by Anne Stuart
“Hush, lass,” he whispered against her ear, and she felt him testing the entrance to her womanhood, smooth and strong. “I can do it.”
He pushed in, hard, with one smooth thrust that broke past the frail barrier of her virginity, stopping when he was lodged deep inside her. His face was buried in her neck, and his entire body was trembling, his muscles taut. She held very still, waiting, and after an endless minute he let out a tight, shaky breath. “That’s it, lass,” he said in a raw voice. “I’ll let you be . . .”
“No!” Her voice was barely a thread of sound, but there was no missing her anguish. “Finish it.”
“You’re no longer a maid, Janey,” he said tightly. She could feel the tension thrumming through his muscles as he tried to keep utterly still, tight inside her body.
“But I’m not yet a woman. I love you, Peter. Finish it.”
He kissed her then. Her first kiss, when he was already buried deep inside her body, and then he began to move, gently, controlling his infinite strength, until shudders began to wrack him, and he moved faster, thrusting deeper, harder, and she welcomed him, all of him, tears pouring down her face.
He reached up and clasped her shackled hands, holding them in a tight grip, and he uttered a strangled cry, filling her with sweet warmth.
He was still for a moment. And then he kissed her eyes, her tear-stained cheeks, her nose, and she kissed him back, a strange, bubbling joy filling her. “You’ll have to marry me, you know,” she whispered. “Forget about your village lass, if she even exists. You’ve ruined me, and now you’ve got to do the right thing by me, or Gabriel will horsewhip you.”
“Janey, you’re a lady . . .”
“My father was a stable lad,” she said. “I have it on good authority. I’m no better bred than you are. Your mother was a farm girl, your father was a lord, and we’re both bastards. It makes us perfectly matched.”
He was silent for a moment. “You’ve figured this all out?”
“I’ve had time to think, lying here. Will you marry me?”
For a moment he didn’t move, and she knew real fear. And then he leaned down and kissed her eyelids. “Janey, you’ve held my heart for longer than you can even guess. You should have far better than the likes of me, but I’m not going to let you go. You’ll marry me, and be damned to everyone.”
“Be damned to them,” she echoed, and kissed him. “Go find Gabriel now, and get me the hell out of here.”
JANE LAY STILL on the narrow bed and waited for them. Her body ached, a glorious, triumphant pain, and she knew there was blood on the mattress beneath her. He’d covered her with loving tenderness when he’d left, and she’d waited until he was well and truly gone before she kicked the covers off and lay there, waiting.
It was after dark when they came for her. They were wearing white robes, and she recognized Francis Chilton at their forefront, flanked by one of the thickset men who’d put the shackles on her and another, taller man whose face was hidden by his cowled hood.
“There you are, my sweet,” Francis cooed, lifting his candelabrum up high to illuminate the small room. “I know you’re tired of waiting . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw her. “You bitch,” he spat.
“Apparently she didn’t have to wait,” the tall man said, and she knew his voice. Gabriel. There was still hope.
Francis handed him the candelabrum with calm deliberation. And then, in a sudden frenzy, threw himself on the thickset man, screeching like a woman as he tried to strangle him.
“You randy pig, Merriwether, don’t you have any brains at all?” he screamed, slamming the heavier man against the wall. “We needed a virgin, damn you, even a baseborn one would be better than none at all.”
“I didn’t touch her,” Merriwether protested in a wheedling voice. “I like ’em younger and plumper.”
Francis released him abruptly, straightening his robe with a fastidious gesture. “I don’t believe you.” He turned away from him, stalking toward Jane, where she lay shackled to the bed.
She didn’t bother to shield the triumph and tears on her face. “You’re too late,” she said, glaring at him.
His sulky expression smoothed over, and he reached down and stroked the side of her neck. She shivered in disgust. “Don’t let it distress you, my dear Miss Durham,” he murmured. “We’ll still burn you. Even a despoiled virgin has some value to the gods. And you’ve failed to take one important thing into account.”
