The Lily Brand Page 2

  Lillian forced herself to step forward, to approach the man, who had been reduced to something less than an animal.

  Gone were his beard and hair, revealing a strong-boned face that for the most part had been invisible before. He had been shaved back at the prison, and the guards had been careless enough to cover his skull with the thin red lines of small cuts. Under Maurice’s supervision, Lillian knew, he had been cleaned again until the last stench of prison disappeared. Now, the light of the candles lent a soft, healthy glow to his skin, which gleamed with the oil that had been rubbed onto his body. Like Antoine, he was naked except for a pair of golden breeches.

  But the eyes, Lillian saw, the eyes were the same—an intense cornflower-blue that seemed to burn to her very soul.

  Camille turned to look at Maurice, who lingered on the threshold, and nodded. “Very nice, very nice indeed.” At that he bowed and left. He would be given his treat later on.

  Camille went over to the small table that held a collection of her… instruments. “As I have already told you, chérie, you will have to break it in yourself.” She chose two short whips and strolled back to the man, slowly walking around him. “For tonight, I advise you to leave it like that. Tomorrow we might consider the cage. If…” She raised her perfectly trimmed brows. “If it behaves. If not…” She lightly touched one of the whips to his back, causing the muscles to ripple under the smooth skin. “Come here, chérie.”

  Dutifully, Lillian walked around the construction, her face a calm mask while inside she wanted to scream and weep.

  “If not, you might start with this. This”—with an expert move of her right wrist, Camille brought the leather string of the first whip cracking down on the man's back—“will leave red weals, sometimes drawing blood and sometimes not; whereas this”—she used the other whip, a vicious-looking thing with numerous straps that had small pieces of metal knotted at the ends—“will take away skin and draw blood for sure.”

  At each lash, Lillian closed her eyes so as not to see the flesh quiver or the body flinch. Yet the results of each lash glared at her when she looked again, an angry red welt and a set of bloody rips in the man’s skin.

  “You must learn how to use them well,” Camille continued, while she put the whips back with the rest of her other instruments. “For after a month we will have to decide whether it is fit.”

  Whether his spirit could be broken and the man controlled. Whether he could be reduced to a mere toy for Camille’s pleasure… or not.

  Smiling, Camille stepped in front of the man. “Then we will have to decide what has to go: its tongue…” She laid a finger against the gag, laughing as the man tried to flinch away. In swift retribution she slapped his face, hard, leaving an imprint of her hand on his cheek. “Its tongue,” Camille went on and reached between his legs, “or its balls.” Because Camille had no wish to mar her body with an unwanted pregnancy.

  By now, the man was breathing noisily through his nose, his body taut like a bowstring.

  Lillian nodded, praying for a swift end of this. “Oui, maman.”

  “Yes.” Her stepmother let go of their captive and patted Lillian’s cheek instead. “You are an intelligent girl, n’est-ce pas? You will handle this well. And for now, it is all yours.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And there is one last surprise waiting for you. Look in the fire, chérie.”

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Lillian went over to the fireplace, where, in a bowl of red hot coals, was stuck another of Camille’s instruments.

  “Bring it here,” her stepmother commanded.

  Lillian forced her trembling fingers to close around the wooden handle, and she lifted the brand. Averting her eyes from the angry orange tip, she brought it to Camille, prepared to hand it over. Yet the older woman shook her head, smiling. “It is yours, so you will have the honor of setting the mark.”

  Lillian swallowed, then looked at the bound man, who was watching them warily, his blue gaze even more intense than before.

  “Where would you like to place it?” Camille studied the expanse of glistening flesh before her. “I am very partial to the forehead, as you know. Or the arm?” One red fingernail scratched across the man’s helplessly extended arm. “What shall it be?”

  Lillian gripped the handle tighter. “The… the…” Where could such a thing most easily be concealed? “The… chest.”

  “Very well.” Camille pointed. “Go along.”

