Dreams Made Flesh - Page 25/80

Even the furry male didn’t think she was capable of doing anything today. But she petted him and thanked him. Pleased with himself and satisfied with the praise, he left her to roam the mountain since Yas was there to protect her.

She didn’t mention Lucivar might be the very thing she needed protection from. Tassle wouldn’t have a chance of surviving if Lucivar decided to punish her and the wolf got in the way.

When she heard Lucivar come back inside, she looked around for something to do. She winced as she bent over and pulled a skillet from the bottom cupboard. He liked her beef stew. Maybe knowing he’d have it for his midday meal would soften his mood.

Trembling, she put the skillet on the stove and stepped back as he entered the kitchen. Throwing the pot hadn’t eased his temper. If anything, his mood seemed darker.

He set the pot on the counter beside the sink, and growled, “That won’t do it. The balance is off.” Spotting the skillet, he picked it up and took it outside.

Returning a few minutes later, he grabbed her arm and hauled her out to the bales of hay.

“What?” Marian said, trying to pull back. “Prince Yaslana—”

He shoved the skillet’s handle into her hand. “The pot doesn’t have the balance to be an effective weapon. This does.”

He moved toward her. She swung the skillet up over her head.

As his hand closed over her wrist, he shook his head. “Not that way. The move takes too long and tells your adversary too clearly what you intend. It has to be fast and unexpected to do you any good.” He positioned himself behind her, one hand on her waist, the other still holding her wrist. “You need to attack with a side motion, working from about the same height as if you’d grabbed it off the stove and swung. Your own strength behind the swing would be enough to bruise bone. With a little Craft to enhance it, you can break bone.”

“I’m not going to break anyone’s bones,” Marian said as he moved her arm back and forth in a swing motion. Of course, the thought of denting his head had a lot of appeal at the moment.

“You’re not tall enough to make a head shot practical,” Lucivar said as if he’d read her thoughts. “But breaking ribs or a forearm would be a good first strike.”

“I’m not going to attack anyone with a skillet!”

“Maybe not. But you’re going to learn how to do it anyway.” He released her and stepped back. “Now swing it and release to hit the target.”

She swung it, put nothing behind it, and let it go. It bounced on the ground halfway between her and the target. Satisfied she’d proven her point, she said, “See? It doesn’t work.”

The skillet flew through the air, straight to Lucivar’s hand. He just looked at her until she stepped aside. Moving into the same spot where she’d stood, he swung the skillet in that sideways motion and let it go. It hit the target with enough force to get wedged in the hay. It hung there for a moment before he used Craft to bring it flying back to him.

Saying nothing, he handed the skillet to her.

Having no choice, she swung the skillet. Damn him, this hurt. But she knew he wouldn’t relent, so she tried to hit the target—and actually came close.

Studying her, he held out one hand. The skillet came flying back to him. “Marian? Do you have everything you want for the kitchen?”

Anger flashed through her. The insufferable prick! Of course she didn’t have everything she wanted! It was late autumn now, she’d been working for him for months, and she was still working with the basic tools she’d bought out of her own wages. She’d bought all the canning supplies out of her own wages, was still buying cleaning supplies out of her own wages—and was still waiting for him to broach the subject of a household budget. Oh, he’d told her often enough that she could put anything she needed to buy on his accounts at the stores in Riada, but he only indirectly benefited from her having all the tools she’d like to have, and she didn’t feel easy about running up a bill without first getting his consent, and if he wasn’t observant enough to see what was going on in his own home, he’d hardly understand why having extra casserole dishes would be helpful.

“The kitchen could use a few things,” she said, working hard to keep from yelling at him.

He nodded. “I’ll make a deal with you. You hit the target three times out of six tries, you can buy everything you want for the kitchen. If you can’t find something you want in the shops in Riada, I’ll take you to Amdarh. Buy everything you’ve wanted but have been doing without and put it on my accounts.”

She stared at him. At home, she’d had to beg and plead to get anything that would have made her work easier. That was part of the reason she’d been reluctant to say anything to him. She hadn’t wanted him to think she was greedy or extravagant, especially when he was so generous with her wages. But now he was offering to let her fill the kitchen, like paying off a wager. All she had to do was win and she could buy more casserole dishes so she could make extra meals and store them in the freeze box so she could just heat them up during her moondays.

She took the skillet from him, swung, and threw it. Grim pleasure filled her when the skillet hit the hay bales before bouncing to the ground. It flew back to her, slowing and turning to present the handle to her hand.

More baking sheets so she wouldn’t have to waste time waiting for one batch to bake and cool before she could prepare the next. More pie plates so she could make a fruit pie and a steak pie to serve at the same meal.

She threw the skillet and hit the hay bales.

A good set of kitchen knives. Utensils that were actually designed for different functions. More wooden spoons.

She swung and threw.

When the skillet came back again, she reached for it, her mind full of the useful things the kitchen still needed. But Lucivar just held on to the skillet. He gave her a lazy, arrogant smile, but the unhappiness in his eyes ripped at her.

