The Beloved Scoundrel

“How old are you?”

“I’ve reached my sixteenth year.”

“You look younger.” In the loose, ragged blouse and skirt she wore her body appeared to be as straight and without womanly form as that of a child. She was small-boned, delicate, almost painfully thin, with a smudge darkening one cheek. Her fair hair was pulled back in a long braid and added to the effect of extreme and vulnerable youth.

She stared at him scornfully. “What difference does it make how old I am? I’m female, and men don’t care. They care for nothing.”

She sounded so certain, he felt a surge of pity for the waif. “Has this happened to you before?”

“Not to me.” Her tone was suddenly reserved. He could almost see her withdraw within herself, sidling away from the pain she would not discuss.

“And it won’t happen now,” he said grimly. “I’m not known to be above debauchery, but I don’t rape children.”

But she wasn’t a child. The delicate beauty of her features should have reflected wonder instead of raw wariness; her clear blue eyes gazed at him with a worldliness far beyond her years, and her lips were set tight to prevent their trembling. He had seen the same look on the faces of the children in the towns and villages along Kazan’s border, and it made him as angry now as it had then. “Where are your parents?”

She did not answer at once, and when she did, she spoke so softly, he had to strain to hear. “Dead.”

“How?”

“Papa died two years ago.”

“And your mother?”

She shook her head. “I… don’t want to tell you.”

“How did your mother die?” he repeated.

“The duke.”

He remembered her earlier accusation. “The Duke of Nebrov?”

She nodded.

It was no surprise to him. The powerful Duke of Nebrov had launched an insurrection against his brother, King Josef, over a year ago. It had been a bitter struggle, and both armies had almost been destroyed before the duke had been forced to acknowledge a defeat. The king’s forces had been too scattered and weak to pursue Nebrov to his own lands, where he was now licking his wounds and undoubtedly building a new army. As he retreated, he had made sure that Montavia suffered as much as possible and given his men free rein to rape and pillage as they pleased. On Jordan’s journey to Talenka from Kazan he had traveled through town after town like this one that had been shelled and sacked, its inhabitants murdered and brutalized. “One of the duke’s troops killed your mother?”

She shook her head. “The duke,” she whispered. She stared straight ahead as if the scene was there before her. “He did it. He did it.”

“The duke himself?” That was unusual. Zarek Nebrov was a brutal bastard, but his rage was usually cold and controlled, and he seldom indulged in spilling blood without reason. “Are you sure?”

“He came to our cottage, and he… I’m sure.” She shuddered. “Mama told me who he was… She had seen him before. He hurt… her, and then he killed her.”

“Why?”

He received no reply.

“Did you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said haltingly. “If you do not wish to hurt me, may I go now?”

Christ, he felt as brutal a bastard as Nebrov. The girl was helpless and in pain. He should just call Gregor and have him send one of his men to find the girl’s nearest relations and take her to them. But he knew he had to find out more. The coincidence was too blatant. She had come to see the Window and, by her few agonized words, it appeared the girl’s mother had been tortured before she had been killed. Nebrov never did anything without reason. “No, you may not go.” He held out his cloak to her again. “You will put on this cloak.” He deliberately kept his tone hard, but he sat down in a pew so that he would appear less threatening. Standing, he felt like a giant looming over her fragile form. “Sit down.”

“I won’t talk about that anymore,” she said unsteadily. “No matter what you do to me.”

That painful memory was probably her biggest weakness, but he found he couldn’t strike at it. “Stay,” he said wearily. “I promise I’ll never ask you to talk about that night again.”

She hesitated, her gaze searching his face. Then she took his cloak and slipped it on but did not sit down. “Why do you want me to stay?”

“I’m not sure.” He was probably wasting his time here. He had done all he could. Now that he knew the Window was destroyed, his only course was to meet with Janus so that he could carry the word to Kazan and then set out for Samda and try to find Pogani. Even if this waif knew something she wasn’t telling, the Window was broken, dammit. Yet he couldn’t let it rest until he was certain Nebrov hadn’t discovered something he had not. His gaze returned to the cavity surrounded by jagged glass. “It seems strange that we were both brought together at this place and time. Do you believe in Fate?”

“No.”

“I do. My mother had Tartar blood, and she must have instilled a belief in the Fates with mother’s milk.” His stare never left the empty window. “The town is sacked and deserted, you couldn’t be sure the duke’s forces wouldn’t return, you and your brother are ragged and in want, and yet you picked this time to come to see the Window? Why?”

“Why did you?” she countered.

“I wished to acquire it. I heard it was magnificent, and I wished to take it back to my home.”

“You wished to steal it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You wished to steal it,” she repeated, her tone uncompromising.

“All right, have it your way. I wished to steal it.” He met her gaze. “Now, why did you come?”

Those clear, fierce eyes slid away from his own. “I had to see if it was still there.”

“Why?”

She didn’t reply.

“It would be wise of you to answer me.”

Her defiant gaze shifted back to him, and her tone was scornful as she echoed his own lie. “Why, I heard it was magnificent, and I wanted it for my home.”

The girl had courage. She was still frightened, and yet she refused to yield. He was careful not to show the flicker of admiration he felt. “Shall I go to the garden and fetch your brother? I’m sure he would tell me why you’re here.”

“Leave him alone!”

“Then tell me the truth.”

She burst out, “Because it was mine!”

Christ! He hid the excitement that jolted through him. “The pope would not agree. Everything in his churches belongs to God and so to him.”

“It is mine,” she said fiercely. “My grandmother gave it to me before she died last year.”

He was careful to keep his expression impassive. “How kind of her. And what right did she have to bestow such a gift?”

“She created it. She said the church did not pay us for the work, so it was still ours.”

“I fear she told you a falsehood. The Window was created by Anton Pogani, a great craftsman.”

She shook her head. “He was my grandfather, but it wasn’t he who was the craftsman, it was my grandmother.”

His brows lifted. “A woman?” Surely no woman could have had the artistry and skill to create the Window’s twenty-three panels portraying man’s climb from the earthly plane to Paradise.

“That’s why she had to let him lay claim to the work. They would not have accepted the work of a woman. It is always our women who do the work.”