  Lillian took a deep breath and met the man’s eyes. I am sorry, she said with her own. I am so sorry. Then, as she went forward, her gaze dropped to his heaving chest, to the smooth place above the left nipple. Steadying herself, gripping the handle with both hands, she pressed the branding iron against his skin and tried not to notice the way his body jerked or the smell of scorched flesh that tickled her nose.

  Finally, she stepped back. With detached surprise she registered the different design: a lily, instead of Camille’s rose.

  Her stepmother clapped. “A lily for Lillian. Very fine, chérie, n'est-ce pas? Now that you have marked it, you should also decide on a name for it. How about Olivier? Think about it.”

  Lillian hardly noticed the kiss that was blown onto her cheek or the sound of the door as it opened and closed, leaving her alone with the man. She kept staring at the small spot of flesh, now raw and burnt, kept staring and staring until her legs gave way and she sat down on the floor rather abruptly. She had enough sense left to hold the iron upright so that it would not set the floor on fire.

  Drawing her knees to her chest, she used them as a cushion for her forehead. Her ears buzzed and the room was swimming, so she closed her eyes to draw long, even breaths. Cursed be the day when she had attracted Camille’s attention. And cursed be the day when she had first set foot onto the threshold of Camille’s mansion all those years ago.

  Lillian had no idea how long she sat on the floor, yet when she finally raised her head, the room was still the same—of course. Filled with the stench of burnt flesh, which not even the scented candles had been able to eclipse.

  She shuddered, once.

  As horrid as it was, the smell, however, helped her to settle her nerves and to focus her thoughts on the most urgent issues at hand. Looking up, she found the man staring at her, his eyes even darker than before. Staring at her like he had stared at her stepmother back in the prison.

  God, why hadn’t he possessed enough sense to lower his eyes to show proper submission? Didn’t he know that Camille owned not just the land but the people as well, body and soul? That all resistance was futile and would be met with savage retribution? Lillian suppressed the memory of the song of the dogs at night, out to hunt those who tried to escape Camille’s web. Futile … futile …

  But… Everything needs balance—even if, as always, the choice had been taken away from her. She had set the mark, he was hers, and she had to act accordingly.

  Her responsibility.

  Determinedly, she stood, putting the iron away before she pulled a bell cord beside her bed. She did not have to wait long for her maid to amble through the door, a sly grin appearing on the servant’s face when she spotted the shackled man.

  “So you got one all for yourself.” Chuckling, Marie approached the rack-like construction, reaching out to touch oil-smooth flesh. “My, and such a fine one…”

  Lillian narrowed her eyes. “I called you,” she said in her iciest voice, “because I need hot water to wash. Also, I have a desire for some wine, fresh fruit and rosemary bread.” He would not have been given any fruit or vegetables in the prison.

  A sullen look replaced the maid’s slyness, rendering her features as ugly as those of a toad.

  Lillian straightened her shoulders. Casually she reached out to take hold of one of the discarded whips, letting the leather strap run through her fingers. “I gave you an order, Marie. Now make haste—or shall I use this on you?” She raised her brows.

  Even though it had been but a bad imi
tation of her stepmother, the trick worked and the servant hurried out of the room. Lillian turned to glance at the man once more. His chest was still heaving, his breath whistling through his nose. Lillian fiddled with the whip, glad that her hands had something to do while she was waiting for Marie’s return.

  However, it was Gabriel who knocked at the door and entered. Golden-haired Gabriel, gangly as a colt, with a certain chubbiness still clinging to his cheeks. He bowed. “Cook sent me to bring you the food, mistress.”

  Lillian stared at him. She could not be sure whether he was already bearing the mark. He was younger even than herself. Had he already been cut? She forced her lips into a smile. “Thank you. Put it on the table over there.” She noticed how he avoided looking at the construction as he went across the room to set the tray down.

  Marie came soon after to deliver the pitcher of warm water. While her face remained cast in a sulk, she did not linger this time, and soon Lillian was all alone with the man once more.

