The Beloved Scoundrel

by Iris Johansen

  “And it won’t happen now,” he said grimly. “I’m not known to be above debauchery, but I don’t rape children.”

  But she wasn’t a child. The delicate beauty of her features should have reflected wonder instead of raw wariness; her clear blue eyes gazed at him with a worldliness far beyond her years, and her lips were set tight to prevent their trembling. He had seen the same look on the faces of the children in the towns and villages along Kazan’s border, and it made him as angry now as it had then. “Where are your parents?”

  She did not answer at once, and when she did, she spoke so softly, he had to strain to hear. “Dead.”

  “How?”

  “Papa died two years ago.”

  “And your mother?”

  She shook her head. “I … don’t want to tell you.”

  “How did your mother die?” he repeated.

  “The duke.”

  He remembered her earlier accusation. “The Duke of Nebrov?”

  She nodded.

  It was no surprise to him. The powerful Duke of Nebrov had launched an insurrection against his brother, King Josef, over a year ago. It had been a bitter struggle, and both armies had almost been destroyed before the duke had been forced to acknowledge a defeat. The king’s forces had been too scattered and weak to pursue Nebrov to his own lands, where he was now licking his wounds and undoubtedly building a new army. As he retreated, he had made sure that Montavia suffered as much as possible and given his men free rein to rape and pillage as they pleased. On Jordan’s journey to Talenka from Kazan he had traveled through town after town like this one that had been shelled and sacked, its inhabitants murdered and brutalized. “One of the duke’s troops killed your mother?”

  She shook her head. “The duke,” she whispered. She stared straight ahead as if the scene was there before her. “He did it. He did it.”

  “The duke himself?” That was unusual. Zarek Nebrov was a brutal bastard, but his rage was usually cold and controlled, and he seldom indulged in spilling blood without reason. “Are you sure?”

  “He came to our cottage, and he … I’m sure.” She shuddered. “Mama told me who he was.… She had seen him before. He hurt … her, and then he killed her.”

  “Why?”

  He received no reply.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” she said haltingly. “If you do not wish to hurt me, may I go now?”

  Christ, he felt as brutal a bastard as Nebrov. The girl was helpless and in pain. He should just call Gregor and have him send one of his men to find the girl’s nearest relations and take her to them. But he knew he had to find out more. The coincidence was too blatant. She had come to see the Window and, by her few agonized words, it appeared the girl’s mother had been tortured before she had been killed. Nebrov never did anything without reason. “No, you may not go.” He held out his cloak to her again. “You will put on this cloak.” He deliberately kept his tone hard, but he sat down in a pew so that he would appear less threatening. Standing, he felt like a giant looming over her fragile form. “Sit down.”

  “I won’t talk about that anymore,” she said unsteadily. “No matter what you do to me.”

  That painful memory was probably her biggest weakness, but he found he couldn’t strike at it. “Stay,” he said wearily. “I promise I’ll never ask you to talk about that night again.”

  She hesitated, her gaze searching his face. Then she took his cloak and slipped it on but did not sit down. “Why do you want me to stay?”

  “I’m not sure.” He was probably wasting his time here. He had done all he could. Now that he knew the Window was destroyed, his only course was to meet with Janus so that he could carry the word to Kazan and then set out for Samda and try to find Pogani. Even if this waif knew something she wasn’t telling, the Window was broken, dammit. Yet he couldn’t let it rest until he was certain Nebrov hadn’t discovered something he had not. His gaze returned to the cavity surrounded by jagged glass. “It seems strange that we were both brought together at this place and time. Do you believe in Fate?”

  “No.”

  “I do. My mother had Tartar blood, and she must have instilled a belief in the Fates with mother’s milk.” His stare never left the empty window. “The town is sacked and deserted, you couldn’t be sure the duke’s forces wouldn’t return, you and your brother are ragged and in want, and yet you picked this time to come to see the Window? Why?”

