Two days later, Penelo found herself once more in the library to return Archadian Myths and Legends to its proper place on the shelves. Her guards were some distance away, engaged in conversation, flanking the door against unwanted intruders. In no particular hurry, she browsed the titles lining the shelves before finally slipping the book from her pocket to set it in its proper place.
"What have you got there?" a familiar voice asked in a low whisper.
She jumped, gasped, eyes lighting on Balthier, who was stretched out lazily in one of the wingback chairs, the high back concealing his presence from the guards some fifty feet away. He had clearly been there a while, had watched her stroll right past him while she'd been none the wiser.
"My la - er, Miss Penelo," one of the guards - Ferrin, she thought - said. "Is aught amiss?"
"N-no," she said, stretching her lips into what she hoped approximated a guileless smile. "I thought I saw...a mouse. But I was mistaken."
"A mouse?" Balthier mouthed the words, a tawny brow arching at the lie.
"A rat," she corrected in a harsh whisper from between clenched teeth.
Oblivious to the interchange between Penelo and her unseen companion, Ferrin scratched his head. "A mouse? P'raps I'd better check," Ferrin said, "Can't have mice wandering all willy-nilly through the palace. It'd upset the maids, and the queen, like as not, if one chanced upon her."
"I. Was. Mistaken." Penelo repeated. "Do return to your post, sir. I wish to read for a time, and I should not like to be disturbed." She studiously avoided so much as glancing at Balthier, who had only just managed to smother a chortle at the waspish tone she had employed. Not for nothing has she learned to deliver such a sharp set-down, but Balthier's presence merely served to remind her that the words were not her own - she was ever the imposter, affecting the mannerisms of her betters.
Brows drawn together in confusion at the rebuff, Ferrin mumbled a half-hearted, "Yes, miss," and slunk back towards the door, returning to his conversation with Bain. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.
Balthier gestured to the book in her hand, keeping his voice low in deference to their unwitting chaperones. "Give it here."
Defensively, her fingers curled around the spine of the small book. "No. I only came to return it. My reading material is none of your business." And she shoved the book back in its place, planting her hands on her hips. Thankfully, from the perspective of the guards, she would appear only to be browsing the shelves.
Balthier let out an aggrieved sigh. "Third book from the left, middle shelf. I'll retrieve it myself if I must, but those two idiots are bound to notice if I do. And being caught sneaking into the palace does have the regrettable tendency to land one in a jail cell." He cradled his chin in his hand, a patently false look of innocence gracing his face. "How could you live with yourself having me clapped in irons?"
A low sound emerged from her throat, a feral growl of annoyance. She wrestled with herself a moment, then grabbed the book off the shelf, tossed it at him, and flounced into the seat opposite him, heaving a sigh.
He turned the book over in his hands, inspecting the cover. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I trust it was entertaining? Did you find what you were looking for?"
She covered her face with her hands, sinking into her chair. "Why are you here, Balthier?"
"Darling girl, where else should I be?" He held the book in his hands, letting it fall open, and she knew what he would find - the page that had been turned to so often that it had warped the spine. She managed a cautious glance in his direction; his lips twitched with barely-restrained amusement. "Ahh, I see. A bit curious, then, were you?"
She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply. Of course he would taunt her with it; why had she expected anything less?
"Really, Balthier, I would not have thought you the sort to favor tragic romances."
A carefully-modulated chuckle. "Somehow, tragic romances feel a bit more real than happily-ever-afters. Did you enjoy it?"
"No," she said succinctly. "I've had enough tragedy in my life, thank you."
"I think you did enjoy it," he countered. "What woman wouldn't feel any sort of kinship for poor, doomed Ceremina?"
"Poor Ceremina?" she whispered incredulously. "That pitiful, insipid thing? She ruined lives with her weakness. What utter rubbish - how could I feel a kinship for a woman unwilling to take her future into her own hands?" She huffed, offended to be lumped into the same category as the feeble heroine.
"Ahh, so perhaps it's Balthier who holds your sympathies, then?" His gaze slid over her face, searching out secrets. "He could not be described as weak - a man who would do anything for the sake of love, make of himself a villain just to win his lady."
His voice was low, warm, his tone coaxed a blush to her cheeks, as though her heart read something in his words that her mind could not comprehend. She slunk down in her chair, mumbled, "But he had the misfortune to choose an unworthy lady."
"Not so unworthy, I think. She chose death over going to another man. Rather than live without him, she chose not to live."
