Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4

by Lynne Connolly

  She dared not write or try to contact him any other way. She would pray for his continued health. Already her memories of Marcus had faded, replaced by the image of her powerful, craggy-featured husband. He was her ideal. How could she have thought any other way?

  That could be part of the spell. Thoughts revolved in her mind and she was no nearer gaining the truth. Eventually, after toying with the chicken and a few vegetables, and doing her best with a lavender cream pudding, Virginie led the way to the drawing room. Harry excused himself, saying he had work to do. Virginie would cope with the two mothers on her own.

  As was her wont, the dowager began with a litany of complaints, all of them artfully expressed. “You should take your maid, Virginie. Nobody knows her better than you. Do you wish me to supervise her in any way?”

  Virginie smiled politely and shook her head. “There is no need. She has her instructions and they will keep her busy until we return. We will not be away long. Harry wishes to show me the Lake District estate, and I am most eager to see it.”

  Lady Valsgarth sniffed and flicked open her fan, plying it vigorously. “I declare the weather is too warm for travelling.”

  Virginie found the weather warm but not overwhelming. Lady Valsgarth was clutching at straws.

  Her own mother was at her shuttle again, plying it gracefully at the long chain of cream-coloured lace. “Her ladyship is concerned for your safety, my dear. Will you be taking outriders?”

  As far as she knew. “Harry and I are very well able to take matters into our own hands,” she reminded her solicitous parent. “But I believe he will bring outriders.”

  “Sometimes I worry too much,” her mother admitted. “Since you do not plan to take Fenton, I could accompany you.”

  Virginie covered her mother’s hand, stilling her movements. “Mama, I believe Harry wants this to be a private visit.” She gave her mother a meaningful look.

  Her mother glared at her. “Most inadvisable. You are not a peasant, Virginie.”

  “No, I am not.” All her life Virginie’s mother had impressed her real identity upon her. She had encouraged dainty manners and care in her appearance, and it had worked, when she’d snared a duc, even if he was French. The British tended to sniff at foreign aristocrats. The only reason they accepted d’Argento so eagerly was his undoubted wealth.

  But now Virginie could not see that it mattered. She would be travelling as befitted her dignity, in a travelling carriage with outriders—alone with Harry for days!—and she could care for herself well enough. She had accepted the maid, but only one, and she’d ensured Fenton only packed her simpler clothes. Nothing that meant the maid would have to lace her back, front and from underneath. Some of the clothes Virginie could even get into on her own. She was anticipating that part of the trip with pleasure. Oh, she enjoyed fine clothes and the way she looked in them. But sometimes she wished for simpler attire, clothes she could move more freely in.

  “I will dress according to my station. I will insist on every dignity being afforded me,” she promised now. She wished she did not have to. As an immortal, she could live for a very long time. She was not strictly immortal. Her predecessor had died from violence, after all. But she could not die from old age or disease. For the rest, she would cope. An adventure, of sorts.

  She couldn’t wait.

  The edgy feeling returned when they were on the road. The night before, Virginie hadn’t slept much, restlessness invading her bed. She occupied the bed in Harry’s room. He took himself off elsewhere, she didn’t know where—deliberately, he told her, so she could not come to him.

  The day after, he appeared, fully dressed, in their room, before Fenton had finished lovingly arraying her mistress in a riding habit. Virginie didn’t intend to ride, but the jacket and skirt were easier to travel in.

  He kissed her cheek. Even the slight touch made her shudder with longing. She wanted him so much, and she was convinced the spell was only part of it. If it was any part at all.

  But he drew back when, regardless of her maid’s presence, she would have reached for him. She had to satisfy herself with his arm, when he supported her hand on the way downstairs and to the coach.

  What she saw brought tears to her eyes. He’d had the coach reupholstered in her favourite forget-me-not blue, the fabric still smelling of size and freshness. When she turned to thank him, a responsive gleam lit his eyes. She’d caught him in the throes of desire. So he wasn’t oblivious, either.