  “Why did you?” she countered.

  “I wished to acquire it. I heard it was magnificent, and I wished to take it back to my home.”

  “You wished to steal it.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You wished to steal it,” she repeated, her tone uncompromising.

  “All right, have it your way. I wished to steal it.” He met her gaze. “Now, why did you come?”

  Those clear, fierce eyes slid away from his own. “I had to see if it was still there.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “It would be wise of you to answer me.”

  Her defiant gaze shifted back to him, and her tone was scornful as she echoed his own lie. “Why, I heard it was magnificent, and I wanted it for my home.”

  The girl had courage. She was still frightened, and yet she refused to yield. He was careful not to show the flicker of admiration he felt. “Shall I go to the garden and fetch your brother? I’m sure he would tell me why you’re here.”

  “Leave him alone!”

  “Then tell me the truth.”

  She burst out, “Because it was mine!”

  Christ! He hid the excitement that jolted through him. “The pope would not agree. Everything in his churches belongs to God and so to him.”

  “It is mine,” she said fiercely. “My grandmother gave it to me before she died last year.”

  He was careful to keep his expression impassive. “How kind of her. And what right did she have to bestow such a gift?”

  “She created it. She said the church did not pay us for the work, so it was still ours.”

  “I fear she told you a falsehood. The Window was created by Anton Pogani, a great craftsman.”

  She shook her head. “He was my grandfather, but it wasn’t he who was the craftsman, it was my grandmother.”

  His brows lifted. “A woman?” Surely no woman could have had the artistry and skill to create the Window’s twenty-three panels portraying man’s climb from the earthly plane to Paradise.

  “That’s why she had to let him lay claim to the work. They would not have accepted the work of a woman. It is always our women who do the work.”

  “Always?”

  She nodded. “For over five hundred years the women in my family have worked with glass. We’re trained from the time we leave the cradle. My mother said I have a special gift, and when I’m grown, I will be as great a craftsman as my grandmother.”

  A flare of hope shot through him. “And just how familiar are you with the Window to Heaven?”

  He had deliberately kept his tone offhand, but she went rigid. Wariness when there should have been no such response. He retreated quickly and changed the subject. “What do the men of your family do while you’re creating these glorious works?”

  A little of her tension eased. “Whatever they wish. They are well taken care of.”

  “Then it’s the women who work to provide the living and care for the men of the family?”

  She looked at him, frowning. “Of course, it is our duty. We always— Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Forgive me if I find the idea extraordinary.”

  She shifted uneasily. “I must go. Alex is waiting.”

  “And where will you go? I assume your home is in ruins like the rest of Talenka.”

  “We didn’t live here. Our cottage was just outside Samda.”

  Samda was over seventy miles to the west. “Then how did you get here?”

  “We walked.”


  The journey from Samda through this war-ravaged land would have been a rough, dangerous trek even for a man on horseback, and yet the child had been driven to forge her way to the church on foot. “Do you have relatives in Samda?”

  “I have no one anywhere,” she said matter-of-factly, but desolation echoed beneath the words.

  He had a sense of everything coming together. After all the hell and blood that had gone before, Fate had finally got it right! He hadn’t even had to go to Pogani; the Jedalar had come to him. “Then I’ll take you with me.”

  She stared at him, stunned.

  “Come with me,” he repeated. His eyes glinted with recklessness. “It’s clear you were sent to me as a gift, and I never refuse a gift from the gods.”

  She started backing away from him, looking at him as if he had gone mad. Well, he felt a little mad at the moment. Despair and anger had changed to hope, and that could be a heady brew.

  “How can you take care of your Alex without help? He needs hot food and warm clothing. I can give it to you.”

  She hesitated. “Why … would you do this?”

  “Perhaps I wish to do my kindly Christian duty and aid two orphans,” he said mockingly.

  Those clear blue eyes searched his expression. “But I think you’re not a kind man.”