"Yes, and left him to mourn her - for the few hours before he ended his own life. There's always another way; she took the easiest path because she lacked the strength to forge the hard road. Her weakness destroyed their lives. She hadn't the will to continue on without him-" With a gasp, she pressed her lips together to stem the flow of words - suddenly the conversation had struck too close to the wounded heart of her.
A sigh. "Darling girl, do you think you might ever be prevailed upon to forgive me?"
She had already forgiven him. It had come as in chapters of a book, a page at a time - the night he had chased away her nightmares, the day that he had taken her to visit Sarema's grave, how in Rozarria he had purchased her the heartfruit she had been so intrigued with - until she had closed the book on the hurt she had been nurturing so long. But that was only a fraction of it; forgiveness she had granted - the lack of trust was the bitter, aching wound that scored her heart. She wasn't a trophy, or an object to be won, or stolen, or bought.
She was...she was Ceremina, too weak, too wounded to grab for the things she wanted, to dream impossible dreams when even her reality had crumbled around her. How could she be expected to build castles in the clouds when she could not even manage to erect a solid foundation on the earth?
Such a hopeless prospect; she didn't want to think about it. So she deflected his question with one of her own: "How did you manage to get into the palace?"
He smiled wryly, accepting the deflection with good grace. "Oh, there are ways," he said. "Vaan, in particular, has been most helpful."
"The Garamsythe waterway," she groaned. "He must have dismantled the barrier from the inside."
"Very astute," he responded. "Tell me, will you alert the queen to the crack in her otherwise impenetrable fortress?"
"I..." She hesitated - he wanted her to decide whether or not he would find himself barred from the palace? "I..."
"Miss Penelo, would you care for tea?" Bain called the offer from his position at the doorway; she craned her neck to see him speaking with a maid.
"Yes, please," she responded absently. Then her eyes widened with horror on Balthier beside her, at the empty space between the two chairs where the maid would inevitably wheel the tea cart and of a certainty raise the alarm when she discovered Balthier there. "No! No, actually, I was just about to return to my room." She drew in quick breath. "I'll take tea there, please."
Balthier grinned at her. "I take it you'll not be informing the queen after all," he said, "or you'd have already seized your opportunity to have me thrown in a cell."
"If you find yourself apprehended, it'll be no one's fault but your own," she hissed. "What is the matter with you? You're reckless, but not foolish - you must know it's only a matter of time before you are caught."
He stretched out his arm, offering the book back to her. "Some things are worth the risk, darling."
Visibly flustered, she abandoned the chair, making a big production of replacing Archadian Myths and Legends on the shelf, then selecting another at random. She passed by him on her way towards the door but carefully refrained from so much as glancing at him. Of course, if she had it might've aroused the suspicion of her guards - but he suspected she was trying to prove a point. Not to him, of course; he could still knock her off balance easily enough. But to prove to herself that she could walk away and not look back. He wondered if she'd counted it a success.
Penelo was giving serious thought to telling Ashe about the unguarded Garamsythe waterway entrance, for her own peace of mind. Not that she wanted Balthier to languish away in a prison cell, exactly, but at least if he were locked up, she would know his precise location and he would be unable to treat her to any more surprise visits.
Although she wondered if it would even do her any good - he appeared at such frequent intervals that she wondered if he ever actually left the palace at all. It was such a massive, sprawling estate that she supposed he could probably have commandeered an unused bedroom if he wished, and have no fear of being discovered. And he did have the alarming propensity for appearing in the oddest of places, as if he had been lying in wait for her.
Currently, her guards thought the palace was under a siege of the tiny, bewhiskered, four-footed variety, since she'd had to claim a possible mouse sighting more than once since Balthier's surprise appearance in the library - perversely, he seemed to enjoy shocking her into gasping or shrieking with his ever-more-daring appearances.
Midmorning, and she was out on the terrace, popping bits of flaky pastry into her mouth and sweetening her tea when she glanced up mid-bite to see him leaning casually against a pillar. The resulting gasp caused her to choke; she was overtaken by a coughing fit, thrusting out a hand to ward off one of the guards who had approached in concern. She croaked out an assurance that she would be fine, and the guard backed away, appeased. And not a second too soon, for if he'd taken just one or two more steps forward, Balthier would have come into his line of sight, revealed behind the pillar.
"Are you insane?" she whispered as soon as the guard had returned to his post. "You're sure to be caught! Anyone could see you!"
"Why, darling, I might almost think you were worried for me," he snickered, ducking his head to peek around the pillar and ascertain the whereabouts of the two guards for himself. "Really, palace security is going all to hell on her majesty's watch. I'm surprised no one's walked away with the contents of the treasury yet. They've all but posted a sign reading, 'Thieves welcome.'"