  The words of gratitude stilled on her lips and she let him help her into the coach and then take his seat opposite her. Like her, he wore riding dress. She breathed in his presence, almost forgetting to bid her mother goodbye. Lady Valsgarth had pleaded a headache and remained in her bed. Nobody seemed surprised, least of all her son.

  As far as Virginie was concerned, the less fuss they made, the better she liked it. They set off at seven, a little later than Harry told her he’d intended. The road was bright and clear, and the nights were short. They could travel all day if they met with no obstacles.

  Virginie settled down. At least she tried to. But as soon as they were five miles away, Harry knocked on the roof of the coach and ordered it stopped. With apologies, he said he preferred to ride. “If you should wish it, my lady, I do have a sweet tempered mare for you following behind the vehicle.”

  Thanking him for his concern, she nevertheless declined. “I enjoy riding as a rule, my lord, but today I think I have the beginnings of a cold.” She raised her handkerchief to her nose. She didn’t need to prove anything, but she had awoken with a sniff and a stiff neck, as if she’d stayed in one position too long. He gave her a quizzical look, but merely wished her well and left the coach to mount his horse.

  Virginie understood his reasoning only too well. Being cramped in a coach in that way felt unbearably close. If she couldn’t touch him, what was she to do? How could she sit here and not look at him, reach for him? Two days before they reached a house big enough to spend time truly apart.

  She watched him as he rode alongside the coach, sometimes spurring ahead for a swift spurt of speed. He wore dark clothing, brown, nearly black. The colours seemed natural to him, as if he belonged to the earth. But Vulcan was a god of fire. Perhaps she was seeing the other side, the side that was Harry.

  When this fever had passed, she would like Harry. If there was any more than that left, she could count herself lucky. Watching the landscape pass, the hedges alive with small birds and other creatures, she let her mind wander to the time she’d first met him. When Marcus had obsessed her thoughts.

  Harry was dogged, kind and did not appear well next to the exquisites of London, but his persistence and his sincerity had won her over. Long before she and Marcus had decided to part, Harry had caught her interest. She had the rose still, in its box to protect it from the rigours of travel. She had seen him clearly enough then. Powerful, with an intelligence that did not lend itself to the quick wit of the London beau, but evident for all that, she’d liked him. Yes, she had.

  Then he had won her, and she’d thought him a sanctuary from the rigours of Marcus. What a mistake she’d made! But perhaps anyone she chose would be affected.

  She went through what she knew of enchantments. Those used by the gods were fairly straightforward, related to their attributes, so Eros must use his arrows, and she must connect with the person. Her strongest powers were to do with love and passion, and the obverse, but she had certainly not enchanted anyone. And Eros swore his enchantment had long gone.

  Then who? And why? Who was the most urgent question. It did not have to be done in person. Witches could administer potions, and they could do it by using someone else. The Titans had opposed the Olympians and she was certainly a prominent member of the pantheon. Perhaps the attack was a political one. However, it appeared much more personal to her, as if someone had aimed at her because of who she was, and not what she was.

  They passed a few cottages, poor hovels, one of them with smoke curling f
rom the chimney. A fire would be kept burning whatever the weather to heat water and cook food. It must get stiflingly hot in the full heat of summer. A woman peered from the open door, a heavily swaddled baby tucked into the crook of one arm. They kept their children bound tightly for the first six months of their lives and only changed the wrappings every few weeks. Swaddling was losing its appeal with the aristocracy, and the children seemed to grow with perfectly straight limbs. It wouldn’t have affected Harry whether he was swaddled or not. He was always bound to have that twisted limb.

  He came within her sight again. His seat on the big gelding was excellent, his twisted leg no bar to his riding. He might feel more comfortable on a horse, better balanced. Seeing his leg had not altered the way she thought about him, except that his uncharacteristic uncertainty and reticence gave her more insight into him. His mother showed no indication of even accepting that he was less than perfect. She ignored his cane and never looked at his leg, or referred to it. Virginie had seen her own mother stare with obvious sympathy.

