EIGHTEEN
Hunedoara, Romania, 1494
“Elena, allowing Sofia to run away with Costin will only inflame the situation. Costin must remain. When Sofia returns, I’ll explain why fleeing with Costin is too dangerous. Then the two of you will pack and I’ll see you both away tonight. There is no other choice.”
“Costin will not understand, Vilhem. Don’t you think I tried?”
“I’ll speak with the boy myself and make him understand. Your safety and Sophia’s comes first.”
“He’s convinced that he is the only one who can protect her. It’s too late. I’ve made arrangements on their behalf and I know where they are going. They’ll be safe enough as long as they get away in time. We don’t have any choice and, besides, the farther away she is from that castle, the safer she is.”
“Safer?” Vilhem spat. “Tell me the plans. I’ll send a messenger on your behalf and see that the plans are cancelled.”
Sofia watched with guilt as her mother dropped her head into her palms. She was clearly torn between protecting her and listening to him. A moan escaped her mother’s lips and Sofia grew angry. By what right did this man—her mother’s lover—have to dictate orders with regards to her? He was nothing to Sofia.
“No. I can’t tell you,” Elena said. “I promised that I wouldn’t.”
Vilhem stepped forward and rested his hand on Elena’s shoulder.
“Elena, don’t be foolish. Allow me to protect her. I’m her father and I know what’s best for her. I’m her father.”
Sofia’s cheeks flamed with anger. Vilhem admitted to being her father. So, Alexandra had been telling the truth. What else was that devilish woman right about? She considered marching back inside and confronting her mother, but Vilhem’s presence stopped her. She had suspected he was her father at times but her mother had denied it—telling her that her real father was dead.
She turned her gaze back to the window just in time to see her mother jerk away as if Vilhem’s touch had burned her. “Do not presume to tell me how to raise my daughter. I am her mother and I know what is best. If you don’t want her running away then I have no choice. I will go to the castle and use my magic on the old woman, if I save Alexandra’s mother, she will be indebted to me and as payment I will ask that she step aside and allow the two to marry.”
“She will refuse,” Vilhem said.
She shook her head in disbelief. “Then I’ll strike the bargain before I save her mother.”
His mouth curved in the first smile of the night, despite the sadness in his gaze. “So strong,” he said softly. “And so very stubborn. All right, then. You play a very dangerous game but you are a worthy opponent. Come, let us save the old woman—although she’s hardly worth it. She’d see you hang, just as her daughter would.”
Growing uncomfortable, Sofia shifted her weight. Something cracked beneath her foot. She froze. Her mother’s gaze snapped to the window. Sofia ducked down. Holding her breath, she stood perfectly still, her blood pounding in her ears until they resumed their conversation.
“You must go. It will only anger Alexandra further if we arrive together. Go to her and tell her I’ll be there in the morning. There is something I must first do.”
Vilhem’s gentleness vanished, replaced by disbelief and anger. “I’ll not allow you to approach the castle alone. The villagers are incensed and they’re looking to find fault. You’re deceiving yourself if you think they will protect you just because you healed them a time or two. The ignorant fools would gladly call you a witch and see your neck snapped.”
“I said go!” Elena shouted. Sofia jumped. She’d never heard her mother shout at a man before. “Get out!”
Vilhem backed away, his jaw working as if he might chew through Elena’s resistance and then his head dropped. “I’ll go, as you wish, but I’ll keep a watch for you from the castle.” His fervent gaze met Elena’s smoldering one. “Please, Elena. Be careful what you do in front of Alexandra. You can’t trust her.”
Sofia pressed herself flat against the smooth boards of the cottage and waited for Vilhem to disappear through the trees. She barely felt Daphania nudge her with her wet nose. Her chest rose and fell as her mind reeled with the information she’d just gathered. Surely her mother couldn’t spell someone’s illness better. Surely, she wasn’t all powerful. Or was she?
