Seducing the Sun Fae Page 6

  “Who’s there?” she croaked, tearing at the scarf with her free hand.

  “Lord Dion. I was just checking on you.”

  A little of the tension went out of her. She took her hand from the scarf. “As you can see,” she returned flatly, “I’m still here.”

  He moved nearer, grateful that she didn’t seem to realize he’d been stroking her. “Do you need anything?”

  “No. No, I’m fine.”

  “You ate? Isa brought you dinner?”

  “Yes. She’s been very kind.”

  “Bom.” He hesitated, curiously reluctant to leave her. “You’re warm enough? I can get you another blanket.”

  “No. I’m all right.”

  Still he hesitated. The silence stretched until he said, “Well, good night then.”

  “Actually,” she said, halting him, “there is something.”

  “Sim?”

  “I—I wondered if I could join you for dinner tomorrow.”

  “You want to eat with the clan?”

  She nodded and he narrowed his eyes, trying to make out her expression. “Why?”

  She moved a slim shoulder. “I could hear you all talking tonight. I…never mind.”

  He considered her, wondering what was behind her request. Did she simply want company? Or did she think she could somehow engineer an escape, perhaps prevail on one of the young, hormone-addled males—like his brother?

  “I don’t trust you,” he said bluntly. “But I have you confined here for your own good. They know what you are, what you’ve done. The women especially have no reason to like you. You took eight of our best men.”

  “I see. Forget I asked.” Lying back down, she curled up on her side again, her back to him. This time, she was careful to cover herself.

  Damn it, he would not feel sorry for her. For all he knew, this was another one of her tricks. But he found himself saying he’d think about it.

  “Obrigada.” A whisper in the dark. And the fact that she’d thanked him made him feel like the world’s biggest S.O.B.

  Jaw tight, he strode back to the sala and flung himself onto a couch. But it was too short and narrow. He tried first one position, then another, until finally, he rolled onto his stomach, his left arm and foot dangling over the side, and resigned himself to a sleepless night.

  * * *

  “Senhora?” Someone rapped on the door.

  Cleia blinked and pushed herself upright from where she’d been napping on the couch. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Cleia realized it wasn’t the outer door but the one to the apartment adjoining Dion’s. Light, quick footsteps approached. Not Dion or Isa then, her only visitors since being taken captive two days ago.

  “Senhora Cleia?” A young girl’s voice.

  Cleia could see enough to tell that she was slender and of average height, most likely Dion’s young sister. Not that she cared—at this point, she’d have welcomed pretty much anyone.

  Isa checked in from time to time, but Cleia had spent most of the day alone. Thus far she had eaten a solitary breakfast, taken another plunge in the cold pool, spent several hours sunbathing under one of the skylights (although the energy she’d received wouldn’t have powered a light bulb), eaten a solitary lunch, moved through a combination of yoga and Pilates, and then ended on the couch, where she’d dozed off more out of boredom than because she was tired.

  She aimed a grateful smile in her visitor’s direction. “Yes, I’m Queen Cleia. Peace to you and yours.”

  “Peace to you and yours.” The girl plopped herself on the other end of the couch. “I figured you’d like some company—you must be bored, stuck in here all day. I’m not supposed to be here, but I wanted to meet you. If you don’t tell my brother, I won’t.”

  She paused for breath long enough for Cleia to respond. “I’d love some company, but are you sure—”

  “Oh, Dion will growl,” was the airy reply, “but he won’t do anything. He doesn’t know how to handle me now that I’m almost grown up.”

  Cleia’s lips twitched. “I see.”

  “I’m Rosana, by the way. Rosana do Rio. The youngest of the family,” she added unnecessarily. “Which means I’ve got four older brothers who won’t let me do anything. Well, Nic and Joaquim don’t live here anymore, but that still leaves Dion and Tiago. They can’t seem to remember that I’m almost sixteen—especially Dion. He’s the worst.”

