Rolling on the floor, she held her hands to her head, trying to block the screaming voice. When the waves of pain eased, she climbed to her knees and then to her feet.
Lord Hugh summoned her now without even being present.
Dizzy from the agony and from the pull of his call, she moved to the door and then into the corridor and through the house. With each step closer to his door, she felt the strength of his anger. Then, standing before it, Brienne realized she’d made a grievous error in seeking to learn about her power and for wanting to use it. Fighting the urge to vomit, she tried to resist him.
Now!
She crashed her body against the door as his power jerked the chain that connected her to him, unable to stop herself and unable to delay for even just the moment it would have taken to lift the latch and enter. Brienne tumbled into the chamber and skidded to the floor before him, scraping her hands and knees on the rough stone floor. Unwilling to anger him further, she stayed on her knees and watched as he walked to stand close enough that the folds of his garments touched her head.
Had word gotten to him so quickly that she’d met with William? That he’d held her and kissed her? Shared his secret with her? Did he think she would give her virtue away much as her mother had—to a nobleman who beckoned her to his bed? Whoring herself for what?
This time, she heard him gasp.
And that was the only warning she got that he could tell what she was thinking. In the next moment, he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall.
“What are you thinking?” he demanded. “Why do you look like a peasant again when I gave you appropriate gowns to wear? I do not wish you to be seen looking like a blacksmith’s daughter again!”
And then her dress, the last thing she had to connect her to her previous life, went up in flames, the wet fabric first sending off sputters of steam as the water evaporated, and then it burned. She cried out with the little breath he allowed her and tried to push him off, tearing at his hands and kicking out to free herself.
Only when the gown lay in ashes below her did he relent and drop her to the floor. Naked and gasping for breath, Brienne looked around for something to cover herself. Crawling over to the table, she began to pull the linen cover from it.
“Stop!”
This time the word was spoken so quietly that she thought she misheard. Glancing at him, she found him standing white-faced and shocked, his gaze transfixed on something on her back. Tugging the linen cloth around her aching body, she used the table to help herself to her feet. He was on her before she could take another step, pushing her down across the table and pulling the linen away.
Then nothing but the sound of their breathing filled the ominous silence in the chamber. His hand was hot and unmoving where it lay on her upper back, holding her body down against the table as she struggled. Then she realized what he must see there. The other mark!
No one knew about it but her moth—Fia, who’d discovered it during her baths as a child. She’d forgotten it, seeing it only once, in a looking glass that belonged to her . . . Fia’s friend.
Suddenly, he released her and she slid off the table. When Brienne gathered the linen around her and faced him, she found him sitting in his chair, staring off at the wall. Shaking and bruised, she waited for him to speak. Minutes passed and he did not. He did nothing but stare off, ignoring her.
She’d been thinking about her mother when he’d attacked her. And she could almost hear him thinking about someone when he stared at the dark, flamelike birthmark at the base of her spine. Was that something she’d inherited from the woman who’d given birth to her?
“Who was she, my lord? Who was my mother?” she asked. If he killed her for this question or another, she wanted to know this first.
Minutes passed again with no reaction from him.
Then he stood and turned his gaze on her.
“Begin.”
She shook her head at him.
Begin!
This time she pushed back, forcing at the word as it still echoed in her mind and thrusting it out. He startled then, and she knew he’d felt it. Nothing as strong or as painful as his had been, but her head did not hurt as much now.
“My mother,” she repeated. “Who was my mother?”
Brienne felt his command this time before it entered her, and she pushed against it. His will was stronger and his art more practiced, so she knew she would fail, but she tried anyway. She looked away, finding it easier to battle his invasion when not looking at him.
Begin.Softer now. Not painful, more like someone tapping on her forehead.
My mother?she tapped back.
“She is gone.”
She glanced at him then and found him studying her closely, as though awaiting her next move in some game of skill. No anger in his gaze now; she saw only curiosity and . . . searching.