  Deirdre had always done her best to help people. If she had not, perhaps Rhea would not have gone to Harry with her problems, and he would not have become involved. But it was done now. Virginie had chosen her path.

  She was not sorry, even now, when it seemed she carried the contagion within her that soured her relationships, turned them into a destructive journey of passion for whomever was involved. Her secret fear was that there was no enchantment, that all the seeds lay within her and who she was. Did she affect everyone she came into contact with? Was she cursed to incite mindless passion?

  That first night she’d thought they had started something different. She was almost prepared to call it love, or the start of it, certainly. But what did she really know about love?

  Nothing, she reflected bitterly as the coach drove into a substantial village. Nothing at all.

  The coachman took a sharp turn into the covered passage leading to the yard of an inn. Virginie prepared for the bustle and discomfort as the ostlers changed the horses. She elected to alight and use the facilities before climbing back in the now turned coach, prepared with new horses for the next stage.

  “My lady?” Harry stood before her. How had she not sensed him approaching her? She started, and then smiled. He offered his gloved hand. “Are you well?”

  She brushed her hand over her forehead, surprised that it came away damp. “The day is warm. I feel a little odd. It’s a cold, nothing more. Summers are the most wretched time to fall with a cold, are they not?” She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her lips.

  He tore off his glove with his teeth and, heedless of their pact not to touch, felt her forehead. “You are running a little hot.” He tossed an order to the nearest attendant to bring an extra small beer. “And make sure it’s cold, boy!” Turning back to her, he held out his hand. “Let me help you onto the coach.” He didn’t join her inside, but instructed her maid to keep him informed of her progress.

  Virginie decided she would appreciate a nap, and she’d feel much better once she woke.

  Harry felt somewhat feverish himself, but Virginie was burning up. Not wanting to alarm her, he quietly gave orders for the coachman to keep going. “If the road is good, we’ll travel through the night. If necessary, I’ll take the reins myself.” He wanted her in his house, not some anonymous inn. He had originally planned the journey to take place in two easy stages, but he changed his mind. His house was close to the village of Ambleside, where Rhea Simpson’s parents were the squire and his wife. He’d sent orders ahead for two rooms to be prepared, and they would arrive by nightfall or just after. From his house in Cheshire to his house in Aylsford was a matter of fifty miles, and yet he’d rarely visited it. The place did not appeal to him, and in winter the weather was appalling. Even in the summer they suffered a lot of rain.

  Harry had no doubt that the fever was another symptom of their attempt to break the spell. It was this or confront the person who had cast it. That was why he had left anyone who might have administered it at home. Even his mother, who had previously done everything in her power to keep him safe, might have done it as an attempt to find him the wife she wanted for him.

  Several changes of horses later, as twilight was giving way to night, they reached the house. The servants had lit the candles. He saw the glow from some way away, once they’d scaled the last damned hill before it, and crossed the last brook.

  Aylsford was at the top of Lake Windermere, a long stretch of water that people inclined to sailing and rowing praised for the quality of the sport there. Harry had no time for such activities. If he wanted to cross water, he hired someone to get him to the other side safely, and that was enough.

  On his fourth horse now, he had not dared enter the coach. His wife’s fever had increased apace, and he was afraid he’d do nothing but cradle her in his arms and will her to get better. Or worse. If he allowed prolonged contact, that whip of attraction that had snapped through him when he’d touched her forehead would have gained the upper hand. He would have made love to her and increased both of their discomfort. How could he even think it, with Virginie so ill?

  He explained their early arrival as the result of his wife’s being taken ill. “Put her to bed,” he told Darlestone, the maid. “I will come up to see her as soon as I’ve put off my travelling dirt.”