  “Ah…” Cleia felt a reluctant twinge of pity for the absent alpha; he clearly had his hands full with this one. She gently turned the conversation. “I remember when I turned sixteen. My parents threw me a ball and fae came from all over the world to celebrate. It was the first time I was allowed to attend a dance with the adults.”

  “A ball? What did you wear?”

  “Oh, it was beautiful…” Cleia settled in to describe the three-day party to her rapt audience.

  When Isa returned an hour later, they were sitting beside the pool, dangling their feet in the water and still talking. For an almost-sixteen-year-old, Rosana was surprisingly clear-eyed about her family and clan and she had a droll wit to match. Cleia couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed as much.

  Isa clucked her tongue. “You know the alpha doesn’t want anyone else in here.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Rosana retorted, “does she look dangerous to you?”

  “No, but—” Cleia sensed both of them glance at her. She’s a fae, Isa had been about to say. Cleia swallowed her hurt. Goddess, even the nice ones didn’t trust her.

  “Besides,” Isa demanded, “aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen helping the cooks?”

  Rosana leapt to her feet. “Is it four o’clock already?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago,” was the dry reply.

  “Uh-oh. I’d better get going or Dion will kick my butt.”

  “Rosana,” Isa scolded. “He would not—”

  “Oh, wouldn’t he? Maybe not literally, but figuratively—”

  “Go,” the older woman commanded. “Now.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Cleia heard her kiss Isa and then with a cheerful goodbye to them both, she was gone.

  Isa locked the connecting door behind her. “The alpha spoils her,” she said with a sigh as she returned to where Cleia was still sitting by the pool. “We all do. But without her parents to take her in hand…”

  Cleia found it hard to picture the hard-eyed alpha spoiling anyone. But then, Rosana was a loveable young thing. “You don’t have to apologize. She reminds me of one of my cousins—she’s a ball of energy just like Rosana.”

  “She’ll be the death of me.” Isa heaved another sigh. “But that’s not what I came for. I brought you something to do.” She helped Cleia to her feet and guided her back to one of the couches in the sala where she set a large bundle of what felt like thick, coated string on her lap. “There. We thought you could help repair the nets.”

  Cleia caught the faint scent of the river. She ran her hands over the bundle. It was some type of webbing. She pulled it a little apart. “A fishing net?”

  “The alpha ordered me to find you something to do,” Isa said a little defensively. “One of the women reminded me the nets always need mending. Valeria.” She said the name as if Cleia would recognize it. “She’s one of our best fishers,” Isa added.

  “I see,” Cleia replied, none the wiser. But she guessed Valeria was one of the women who had cause to resent her.

  She fingered the net. She was the sun fae ruler and Conduit, as well as one of her clan’s best healers. She could breathe life and energy into a sick child—or stop a man’s heart. Even amongst the fae, her powers were legendary. Some of the most powerful people in the world fell over themselves to please her. But she’d been raised to honor all the clan’s workers, even the most humble.

  And she somehow knew the Rock Run women—especially this Valeria—were hoping she’d refuse to do something as menial as mending a fishing net.

  She nodded at Isa.
“Show me what to do.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cleia was gone.

  Dion swore under his breath and glanced around his quarters again as if he’d somehow missed her the first time. Where the hell was she?

  It had been a long day. He’d started at Rock Run’s largest vineyard, examining the young grapes along with its manager, Gaspar, the descendant of a Portuguese viticulturist who’d immigrated to America along with Dion’s father. He’d left Gaspar feeling cautiously optimistic—it looked to be the best harvest in two decades. A harvest they desperately needed, having lost much of last year’s grapes to black rot. But much could go wrong between now and autumn.

  Next, he’d gone to the huge cavern where his warriors trained and worked them until even the strongest were groaning for mercy. He’d finished with a swim in the bay, but instead of relaxing, he’d found himself thinking about Cleia and her long, golden body. Upon his return, he’d been drawn to her like a fish to a beautiful yet deadly lure.

  Now he halted, irritated and a bit worried. Cleia had to be somewhere nearby—there was no way she could’ve escaped. Still, he’d expected to find her where he’d left her, as she’d been the previous three evenings.

