Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Ilse stumbled away to lean against a wall. All around the others were talking in quick low tones. Iani was reassuring the others that Khandarr had truly left them. Kosenmark murmured a series of instructions to his colleagues. Something about continuing to watch both sides of the border. Iani was to investigate Anderswar. Eckard was to listen for news from the border. Ehrenalt was to keep a watch on the shipping news. Theysson would continue to mingle in Vieth’s circles, and to listen.

“Unless you feel the danger too great,” Kosenmark said. “Tell me now.”

Eckard shrugged. “He knew my opinions before.”

“And mine,” said Iani. “We have done nothing wrong except talk. Even Armand, with all his suspicions, cannot find fault with us.”

Kosenmark bowed his head. Agreement? Acquiescence? Ilse could not tell which. “So,” he said. “As we planned, let us return to Lord Vieth’s festivities.”

They left the room one by one. Kosenmark stayed behind, with Ilse at his side. Nothing had been decided, she thought with faint disappointment. Even the jewels had not provoked the surprise Ilse had felt when she first read those words and realized their meaning. And who had betrayed their meeting? Kosenmark was turning over the same question, she thought, because he watched each person as they departed.

When they were alone, he turned back to Ilse. “Come. Our play is not yet over.”

They took a more direct route back, to a different corridor outside the ballroom. Ilse could hear the sound of plucked strings—the musicians were playing a slow-moving wheel dance. A few lamps illuminated the corridor. By their light she could see a doorway leading out to another small courtyard, and another opening into a small sitting room. To her dismay, Lord Kosenmark was eyeing her closely.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“Your face and mouth are all wrong,” he said. “You don’t look as though you just had a dalliance. Kiss your hand.”

Confused, she did so.

He shook his head. “No good. Kiss hard. Harder. Let me see.”

She lowered her hand.

Kosenmark frowned. “It’s not working. But I have an idea. Excuse me.”

He took her face between his hands. Ilse had just enough time to brace her hands against his chest before he kissed her on the lips. It was a long hard kiss, with all the force of passion, and yet strangely impersonal. Ilse held herself rigid throughout, but he did not draw her closer. He touched only her cheeks, which he held firmly as he tilted her head one way and then the other, pressing his mouth against hers. Just when she thought she might suffocate, he drew back an inch.

“Almost,” he whispered in a hoarse voice.

Before she could react, he kissed her again. Softly. A series of tender kisses that sent her heart racing with greater panic. Pretend, pretend, she told herself. He’s pretending, too.

A skilled and expert pretense. Gradually, for he did not seem to be in any hurry, her muscles relaxed, her hands no longer pushed quite so hard against his chest, and her mouth opened to his, and when he paused she kissed him back.

Shocked, Ilse pulled away just as Kosenmark did the same. Through her palms, she could feel his heart beating, and she was all too aware of his warm hands cupped around her shoulders.

He studied her face for a long moment, his expression strangely intent. Not a lover’s expression. A searching curious expression that unsettled her more than the kisses had. But all he said was, “Much better. Now you look as though you’ve been made love to.”

“Nothing else?” she asked, her voice unsteady. “We had time for ?

? other things.”

“Not with me. Not nearly enough time.”

She smothered a laugh. Kosenmark smiled, though he still looked strained. “Even better. You should appear pleased, delighted, entranced when you leave me—I have a reputation to maintain. Now,” he indicated the door to the sitting room, “to complete the illusion, I want you to wait here another half hour. You can hear the bells from here, I know. Then go back to the ballroom and sit in an alcove. If someone asks you to dance, tell them you are weary.”

“Where are you going, my lord?”

“To have brief conversation with a friend. Don’t worry. I shan’t lose my way.”

Without waiting for her reply, Kosenmark vanished down the hallway. Ilse retired to the sitting room he had indicated. Like everything else in Lord Vieth’s palace, it was exquisitely furnished, a tiny jewel in a larger treasure cask. Rich hangings covered one wall; a few cushioned chairs circled a table where a line of jade panthers marched across the polished surface; there was even a carafe of fresh water from which Ilse refreshed herself. She was glad for this time alone. Her cheeks burned. Her mouth felt swollen. Part of the evidence, she told herself, though she wished she could wash away the sensation.

After the second quarter bell rang, she reentered the ballroom. No one remarked on her appearance, though one woman glanced in her direction. Ilse found the nearest alcove and took her seat. Not far away, Lord Iani danced with Lady Theysson. Mistress Ehrenalt was drinking wine with another woman. There was no sign of Baron Eckard or Lord Kosenmark.

Then she saw him across the hall, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. His gaze stopped at Ilse and he came directly toward her. Now a dozen people watched his progress across the floor. Others stared at her, and she was conscious how she must look.

“Tired?” Kosenmark said, taking a seat beside her.