  He needed time to compose himself. By now he was desperately worried. Had he done too much? Should he have found a way of weaning them from the addiction more gradually? But in his heart he knew he was taking the right path. D’Argento had advised him of the best ways to break this kind of enchantment. Though at the time they’d assumed a continuation of the spell cast on them by Eros, some kind of self-perpetuation, not a renewal or a fresh spell.

  Eros had enchanted Venus and Mars. He had not met Harry before that evening at the theatre. If he’d speared Harry, by God, Harry would have made sure Eros knew all about it.

  Harry changed, disdaining the use of a servant. In accordance with his plan he had left his valet at home. Apart from the man’s delicate hand with a razor, Harry could do everything else just as well for himself, especially with country clothes. He’d brought footmen who had no deep connection with his family, a coachman and outriders who had nothing to do with the people inside the house, and two relatively unknown people as personal servants for him and his wife. If he had travelled with none, the idea might have roused suspicions. As it was they had barely escaped without taking Fenton with them. She had pleaded with Harry to take her, but he’d told her he could not interfere with his wife’s decisions.

  He dragged a razor over his chin, cursing the stubble that meant he had to shave twice a day if he wanted to keep his chin smooth. Then he dragged a fresh set of clothes from his baggage, ignoring the creases to his shirt and breeches as he put them on. He had to call for help to remove his well-crafted riding boots, but that was all. He slipped on a pair of shoes and hurried to the room set aside for Virginie.

  She had a well furnished room, with oak furniture and what looked like Jacobean embroidered drapery. It could not be that old, surely, but the drapery around the huge, old-fashioned four-poster bed only merited a quick glance. He was far more concerned with the woman nestled between the sheets.

  The maid had done her work well, stripping and washing her mistress before putting her in a fresh night rail and helping her to bed. Virginie was flushed, and her eyes were closed. “I got her to drink as much as I could before she fell asleep,” Darlestone informed him.

  Contact be damned. He couldn’t stand by and watch someone else care for her. He would just have to resist the temptation tearing through him, turning his internal organs to rags. Virginie was far more important than anything happening to him.

  He pulled up a big wing chair, dismissed the maid, and waited on events.

  They didn’t have long to start. Virginie sat bolt upright in bed, the sheets falling away. She tore off the nightcap Darlestone had put on her as
if it burned her and her golden hair tumbled free. Her eyes shot open and she stared blindly at something in front of her. Something Harry couldn’t see.

  Lifting a hand, she pointed her shaking finger. “Look! Can’t you see? It’s a demon, come to take me to hell!”

  Harry almost saw it. The enchantment had affected him, but not as much. So he was merely hot and aching, where she had entered another place, one of her own. She had been taking whatever had done this for much longer.

  “There is nothing there, sweeting,” he said softly. “It’s merely an illusion.”

  “No, I can see it.” After a moment, she lowered her hand. “He’s gone,” she said sadly, as if the vision was something she wanted.

  She lay down again, but did not sleep, only lay on her back with her hands folded under her breasts, watching the canopy of the bed. “It’s like a room in itself, is it not?” she said, as if continuing a conversation.

  “Beds like these afforded our ancestors some privacy,” Harry said, answering her in as rational a way as he knew. “They could close the curtains and shut out the world. In the old days houses had no hallways. You went through someone else’s room to get to your own.”

  “Goodness, is that true?”

  He had no idea. “Yes, especially in houses this size. This house has but seven bedrooms. Modest sized, suitable for the gentry. My father spent much time here as a boy, hunting stags, but I have never taken to hunting with the same enthusiasm.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  “He died.” He would have to tell her what had really happened to his father, but not now. Anything more taxing than ordinary conversation, and certainly something as black as his own early life, would have to wait for another time. “He was a lover of country sports and preferred to avoid London, even before he met my mother. She resented that, but learned to cope, or so she has always told me, and now she dislikes London as much as he ever did.” Strange, that. He’d have assumed that his mother would have raced to the metropolis as soon as she’d decently buried his father. But she had, for the most part, stayed in Cheshire, where he’d passed most of his childhood.