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“I don’t remember such a
time.”

When her shaking hands gripped his
wrist and held him against her chest, he raised those wickedly
arched brows of his in surprise. But he continued.

“I was young and I was tired of the
poison growing in my country. Then one day we learned that Tippu
had attacked Travancore’s Rajah who happened to be allies with the
English. Things moved fast after that. War was declared and not
only were the English involved now but they had allied themselves
with the Mahrattas and the Nizam.” His face was flushed with the
remembered excitement and all Jocelyn could do was stare at him and
drink him in. “There was a chance now, a solid chance that we could
beat him. His army was strong, Princess, and no matter how many
times we went up against him over the years we were never able to
win. But all of a sudden we had allies … we had help.”

Then he gave a self deprecating little
laugh and shook his head. When his hands lifted to shift through
his hair they shook. She angled her head, caught his gaze when he
shied away from looking at her and simply watched him. There was no
pity in her face because she did not pity him, she thought of that
young man who was fighting so desperately against an evil bigger
than himself and the only thing that filled her was
pride.

He was a strong, courageous man with
solid beliefs and a good heart. She was proud of him and she let
him see it.

Damon searched her face and she watched
as he visibly calmed and his gaze steadied. When he continued to
speak, he did so without dropping his eyes and Jocelyn somehow felt
as if he found strength there in a place that she hadn’t known he
could. “Everywhere I looked my friends, my neighbors, young men my
age or younger, were going to fight the ‘good fight’. Running to
throw their lives away to defeat a tyrant while people back home
did their best to pretend that nothing was happening lest they be
punished. But, Princess, those men, they died fighting to change
the world. Not for the better mind you, I doubt there is such a
thing, and after the life we’d led, almost anything after that
would have been looked on as better. But I’ve heard of countries
where you can be proud of your Gods, where you can send your dead
to the afterlife following the rituals and beliefs you’d been
taught since birth. A place where the world wasn’t awash in blood
and fear and where the sight of a dead body lying in the streets
was so commonplace that even high born ladies didn’t bat an eyelash
at the sight. I wanted that place, for my brothers, my sister, my
mother. I … I wanted something different, and I worked hard to get
it.”

“How did your family feel about you
joining the war? And your friends who weren’t fighting on the same
side as you? There must have been some who would.” Even as she
spoke she couldn’t help but think of the fighting that was going on
right now. It must be such a painful thing, such a horrible
reminder of a time Damon had thought he’d escaped for good. “Did
you ever have to … to….” her voice died, unable to finish the
thought, but he caught on to her meaning and answered
anyway.

“Do you remember me telling you about
the lovely Yasmine?”

The girl with the crater face and the
large breasts. Jocelyn nodded.

“I killed her brother. Put a bullet in
his brain. I don’t regret the act, had I been slower he would have
returned the favor. What I regret is the look on Yasmine’s face
when I came home. My mother was more understanding than my father
actually. She knew better than anyone how my brain worked and she
welcomed me home with kisses and hugs while my father ranted and
raved about my ‘lunacy’.”

Jocelyn’s throat felt tight. “You just
said she knew. Did you mean ‘knew’ as in past tense. As
in--”

“She’s dead.” His voice was emotionless
now and he turned his face away from her.

“I’m sure you’ve guessed it by now but
they’re all dead.” She had guessed as much, and she was ashamed
that she’d pretended otherwise. But she wanted to know what had
happened to him, she wanted him to tell her and she knew no other
way to get him to.

Now his body was rigid, his eyes too
dead and strange for her to work up the courage to go further down
that particular path. She didn’t push him, choosing instead to duck
her head, but all the same she kept a firm hold on his arm and her
fingers began to stroke the skin on his inner wrist
convulsively.

She was rewarded when he cleared his
throat and said,

“That’s what the tattoos are for. They
each represent a person I’ve lost. I could never … I could never
send them off properly. I couldn’t bury my father as a Christian
nor cremate my mother. They were not allowed the sacred ash, nor
the coins and rice to calm their souls. Even now I wonder if they
were even able to pass through the realm of the dead or if they
still wander….” His throat worked, adam’s apple bobbing, and he
couldn’t go on. She’d never heard him so bitter, so enraged, and
lost. He sounded lost. As if his soul wandered in some unknown
place along with his family. It shook something deep inside of her.
Made her want to reach out and hold him to her, keep him, but she
knew he wouldn’t welcome such a thing. Not now.

“Can I see?”

Damon blinked at her and it seemed to
take a while for him to recognize who she was, so deeply was he
immersed in memories. They stared, weighing one another, and the
air between them was heavy, thick, with things unsaid and wants
unmet. Then his mouth twisted in a bitter little smile and he
inclined his head towards her.

“Please. Be my guest.”

Turning his back to her, he allowed her
hands to trace across the markings etched in his skin. They were so
intricate and smooth that it took her several seconds to pick out
the individual murals. Her throat tightened at how much pain he
must have put himself through for this. And all to make sure that
he would remember some misplaced guilt. Because there was guilt
there, it was the driving force behind his hooded looks, and
mocking sneer. She recognized it and she knew in her heart that it
was unfounded.

Now that she could study it more
closely she found that not all of the lines were solid black, but
rather deep, iridescent colors that brought out a hidden power in
them For instance, spreading its wings along the curve of one
shoulder, its beak opened wide and it’s eyes bright with triumph
was a hawk.

She murmured its name and watched him
shudder.

“My father. There was never anything
more exciting for him than a good hunt and he spoke of England’s
hunting birds as if they were blessed by God. He was a fierce man,
determined, stubborn.”

