In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  The soldier! Cyrano fell to his knees, his mouth moving wordlessly as the realization that he had been shot broke upon his mind. Distant shouts sounded along the walls. More soldiers!

  He writhed upon the ground, screaming. The clatter of an approaching horse’s hooves on stone filled his ears. The horse moved past him. He dimly heard the scrape of an unsheathed dagger, a startled grunt and the unmistakable chut of a blade piercing human flesh.

  A hand jerked his head upright and he realized that he was staring in the face of the man who had persuaded him to sell his son. Luc.

  “You made such a scene I had to kill the guard who saw too much.” Luc waved a bloody dagger under Cyrano’s nose.

  “M-my son?” Cyrano glared up at him.

  “That boy was not your son, Old Man.” Luc gestured toward the Temple’s walls. “Your son is in there, saving France by taking the real prince’s place.”

  “No!” Cyrano clutched at Luc’s sleeve. “D-don’t do this!”

  “Cyrano Durand.” Luc shook his head. “I could kill you. I should kill you, but I don’t want another unnecessary death on my hands. Not when I’m about to meet my Maker.”

  The shouts of the watch alerted by the gunfire and horses grew closer.

  “You will live.” He grabbed Cyrano’s head and viciously forced his mouth open with the flat of his dagger.

  “Alive.” He slipped his blade between the struggling man’s teeth. “But unable to tell what you have seen!” Cyrano’s screams merged with the tramping of boots as soldiers spilled into the courtyard.

  Luc cast aside the warm, slippery tongue of his victim who bawled in agony upon the ground. His eyes roamed over the swarm of soldiers who rushed toward them as he drew a pair of pistols from his belt.

  “Stand down!”

  Luc disobeyed the order, pulling the trigger and sending one attacking soldier spinning backward. The advancing guards aimed their rifles at him.

  “Drop the weapon! Now!”

  Luc pulled the trigger on the second gun then drew his sword and dagger. Sucking in a deep breath, he charged the ready troops, his black cloak billowing around him.

  “Vive le Roi! His shout echoed off the Temple’s stone walls. Bullets smacked into his arms and chest as he rushed forward. “Vive le Roi. Long live the King!”

  Part 1

  “And out of the ground the Lord God made every tree grow that is pleasant to the sight and good for food. The tree of life was also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” Genesis 2:9 NKJV

  Chapter 1

  Northshire Village, Great Britain. January 1, 1915

  The dark skies above Sussex County belied the fact that the New Year had come. No fireworks illuminated the darkness for fear that the German zeppelins would drop their own firepower on those who watched from the ground. Instead of joyfully proclaiming the hope of a new beginning, church bells tolled an incessant dirge for the dead.

  None of this could stop Malcolm Steele from celebrating his good fortune, however. The affluent son of Sir Thomas Steele, head of the Bank of England, slid his free arm around the bare shoulders of the woman whose blonde head rested lightly on his chest. With the other, he caressed the walnut-trimmed Bakelite steering wheel of his ivory Rolls-Royce. He chuckled as his wandering gaze caught sight of the raised pores on the woman’s skin. Defiant at all costs. That was Leila Macleod. Leila Steele now.

  Despite the frigid temperature that permeated the vehicle’s beveled glass windows, Leila’s scarlet evening gown hung low on her shoulders and her black mink fur remained discarded on the supple leather seats behind them. She confronted the cold with the same feminine grace with which she rebelled against the stagnant rules of society. It was this spark of insubordination that made her utterly irresistible. With just one look, she made his heart throb. With one touch, she stole his mind.

  Leila gave a contented sigh and sat up.

  “What are you laughing at?” Her voice was a throaty whisper that electrified him.

  “At you.” The edges of Malcolm’s narrow mouth curved up in a grin.

  “Me?” Leila pulled away, pretending to pout. Her eyes wandered over the wild curls of his slick black hair and the scruffy beginning of a goatee. His red tie dangled loosely around a white collared shirt whose top two buttons were undone. The jacket of his tuxedo lay next to her shawl, discarded in the back seat.

