Truthseeker

Ten

Surprise widened Dafydd’s eyes before they closed, before the light touch of his hand brushed Lara’s jaw. It was long moments before she broke away, retreating only a few scant inches to gaze at him. “Have I earned this,” he murmured, “or is it merely a human response to danger? It’s not—”

A mix of amusement and chagrin coursed through Lara, ending in a smile. “Dafydd.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“That,” he said, “I can do.”

Her shyness fled in hunger’s wake, and her tailor’s hands were sure of themselves as she pushed his jacket from his shoulders. It was easy to open his shirt with quick twists of the buttons, though Lara knew, if she let herself think, that she was behaving more like Kelly than herself. Kelly would revel in high emotion and the passion of a moment, and understand what the tightening around her heart meant when she saw Dafydd’s injuries. Kelly would know why watching Dafydd’s miraculous healing sent fire burning through her body and desire riding every pulse of blood. Kelly, not Lara, would act the impulse to kiss the Seelie prince.

Kelly, Lara thought as the cool taste of Dafydd’s mouth overwhelmed her, would be proud of her. And then she stopped thinking of Kelly at all as urgency swept her, fingertips exploring the newly healed gashes over his ribs. Heat emanated there, the warmth of accelerated healing, and he hissed a low sound at the comparative chill of her touch. She drew back and he caught her wrist, shaking his head. “It’s all right. Your hands are cold.”

“Your skin is hot,” she countered with a tiny smile, then pushed him onto his back, dew soaking through his suit jacket and shirt almost instantly, and lowered her mouth to kiss the still-reddened injuries on his torso.

He was beautiful. She lowered her mouth to kiss the welts that had moments earlier been slashes in his skin. From so close, she could study the lines of his body without seeming to stare, exploring with fingertips and lips. Long, strong muscles under her touch, sensually male without being overdone. His stomach jumped beneath her kisses, just as a human man’s might.

A sudden crescendo of certainty suffused Lara, bringing with it a reminder of the impulse that said Dafydd ap Caerwyn, human or not, was home. That he, among all the men she knew, was the one she belonged with. Smiling, she pushed up his body to find his mouth with hers again, and skimmed a hand to his waist, tugging open the button of his pants with ease.

His brief laughter made her hesitate, finding his gaze with her own and discovering a smile in it. “Not so fast,” he murmured. “You have me at an advantage here.” Humor lit his eyes, though an undercurrent of desire darkened amber to gold. A shiver of hope ran through Lara, an anticipation of seeing that controlled strength unleashed not in battle but with passion. Feeling its release, not just seeing it. He slid his fingers to the collar of her blouse, unfastening buttons, his gaze never leaving hers. She swallowed, trying to catch her breath, then offered a tiny nod that was all the permission Dafydd needed. Her blouse and bra disappeared so quickly it might well have been magic, and Dafydd pushed her back until she sat above him, darkness swallowing the gold in his gaze as he studied her.

“Dafydd?” Her voice trembled, jitters resurfacing in the face of his intense examination.

“We have so little time, Lara—”

“Then maybe we should make the most of it.” Lara touched her lips to his again, hopeful.

Dafydd groaned, then caught her again and rolled in the grass, putting himself above her. “You make an excellent argument. Lara, I—”

“Merrick ap Annwn lies dead and you dally with mortals in the glade, Dafydd?” A cold voice, sharp with disapproval, snapped through the darkness to drown Dafydd’s words. Dafydd dropped his head, teeth bared as Lara stiffened and stifled a shriek.

“Some things,” the voice went on, “never change.”

“Please.” Dafydd spoke through his teeth, eyes on Lara’s. She glanced away, understanding his anger was for the rude interruption, not her, but still unable to hold his gaze.

He lifted a hand to touch her jaw, gentleness in the gesture making it an apology. Lara glanced back at him, then offered a feeble, embarrassed smile. Dafydd’s answering smile was a grimace as he lifted his head to respond. “At least do me the favor of counting my crimes correctly. I’ve never before dallied with mortals, Emyr.” He drew Lara’s bra and blouse across the grass, returning them to her as he got to his feet, and made a barrier of himself so she could dress with some semblance of privacy.

The men and women beyond him were a dozen strong and mounted on white horses made blue by night shadows. They were armored, all of them, riders and horses alike. At their head was a man who could have been cut of moonlight, his gaze cool and sharp as the stars as he looked on Dafydd. “Have the years in mortal guise left you with no remembrance of how to greet your king?”

“My lord father.” Dafydd bowed deep and low, dragging his fingertips across the clothing-littered grass and coming up with his own shredded shirt. “Forgive me. Crossing over was something of a trial.”

The king’s pale gaze slid to Lara, a smirk twisting his mouth. “So I see.”

Discomfort more profound than embarrassment shivered over Lara’s skin at his pointed sarcasm. There was no lie in his words, only a thick mockery, so strong as to set untuned chords pounding in her head. She tugged her shirt on as she climbed to her feet, still half-hidden behind Dafydd, and muttered, “There’s no need to be nasty,” as she buttoned it. Emboldened by being more or less dressed, she looked up to find the king’s cold gaze on her.