“What’s that?” She didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t keep herself from voicing the question.
“We’ll simply take your sweet, innocent little sister as well. Edwina will make a perfect gift.”
“No!” Jane gasped.
“Yes,” Francis said cheerfully. “It will be a lovely blaze.” He turned away. “Unlock her shackles, Merriwether, but keep your John Thomas in place. There’ll be plenty of prettier women left for afterward.” And he stalked from the room.
The man she knew was Gabriel paused for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but Merriwether came toward her, reaching for the shackles. He looked over his shoulder to the other man. “You want a piece of this? You heard what he said. It would be worth your life to go against him when he’s in that kind of mood.”
“You might remember that as well.” Gabriel’s voice was muffled beneath the folds of cloth.
“I told you, it wasn’t me. And if I’d been stupid enough to touch her in the first place, I certainly wouldn’t do it again,” Merriwether said in a righteous whine. “I’m not ready to die.”
“Aren’t you?” Gabriel murmured. And despite the warmth of the room, Jane shivered.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THEY FED HER, AND Lizzie ate. They gave her fresh water, and she washed up as best she could. And then she sat in the corner, quiet and docile, waiting for the first moment when they didn’t watch her. It was a long time coming.
Dusk was late in the north country. She was tied to an ornate chair in one of the many rooms at Arundel, with no choice but to watch as everyone scurried back and forth, intent on their preparations.
They seemed harmless enough, a group of unprepossessing gentlemen of various ages and appearance, all of them looking slightly the worse for wear from drink and celebration. None of them looked at her directly, and when she tried to speak to them the servants came and stood over her, separating them. She wondered whether they really knew what Francis Chilton had planned for her. Whether evil truly existed on such a grand scale, or simply reposed in the soul of one strange man and his beautiful, greedy wife.
They were dressed in flowing white robes made of the finest linen, with pointed cowls covering most of their faces. Only Francis had his hood back, exposing his long blond curls as they tumbled down his back.
He came up to her, followed closely by a very tall man in enveloping robes, and cupped her face with his cold hands. “The time has come, my pretty one. Fate has done its best to interfere with my plans, but I’m not so easily denied. You’ll burn tonight, my dear. For a righteous cause.” His voice was low, not carrying to the other gentlemen, and Lizzie wondered why.
“What righteous cause?” she snapped.
He stroked her face with his too soft fingers. “Why, the righteous cause of my future well-being and the good fortune of all these fine gentlemen. The gods must be propitiated on Beltane if we’re to be guaranteed power and prosperity.”
“The gods? What gods?”
Francis shrugged. “I don’t really care which ones, as long as they grant me my wishes. Perhaps it’s Belarus the warrior god or even Belial the demon. Either way he has a fierce appetite that must be quenched, and you are the girl to do it for me. You and the others.”
“Others?”
“That slut, Jane. Another randy whore—we found her amidst the bloody sheets, deflo
wered and unworthy. I’ll cut the throat of the man responsible when I find him. But in the meantime she’ll go as well, and we still have a proper virgin.” He pinched her face, hard. “No, not you, pet. Though I would have liked the chance to sample you. You would have been great fun to discipline.”
“Who else?”
The loud shriek answered her question. Perfect Miss Edwina Durham was being dragged along between two white-robed cultists, kicking and struggling and screaming imprecations. “Sorry to give you such infelicitous company, but you and Jane can hold hands as the fire surrounds you.”
“You’re a sick bastard,” she said.
He looked pleased. “Flattery,” he murmured. “Come along.” He’d already untied the ropes that held her to the chair.
“Gabriel will kill you,” she said fiercely.
Francis stepped back, a smug smile on his face. “Gabriel will drag you to the fire, my pet.” And the tall man behind him pulled back his hood, and it was Gabriel, with no expression on his cool, beautiful face. “Take her, Gabriel,” Francis ordered.
Gabriel made no move. “I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here, Francis,” he said.