  “So, you forget how much you love me only a few hours after you marry me?”

  Malcolm’s grin broadened as the memory of their midnight wedding flashed through his mind. It had been done secretly at Leila’s request. No flower girls. No witnesses. Just a priest old enough to be Methuselah’s grandfather, himself and her. While the country soberly contemplated another year of the Great War—a conflict that had already claimed the lives of thousands of British soldiers—Malcolm and Leila had celebrated their nuptials in an inebriated frenzy of wine and lust.

  “Not at you.” Malcolm brushed her face with the backs of his fingers. “At your utter contempt for rules.”

  She threw a teasing smile at him. “But this pleases you?”

  “Of course!” He let go of the wheel and pulled her close, covering her face with kisses.

  Leila pushed him away, giggling. “Malcolm, you’re driving!”

  Laughing, he grabbed the wheel and pulled the swerving vehicle back onto the road. “We’re so alike that, even though we only met a few weeks ago, it’s as if I’ve known you my entire life. We’re both nonconformists, yearning to break free from draconian rules.”

  His smile faded. “That’s why I’ve asked Father to advance my inheritance. You and I will finally be rid of this cage and escape to a country that’s not obsessed with this war. Holland for instance. They’re neutral, right? We’ll live there and show everyone just how perfect we are for each other.”

  Her thick lashes closed over her mesmerizing green eyes.

  “Some would say that we couldn’t be more ill-suited for each other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well... for one thing, I’m twenty-six and you’re twenty-five. I’m a few months older than you.”

  He shrugged. “Not important.”

  “For another,” she hesitated, “you don’t really know anything about me.”

  “I know that you’re irresistible. You’d have to be to stand out from the competition.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “The competition? You mean that gaggle of women at the party you held while your father was away in London? You seriously think they were competition... for me?”

  “Well, I have to admit, I forgot all about the others when you showed up.” Malcolm winked then expelled his breath in a sigh. “I’ve never seen a woman bold enough to come to a party in a devil-red dress that showed more than it covered and challenge me to a drinking match. That’s when I knew you were the one for me.”

  “Hmm... was that before or after you lost?” Her laughter, bright and honest, warmed the air between them. “Eight shots of vodka and you passed out. I was still on my feet.”

  “Yeah.” He slanted her a rueful grin. “I forgot everything that night. Everything but your name.” A comfortable silence fell between them, then he spoke again. “Look Leila, I know everything I need to know about you. I don’t care about the past, only the future that we’ll build together. Nothing else matters.”

  Malcolm sobered, staring ahead at the dark path that curved upward before them. “It’s too bad my father came home earlier than I expected the night of the party.”

  One look at Leila’s outfit and Thomas had taken him into his study and launched into a fiery diatribe about the evils of lust. He had punctuated his sermon by ordering Greyson to throw “the Jezebel” out. Leila had been so furious she didn’t speak to Malcolm for a full half-hour.

  “Do you think your father will agree?” She too had become serious.

  “To giving me my inheritance?”

  “To our marriage. You s
aid he threatened to disinherit you unless you stopped seeing me.” She pointed to the diamond ring that glistened on her finger. “Obviously, you didn’t listen.”

  Malcolm’s mouth flattened. “He wouldn’t throw me out.” He rubbed his hand over the shadow of a beard that clung to his narrow chin. “I’m all the old man has left. He wouldn’t have the heart to take it all away from me now.”

  THE ROLLS-ROYCE SLID forward, gliding over the snow-spattered gravel road. While automobiles were becoming common in the metropolitan areas of Great Britain, Sussex was a rural county. The road they travelled was, in fact, better suited to a carriage than a motorized vehicle.

  “Darling,” Leila moaned and placed a hand across her stomach. “Could you pull over for a moment? I think I might be sick.”

  Concern flashed across Malcolm’s face and Leila averted her eyes. His naiveté was an endearing quality she could not resist.

