.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gaspar tugged on his bushy gray mustache. “I’m sorry, meu senhor. There’s black rot all through the vines. I have my people spraying, but—” He spread his gnarled hands.

  Dion stared at the viticulturist. Gaspar had contacted him early that morning, asking him to come to the largest vineyard as soon as possible. He’d gulped down some breakfast, jumped into a boat and raced upriver.

  He nodded shortly. “Show me.”

  Gaspar pointed the way and together they walked along one of the rows. “It’s most advanced in this section,” he said.

  Dion took in the dark spots riddling the leaves and stems. It was as bad as he’d feared. The spots were still small, but if the fungus couldn’t be controlled, it would spread to the still tiny grapes as they matured, eventually causing them to turn black and shrivel on the vine.

  The same disease had decimated the crop last year. He himself had supervised the removal of the shriveled grapes and the dead tendrils and canes so that the disease wouldn’t overwinter. But here it was again.