  “How clever of you to realize that fact, but you’re not entirely correct. I do practice kindness … when it’s convenient. It is convenient now. Isn’t that fortunate for you and your Alex?”

  She shook her head, her gaze clinging to his.

  He could see she wanted desperately to be convinced. All he had to do was say the words she wanted to hear. He tried to decide the best way to proceed. Persuading women to do as he wanted them to do had never been a problem for him. He had learned to charm and beguile before he left the nursery. Yet he was curiously reluctant to lie to this big-eyed waif. “You’re quite right. I’ve never been known to follow the path of duty. I’ve always found it an abysmal bore.” He continued crisply. “Very well, I do have a reason for wanting to help you, but I have no intention of divulging it at present. If you want to come with me, then you’ll do so on my terms. You’ll agree to obey me without question, and in return I’ll promise that there will be food and shelter and protection for both of you as long as you’re under my care. If you choose not to come, then you can stay here in these ruins and let your brother starve to death.”

  He turned and started back up the aisle. It was a gamble. He had no intention of leaving her here even if it meant abducting her, but it would be simpler if she made the decision.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped but didn’t turn around. “You’re coming with me?”

  “Yes.” She moved brusquely forward ahead of him. “I’ll go with you.” She added quickly, “For now. But Alex stays in the garden until I’m sure it’s safe. I’ll take food and blankets to him.”

  “As you like. But you’d better make up your mind quickly. I intend to leave this town by sunrise.”

  “That’s too soon,” she said, panic-stricken.

  “Sunrise,” he repeated. “What did the boy call you? Marianna?”

  “Marianna Sanders.”

  “Sanders.” He opened the heavy door for her. “That’s not a Montavian name.”

  “My father was English.” She slanted him a glance. “Like you.”

  He recalled his outburst of profanity when he had seen the broken window. “And your mother?”

  She looked away from him. “Montavian.” She asked quickly, “Why is an Englishman in Montavia?”

  “Because he wants to be,” he said mockingly. “You’ve not asked me my name. I’m hurt you have so little interest when we’re to be fast companions.”

  “Well, what is it?” she said impatiently.

  He bowed. “Jordan Draken. At your service.”

  A sharp gust of wind struck them as they started down the steps, and she frowned. “It’s getting colder. I need that blanket for Alex. I can’t leave him out there without—”

  “Ah, Jordan, you were in the church so long, I thought you were taking holy vows,” a voice boomed.

  Marianna stopped short on the steps as she saw the huge man coming toward them. She had thought Jordan Draken was tall, but this was a bear of man, towering almost seven feet.

  The giant threw back his head, and his laugh again boomed out. “I should have known you would have found a woman to amuse you even in this deserted hovel.” As he drew closer, the moonlight revealed a face as intimidating as his great bulk. He must be near his fortieth year, and his face reflected evidence that those years had been spent in violence. His nose had been broken, and his gray-streaked black hair was a wild, tousled tangle framing cheekbones that looked as if they had been chipped from a mountain. A jagged white scar curved from his left eye, across his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

  “Easy,” Draken said quietly. “It’s only Gregor. He won’t hurt you.”

  How did she know that? she wondered wildly. She looked beyond the giant to the men who sat astride their horses at the foot of the steps. There were at least fifteen of them, several bearing flaming torches, and they all looked as wild as this Gregor. They wore black fur hats and strange, quilted bulky tunics trimmed with fox fur and sheepskin, their wide trousers tucked into high leather boots that reached their knees. Rifles were holstered on their saddles, and each man wore a huge sword at his hip. Why had she consented to come with Draken? She knew the answer. Alex was ill. Alex must have warmth and shelter, and it had seemed worth any risk to see if this man could give it to him.

  “Stay where you are, Gregor.” Draken turned to her as the giant stopped on the fifth step. “No one will hurt you. I gave you my promise.”