  “Of course.” Malcolm slowed the car down. “Just hang on a minute.”

  Ahead, the tree-lined path yielded to a prominent hill that protruded out over the small village of Sussex and the vast, wooded acres of Northshire. The light of a brilliant moon flooded the valley. They crested the hill and Malcolm pulled the car to a stop. The instant the car was still, Leila opened the door, and rushed, groaning, to the side of the road.

  She paused by a flat-topped rock and doubled over as though retching. With one hand on the rock for support, she slipped the other beneath her shirt and tugged a small, nondescript cylinder free from its place in the padded wire of her corset.

  The fingertips of her right hand groped against a small ledge along the back of the rock, probing until they touched the edge of a wicker basket.

  Finally!

  She pulled the basket out and lifted the lid. A soft cooing reached her ears. Inside, a small homing pigeon, who trembled despite the warm fur that lined the carrier, cocked its head to one side.

  “Leila are you alright?”

  Malcom’s voice wafted over to her and Leila replied with another pretended groan as her hands worked feverishly.

  She tugged an identical cylinder free from the small satchel beneath the pigeon’s feet and quickly replaced it with the one from her corset.

  Then, coughing while pretending to vomit one last time, she released the pigeon, groaning to cover the sound of flapping wings. She slipped the basket back into the narrow crack between the flattened rock and an adjoining boulder. Straightening, she kept her back to the automobile while shoving the tube she had retrieved underneath her clothes. Satisfied at last, she turned around, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Leila, what is it?” Malcolm rushed over and Leila felt her heart clench. One day she would tell him the truth. One day, he would understand. One day.

  “I’m fine, darling, really.” She threw him a pretty smile.

  He eyed her skeptically. “Do you think you’re...?” His voice trailed off and she found herself laughing at his unspoken question.

  “Malcolm, we’ve only been married for one night!” She laid a hand lightly on his arm. “Children take time to show they’re on the way.”

  “Oh. I see.” Malcolm chuckled and let out his breath in a whoosh. “Well, I’ve got just the thing for you.” He took her hand and led her back to the car.

  “Oh?” She leaned against the sleek surface of the Rolls Royce. “And what is that?”

  Smiling, he pulled a lever and she watched, slack-jawed, as the rear passenger seats pulled back to reveal a full picnic basket and a set of six decanters.

  Malcolm opened the basket and pulled out a bottle of sparkling wine. “Pour it out and let’s have one last go before we face the old dragon!”

  Leila shook her head and reached for her glass. This was why she loved him. His devil-may-care approach to life sent surges of fresh exhilaration through her veins. She unleashed his inner beast and he satisfied her raw hunger to challenge the unknown. Perhaps we are not so ill-suited after all.

  He had draped her mink shawl over her shoulders while she poured the scarlet liquid, but now she shrugged it off, letting the chilly air ignite her passion.

  Malcolm tossed back the drink, eyeing her carefully. She caught his gaze and mimicked him, gulping down the contents of her glass in one swallow. She refilled their glasses and this time he lifted his in a toast, then turned to gaze at the valley below them.

  “May we always be free to stand in the night and drink until we forget our troubles!”

  “Oh.” She purred as she leaned into his arms and traced her index finger slowly down the curve of his neck. “We’ll do much more than that, my love. Much... much more than that.”

  Chapter 2

  Northshire Estate, Great Britain. January 1, 1915

  Sir Thomas Steele, Earl of Northshire, stood with his spine stiff, chest thrust forward, and hands clasped behind his back near an immense oblong window. On the other side of the drawing room, a crackling fire radiated heat from the confines of a marble hearth.

  It was four o’clock in the morning of New Year’s Day but Thomas, who directed the Bank of England, was still dressed in the same dark-gray suit and red necktie that he had worn to an emergency meeting with Prime Minister David Lloyd George in London earlier that evening.