“Ah, yes, the mighty chief of the Druids, font of all wisdom and knowledge,” Francis sneered. “We’ve gone beyond your puny research, Gabriel. Gone into a whole new realm, and you can either join us or”—he paused for the maximum dramatic effect—“you can join her.”
Gabriel’s eyes glanced over her, dismissing her. “Hardly much of a choice, is it?”
“Then show your loyalty. Bring her. But don’t have any second thoughts. My brethren will be watching you to make certain you don’t let her escape.”
“Francis,” Gabriel said with a weary sigh, “we’re both men of the world. She’s a well-bred young lady, and I despoiled her. Nothing would suit me better than to have her conveniently disappear in a puff of smoke.”
Francis’s smile exposed his sharp white teeth. “I knew you were my kind of man. Now if you’d only realize it, love, we could be quite happy together. In the meantime, bring the tiresome creature, and we’ll have a Beltane fire to remember.”
Gabriel hauled her to her feet, his hand an iron grip on her arm as he dragged her in the wake of the shuffling men. He’d pulled his cowl back over his head, and Lizzie tried to tell herself it wasn’t Gabriel dragging her to her death.
The death march through the woods was slow and stately. There was no moon that night; it was hidden by the thick clouds overhead. There was no promise of rain, either. No deluge would put out their unholy fire and stop their wickedness. There was no one to save them, and Lizzie wasn’t sure she even cared.
She saw Jane stumbling along, another white-robed man leading her, but in the thick darkness she couldn’t catch her eye. It didn’t matter. Edwina was shrieking and making enough noise to distract anyone, and Lizzie found herself with the uncharitable wish that someone would shut the silly twit up. If she had to die, she at least wanted to die without Edwina’s yammering in her skull.
She was barely aware when they crossed the boundary from Arundel into the forest of Hernewood. She could see the ruined abbey spires in the distance, too far away for help. And who was there left to help them? Peter, perhaps, but he was devoted to Gabriel. For all Lizzie knew he might be one of the white-robed ghouls who were now chanting beneath their breath as they marched onward.
The chanting didn’t drown out Edwina. Lizzie couldn’t decide which was more unnerving, the sepulchral chant or the high-pitched wail. She didn’t particularly care. Gabriel’s grip on her arm was painfully tight, needlessly so. He should realize she had no chance of escape.
The procession halted when they reached a small glade, the white-robed Druids forming a circle inside it. There was a deep pit and a large cage atop it, and she could only presume it was made of wicker. It looked as if it would burn very quickly.
She looked up at the tall man beside her, but his face was averted. He seemed almost oblivious to her presence beside him, except for that crushing grip on her arm. If she survived, she’d have bruises, she thought dazedly. Bruises to join the other marks he’d left on her body.
“Light the fire, Merriwether!” Francis declaimed, raising his white-robed arms to the sky. A man stepped forward, a torch in one beefy hand, and tossed it into the middle of the cage. It began to burn, the flames spreading, slowly at first.
“We give these offerings in the name of Belarus, of Belial, of all the gods of war and power,” Francis intoned.
“Where are the animals?” Lizzie heard one man mutter. “Aren’t we going to put animals in there?”
“Bring forth the virgin!” Francis cried out.
Edwina Durham had stopped her wretched screaming for the time being, but this brought forth a fresh outcry. She was dragged forth between two of the Druids, and during the struggle the smaller one’s hood fell back, exposing Delilah Chilton’s silky black curls.
There was a gasp from the crowd. “You didn’t say anything about sacrificing women,” someone muttered. “Damn it, it’s indecent.”
“The time for small sacrifices is past!” Francis shouted. “Bring her!”
“Nooooo!” The scream was blood-curdling, as Sir Richard Durham stumbled into the grove, ripping at his white robe. “Leave her be, damn your black soul! You promised. You promised you’d take Jane, you filthy bugger.”