  She could not help the sigh of relief that escaped her. Swiftly, she went over to the door to slide the bolt in place. No unwelcome surprises from that quarter. Leaning against the door, she surveyed the room and took stock of the situation.

  She could not do anything about the chains that kept him shackled to the construction, of course, as Camille would expect to see him in exactly the same place in the morning. But she could do something about the man’s injuries and his pain.

  Everything needs balance: One to do the healing in a place where another does all the wounding. But this time, she herself had done the wounding.

  Lillian tried to ignore the bitter twist of her stomach. She had set the mark. It was her responsibility.

  So she dragged a footrest behind the construction in order to reach the strings of the gag. Lightly she rested her hands on the man’s shoulders, ignoring the stickiness of the oil under her fingers. At her touch he flinched slightly as if he feared more pain. Yet all she did was lean forward in order to bring her mouth close to his ear. “Listen,” she whispered. “I am going to free you of the gag. But you must not speak, do you understand? These walls have ears and one never knows who is listening.” And whoever it was would report back to Camille, for no one slipped her control easily. By now, most people knew better than to even attempt it.

  Not me, came the unbidden thought. Lillian shivered as the enormity of the plan struck her once more. This man was a burden she neither needed nor wanted. He might endanger everything.

  For a moment she felt anger that he had been stupid enough to get chosen, to show defiance. A tight hot ball of anger in the pit of her stomach—and something else. Something which pricked in her eyes, an emotion she dared not name. Compassion, after all, was a luxury and not for her.

  She let her gaze shift to the window, where the night, cold and dark, pressed against the glass. She felt the coldness reaching out for her and waited until it touched her heart, erased all feeling inside.

  Her fingers steady, she started to work on the knots of the gag. Carefully, she reached around him to take it out of his mouth. “Remember,” she reminded him on a murmur. “Not one sound!”

  Again, he nodded.

  Satisfied, she stepped down and went over to the chest where she kept her herbs and medicines. Nanette had taught her that. Everything needs balance, she heard the old woman’s voice whispering in her head. Nanette had been her nanny from the time Lillian’s mother was still alive, and later, she had been the only link to a bygone golden life. She had taught Lillian to stay away from the main part of the mansion, never to be heard or seen so as not to attract any attention. So her father had forgotten Lillian and had died. When later on, Camille had finally taken notice of her stepdaughter, Nanette had been sent away and Lillian herself had been forced to move rooms—among other things.

  Lillian swallowed. Then she shoved all memories of her nineteenth birthday aside and concentrated on selecting the proper herbs. Oil of St. John’s wort for the burn, marigold salve for the cuts.

  She straightened and went back to the man, who never once let her out of his sight. She started with his bum, carefully applying the oil to the skin. As she touched the raw flesh, his breath hissed through his teeth, but true to his promise, he did not make any other sound.

  The body under her hands was lean, too lean for such a tall man. The ribs, Lillian noticed, seemed to be poking through the skin; the muscles on his arms and belly were not rounded and defined like Antoine’s or Maurice’s or any other of Camille’s men.

  When she was finished, Lillian went around the construction to step onto the footrest once more. The cuts on the man’s head had already been cleaned, she saw, so all she had to do was to spread salve on them. After that, she pulled the stool in front of him and fed him the fruit and the bread and let him drink part of the wine. Over the rim of the glass, his eyes were very blue.

  Lillian tried not to notice.

  She only spoke once, when she put the sleeping potion m the rest of the wine and gave it to him. “To make you rest,” she explained.

  He gazed at her and finally nodded his assent.

  Lillian watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. Perhaps she should have given him poison instead. That way, he would never become a danger to her plans. But Camille would not be happy to lose one of her toys overnight. And that was even more certain to put the plan on the line.

  Lillian blinked.

  Besides, would she be capable of simply ending the life of a human being? Somebody who was just as entrapped in Camille’s web as she herself was?

  His eyes met hers.

  Perhaps. If it meant sparing him the fate that awaited him at the end of the four weeks: either a life as Camille’s toy, or the mines.