  This was not a time for sleep. Doubts riddled his mind like bullets, wounding him in a way that no one could perceive. Whereas most of Europe saw only the war that soaked the battlefields of Belgium and France with human blood, Thomas was aware of another battle that raged in the spiritual world. Millions had perished in a struggle for the land, but countless more stood to lose the unseen conflict between good and evil that raged over their souls. Tonight, both struggles had come to his home.

  Thomas sighed as he massaged his temples. Some would call him a success. He was a venerated retired general and a friend of Robert Hughes, the head of the foreign section of the British Secret Intelligence Service. He led the nation’s most powerful financial institution. The Bank of England funded a large portion of Great Britain’s war expenses. After the war—assuming the country survived—he stood to gain quite a bit of profit. But everything he had achieved was ashes without the love of his son.

  Malcolm. He turned and cast somber brown eyes around the expansive drawing room. “Where have I failed as a father?” Ceiling-high bookcases, filled with thousands of volumes, sprawled out on either side of the hearth. A gleaming revolver—a relic from his participation in the Tirah Campaign of India twenty years earlier—caught his eye. Was that it? Perhaps it had been his periods of extended absence in service to his country that had destroyed his ability to connect with Malcolm.

  He was a patriot. When serving as a senior officer, Thomas had gone without question wherever his king had sent him. It was only now, as he battled his dying relationship with his son, that he wondered if the price of his service had been too high.

  His gaze shifted to the right. Above the fireplace hung a massive portrait of Malcolm’s mother, Isabella. “I’m sorry, my love.”

  “Forgive me, your Lordship, but you must not continue to blame yourself for her death.”

  Thomas swiveled to face his butler, a giant of a man who had become more of a friend than a servant over the past two decades. Since his conversion, during what was now called the Welsh Revival, he had done his best to serve God. Greyson had also been among the converts. It was then that their bond had evolved from master and servant to a sort of fraternal camaraderie.

  “Greyson.” His eyes shifted from the butler’s black swallowtail coat and spotless white shirt to the face of his dead wife. He steeled himself against the dull ache in his heart that never faded despite the incessant march of time. After Isabella’s death, Thomas had been unable to deny Malcolm any of his varying wants.

  He had given his son free reign while drowning his grief in his work at the Bank of England, hoping that material trifles would distract the boy from the emptiness caused by his mother’s passing. It appeared that his indulgence
had created yet another problem. He now had a reckless prodigal on his hands.

  “The cancer was too far advanced, your Lordship.” Greyson’s resonant voice broke through his troubled thoughts.

  “I should have found a way.” Thomas pounded his fist against the palm of his left hand. “A new doctor. Another new medicine.” He gripped the back of a leather-embossed armchair. “Think of it, man. We live in an age of science and still diseases can rip out our hearts at any time!”

  His butler arched an eyebrow. “We both know that science is not the answer.”

  “I know.” Thomas exhaled slowly. “It is God who gives life and God who takes it when our purpose is complete. But it hurts, Greyson.”

  His gaze shifted to the portrait of Malcolm. Slick black hair crested a narrow face and scruffy beard. He looked more like a playboy than the son of a renowned officer of the British Armed Forces. But that was what Malcolm had become—a selfish embarrassment who stood to inherit an immense fortune upon his father’s death.

  “Isabella would have known how to keep him in line.” Thomas folded his arms across his chest.

  “You believe the Lady Isabella could have stopped him from choosing this path?”

  Thomas barked out a laugh as his eyes flitted to the butler. “Of course! I could always rely on her to get through to our son.”

  “Then perhaps, Sir Thomas, that is why God has taken her away from you.” A faint smile touched Greyson’s lips. “So that you will rely only upon Him.” He dipped his head. “Sometimes a father must break his son’s heart, so he can prove just how much he cares.”

  For a moment, Thomas couldn’t answer. A part of him rebelled at the thought that a loving father would take such extreme measures, but the soldier within him recognized the truth of Greyson’s words. Discipline. It was the difference between a murderer and a soldier, between a mob and an army. Realization flooded his mind. There was only one way to deal with the rebellion brewing in his own son’s heart.