NINETEEN
A deep breath as I stepped inside, moving from room to room until I reached the kitchen. The house carried the fresh aroma of lavender and pine, clean laundry, and freshly washed floors. Cullen had done a bang-up job getting the house ready for company. The copper pots and pans were all neatly hung over the butcher block and the antique china dishes all freshly washed and piled to the left of the farm sink. All that was missing was dinner. Time to get to work, I thought, pulling tomatoes and red peppers from the fridge.
Cullen had disappeared—soaking in the hot tub—but Alana kept me company, putting on a mini fashion show while I chopped, sautéed, and prepped dessert. Amidst the floral-patterned skirts, crop tops, and black leather tights, I noticed a faint tattoo of a crescent moon on her inner wrist. It might have only been henna but I couldn’t get a close enough look. Having just made up, I decided now was not the time to get into it, so I played it cool and pretended I was tattoo blind. Not that I have a problem with ink, I had one myself on my ribs, but she hadn’t even consulted me, and why a crescent moon? The backdoor opened and in popped Leslie, saving me from my thoughts.
“Mmm. Something smells exotic.”
“I know, right? I’m salivating,” I answered, reaching inside my cupboard of spices. I pulled out some oregano and chili flakes and ran my hand over the door as I closed it. It was scarred from an incident with Alana when she was little. She’d decided to draw a picture with a fork. Funny enough it also looked like a moon.
“Hey, did you know Alana got a tattoo?” I asked Leslie. She didn’t respond, so I turned to look for her but she had disappeared.
“Where’s Alana?” she asked bouncing back into the kitchen, a bottle of wine in hand.
“I think she’s braiding her topknot. Or she could be changing her outfit again.”
I rolled my eyes and Leslie laughed.
“Don’t act like you don’t do it too.”
True. My dressing room looked like a tornado zone at times.
“I’m kind of sad I have to go and miss this epic dinner party,” Leslie said, stealing a piece of meat out of the pan.
“Hey! That’s not cooked all the way through yet.”
She shrugged her small thin shoulders and grinned.
“Open the wine, would you? I’ll pour you a glass. You can steal the cheese as I cut it.”
She grinned as I set the glasses on the counter and poured.
One glass of wine, several pieces of cheese and two ladles of arrabbiata sauce later, Leslie was happy but not satiated.
“Did you by chance do any baking this week?” she asked.
“I bake like twice a year. How do you always know when? I swear you are part hound.”
She laughed. “Your predictable is what you are. You always bake around Alana’s birthday. Why do you think I visit more around this time of year?”
I pulled out a tin of fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies from the cupboard and watched her pry it open.
“Mmm . . . scrumptious. Homemade cookies make everything better.” Her mouth was full of cookie as Alana finally descended the stairs. Her long, strawberry-blond hair hung down to her small perky breasts, much of which were on display above a scoop neckline. Her eyes were glossy like she’d covered them in petroleum and heavy black liner, accented by ruby-red lips.
“Come on, Les. We’re gonna be late. I told Sinead we’d be there to pick her up like fifteen minutes ago,” she said, rushing to the door.
I gave Leslie a look and we both smirked. Teenagers.
“Have fun. Behave yourselves—especially you,” I said, pointing at Leslie who stuck out her tongue and gav
e me the universal rocker hand symbol.
Alana laughed and joined in.
I couldn’t help but once again notice the mark on her wrist. I was almost positive it hadn’t been there last week, so she must have gotten it in the last few days. Móraí probably took her to get it for her birthday. Leslie would surely give me the lowdown later.
The door slammed shut and I pushed the frustration away—time to get dressed. I walked up the stairs and into my closet and instantly relaxed—it was every woman’s dream. Cullen had done an amazing job customizing it for me but it was still crowded. A problem I didn’t mind having. Speaking of that handsome man of mine, I could hear the water running in the bathroom as I swiped the clothing to the side—everything from cotton slip dresses to one-piece pant suits. I finally settled on a white crop top and beige palazzo pants. I skipped the rows of shoes, hats, purses, and jewelry and had just made it back downstairs when the doorbell chimed.
