Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [116]
“Again?” she asked in amusement.
“I’m a chef’s son,” I said helplessly. “I’ve spent almost all my life on Cythera, and yes, I’m staring at you like a provincial rube. Please.”
“All right, I forgive you.” There it was again, that brief, wicked smile. Honey and gall. “Only because you blush so prettily. It’s your move.”
I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for forbearance, then bent my attention to the chessboard.
On the boat, when I’d found the chess set listed in the manifest, I’d entertained some idea of flattering her by losing a-purpose. Playfully demanding a rematch, mayhap. I’d envisioned myself very much in control, smoothly cajoling while the hapless young princess giggled and blushed. Instead, I was blushing like a maiden, while the princess uttered barbed witticisms. And I very much suspected if I didn’t best her in this game of wits, I’d seal her impression of me forever as a tame lap-dog.
She played well, but she played a cautious and meticulous game. I’d been doing the same, trying to draw out my time with her as long as possible. Now I went on the offensive and played boldly, giving the impression of being rash and distracted. Several moves later, I made a ploy that appeared careless. This time, the princess took my gambit and walked into a trap.
“Ah.” Realization dawned on her face before the endgame was played out. She studied the board for a moment, seeking an avenue of escape, then reached out and tipped over her king. “You’ve won.”
My brow was sweating. “You underestimated me.”
“So I did.” She continued to study the board, retracing her steps and committing her misstep to memory. “Will you give me the courtesy of a rematch?”
“Of course.” I began gathering pieces to reset the board.
“It grows late.” She touched my hand. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
A spark leapt between us.
I felt it, and I knew, I knew she felt it. Her eyes widened, their darkness blurring. I wanted to close my hand on hers, pull her to me. Scatter the chess pieces, drag her to the floor. Pull the pins from her hair until it fell in glorious disarray, tear every scrap of fabric from her body. Rip the necklace from her throat, the earrings from her earlobes. Lay her bare, break the spell. Kiss her until I bruised her lips, take her there amid the scattered chess pieces.
Under the watching eyes of her Amazigh guard.
I drew my hand back as though her touch had burned me. “Tomorrow would be lovely.”
The pulse beat visibly in the hollow of her throat, but there was no other sign she was unnerved. Her voice was cool and calm. “The same time, then?”
I rose and bowed. “I would be honored.”
I made myself meet the gaze of the Amazigh as I left. Clear and transparent, I told myself, clear and transparent. I gave him a nod, a careless smile. He didn’t return the smile, but he accorded me a brief nod. There was no suspicion I could see in his eyes or the narrow strip of his face visible. Whatever had passed between the Princess Sidonie and me, it had gone unnoticed.
One touch.
A single glance . . .
Blessed Elua was not a gentle god.
Thirty-Two
Well played, your highness.” I tipped over my king, acknowledging defeat.
Princess Sidonie inclined her head graciously. “My thanks. It was a hard-earned victory. Who taught you to play so well?”
It was the fourth game we’d played over the course of as many days, and the first that she’d won. Since that first time, under the watching eyes of her guard, we had been careful not to inadvertently touch; and she’d been as careful as I had.
She had felt it, I was sure.
“My . . . mother,” I said.
Her eyes danced. “Are you sure? You sound uncertain.”
It had been her ladyship who’d taught me, of course; or at least taught me to play well. Chess was a useful game to learn, although it had its limits. In a true game of intrigue, every piece on the board would be a live player, filled with weaknesses and flaws. Still, it had its merits.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “She’s a great knack for the game.”
“Does your mother also serve in Cythera?”