"Don't you dare -"
"Please, I've a fortune of my own; I've no need to pilfer gold and jewels from the queen." That vibrant green gaze raked over her. "I've a far more valuable treasure in mind. Do tell me: where are they keeping you these days?"
She blinked, nonplussed. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your room, darling. Which is it? Making a search of the entire palace is a waste of valuable time which could better be spent on...other things." That licentious smirk; what unmitigated gall he had! As if she would simply give him license to visit her whenever he pleased!
"No, I think not." She relished the aggrieved expression he wore. "It's bad enough tripping over you wherever I go as it is; I'm hardly inclined to invite you to my bedroom."
"A hint," he demanded. "A floor, a wing."
"I value my privacy," she responded primly.
He heaved a sigh. "You must know that I shall discover it eventually."
She finished off her pastry, licking the crumbs from her fingertips, enjoying the low, agonized groan he gave. It was a heady sensation, for once to be on the winning side of a skirmish with him. "Perhaps you will," she said. "But you will find the door barred against you."
"You underestimate my skill with a lock pick," he chided.
"A literal bar, Balthier." She fluttered her eyelashes, pleased, for once, to be in control. "Ashe seemed to think I might be well served by a bit of additional protection. Unless you've a battering ram, I'm afraid you'll be quite out of luck."
"You maddening wench; you're quite enjoying this, aren't you?" He seemed simultaneously appalled and impressed.
"Hmm. Yes, I rather think I am." A sweet smile; what could he do, really? Any move he made toward her would be the last - he'd be clapped in irons quicker than he could blink. Her guards were woefully unobservant, yes, but not that unobservant. Finally she held all the aces, and the power shift was intoxicating; she had never guessed that she would enjoy needling him half as much as she did.
He was tense, as if every muscle in his body ached to make a desperate grab for her. Yet he remained motionless, knowing she had won this round and that he was powerless to force her to cede to his wishes. "All right, darling, have your fun. But know that I shall have my revenge - and it shall be sweet indeed." And he disappeared into the shadows for parts unknown, her guards none the wiser.
Three days had passed in relative peace; Balthier had not sought her out again. Surprisingly, she felt...almost disappointed. She did miss him, she supposed - she could never have claimed boredom while in his company. But he would inevitably grow bored of her; once she was no longer a novelty, desired purely because she was forbidden, he would throw her off in search of greater things, grander adventures. Better to refuse him now and frustrate him into giving up the chase than to be devastated once again when he cast her aside. A small bit of suffering now to prevent another heartbreak.
But she was growing dreadfully weary of palace life. The only thing of any interest left to her was managing her estate, and her steward was doing that admirably in her absence - indeed, she felt the poor fellow was struggling under the weight of the myriad letters she'd dashed off to him. Perhaps in a few weeks, when she could be reasonably sure that Balthier had accepted the futility of his pursuit, Ashe would allow her to visit her estate to see it for herself.
After a long day of letter-writing interspersed with staring aimlessly out the window and wandering the library for a book to relieve her all-encompassing boredom, she wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. She arrived at her room, her guards at her heels.
As ever, they opened the massive, heavy door themselves to let her into her room. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll call should I require anything," she said, and dragged the door shut behind her. They would stay outside her door, of course, until relieved by the night guards. And even though Balthier could not possibly hope to make it past the ever-present guards unseen, she nonetheless slid down the heavy steel bolt, rendering the door impossible to open from the outside without significant force.
"That's the thing about bars, darling. They must be engaged from the inside."
She whirled around; Balthier was emerging from the bathroom where he had secreted himself away and out of sight. He looked supremely satisfied with himself, fairly swaggering on his approach. And something in her chest fluttered, just a bit, like a baby bird testing its wings.
"How...how did you know which room was mine?" The palace was a maze of wings and floors. He could have spent days searching - she caught her breath; he had spent days searching! That was why she'd seen hide nor hair of him for the last few days!
"The soap," he said. "There must be hundreds of rooms in the palace, but yours is the only one with lavender scented soap. Her majesty seems to prefer roses." He wasn't remotely abashed at his actions; his cocky smirk grated on her nerves. "Of course, I've been here for some time. Quite boring here all on my own, but I couldn't chance you locking me out. So I've been doing some investigating to keep myself occupied."
"Investigating...?" She gasped. "You've been snooping through my things!"
"Such an unpleasant word, snooping. Investigating sounds so much more refined."
"Refined? You had no right to paw through my belongings!"