  Chapter 2

  Lillian thought about taking a sleeping potion herself. But as she had to rise before dawn to get the man ready, she chose a sleepless night instead, listening to his even breathing. Sometimes he would grow restless, his muscles fighting against the strain of the chains.

  When the horizon blushed with the first touch of the sun, she roused him so that she could put the gag back in place. She saw his skin ripple with gooseflesh from the cold. Or perhaps it wasn’t from the cold at all.

  Lillian looked out of the window and forced herself not to care.

  When Camille finally walked into the room, black silks rustling, Lillian was cool and poised. Clad in muted gray, she felt as if the mists outside had risen to gather around her body, to freeze her heart and soul.

  “Bonjour, chérie.” Cold red lips touched her cheek.

  “Bonjour, maman.”

  Behind Camille stood Maurice, her stepmother’s golden shadow for today. Arms folded across his naked chest, he wore his face in an expressionless mask. The red marks on his skin were badges of honor. Like all of Camille’s favorites, he seemed to crave his mistress’s touch.

  Camille’s gaze shifted to the man in chains, and her lips lifted in the travesty that was her smile. “It looks even better in broad daylight, n’est-ce pas?” Slowly, she walked around the construction, appraising the well-made form and shape of the prisoner. Her fingernail trailed down his long backbone, making his muscles ripple in revulsion and herself laugh. “Stubborn, is it? Maurice…” She turned. “See to it that it learns the error of its ways.”

  Lillian’s eyes darted to the bound man’s face. Did he know the meaning of this? Could he guess?

  Her stepmother finished her tour in front of the construction. She patted the man’s cheek while his eyes shot blue fire at her. “Teach it,” she said softly, her fingers mimicking a caress, “that stubbornness is a flaw which we do not tolerate.”

  In a whirl of black, she turned to Lillian. “We should have breakfast now, chérie. Maurice will see after your present.” Thoughtfully she touched her fingers to her chin. “Should we put it back here, do you think, or should we consider the cage?”

  Lillian stood straight and unblinking. “This morning, I ha
ve a desire for a walk in the garden, I think. Could that be arranged?”

  “Of course. Maurice will prepare everything. Now come, chérie, before the chocolate grows cold in our cups.” Well aware that her stepmother’s loyal golden shadow regarded her every move, Lillian followed Camille from the room without once looking back at the spread-eagled man. She did not know why she had spared him the cage. It was just a postponement of the things to come.

  ~*~

  All the weeks since her birthday had not yet managed to accustom Lillian to the meals in the dining room. Golden decorations blazed with the light of the early morning, filling the room with a thousand small suns. Hercule was standing next to the sideboard where the chocolate was kept warm, so still he could have been a statue carved out of darkest ebony. Young Gérard of the rosy face cowered beside his mistress to feed her bits of fruit and sweet roll. If the mood took her, she bit his fingers.

  Lillian’s eyes remained cool over the rim of her cup. The chocolate tasted like acid. On her plate, the sweet rolls crumbled to sand.

  A snap of Camille’s fingers sent Gérard spreading himself on the table so she could eat the fruits off his body and scorch his skin with droplets of hot chocolate. Hercule brought the pot to fill her cup when it was empty, while Gérard moved sinuously before her, his eyes never once leaving the face of his mistress.

  Lillian watched, detached. Hercule did not need to refill her cup.

  A dark cherry gleamed between Camille’s lips, before she sucked it into her mouth and chewed, smiling. The next was crushed between her fingers, staining her skin. She spread the sticky juice on her throat. Slowly, she leaned her head back, and, lithe as a cat, Gérard rose—the sign to Lillian that she could leave. She saw his tongue sweeping white skin just before the door closed behind her.

  Downstairs, Maurice had her coat and the man ready for her. The traces of his punishment were not visible at first glance. Or perhaps the breeches and the shirt covered them; Lillian did not know. The gag still filled his mouth. Better than the bridle Camille so liked.