Since this entire debacle began, Louvaen had dealt with Jimenin on her own and preferred it that way. Now she wished the “sop, de Lovet” was here so he could make Jimenin eat his own teeth. A thin, horrified gasp escaped her when he reached inside his doublet and pulled out the silver mirror.
“You’ve brought some exceptional items home with you this time. A dagger fit for royalty and a mirror blessed with magic.”
“You’re an idiot,” she said flatly. “The mirror has no more magic than my teapot.”
He trailed a finger across the rim where glass met silver. “Too late, mistress. I found your father bidding a most affectionate good night to the very accommodating Dame Cooper this evening. They had an enlightening conversation about this special bit of vanity right there on your doorstep.”
Louvaen cut a hard glance at her father who went ashen. “I had no idea, Lou! I never saw anyone out there.”
She took pity on him. They’d both underestimated Jimenin. “I wouldn’t have looked either, Papa.” Her lip curled into a sneer. “Decent folk don’t go sliving about in the dark, lurking at other people’s windows and doors to hear private conversations.”
Jimenin remained maddeningly impervious to her scorn, his face a gloating mask of triumph. “Summon her, Louvaen.” He dragged her name out in mocking syllables. She slowly raised a hand and offered him an unmistakable gesture. His answering scowl silenced his men’s muffled laughter. He pressed the end of the flintlock’s barrel against Mercer’s temple. “Kill your father or betray your sister.” The toothy smile returned. “Nasty choice isn’t it, bitch?”
If she didn’t think her enemy would savor the moment and relish in his refusal, she’d fall to her knees and beg him for mercy. Cinnia would never forgive her if something happened to their father. Mercer wouldn’t forgive her if something happened to Cinnia.
“Raise the mirror higher,” she said.
Mercer yanked on his bonds. “Louvaen, don’t.”
She had no choice. “Show me Cinnia.”
The familiar mist clouded the glass before clearing. Jimenin turned the mirror away from her. His face flushed in the dim light, and he licked his lips. Louvaen recoiled. The gods only knew what her summons had revealed; what privacy and dignity she’d destroyed for her sister to save her father. She wanted nothing more than to slap the grin off Jimenin’s face.
He stared into the glass, hand gliding over the silver frame as if he stroked Cinnia’s skin. “Now that’s a sight to pump to.” He mimicked his words by thrusting his hips forward.
“Shut your filthy mouth, you vile bastard.” Mercer, goaded beyond his natural passivity, glared.
“Just complimenting your beautiful daughter, Mercer.” Jimenin frowned at the glass, and Louvaen guessed the image had faded, leaving his own far less sublime reflection staring back at him. He tucked the mirror into his doublet near his heart. “You’ll be summoning her again soon,” he told Louvaen. “I’ll want more than a brief glimpse.”
Not if she could help it. Magic or not, glass broke. If she couldn’t crack Jimenin’s head in two like she wanted, she’d do her damndest to make sure the mirror met a similar fate. Another thought occurred to her. No doubt if she was summoning Cinnia’s image with her mirror, then Cinnia or someone else summoned hers in the other one. If fortune favored her, they’d soon get an eyeful of her situation. Ambrose would take measures to shield Cinnia. She stiffened when Jimenin turned the pistol from her father to level it on her.
“How does it feel, mistress,” he taunted. “Being on the wrong end of one of these?” The earlier lust that made his eyes gleam now gave way to a flat hatred.
Her toes curled against the cold floor, the instinct to leap out of the pistol’s line of fire strong. Reason prevailed. He’d shoot her if she so much as twitched sideways. She raised her chin. “As any person in such a predicament might feel. The difference is I haven’t pissed myself. Did you?”
Jimenin’s expression froze at her mocking reminder of his own terror and how he fled her house when she’d threatened to shoot him. The flintlock wavered in his grip. Time halted, and every breath she inhaled and exhaled howled in her ears. Perspiration trickled down her sides. Never before had she so deeply regretted not keeping her tongue between her teeth. She’d compromised her survival, as well as Mercer’s by heaping contempt on an enemy who clearly held an advantage over her. A reluctant apology hung on her lips, bitter as wormwood.
He didn’t give her a chance to apologize. He lowered the pistol, closed the distance between them and smashed his fist into her face.
Pain exploded in her head. She careened into the wall, ricocheting back in a shower of plaster. His second blow caught her as she pivoted and drove her to her knees. His boot to her ribs put her on the floor, where she promptly spewed up the blood filling her mouth.
She drew her knees to her chest, wheezing bloody bubbles as she fought to breathe. He’d taken her breath with that kick, and her vision grayed. One sweet gulp of air slid down her throat in an agonized gasp, followed by another and then a third until she no longer thought she’d suffocate.
Mercer’s horrified cries buzzed in her ears, but Jimenin’s voice rang clear. “Your turn, Mercer. Tell me where Cinnia is and how I can find her, or I’ll kick every one of this bitch’s ribs in and flense the skin off her bones while you watch.”
Half blinded and nauseous from the iron taste of blood trickling down her throat, she struggled to raise her head and command her father to say nothing. A red tide of pain held her down, washing from her scalp to her throbbing jaw. Every breath hammered against her ribs. She lay there, listening while Jimenin threatened Mercer.
Her tears stung the split at the corner of her mouth when Mercer said in a broken voice. “Ketach Tor. The mirror is a beacon to de Lovet’s home.”
Louvaen hiccupped a gobbet of blood. The gray shroud misting her vision darkened until there was only blackness and Jimenin’s voice issuing orders. Even that faded to silence and the terrible pain finally eased.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
She woke bound to a tree. Something cold and wet spread along her hip, and her back scraped against rough bark. Every muscle in her body screamed; every bone creaked as she straightened from a seated slump and squinted at a dawn world from one blurry eye. She raised her hands to touch her face, only to discover them bound with leather cord. Her feet had been bound as well, bare toes peeping out from under the tattered hem of her night rail. They hadn’t bothered with shoes, but her abductors had kept her from freezing to death by throwing one of her father’s cloaks around her.
Memories flooded in—the parlor’s wavering lamplight, the enchanted mirror which had become her bane, Jimenin’s lascivious expression as he peered into the glass. And most of all, the distorted image of his fist just before he punched her hard enough to shut one of her eyes and loosen a few of her teeth.
It was no longer the small hours, and they were no longer in her parlor. Pink morning light had replaced shadows, and she was surrounded by sentinel stands of newly budding birches and oaks. A cluster of horses grazed nearby, and the scent of smoke from a fire teased her nostrils. They were journeying to Ketach Tor.