“Oh, hello. Come on in, Sandra and…”
“Remus Ceaușescu,” the salt-and-pepper-haired man said, holding out his hand with a half-hesitant smile. Dressed in a navy-blue jacket over khaki pants, he exuded wealth, privilege, and innate confidence. He had one arm wrapped around Sandra Brun, who oddly enough appeared quiet and fragile, almost lost in the Kennedy-esque glamour of her ensemble. She handed me a bakery box. “For dessert, my dear. A little birdie told me you like tarts.”
“Thank you, Sandra. I was craving one of these earlier although I hardly need it. My jeans have begun a revolution against me. “
“I have a gift for you as well—a rare 2003 vintage from one of my favorite vineyards,” Remus said, speaking with a faint Indo-European accent that I couldn’t quite place. Slavic, perhaps—like Rochus?
I admired the label—Davino Domaine Ceptura. “This is Romanian, right?” I asked.
“Da,” Remus answered in a surprised tone. “You’re very worldly, I see.”
I smiled and shrugged. I was always researching the oddest things. I found the Roma culture fascinating. Cullen had been asked to restore a castle there soon and I really wanted to tag along.
“Is that where you’re from? Romania? I met a girl once while travelling in France—she called herself a gypsy and told me the most amazing stories. She’d lived near this vineyard for a time.”
The Doctor looked at his wife strangely and then smiled back at me, ushering her into the entryway. “I haven’t lived there since I was a young man—I thought I did a better job of hiding my accent.”
I wondered if I’d said something taboo. Some people were sensitive and many people associated Roma culture with being thieves and liars—although Remus hardly resembled either; he looked more like a politician—which was, coincidentally enough, a group of people with a similar reputation. Zing. Glad I hadn’t said that aloud.
“Let me take your coats and then we can head into the dining room. I’ve got a bottle of shiraz breathing right now but we can dip into this next.”
“Where’s Cullen?” Sandra questioned.
“Upstairs in the shower. He went for a dip in the hot tub about an hour ago—his neck was bothering him. He should be down any minute, and Alana’s off to that concert with Leslie but I think I already mentioned that.”
“You did,” she said handing me her heavy red coat. “Would you look at those diamond-paned windows—and that brass chandelier—so whimsical—reminds me of another cottage.”
“Snow White’s? I thought the same thing when I first stepped through the door and saw the peaked arches. I keep waiting for Sleepy and Dopey to show up but I’m afraid I’m on my own there.”
Sandra nodded but stared off into the distance, ignoring my attempt at humor. Humph. Leslie would have laughed.
“Cullen lived here when I met him so I can’t take credit for anything aside from furniture, pillows and possibly a painting or two.”
“That’s an interesting painting of the castle over the fireplace. Where did you get it?”
“Do you like it? Our daughter, Alana, painted it. She said she saw it in a dream. Cullen loves it. Personally, I find the castle a touch creepy but I couldn’t resist hanging it. She’s just so talented. She’s working on the most adorable cottage for the bookstore, sort of a witch theme.”
Sandra reached her hand up and ran her finger along the canvas.
“I want to buy them all.”
“That’s very sweet but we couldn’t possibly part with them. I’ll ask Alana though and maybe she’ll paint you something new.”
“I want this castle. Tell her to name her price.”
I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with Sandra’s pushiness.
“Cullen’s an architect, correct?” the Doctor asked, changing the subject.
I turned back around appreciatively. “Yes, he loves old houses, buildings, anything from the past, especially castles.”
“She’s bang on,” Cullen said, stepping into the room from the opposite end. “What can I say? To me, old houses might as well be ancient Temples. I even like the smell when I open up the walls: the distinctive musty aroma of history.”
He was wearing snug grey jeans with suspenders that hung from the waist, accompanied by a fitted, long-sleeve shirt that put his muscles on display in a way that made me gulp. He already had a pint of Guinness in his hand. That was my Irish lad.
“And you must be the infamous Cullen,” Sandra said, beaming at him from in front of the fireplace.
Cullen strode the rest of the way across the living room and held out his hand.
Sandra smiled at the gesture and pulled him in for a big hug. The doctor and I exchanged a look.
