A Raven's Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  “Of course.”

  “It usually only takes a few minutes for their eyes to glaze over.”

  “I can’t think why,” Raven’s tone was drier than the Sahara. “It sounds fascinating.”

  “The word ‘sarcasm,’ for example,” she continued, warming to her theme, “comes from the Greek word ‘sarcophagus,’ which literally means to tear the flesh. As in to cut someone with your verbal barbs.”

  “Have I drawn your blood, Hellcat?”

  “Hardly,” she snorted. “I’d have to care about your opinion for it to hurt me.”

  He feigned a wince. “Ouch. But I heard you’ve had other offers, despite that cutting tongue of yours. What about Wilton?”

  Heloise stilled. How did he know about that? Lord Wilton had only proposed last week.

  Raven cleared his throat. “He’s a good man.”

  “Yes. He is.”

  There were a hundred reasons why she should accept Lord Wilton’s suit. He was a good man. Kind, wealthy, even-tempered, only slightly older than herself. He even shared her interest in Egyptology. She’d been trying to get an invitation to study his collection of New Kingdom papyri for years.

  Unfortunately, the one reason she couldn’t marry Lord Wilton was standing right next to her; six foot two inches of pure heartache. Heloise suppressed a sigh. Unrequited love was so aggravating.

  She’d actually researched the definition of “requited” once. It should, logically, mean the opposite of “unrequited”—namely, returned. Not so. “Requited” meant revenged or retaliated. That summed up their strange, quarrelsome relationship perfectly; a simmering attraction tinged with mutual animosity. A war of attrition neither could win.

  “I suppose I should be grateful to get any offers at all,” she said, focusing her attention on the dancers. “Most of my suitors cried off after my accident. But Collingham’s so desperate for my dowry, he’s willing to overlook my scarred face. Wilton, on the other hand, thinks that because I avoid society I won’t bankrupt him by buying the latest fashions and hosting lavish parties.”

  The strange thing was, she’d long ago stopped resenting her scar for curtailing her marriage prospects. She had no desire for a husband—unless it was Raven—and she was glad to avoid a society that revered the frivolous and distained her scholarly pursuits as freakish and unfashionable.

  “Speaking of marriage proposals, what about you?” she said. “Haven’t you ever thought about taking a wife?”

  “Constantly,” he drawled. “Whose did you have in mind?”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what I mean.”

  He’d probably already had half the married women in here, she thought morosely. The man was a menace. He just crooked his finger and they came running, lured by all that lazy, dangerous charm. She really ought to stop flirting and tell him about the message. “Come to think of it, forget I asked. You’d make an appalling husband.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Which is why I’ve no intention of ever entering the married state. Marriage is a prison. And speaking as someone who’s had intimate knowledge of imprisonment, I can say with authority that anything that endangers one’s personal liberty is to be strictly avoided.”

  Heloise stilled. Raven rarely volunteered information about his time as a captive. Six years ago he’d been abducted by a London gang seeking to blackmail his grandfather, the Duke of Avondale. While the duke had stalled and negotiated, Raven had escaped, but only after weeks of imprisonment. The experience had changed him. Now his eyes held a fathomless, haunted look, as if he’d faced the darkest levels of hell and emerged…if not unscathed, at least wiser and more cynical. And he still refused to forgive his grandfather.

  Heloise tossed her head. She was determined to enjoy herself, and nothing was more fun than baiting Raven. It was rather like poking a wolf with a stick; dangerous, but undeniably thrilling. She cast around for some way to taunt him, as he’d teased her earlier with that ridiculous almost-kiss, and hit on the very thing.

  “You asked what I’m doing here. If you must know, I’m using you.”

  “Oh, really?” his tone was highly skeptical.

  “Yes. I thought I’d take the opportunity to show my suitors a little healthy competition.”

  He snorted. “You’ll need a better plan, then. Nobody knows who you are under that mask except me.”

  Drat. She’d forgotten about that. Still, she couldn’t resist trying to needle him. She racked her brains for something suitably shocking. “All right, then. The truth is, I thought I might take a lover.”