“That’s it,” he said, leading her back to the kitchen. “You won. Three out of three. As soon as you feel up to shopping, make your purchases.”

Was that why he was so unhappy? Was he worried about the expense? Maybe she should ask him how much she could spend.

He released her arm, set the skillet on the counter, and started to walk away.

“Prince?”

He stopped at the archway and looked at her. “You do what you have to, Marian. If you have to scrub and polish this place when every move hurts you just to prove you can do your work, then that’s what you’ll do. Short of fighting you to a standstill, I can’t stop you. But I can’t stay here and watch you do it. We’ll work with the skillet again in a few days—and we’ll keep working at it until you can use it as a weapon.”

He moved fast. She had to dash to the archway to reach it before he reached the front door.

“Are you coming back for the midday meal?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be back.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t hesitate. He slammed the front door behind him.

Marian sank down on one of the kitchen chairs and braced her head in her hands. He got mad at her for sweeping up spilled sugar but dragged her outside to throw a skillet at bales of hay. She threw a pot at him and missed, so he was going to teach her how to clobber him with a skillet. Even taking into account that he was an Eyrien male, there was only one explanation for his behavior. The man was insane.

And she’d made him unhappy. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d made him unhappy. Of course, she would have told him she’d intended to take things easy today if he hadn’t roared at her as soon as he walked into the kitchen, so it was sort of his own fault that he was unhappy now. Which didn’t make her feel any better.

Her eyes filled with tears. Not only did she feel guilty for making him unhappy, but now that she was alone, her body was screaming at her and, Mother Night, she hurt.

Marian looked at the roast on the cutting board. It was almost too good to cut up for stew. She looked at the potatoes, carrots, and onions sitting on the counter next to the cutting board and sighed. No, the real reason she felt reluctant to start was that she hadn’t considered how long it would take to cut up a roast into stew-size pieces when she had to use a knife. Using basic Craft, she could have done it in a minute. No help for it. If she didn’t start now, she’d be very late serving the midday meal.

As she reached for the knife, someone knocked sharply on the front door.

Her heart galloped as she stepped into the front room and stared at the door. Maybe it was that Roxie woman again. She hadn’t told Lucivar about the young witch’s second attempt to enter the eyrie when he wasn’t home. She hadn’t mentioned that Roxie had implied she was meeting him in Riada for an afternoon of sex. She hadn’t believed the woman for a minute, but it had made her wonder about things she shouldn’t wonder about—like how he kissed . . . and what it would feel like to be in bed with him.

A second knock, sharper this time.

She could pretend no one was home—or say she’d been in the laundry room and hadn’t heard the knocking if the person mentioned it to Lucivar. No, not the laundry room. That would upset him. She’d say she’d been in her room, resting. Besides, she didn’t want to deal with anyone today.

The High Lord walked through the door, passing through the wood as if the Ebon-gray lock wasn’t there. Of course, the High Lord wore a Black Jewel, so an Ebon-gray lock was little more than a moment’s inconvenience to him.

He stopped as soon as he saw her. His nostrils flared slightly. His expression turned grim, almost menacing.

“What did he do?” Saetan asked too softly.

Marian swallowed to get her heart out of her throat. “What?”

“What did my idiot of a son do?”

If he’d slapped her, he couldn’t have surprised her more. “I don’t understand.”

Saetan moved toward her. “He upset you.”

“No. Yes. It wasn’t . . .” How was she supposed to think when he was staring at her like that?

He made a quiet sound of disgust and shook his head. The next moment, he was leading her back into the kitchen, the hand on her arm sliding up to rest on her shoulder.

She couldn’t say he pushed her into the chair, but she found herself sitting at the pine table without having decided she wanted to sit.

“I’d apologize for him, but there’s really no excuse for upsetting a woman during her moontime,” Saetan said as he removed his cape and laid it over the back of another chair. “His education in the Terreillean courts was abysmal at best, but he’s been in Kaeleer three years now. He should have acquired some understanding from dealing with the coven. Idiot.”

Marian’s hands curled into fists as she watched him rinse out the teakettle, fill it with fresh water, and put it on the stove to heat.

“He didn’t do anything,” Marian said.

“He upset you,” Saetan replied in a tone of voice only a fool would challenge. “He probably walked in here this morning and started roaring, telling you what you could and couldn’t do as if you were a simpleminded child instead of a grown woman who has enough sense to know when her body needs rest and care.”

The High Lord was on her side. So why did she want to take the skillet that was still sitting on the counter and smack him over the head with it?

Finding the mugs in one of the upper cupboards, he filled one with hot water and slipped a tea ball into it.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Saetan said. “I’ve had enough experience with Lucivar to see it all. You have duties and responsibilities that you take seriously. You would have planned for this and wouldn’t be doing more than you had to. But then he comes in, snapping and snarling, so what else can a witch do except defend herself and push back, insisting that she’s capable of doing more than she knows she can?” He brought the mug over to the table and placed it in front of her. “Here, sweetheart. This is a brew I make for Jaenelle when her moontime is troubling her. Drink it up.”