Had Dafydd not called him father, Lara would never have guessed the relationship. Dafydd was golden where this man was ice. Straight silver hair poured over his shoulders, and his eyes were so pale blue as to be white in the moonlight. There was no gray in him, no warmth, and the angles of his face seemed blade sharp. Cold and cruel, Lara thought; not the kind of man to go to for comfort. His needle-straight posture and the arrogant lift of his chin warned even the attempt away.

Resplendent armor doubled his cool inapproachability. The breastplate and cuisses shone in the moonlight, so delicate and beautifully worked it hardly seemed they could protect the wearer from harm. He carried a helm tucked under his arm, though it had left no mark on the straight fall of his hair, and the sword he wore was unsheathed, ready for war. Beneath the armor he wore garments that might have been woven of newly thawed water, so fine that Lara studied their make with longing despite the man’s arrogance.

“Dafydd is my son, and this my domain,” he said. “I will be … nasty … where I choose.”

Lara tasted pleasure in the absolute truth of the words, and astonished herself by sniffing dismissively. “Not if you want me to help you figure out who killed your son.”

The harshness of her own response struck her too late, but the king seemed a far cry from a father in mourning. His regard snapped back to Dafydd, who was beautifully composed, in spite of being barefoot and shirtless in the grass while his father rode in resplendent garb. A smile pulled at Lara’s mouth, then fell away as the monarch spoke.

“My … son?” Incredulous disdain filled the fine voice.

Dafydd stood his ground, one hand fisted in the shirt he’d retrieved. “My brother. Born of your blood or not, Father, Merrick was my brother more than Ioan ever could be. I knew Merrick,” he said more softly. “Ioan is a stranger to me.”

A hiss rippled through the attending host, angular eyes narrowing, color coming to sharp cheekbones. Some made distasteful faces, looking away, as though Dafydd had said something unexpectedly repugnant. To Lara, though, the truth of his words rang strong, like church bells in her mind, so loud she could barely imagine no one else heard it. Painfully aware that she was the stranger here, among people who had known each other for lifetimes, she pulled a deep breath and took a step forward, determined to defend Dafydd.

The king made a sharp gesture, cutting her off before she spoke. “Merrick ap Annwn was no more than a hostage for good behavior. It shames me that you speak of him as a brother.”

“It shames me that you do not.” Dafydd’s voice was low with anger, emotion turning the chords of truth to harsh sounds. But unlike his father, who spoke as truly, there was something more to Dafydd’s words. The king’s truth was sharp to the point of brittleness, almost discordant. Dafydd’s was tempered, as if compassion rendered conflict to music.

Lara fell back the step she’d taken, shaking her head with quick violence. Subtleties in truth were beyond her talent’s scope: all she could tell was truth from lies.

But Dafydd had called her talent immature, not as an insult, but as a promise. Her gaze returned to him, slender and golden in the moonlight, then went to his father, whose offense was writ large on his angular face.

Her every instinct told her to placate the anger of a powerful man, and her job had taught her to tread gently. Treading gently, though, was not the same as backing down; her talent, after all, was in making them look their best. False flattery did neither the tailor shop nor its clients any good.

Nor would it do an elfin king any good. The thought gave her confidence, the same unexpected surge that had come on her as she’d crossed through the Barrow-lands door. Lara made her hands into fists and stepped forward again, moving quickly so courage couldn’t fail her. “Dafydd’s telling the truth. He thinks of Merrick as his family, and wants to find his killer.”

The king’s gaze returned to Lara’s, mild with unpleasant amusement. “And you are so certain of this because you carry a truthseeker’s power. A mortal. A child,” he said disdainfully. “When neither has ever been so blessed or cursed in my memory, which stretches back beyond the dawn of mortal time.”

Hairs rose, prickling Lara’s arms and neck. She tilted her head, searching his words for the untruth. “Do your people only become truthseekers when they’re adults?”

Skin tightened over the bones of his face, making him ghoulish. “We do not reckon childhood the way your people do.”

“You’re not answering me. I’ve been able to do this my whole life. When does the power show up in your people?”

The king’s lip curled. “In childhood.”

“Hah!” Lara rocked back on her heels, pleased with herself. The motion brought a sensation of warmth, Dafydd closer to her than he’d been. Siding with her, she thought; protecting her. It took an unusually long moment to tamp her smugness over catching the Seelie king in his exaggeration. In her own world she wouldn’t stand her ground against a man like him, but in this one, he was expected to—did—inherently understand her gifts. “There’s not much point in being theatrical. If you’re familiar with truthseekers at all, you should already know dramatizing just sets my teeth on edge.”

“But the truthseeking talent does not mature for centuries.” The king sounded petulant, like a child unaccustomed to being thwarted.

“Maybe among the Seelie,” Lara said. “But I’m human.” It took everything she had to not glance back at Dafydd, seeking reassurance for that statement. His hand touched the small of her back, warm and comforting, as if he understood her hesitation. Bolstered, Lara went on. “I don’t have centuries to mature. My talent would have to grow up faster, too. I can stand here all night picking apart your half-truths, but I’m here for a reason. Dafydd thinks I can help you find a murderer. I’m willing to do that.”

She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed as she studied the king, and the certainty of knowing when to make a challenge came over her. “I mean, unless you don’t want to find the killer.”