The Treasure Keeper

gave her that faint, sardonic smile. 'Figuratively speaking.'

'I am going to marry Hayden.'

'I know. And I'm still going to love you.' The smile deepened. 'Sorry.'

* * *

They arrived back at the house close to dusk. She'd kept her word and not ventured beyond the perimeters of the property. It was more difficult than she'd thought it would be, remaining in her place, exploring themaison and the back garden, thinking of all the avenues and shops and bridges of Paris she'd walked so freely only an afternoon before.

And now to be here. One house. Eight rooms. A bakery down the street offering fragrant croissants and breads and pies, all beyond reach.

Odd how she'd never felt so captive in Darkfrith. She'd never even really noticed the boundaries of the shire beyond the common sort of ways of we don't go south of Blackburn Road; we don't go east past the River Fier. Possibly because those rules affected everyone, young and old, male and female alike.

She'd never before come to dislike the confinement of brick and mortar so very much. And they did not return until dusk.

They were dirty, even Hayden, and brought with them the odor of muddy river. And ... chocolate.

She met them with a lamp at the back door. Hayden touched his lips to her cheek, took the lamp from her, and handed her a paper box. Raspberries gleamed inside it, dipped into rounded jewels of thick chocolate, sprinkled with colored sugar.

He'd remembered. Her sole weakness for sweets, rich dark cacao, the darker the better. And fresh raspberries at this time of year; he must have fair combed the city for them.

Zoe lifted her eyes to his, and smiled.

* _{* *}

Sandu had no idea what Hayden James might be waiting for. It wasn't as if the man wasn't engaged to the most glittering female Sandu had ever seen. And it also wasn't as if he didn't crave her: He could see it in just the way the other drakon's eyes followed her about, how when she was near Hayden simply stopped what he was doing to stare at her, absorbed. The fellow practically radiated heat when she passed.

Not that Sandu blamed him. There were a good many joyful things about Zoe Lane to stare at. He was having a deuce of a time himself keeping his gaze from wandering to certain enticing parts of her.

She'd been with them four days. Four days. Five nights. And now all the rooms of the maison were scented of her, and all of Sandu's clothes were scented of her, and everything she touched— everything—smelled like wonderful female. Like honey and desire.

They'd been engaged for years, Hayden had told him. She was still fresh as a flower for all that time— despite her own efforts to change matters otherwise. He'd heard them that first night in the hallway, even with his hands over his ears. Heard her pretty whispers, her invitation . and Hayden had only walked away.

It was confounding. Honestly. No doubt Hayden was tired—he and Sandu spent each day in prolonged, serious hunt; they had no one in the city yet to aid them—but how tired could the fellow be? Sandu was sixteen years old; one sweet beckoning glance from a dragon-maid as fair as Zoe would have had him tripping over his own feet in his rush to get to her. Especially one so devoted as to chance throwing away her life for his; he knew little about the ways of the English drakon, but one thing he did know was that they were terrified beyond reason of leaving their sheltered shire. That they had rules against it, all manners of rules. And that breaking those rules led to punishments he would not inflict upon even the lowest of serfs in his domain.

For all their similarities to the Zaharen, the English were a different sort of breed. That much was clear.

Yet he was heartened when, in the depths of that fifth night, the smallest of sounds jolted him awake in his bed: the diminutive snick of a latch being released, a door softly opening—Hayden's door, directly across from his. Footsteps on the rug. And then another snick, another sigh of wood pressing air: Zoe Lane's door, just down the hall.

Sandu nodded to himself, glad for his friend, the sliver of jealousy that stabbed through him easily repressed. He pulled a pillow over his head and tried to think loud, loud thoughts.

* _{* *}

Her dreams were darkly blue. She floated amid them, unable to speak, seeing the faces of all the spirits floating with her. Cerise and Thomas, both her young nieces. Hayden. Rhys. Mother and Anton and Zoe's father too—his features flatly identical to the miniature her mother used to carry on a bracelet around her wrist, white- haired, glancing eyes of whiskey gold. Everyone here in the blue was someone she knew. All from Darkfrith. All crying out to her, many weeping. Hands raised, begging for her help, to stop them from all being killed—

'No, no.' Hayden's voice came clearest, his cologne choking; she could actually see it, a spangle of silver mist twirling about her, binding her like chains. 'No, love. Don't cry.'

She felt herself gasping for air, trying to escape the chains, trying to evade the faces, their pleas and their skeletal hands—

'Wake up,' urged Hayden, so close, resonant in her ear. 'Wake up, Zoe. It's only a nightmare.'

She opened her eyes and he was there, flesh and heat, right above her, seated at the edge of her bed with his hands chafing her cheeks. She lifted her palms to cover his, clutching hard, still trembling, feeling the steady tension of his fingers.

'There,' he whispered. In the shuttered dark his teeth gleamed with his smile. 'There you are.' His hands drew down her face to her neck, to the edge of her nightgown pulled in a taut line across her collarbone because she'd tossed and tossed in her sleep.

She sat up and threw her arms around him. She tucked her face into the curve of his neck and tried to breathe through her mouth, to lessen the reminder of sandalwood and chains.

'Ah, Zoe.' He placed a kiss on her temple. 'Beautiful girl.' Another kiss, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her head; she felt his fingers tighten, urging her to lift her face. When she did, he leaned forward with new intent, his mouth brushing the corners of hers, slight, feathery touches. 'You taste like rain.'

She felt filled with a slow wonderment. It was like another part of the dream, so much better than the rest, but everything was still strange and disorienting, and he was kissing her more fully now, slow, teasing circles, nothing he'd ever done before.

'Hayden,' she managed, breathless. 'Hayden, there's something I have to tell you.'

'Tell me later,' he said, and pressed her back to the warmth of the bed.

He came across her at once, heavy for a moment, too heavy, as if he'd lost his balance against the spongy mattress. But then he lifted up to his elbows, and she could inhale again.

Without the wig his hair hung silky pale above her, a bare tickle against her skin. She lifted a hand, running her fingers through the blunted strands. 'No, really. It should be now. Before we... before .'

His response was a lush, deep plundering of her mouth, his tongue a sudden flavor, musk and more brandy and him. Urgency.

'I'm Gifted,' she blurted, as soon as his mouth lifted from hers. 'All manner of Gifts. I can Turn invisible, Hayden. I can read minds.'

He smiled against her cheek, his body stretched over hers. The covers were a wad of quilting between their legs.

'Amazing,' he whispered, and pushed his pelvis against hers. 'So amazing.'

He felt heavy again, oddly ungainly. He was pulling at the ribbon drawstring of her gown.

'Did you hear me?' She caught her hand in his. 'Invisible. Like this.'

He did pause then, lifting his head to stare down at her, his head cocked. The bedchamber was gloomy but it was certainly enough for him to see her—or not, at the moment—if she could see him. His fingers appeared suspended, curled around the empty space between them.

'That,'he said, husky, 'is quite a trick.'

He released the ribbon and her hand, found her chin, nuzzled it with his mouth. Heat and sensation: another kiss across her lips.

Zoe felt a tingle of annoyance. 'It's rather more than a trick.' She turned her face away, visible once more. 'I don't understand you. I thought you'd be—angry, or astounded, or at least want to... discuss the...'