  She prayed he’d choke on his champagne, but he merely lifted an intrigued eyebrow.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I’m considering you.”

  He didn’t even bat an eyelid, the swine. “Me? Interesting.”

  She hated it when he used that word. He managed to imbue it with a hundred shades of inferred meaning, none of them good.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why do I want a lover? Or why am I considering you, specifically?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, I’ve had several offers of marriage, and I suppose I’ll have to accept one of them sooner or later. I can’t live with my parents forever. Unlike you men, single women don’t have the luxury of setting up their own establishments. So, before I’m immured in a loveless marriage of convenience with someone like Wilton, I’ve decided to live a little.”

  Ha. She’d never accept Wilton, not even to gain a modicum of independence.

  “Hmm,” Raven said.

  “I made a list.”

  “Of course you did. Women are forever writing lists. What of?”

  “All the things I wish to achieve before I marry. Or die. Whichever comes first.”

  “Death would be infinitely preferable,” he drawled. “This list includes taking a lover, does it?”

  “Indeed. Why should you men get all the fun?” Heloise hid her smile. She really did have a list, although taking a lover wasn’t on it. At least, not officially. “As to why I’m considering you, I’m being practical. Your reputation with women is well known. I can only assume you must be an accomplished lover. I might as well learn from someone who knows what they’re doing.” Her heart was racing. She couldn’t believe she was having such a risqué conversation.

  His lips twitched. “You flatter me.”

  Heloise studied her nails. “At first I considered going to a professional, but I’m not entirely clear on how I’d go about finding one.”

  “Your brothers would be extremely relieved to hear that,” he murmured.

  “And then I thought of you. The next best thing, so to speak. After all, we do have a certain amount of shared history. I think I might be able to relax and enjoy it more if it’s not with a complete stranger. Although again, you men seem to have no trouble with that, from what I’ve heard.”

  Heloise bit the inside of her cheek to banish the mischievous smile from her lips. “Of course, there’s always the danger you might not find me attractive enough. You’ve turned me down before, let’s not forget. And that was before I was scarred.”

  He made a noise that was very close to a snort. She ignored it.

  “From listening to my brothers I’ve received the impression that when faced with a naked female most men manage to muster up some enthusiasm. Especially after a period of abstinence. Which for someone as…ah…active as yourself, I imagine must count as a few days, at best.”

  Raven cleared his throat. “It sounds like a decidedly one-sided arrangement. I fail to see what’s in it for me. Why should I waste my time with a tiresome virgin?”

  “The novelty?” she hazarded. “I thought men liked virgins.”

  “On the contrary. It’s rarely pleasurable when one’s partner has no experience whatsoever. On the other hand, some men prefer virgins because they’re like a blank piece of paper. Untouched by human hand, so to speak. They’ve had no time to pick up nasty habits.” He raised his brows. “Or dis
eases,” he added, straight-faced.

  “Charming,” she said. “I’m insulted on behalf of virgins everywhere.”

  He grinned, showing straight, white teeth. “You started it. And though it pains me to point out a flaw in your otherwise perfect plan, won’t your husband-to-be expect you to be untouched on your wedding night?”

  There wasn’t going to be a wedding, or a wedding night, so it was a moot point. Having seen the love between her parents and, more recently, that between her brother Nic and his new wife, Marianne, Heloise was firmly of the opinion that marrying for anything less than love was unthinkable. Since the only man she’d ever wanted had made his views on marriage quite clear, she’d undoubtedly end up as an eccentric spinster aunt to her brother’s children, living in one wing of her parents’ house forever.

  She suppressed a sigh. “Never mind. Forget I asked. I need to talk to you about something important.”

  “More important than your virginity?” he teased.

  “You’ll think so. Is there somewhere we can be private?”

  Raven’s intrigued smile made her stomach knot with desire. “Of course. This way.”