  And he had not lied to persuade her to come with him, she remembered. He had given her a choice, and she had made it. She mustn’t be a coward now. She threw her shoulders back and demanded, “Tell him to give me a blanket for Alex.”

  An undefinable expression crossed his face. “Very well.” He said to Gregor, “Go fetch a blanket for the lady.”

  He nodded his shaggy head and loped back down the steps to a giant of a horse. He opened a saddlebag and took out a sheepskin blanket. He turned, took the stairs three at a time, and stopped before Marianna. “Here.” He thrust the blanket at her and smiled with surprising sweetness. “I’m Gregor Damek, and I know I’m an ugly monster of a fellow, but I don’t eat children. I promise you.”

  In that terrifying visage, his hazel eyes were gentle, and she felt the tiniest ripple of warmth go through her as she took the blanket. “My … name is Marianna,” she said haltingly.

  “Take the blanket to your brother,” Draken said to her. “We’ll set up camp at the north edge of the town. There will be hot food and a warm fire for you both.” He turned and started down the steps. “If you decide to trust me.”

  He had come for the Window. She couldn’t trust anyone who wanted the Window to Heaven. Yet he was English, and why would an Englishman want the Window except for the reason he had given her? Perhaps she could trust him … a little.

  “Wait.” Her hand went to the fastening at her throat. “Your cloak.”

  “Return it to me later.” He mounted his horse with loose-limbed grace and lifted his hand to his followers. He was not dressed as they were; his tight dark blue trousers, intricately tied cravat, and fine coat reminded her of the kind of clothes Papa had worn when he had visitors from England. Yet, curiously, he did not look out of place with these men. She had a sense he possessed that same wildness, but it was controlled, channeled, as theirs was not.

  The hollow clatter of hooves echoed on the cobblestones as the horsemen turned north. He was leaving her, once again letting her make a choice. The knowledge brought a sudden lift of spirits as she clutched the sheepskin blanket to her breasts and hurried back up the steps.

  What a frightened little dove.” Gregor’s expression was sad as he looked back over his shoulder at the doorway thro
ugh which Marianna had disappeared. “There are so many wounded children in this land. It hurts my heart not to be able to help them.”

  “That ‘little dove’ nearly emasculated me,” Jordan said grimly. “I assure you, she’s far more falcon than dove.”

  Gregor’s eyes twinkled. “Then you did try to mount her. For shame—and in a holy church too.”

  “I mounted her, but not in the way you mean. She tried to kill me with an iron candlestick.”

  “Because you frightened her. Her brother is inside the church?”

  “In the garden.”

  Gregor frowned. “I will go and get them. They may be too frightened to approach us.”

  “No, let her come to me.”

  “But I think—”

  “The Window to Heaven was shattered,” Jordan interrupted. “It’s completely useless.”

  Gregor gave a shocked exclamation. “Who?”

  “Well, we know it wasn’t Nebrov. I suspect it was broken accidentally when he tried to capture the town.”

  Gregor grimaced. “I would not like to have been the officer in charge of the troop who made that mistake. I wonder why he didn’t secure Talenka before he marched on to the capital.”

  “Arrogance. He thought he would wrest the entire country from King Josef and then have all the time in the world to steal the Window to Heaven. It was only when he was defeated that the urgency of the matter hit home. He needed the Window to barter with Napoleon for power and support.” He paused. “However, when they smashed the Window, it seems he tried to rectify the error. He took a troop and rode west to the cottage of Anton Pogani.”

  “The man who created the Window?”

  “So everyone thought. Your ‘dove’ tells me the work was done by her grandmother.” He briefly related the details he had learned from Marianna.

  Gregor whistled. “Poor little girl. No wonder you’re being so kind to her.”

  “For God’s sake I’m not being kind. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? She won’t admit it, but she knows the Window to Heaven. She’s been trained in glassmaking, and someday she may be as good a craftsman as her grandmother. It’s a chance, but it’s the only one we have.”