  He glanced around his quarters one last time, but from where he stood he could see into both rooms, and he’d already checked the bathroom. He frowned. The sparseness had never bothered him before. But now, with Cleia gone, the apartment seemed as devoid of personality as a hotel room, save for the five colorful dresses hanging from sturdy wood pegs. He crossed the floor and fingered one—a soft rose pink shot with gold thread. The material slipped silkily through his fingers, giving off the faint scent of oranges…and the woman herself.

  He rubbed the skirt against his cheek, taking her distinctive aroma onto his skin and marking the cloth with his own scent in turn until he realized what he was doing. His cheeks heated. He dropped the dress and strode out of the apartment in search of his missing captive.

  “Boa noite, Dion.” Isa stepped from the apartment next to his. She’d moved into this section several years ago to share quarters with Rosana after she’d grown too old to live with Dion. Normally they kept the door between their apartments open, but with Cleia there, he’d ordered it kept locked at all times.

  “Boa noite, Senhora Isa,” he replied a little impatiently but with the respect due an elder. “I’m looking for Senhora Cleia.”

  “That’s what I was coming to tell you. She’s with Rosana.”

  “Rosana?” he repeated, unable to believe his ears.

  He didn’t ask who had let Cleia out of his apartment. Only his sister would dare. But Isa should know better.

  “What are you thinking,” he asked in a low, dangerous voice, “to leave her alone with that woman?” He brushed past her into her apartment.

  “Dion.” His former nurse’s voice was sharp. Even after all these years, she could still halt him in his tracks.

  “What?” He turned to face her.

  “Acalme-te. It’s not what you think. Senhora Cleia needed the company—and your sister likes her.”

  “Deus. Have you forgotten what that woman is?”

  Isa’s round, kind face firmed into stern lines. “Of course not. But you’ve bound her powers. Without them, she can’t hurt anyone. It’s cruel to leave her alone all day, blindfolded and with no one to talk to. I do my best, but I can only spare a little time here and there.”

  Unbidden, he recalled Cleia’s forlorn whimper the other night as she lay sleeping. He passed a hand over his face. “I suppose it can’t hurt anything. But I still want to check on them.”

  Rosana’s door was open. Through it he heard a sound he hadn’t heard much lately—his sister giggling. Rosana was his greatest joy—and his biggest headache. At least Tiago he could understand, having been an adolescent male himself. But his young sister confounded him. One minute she was wildly happy, the next she was sobbing as if her heart would break—or furious at his attempts to rein her in. Isa said it was only hormones and would pass, but that didn’t make Rosana any easier to live with.

  He knew he spoiled her, but he couldn’t help himself. To him she’d always be the skinny little girl with a mop of black curls and eyes too big for her face who, after their parents had disappeared, had clung to him like a limpet, fearing she’d lose him as well.

  But now she was at the age when she could’ve used a mother. Isa did her best, but she had other responsibilities and Deus knew he was clueless where fifteen-year-old females were concerned. So he gave in to her, more than he should.

  He found Rosana and Cleia on his sister’s bed, heads together and chuckling at whatever was amusing them. Then Rosana saw him and the grin slid from her face.

  “Dion’s here,” she said.

  He swallowed his hurt. “Boa noite, Rosana. Minha senhora.”

  Cleia turned her bound face toward him. As usual, she’d set herself under one of the light shafts. The sun lit her hair, hanging in a thick braid over one shoulder, and gilded her fine features with gold. Even with the gray silk obscuring her eyes, she dazzled.

  “I know,” she murmured to Rosana. “I recognized his footsteps.” To him, she said, “Good evening, my lord. I’ve been getting to know your sister. What an interesting young lady—you must be proud of her.” She tilted her head and smiled straight at him.

  His heart lurched. It was the first true smile she’d given him—he didn’t count that first day when she’d been trying to lure him with her glamour—and he found himself smiling back even though he knew she couldn’t see him.

  He blinked and swallowed hard. It’s all part of the seduction, he reminded himself. But he couldn’t help responding to it.