  Chapter 4

  He steered her through the open French doors and out onto the terrace. The strains of a quadrille followed them as he drew her around the corner of the house. Heloise’s skin tingled as he pulled her down the steps from the terrace and into the shadowy garden beyond. Her heart skipped, even though he wasn’t escorting her anywhere for nefarious purposes. Sadly, the only time men tried to lure her into dark corners was to get her opinion on the latest translation of Ovid.

  Glowing lanterns suspended on shepherd’s crooks, like those at Vauxhall, lit the intersecting pathways that snaked off into the gardens. At the far end of the lawn a shadowy team of groundsmen were making final preparations for the fireworks display that would signal the midnight unmasking.

  Her stomach tightened in anticipation as she imagined how happy Raven would be when she told him what she’d discovered.

  Raven drew her toward a long, low building set at right angles to the main house. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows made up almost the whole front facade. “The orangery,” he murmured grandly, “although previous dukes—my grandfather included—used the place as a statue gallery.”

  A blast of dense, warm air engulfed them as he opened the door, like the exhalation of some giant beast. Heloise half expected to hear the thud of a dragon’s heartbeat, slow and steady in the darkness, the dragging scrape of scales sliding against the stone floor.

  Alternate strips of shadow and illumination crossed the flagstones. Rows of orange trees, each one set in a terra-cotta planter, flanked the central path, and the pleasant scent of citrus mingled with the moist, rich aroma of dirt. Raven closed the door with a faint click, enclosing them in the tiger-striped darkness.

  As Heloise’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom she saw that the trees were interspersed with huge lumps of stone. Statues plundered from Ancient empires of the past loomed up out of the shadows. A giant Roman foot in a sandal. A Hellenistic female in a pleated gown, lacking her arms and head. She stopped in front of a gorgeously defined Greek warrior. In the half-light it was easy to imagine him living flesh instead of cold stone. Each perfectly attenuated muscle and bulging sinew of his torso looked ready to spring to life. Her fingers itched to touch it.

  “My father’s always been jealous of your grandfather’s collection,” she said wryly. “He’d give his right arm to buy some of these.”

  Raven bowed his head. “I thought you’d appreciate them.”

  “I do. Thank you for bringing me here.” Heloise sighed inwardly. It was hard to remember he was a heartless, amoral brute when he did sweet things like this.

  Raven snapped a dead leaf from the tree next to him. “They don’t belong here. These should be back in their home countries, not moldering in an English hothouse. I much prefer seeing such things in situ.”

  Heloise gave a wistful sigh. “Well, I for one am glad they’re here. At least here I can see them. You have no idea how lucky you are, being born a man, with money. You can travel to Italy or Greece or Egypt and see wonders like this anytime you want.”

  He had a freedom she could only dream about. He’d been to the far-flung places she’d only ever read about in books and visited in her dreams. She was twenty-two years old and she’d never had an adventure.

  Raven’s footfall crunched on the path behind her. “There are some Egyptian pieces over here. I know how mad you are about all that picture writing.” He pointed to a large stone sarcophagus case, about the same height as a kitchen table, and Heloise rushed forward to get a closer look. Carvings in low relief covered the entire surface; stylized figures, both animal and human, were surrounded by neat rows of mysterious hieroglyphic text. She stared at the symbols, lured as ever by their foreignness, their exotic beauty.

  The stone was cool to the touch, despite the humid air. This was one code that still eluded her, despite her considerable skills. Her fingers traced the dips and grooves scratched into the hard surface. The tantalizing little devils taunted her with their silence. They were a challenge, calling to her, as elusive and frustrating as the man behind her.

  Raven’s presence produced that same feeling of heightened anticipation she experienced when faced with a new linguistic challenge. Except with Raven, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know his hidden depths. She cleared her throat. What had they been talking about? Oh, yes. Egypt. Hieroglyphics. Right. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “Father took me to see the Rosetta Stone at the British Museum when it first arrived. I was eight. That’s when I fell in love with Egypt. I’ve dreamed of cracking the hieroglyphic code ever since.”