"Do remember there are guards just outside the door, sweet. You'll have to keep your voice down," he scolded lightly, as he moved towards her dresser and tapped a drawer. "I was particularly taken with the contents of this one."
Her undergarments, all the lacy, frilly things that Ashe had somehow talked her into ordering, with a charmingly persuasive speech about how all women deserved a bit of beauty in their lives, to own soft, pretty, feminine things. She felt that familiar wave of heat sweeping over her as outrage warred with embarrassment, clenched her fists to resist the urge to pat her cool hands to her hot cheeks.
"How I have missed those blushes of yours," he said silkily, all masculine satisfaction, further stoking her ire. "I did tell you I would have my revenge, did I not?"
"I could call for the guards." Her voice trembled; her words revealed for the idle threat they were.
A sly smile; he strolled towards her so slowly, his easy gait unhurried - no longer confined to places unseen by ever-present guards, he had all the time in the world. "You could," he said. "But I think you would have already had you intended it. And so here we are, darling. Alone at last." He stopped mere inches before her, raising a hand to stroke her flushed cheek. The past few weeks had been torturous; he could seek her out, see her, speak with her, and yet she was untouchable - her constant companions ensured it. But no longer - her skin was soft, warm beneath his fingertips, and, oh, how he had missed the feel of her, the scent of her.
Those incredible blue eyes were so wide, watching intently, waiting. A few days ago, she had been full of smug amusement at his predicament, but now that he had caught her in her own trap she was all breathless disbelief, outraged indignity. But she swayed on her feet towards the pressure of his fingers, helpless to do anything but wait for him to announce his intentions. And then her gaze strayed over his shoulder, to the massive four-poster bed behind him.
He smiled like he'd won; she wanted to stop on his foot. Instead she jerked her face away from his hand, glared. "Go."
"How would you propose I do that?" he asked innocently. "Your door is under watch; I'll certainly be captured should I leave." He reached up, snagged the ribbon binding her hair, tugged at the end, watched her hair tumble free. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me until morning, darling, unless you should call for the guards."
It was a challenge. Oh, he was clever, and so, so devious. Forcing her to choose between her imprisonment with him or his in jail. His fingers had slipped into her hair, warm and gentle on the back of her neck, not overpowering her, just...touching, stroking. Soothing, rhythmic motions that drove argument from her mind, eased away the tension that had plagued her.
"That's not fair," she said.
"On the contrary," he replied. "It's your security. Your choice, sweet. If at any point you wish to be free of me, simply summon the guards." His hands trespassed no lower than her shoulders, unthreatening, merely...savoring, she thought. Reveling in his victory, because he knew she wouldn't call for help, wouldn't consign him to a cell. She could curse him for that certainty.
Her eyes narrowed on his face, on that indignation-inducing grin. Her hands fisted at her sides as if in preparation for battle. "Just what, exactly, do you plan to do?"
"Anything you like. Or nothing." He withdrew his hands from her shoulders, clasped them behind his back as though he didn't trust himself not to touch her. "Save for leaving this room, I am yours to command."
"Why?"
"You enjoyed your little power play a few days past, and I find that I enjoyed your enjoyment." And he had, actually. Sparring with her was, as ever, proving most entertaining. She was endlessly fascinating; he thought he could be with her for years and still never know the half of what went on inside that mystifying, perplexing mind of hers. She would never bore him.
Her eyes flickered to the door, where, just beyond, rescue waited, had she need of it. She could always call...if he put so much as a single finger out of line. Hers to command? She rather liked the sound of that. "You will do whatever I say?" she asked, doubtfully.
"Within reason," he agreed readily enough. "Of course there are limits. You can hardly expect me to throw myself from the balcony, for example."
"Fine." She thrust out her arm, pointing to indicate the small, elegant sitting area near the balcony; far enough away from the door that they would not be overheard, provided neither of them shouted. "Sit. There."
"So imperious," he tsked. "Power gone to your head already, darling?"
"I don't believe I asked for your opinion," she said sweetly. "Shall I summon the guards?"
"No need." And he complied with her order, moving across the room to take a seat on the sofa. Of course he looked ridiculous upon it; the dainty wooden frame with its floral-pattered upholstery at odds with his rakish appearance. She followed a few steps behind, out of his reach.
"Surely you'd like to change into something more comfortable," he said, and his gaze strayed to the drawer in which her underthings were kept. She snorted; he should be so lucky. But those green eyes latched onto her, smoldered with intent. "I should like to change into something more comfortable," he said.