  He glanced at Rosana. He should scold her—she knew damn well she should’ve asked permission to release Cleia from his apartment. But his sister’s glower said she was expecting just that, so instead he murmured, “I am proud of her.”

  Rosana sent him a startled glance. He ignored it to take a seat on a chair next to the bed. “I see Isa put you to work,” he remarked to Cleia. He’d told Isa to find her something to do—nobody sat idle in the fada base. But it had also been a kindness after he’d caught her restlessly pacing his sala and realized she was all but screaming from boredom.

  Her beautiful mouth twisted self-deprecatingly. “Mending fishing nets—and not very well, I’m sure. But it’s something to do. Rosana volunteered to help me.”

  “Ah, bom.”

  He watched as Cleia knotted a string and then held the end for Rosana to cut. Mending nets was usually done by the old people or those who couldn’t contribute any other way. It seemed somehow wrong for Cleia’s long, delicate fingers to be working with the tarred black string. He brushed the thought away. Let the woman do some real work for a change.

  “You’re not doing so bad,” he admitted. Actually, she was doing a surprisingly neat job for someone working by feel alone. “But it seems you’re doing all the work.” He raised a brow at Rosana, whose only contribution seemed to be wielding the scissors.

  “She doesn’t mind,” his sister retorted. “She says she’d rather stay busy than sit around and worry.”

  “If she would only cooperate,” he returned, “she could go home and she’d have nothing to worry about.”

  The queen’s lips moved. No sound came out, but he was pretty sure they formed the words, “pigheaded fada.” His lips twitched in spite of himself.

  Aloud, she said, “I don’t mind mending them. As for Rosana, she doesn’t have to do anything—I’m happy just to have her company.”

  His sister sent him a triumphant look. He sat back, fingers interlaced behind his head, and replied with the air of someone making a discovery, “She’s not bad for someone who’s only seen fifteen turns of the sun.”

  “Di-on.” Rosana scowled at him.

  He gave her a wink and a grin. She tossed her head, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she re
turned his smile. “And fifteen isn’t so young. It’s about time you noticed I’m almost grown up.”

  “Oh, I noticed.” And so had a good number of the unmated men. She was going to be a beauty, with their Celtic mother’s elfin features and unusual sapphire eyes. So far, she didn’t seem to be interested in anything other than a little flirtation, but he dreaded the day she started dating in earnest.

  “Yeah?” She hopped off the bed and, in one of her quicksilver mood changes, knelt on the floor to fling her arms around him. “Lady Cleia has been telling me about the sun fae. Did you know her parents threw a ball for her sixteenth birthday? Fae came from all around the world. And every year, she throws a ball to kick off the midsummer festival. They wear dresses that shimmer when you move and jewels in their hair, their ears…even in their navels.” She giggled. “The men too—although not so many. Everyone glitters—it’s like the stars come down to earth, she says. Right, Lady Cleia?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure your brother isn’t interest—”

  “Why not? I’ll be sixteen in August. It doesn’t have to be a ball, but why couldn’t we have a dance?” She placed her hands on his knees and used those big blue eyes to their full effect. “Please, Dion? I promise I won’t ask for anything ever again.”

  “A dance?” He gently squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t know, minha pequena. That’s not our way—”

  “I knew it,” his sister said in tragic tones. She jerked away and threw herself on the bed next to Cleia. “He never lets me do anything. He says the old ways are past, that the bacchanalia were an excuse for drinking too much and giving in to our animals. But I don’t want to go to a baccha. I just want to have some fun like other girls my age. I wish…I wish that Mama and Papa would come home.” She burst into tears.

  “Rosana,” he said helplessly. “Don’t, querida.” He made a move toward her, but Cleia lifted her hand to halt him. He obeyed only because he didn’t know what else to do.

  But to his surprise, Cleia took his side. “Hush, now.” Setting the net on the mattress, she stroked Rosana’s wavy black hair away from her face. “Your brother’s right about the bacchanalia—they’re too wild for all but the most feral fae or fada. And trust me, little one, you don’t want to fall under the power of such a one.”