Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [212]
Cauvin listened as Leorin recited a vow of marriage. He couldn’t move. The room spun, as if he’d drunk poison through his fingertips. He wanted to hurl the froggin’ goblet at the wall—but that would expose his suspicions before he’d gotten enough out of her to save Bec.
“Cauvin—it’s just wine. It’s not going to kill you. Aren’t you happy … excited.”
“I am,” he muttered, adding: “and surprised,” before he could stop himself.
Shite for sure, Leorin was most likely telling the truth: With the Torch dead—because he’d told her—and him declaring that he was the Torch’s heir, the last thing Leorin wanted was his froggin’ corpse on her mattress. What she’d want was him completely under her control—asleep? unconscious? paralyzed? obedient?
Obedient would be best, then she could simply lead him to the Hand. There were potions that could make a man cut out his own froggin’ heart, but they were sorcerous in nature, and sorcery was froggin’ expensive. Leorin never wasted money. She wouldn’t have an obedience potion hiding among the perfume bottles on her dressing table unless she needed it. Leorin couldn’t have known. Shalpa’s froggin’ midnight cloak, she couldn’t have known he’d be waiting in her bedroom! The same reasoning weighed against unconscious or paralyzed, but not against asleep.
Leorin did suffer from nightmares; so did Batty Dol. Batty mixed up her own sleeping powders and sold them for a padpol each—Cauvin knew because he’d bought them, sometimes, for Pendy. Leorin would part with a padpol. She’d have sleeping powders on her dressing table.
Cauvin thought a moment. He could handle a sheep-shite sleeping powder.
“To our future,” Cauvin agreed, tipping the goblet against the flagon. “To my wife. Forever and always, I give my life to you.”
He put the glass against his closed lips. Peering over the rim, he could see that Leorin needed both trembling hands to steady the larger flagon against hers. She wasn’t smiling when she lowered the flagon. Shite for sure, Cauvin had never seen anyone look more frightened. They were playing games, the froggin’ most dangerous games imaginable; and Leorin, in deep with the Hand, had more to lose.
Wedging the goblet between the mattress and the wall, Cauvin seized his new wife by the arms and hugged her tight. Leorin fumbled the flagon, spilling wine on him, her, the clothes, the mattress, the trencher, and everything in between. She made mewling sounds, like an orphaned kitten.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he reassured her.
With one arm Cauvin clutched her tight; with the other he swept the wine-soaked clutter onto the floor. Then, while kissing his bride and easing her onto her back, his fingers found the goblet and tipped it sideways—just another stain sinking into the feathers.
Froggin’ sure, Cauvin had never imagined that their first time would be like this, tainted with betrayal and poison, but he was a man and Leorin was a willing woman who knew her way around a mattress. Cauvin could play the part of an eager husband. After a moment, it wasn’t playing, even though each kiss, each caress, each pounding heartbeat scarred him worse than ten long years in the pits.
Cauvin collapsed onto Leorin’s shoulder with a groan.
“Cauvin?” Leorin whispered in his ear. “Beloved? Are you asleep?”
The question cut through Cauvin’s soul. He held her tight and clenched his teeth to keep from screaming. She kissed his lips, his eyes, along his neck. Cauvin rolled onto his back. Leorin’s long golden hair swept his skin, softer than silk and shimmering in the lamplight.
“I love you so much, Cauvin, I wish I could die right now.”
“Me too,” he agreed and held her steady as she balanced above his hips.
“Cauvin? Cauvin, are you asleep?”
He wasn’t, but the time had come for silence.
Limb by limb, Leorin freed herself from his weight. She sat up, cradled Cauvin’s head in her lap, and wound herself around him. He felt her breasts and her tears; and, for a moment, he thought he had been wrong about everything. Then she slid