What could he...? Her eyes widened as his fingers went to the buttons of his vest; she threw out a staying hand. "No! You'll remain as you are."
"Pity." He lounged back, still wearing that damnable smirk. "Do, sit. If you wish, of course."
"Who is giving the orders?" she snapped. But she sat - in a chair, separated from him by a low table. He tried, failed, to smother a chuckle.
"Oh, I assure you, I am at your mercy, sweet." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The question is - what will you do with me?" That warm, velvet voice trickled over her, wrapping her in its decadent insinuation. The invitation to order him into her bed, to command him to touch her, to please her, hovered in the air between them, unspoken. And she was...tempted.
Instead, she drew up her legs, draping her arms around them, curling in on herself. Easier, this way, to avoid temptation. "Why are you here, Balthier?"
"For you," he answered without hesitation. "We weren't finished, you and I." They would never be finished...but he suspected that would frighten her, send her into a panic. He could only be so honest with her without causing alarm.
She rested her chin atop her knees, regarding him with that clear, searching gaze. Judged and found wanting, because she could not bring herself to trust him. She had been so close, before Ashe had stolen her away and spoiled it. Perhaps a few more weeks, and he could have coaxed her into accepting him forever. But beyond his reach, she had had nothing but time to think, to doubt, to relive all the ways he'd wounded her with his callous disregard. To be wounded further each day he had not come for her, unaware of what errand had kept him.
A sigh, a pitiful little sound that wrenched at his heart, made him clench his fists against the desire to hold her, to comfort her. "You're like a child with a toy, Balthier," she said. "You don't really want me. You only want what you can't have. And I don't want to be a toy or a diversion or...or a possession to be tossed aside when I've outlived my usefulness. So you must find someone else. There must be millions of women that would suit you better. Surely there are more beautiful women - find one of them."
"You are beautiful," he said.
"I'm really not, Balthier." She held out a hand, silencing him when he would have argued. "I'm passable enough, yes, but I'm quite certain I'm not a patch on any of your other conquests."
Despite himself, he smiled - she probably wasn't aware of the slight bitterness in her voice, the barest tinge of jealousy that seeped through which she could not quite conceal. And he shifted back, draping an arm over the back of the sofa. "Ask me," he said. "How many women in the past year? You want to know."
She colored furiously, vibrantly. "I don't!"
"You do," he countered. "You're seething with jealousy, sweet. So...ask me, and I'll tell you. Anything you wish to know, I shall tell you."
A moment of hesitation; she considered him, tightened her arms around her legs as though bracing herself for a blow. Finally, she whispered weakly, "How many...?"
"None." He watched the word sink in, her shoulders stiffen, her brows draw together in confusion, denial. "Not one, darling girl. There has been no one since you. You ruined me."
She scrambled off the chair as if he'd posed a physical threat rather than a softly-spoken statement, lurching to a halt some fifteen feet from him, rapid breaths loud in the silence of the room. "I don't believe you," she whispered.
"You ought to," he said. "Rather humiliating thing to admit to, being brought so low." He eased off the sofa, slowly rising to his feet. "I confess, I had expected you to be pleased."
"Why?" she asked, in that sweet, breathless voice. "Why should I be pleased?" Still she stood, rooted to the floor even as he cautiously approached.
"Every woman wishes to know that she is unsurpassable, does she not?" he asked. He stopped mere inches away, valiantly resisting the impulse to touch her, to cup her face in his hands, to stroke his thumb over her full lower lip. "You'd best order me away, darling."
But she stared, such wide, wide eyes, brilliantly blue and framed by thick, dark lashes - eyes that seared away his sins, cleansed him, made him over anew. So expressive; she had once been so adept at hiding her thoughts, but he had unsettled her, ripped the veil away, and now he could see them, all the fears and doubts and desires that lingered there. All the tangled emotions; pleasure interwoven with pain until she could not separate them, could not fathom the one without the other following swiftly on its heels. Then her lashes shaded her eyes, and she whispered, "You'd go, then...if I told you to?"
"Yes." He'd retreat to the sitting area, wrestle his baser urges into submission, and let her pass the night in peace if it was her wish. Building trust, a block at a time. As long as it might take. "But do it now, darling."
And he waited. And waited, the silence fraught with tension. But still she said nothing; tacit permission. And still he gave her time to object as he leisurely stroked her cheek, cupped her chin in his hand, gathered her against him.
Even as he bent his head, brushed his lips over hers, she murmured, "I still don't believe you."
Darling girl, determined to be contrary to the last. He drew her hand up, settling it over his chest. Over his heart. And he whispered in her ear, "You will."