“Cullen feels about architecture how I feel about books,” I interjected with a laugh, “I guess that’s why we get along. We both love our relics.”
“And soon we’ll become them,” Remus added, joining in on the fun.
“Yes, but hopefully not too soon,” Sandra said with a mock pout. “I’ve only just gotten rid of my wrinkles.”
You could say that again.
“I think ye look grand,” Cullen said, managing to wrestle himself out of her grip.
Sandra’s eyes lit up and I smirked. Cullen had charmed yet another woman.
“There’s food on the table. Please join me in the dining room.”
The doctor promptly followed me and took a seat. “What kind of cheese is this?” He inquired.
I eyeballed the platter to make sure I wasn’t missing anything: cured meats, cheese, nuts, fruit and preserves. Nope. Got it all. “That’s sharp Cheddar. There’s also Edam, Gouda and this one is St. Nectaire,” I popped a wedge of the nutty, creamy cheese into my mouth.
“This looks delicious, Sophia. I’ll have to chain myself to the treadmill,” Sandra said with a laugh. I was happy to see her back to normal. That painting had made her weird for a moment.
“And it’s just the beginning. I hope you like pasta. It’s the only dish I can manage.”
“It’s savage like all of her cooking,” Cullen said, pouring wine in all of our glasses. “Sophia is a modest gal.”
“Isn’t she though—some people never change,” Sandra said. Had I detected a snarky tone?
“No, people don’t change but they do evolve and grow,” the Doctor added in.
“Yes, and thank heavens for that. Speaking of which, Cullen, I see you have a beard now which I don’t see in any of your other family photos. Is this the latest trend? I’ve noticed much of the young men in the Dublin coffee shops sporting the look,” Sandra asked.
“Ah, it does seem to be popular with the lads these days—that and those beanie hats. I can’t say I’m quite as hip, just lazy and taking a week off from shavin’. I’ll be right as rain Monday morning before my flight. Can’t have the clients thinking I’m a manky scab.”
“Just the company, huh?” I teased.
Sandra chuckled, “hardly—not with those eyes, and that commanding bone structure. Perhaps an important military leader or a ruthless ruler—
but never as you so eloquently put it, ‘a manky scab.’”
I didn’t bother to ask what being a ruthless ruler and having attractive features had to do with each other. Sandra had never met Cullen before so I was surprised by her apparent infatuation with him—although he did have that effect on women.
The oven timer went off and I went to get up.
“Sit, my love, I’ve got it.”
I smirked.
Saved by the bell, I thought as Cullen headed into the kitchen. He wasn’t good with flattery, no Irishman really liked compliments or at least they didn’t know what to do with them. This I had discovered after several awkward conversations.
He returned to the table a couple of minutes later with the final dish, removing its lid and releasing the smell of penne and sausage mingled with sautéed garlic and peppers. It wreaked havoc on my taste buds.
“That’s everything,” I said, dishing out the pasta to our guests first. “Please dig in.” I sat down and sprinkled some chili peppers onto my bowl. “Oh, no, I lied. I almost forgot the water,” I said jumping up and heading back into the kitchen.
“So, Remus, I hear ye’re a doctor,” Cullen commented. “Ye do a serious amount of nips and tucks, do ye?”
“Not quite. I’m a psychotherapist,” Remus corrected before taking his first bite.
“A head doctor, really? I thought Sophia said ye were a plastic surgeon.”
I shook my head and smirked at Cullen, walking back into the dining room. Then I slid an apologetic glance at Sandra, who was staring so intently at Cullen that I was pretty sure she hadn’t even noticed the oversight.
Cullen chuckled. “God love ye. Got yer work cut out for ye tonight. So, what exactly does a psycho—” Cullen paused, whether to tease the doctor or to take care to get it right, I couldn’t be sure, “—therapist do?”
Remus glared at Cullen and then lifted his gaze to me. “Actually I specialize in past-life regression therapy.”
Cruel Fortunes Omnibus: Volumes One to Four Page 76