Her fingers trailed down the fading
tail feathers of the bird of prey and down to the space between his
shoulder blades where an explosion of flowers sat. Their leaves
were supple and soft looking and lay in such odd shapes that the
flowers themselves were like individual masterpieces.

“Palash. It’s a flower that grows
everywhere in the forests where I grew up. They can grow taller
than a full grown man and if you lay beneath them they block out
the sun. They fend for themselves. They’re strong and beautiful all
at once.” There was a pride in his voice and a hushed awe that told
her who the flowers were for before his next words did.

“My mother.”

Next was the red fox that blended
seamlessly into the orange of the flowers. The creature was bent
low, its bushy tail exploding from the nearest petal as it prepared
to pounce.

“Clara. My baby.” He seemed unable to
offer further explanation for his choice of design for his little
sister and really by the mischievous glint in the vixen’s eyes and
the stories she’d heard of the youngest twin, Jocelyn had an idea
of what the child had been like.

Another fox curved on his other side,
opposite its companion. This one wasn’t on the prowl but instead
lay on its back in a deep sleep. The pudgy little belly that curved
up under his lax paws seemed so real Jocelyn could just imagine
them batting her hand away as she disturbed his rest.

“Remy.” They spoke his name together
and Jocelyn found her hands running in long, slow strokes across
the expanse of his back. His skin was still slick with sweat but
that only made her movements more drugging, more significant. As if
she were dragging his memories and his pain through his skin and
into her own. Indeed, he even pressed back against her touch as if
he needed it.

She rested her cheek against the back
of his neck and indicated the elaborately scaled golden fish that
took up most of his lower back with a gentle pat of her
hand.

“Then he must be Trent. He’s
lovely.”

His shoulder shook with silent
amusement. “I doubt my brother would have appreciated such a
sentiment considering he hated fish almost as much as he hated
being called lovely.”

“Then why--”

“Because. I doubt he understood the
strength of such a small creature, the tenacity and intelligence
hidden beneath all those pretty scales and artless grace. In life
Trent was always trying to prove what a man he was because of his
curse.”

“Curse?”

“His words, not mine. He was cursed
with a pretty face, slim build, and a kind heart. Attributes more
suited to a woman than a strapping lad of fifteen don’t you
think?”

She saw his point and was going to say
something else when she shifted her weight and saw it. Curving from
the body of the fish were two hands. Delicate. Feminine.

“Stand up.” Her voice was hurt. She had
the image of him in her mind, of him rising from the pool. Of the
curling symbol that hugged either flank of his buttocks. He
hesitated for a moment, then he stood. He didn’t look at her and
that rigidness was back in his spine.

Her breath coming in quick gulps she
tugged at the band of his britches until enough of the firm curve
of his behind looked back at her. The pants didn’t have to be
completely lowered for her to see the explosion of inky dark hair
that spiraled and twisted down his body. A woman was stretching out
pleading fingers for the belly of the fish, connected to the rest
of the mural more by proximity than by touch. That was enough to
let Jocelyn know that this woman, whoever she was, hadn’t been
family.

“Who is this?” Her lips felt
numb.

He looked at her over his shoulder and
his eyes were dead and cold, his mouth a cruel slash in a suddenly
unfamiliar face.

“My wife.”

* * * *

They worked the rest of the day in
silence. He was no longer as stilted as he’d been that morning and
she took advantage of it by sitting beside him and helping to
create weapons. They formed traps with lengths of vine and
sharpened spikes of wood. They made baskets and he showed her how
it would hang in the water, rope over the limb of a nearby tree and
bait waiting inside. What it would catch neither knew but both
agreed silently that as long as it didn’t breathe fire or leak
poison they would eat it. And even then they’d gnaw on it a bit
before giving it up as inedible.

By late afternoon they were comfortable
with one another, almost friendly and after a brief dinner of the
rabbit Damon caught with his first trap, Jocelyn settled into their
old shelter to get some sleep. Damon was so exhausted he didn’t
utter a word of complaint when she pulled him in behind her. She
lay on her side beside him, watching as his eyes drifted shut and
his breathing slowed. She stared at the rainbow of lashes against
his face and the relaxed set of his mouth. She studied the dimple
that flashed whenever he murmured or sighed in his sleep. All of
him she studied with painstaking care, committing him to both her
memory and her heart as his words from that morning came back to
her.

He’d lost everyone all at once;
everyone that he’d ever loved was taken from him. The cause of
their death was as of yet unknown and Jocelyn both dreaded and
anticipated the day Damon would trust her enough to tell her of it.
Because whether he’d been married once before or not, whether he
thought her too young, or too spoiled, or too much John’s daughter,
Jocelyn didn’t care. She wanted something from Damon. Wanted that
depth that threatened to drag them under whenever they were
together. Oh she wasn’t talking marriage or anything. There was
still Ava to worry about; she had to make sure her sister was happy
and safe before she thought of such trivial things as marriage. Not
to mention the estate to learn how to run. However, more and more
often these things were reshaping to fit Damon’s presence in her
life rather than exclude him completely from it. She’d noticed the
change towards the end of their trip into Barbados and it was only
stronger now.

Her finger lifted and she poked at the
firm flesh of his face, noticing for the first time the spider thin
lines that branched out from the corner of his eyes. It gave him
character, made him softer somehow and she found herself stroking
those lines. His face twitched under her ministrations, and she
went perfectly still, breath held and hands hovering over him
before she let out a relieved sigh. He wasn’t moving, too deeply
asleep to notice her hands on him. Biting her lip, her hands
hovered over him before her curiosity got the better of
her.