“Father!” Edwina shrieked, holding out her arms to the old man in a piteous plea for mercy. Sir Richard stumbled toward her, yanking her away from Delilah and knocking her to the ground. Merriwether surged forward with his torch, aiming it straight for Sir Richard’s face, when a sudden, horrified hush fell over the crowd. Even Merriwether stopped where he was at the edge of the pit, staring up at him in disbelief.
In the midst of the flaming cage floated two white-robed creatures, one tall and thin, one short and round.
“Druids,” someone muttered in horror. “Real Druids.”
“Cease this mockery!” Brother Septimus’s voice rang out in sepulchral splendor. “Or you will all spend eternity in these flames!”
Lizzie stared in numb disbelief. Behind her the fake Druids scattered, running for their lives. She quickly searched through the firelit darkness for Jane, only to see her running away, her hand held tight in the hand of her Druid captor, who looked suspiciously like Peter. But Gabriel’s grip hadn’t loosened—there would be no escape for her.
Francis lifted his arms to the sky, his blond curls rippling down his back. “Fools!” he shouted. “Run, if you must.” Merriwether was still standing at the edge of the pit, frozen in fright, and Francis kicked at him. “Throw the bitch into the fire. Take her, you fool.”
His kick was an error in judgment. Merriwether toppled over backwards, into the flames, with a strangled scream that echoed throughout the night until it dissolved into merciful silence.
Francis looked around him in frustrated fury. He leapt for Edwina, but Sir Richard had her other arm and was pulling just as hard.
“Ow, you’re hurting me!” Edwina screamed. “Let go of me, you brutes.”
“Edwina!” Sir Richard said in a broken voice, making one more mighty effort. Francis’s hold broke, and Edwina and Sir Richard went tumbling to the ground. Edwina lay there, shrieking and screaming. Sir Richard didn’t move. It took Lizzie a moment to realize that she and her captor were almost alone in the flame-lit clearing. The Druids had all scattered, Jane had escaped, and only Francis and Delilah remained.
And Gabriel, holding her so tightly her arm had gone totally numb.
Francis started toward them. “Are you going to turn on me, Gabriel? Is your midnight-hour entry into the fold all a lie as well?” He sounded almost remote, as if the answer to his question didn’t particularly matter.
Gabriel lifted his other hand from beneath the
folds of the robe, the hand that wasn’t holding her arm in a death grip. He had a small pistol, and Lizzie had no doubt whatsoever that it was primed and ready. It was pointing straight at Francis’s heart.
“What do you think, love?” Gabriel said in a lightly mocking voice.
Francis shook his head. “You disappoint me, Gabriel, you really do. I expected better things of you, than to have you besotted with this ordinary female. And that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Besotted is as good a word as any,” he said in an even tone of voice. “Take your wife and get out of here, Francis. You haven’t killed anyone yet, and I have no interest in adding to my sins. Leave.”
Francis Chilton had a smile like an angel. His rouged mouth curved up, and he advanced on the stunned Delilah. She was standing by the edge of the flaming pit, staring into Merriwether’s funeral pyre, a dazed expression on her face.
“My love,” Francis said, taking her arm, “you heard Gabriel. I’m afraid our time here is at an end. Our followers have all abandoned us.”
She looked up at him. “They have, haven’t they?”
“But that still doesn’t mean Beltane is a lost cause. I can still offer a sacrifice of my most beloved.” His hands tightened on her slender shoulders, and he pushed her toward the flames.
But she was ahead of him, her foot snaking behind his ankle, tripping him. “My thoughts exactly, my dear,” she cooed.
For a moment they hung, suspended, on the edge of the flames. “Bitch,” he spat at her.
“Bastard,” she hissed back.
And they toppled over into the fire, a moment before the flaming wicker cage collapsed on top of them.
Lizzie suddenly realized Gabriel wasn’t holding on to her any longer. She fell to her knees on the hard ground, hugging herself in shock and horror, as Gabriel walked away from her, over to the fallen body of the man who had once been his father.