  “But you’ve had no luck?”

  She shook her head. “Despite my best efforts, it remains a total mystery.”

  “That’s a long time to be denied something you desire.” Raven’s voice was smooth, almost mocking. “It must be very frustrating.”

  Heloise hesitated, suddenly unsure whether he was talking about hieroglyphics or something else entirely. She had the oddest feeling he was laughing at her. Or at himself.

  “Well, yes. It’s like understanding’s just out of reach.” She traced the pleated skirt of a figure holding a sheaf of wheat. “Still, I’m certain it can be done. It was written by humans, after all, so it must be translatable. It’s extremely vexing.”

  —

  Raven frowned as Heloise turned back to the sarcophagus, effectively dismissing him from her mind. A shiver passed through him as he watched her trace her fingers over the surface of the stone. Delicate fingertips, pretty oval nails. He wished she’d touch him with the same amount of reverence, the same thirst for knowledge. Desire sent a rush of blood straight to his groin. God, he was jealous of a big lump of rock.

  She bent to get a closer look at the carvings and his gaze went to the rounded lines of her pert derriere. He stepped up behind her with a flash of irritation. The foolish girl was so absorbed in what she was doing that she was oblivious to his approach. She’d make a useless spy. Guarding her was going to be a nightmare. She had no appreciation of danger. She saw the best in everything, everyone, whereas he always saw the worst.

  He glared at the vulnerable curve of her nape. The tiny bumps of her spine disappeared into the back of her white dress like a delicate string of pearls, beckoning him to trace them all the way to the base of her spine. His stomach clenched as he inhaled the faint perfume of her skin. What was it about her that always had him looking for the nearest horizontal surface?

  Losing his patience, he placed his hands on either side of her, trapping her within the cage of his body, and felt a surge of satisfaction when she gasped in surprise. She tried to twist around then stiffened, clearly realizing he’d left her no room to maneuver.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed over her shoulder.

  He eased back a fraction and allowed her to turn within the confines
of his arms, but didn’t release her. Instead he raised one hand and toyed with the black ribbon that secured her mask.

  “Time to dispense with this, don’t you think?”

  —

  Heloise jerked her head as Raven tugged on the ribbon.

  “Stand still,” he ordered.

  She tilted her head the opposite way, evading his fingers.

  “Coward,” he said.

  She pressed herself back against the cold stone.

  “Come on, Hellcat. I already know what you look like.”

  That was true. He’d seen her only a few weeks after her accident, when her face had been far worse than it was now. But her pulse beat erratically in her throat and she forced a light laugh to hide her sudden unease.

  “You can’t hide all the time,” he whispered.

  She cleared her throat as the ribbon loosened. “I know that. Wearing a mask on a daily basis is very impractical. The only people who can get away with it are highwaymen and executioners, and I don’t have the stomach for either.”

  The bow came undone. As the mask dropped, she lowered her chin so her hair fell forward over her temple, hiding her scar.

  Raven put his finger beneath her chin and forced her face upward. She squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what he would see: a thin, pale line that ran from her hairline down her forehead and into the edge of one eyebrow. It curved at the end like a sickle moon, ending just to the right of her eye.

  Heloise forced herself to stand still for his verdict as the silence stretched taut. She felt utterly exposed. People rarely stared at her so intently. They usually averted their gaze out of politeness. Or disgust. But Raven had faced the worst devils in hell and lived to tell the tale. Surely if anyone could stomach her ravaged visage, it would be him?

  His cool fingers skimmed her cheek as he brushed a curl back behind her ear.

  “I know it shouldn’t bother me,” she breathed, giving in to the overwhelming need to fill the silence. “I never was going to be a great beauty. But honestly, when was the last time you read a fairy tale that started, ‘Once upon a time there lived an ugly princess…’? I mean, it’s perfectly acceptable for heroes to be scarred, at least until they’re transformed into a handsome prince at the end. Their ugliness is usually a punishment for being selfish…” She trailed off, uncomfortably aware she was babbling.