by Mia Marlowe
Grigori seemed to have interrupted, because Samuel raised his hands in the timeworn gesture of surrender.
“… yes, yes and study the stars and whatever else piques my interest. But what else can I fill my days with? You have made a mule of me.”
Meg had heard men refer to each other as jackasses, but she’d never encountered one who called himself a mule. What could he mean by it?
“No, you’re mistaken. I don’t care about her. Not in that way. But I do care about her safety,” Samuel said, his fingers curling into fists. “Someone has to.”
Meg’s heart sank. If he was speaking of her, it meant she wasn’t special to him. The kiss that had all but upended her world meant nothing to him. She’d never felt ill when she went Finding before, but now her chest ached so badly, it was as if her spirit were still trapped in her body, caught up in all its sensations.
She wished she’d remembered Lady Easton’s lessons and hadn’t allowed him to kiss her. Anything not to hurt like this.
A half smile on his face, Grigori seemed more himself as he leaned against the tapestry. Samuel hadn’t even let her touch it, as if she would damage the relic with a fingertip’s brush, but Grigori might as well be wrapping himself in the threadbare work. He was talking a blue streak, but she still couldn’t hear a word. She floated lower, hoping being closer would change matters.
“I won’t let you use her,” Samuel said.
How could Mr. Templeton use her? He’d only been a pleasant dinner companion to Meg. Maybe they were talking about someone else entirely.
Grigori seemed to laugh for he threw his head back. Then he turned to look directly at her. His dark eyes narrowed and a sly smile curved his lips.
Surely he couldn’t see her. No one ever had.
“I believe the expression is ‘Speak of the devil and he will appear.’ But apparently it works for Miss Anthony as well. I am charmed,” Grigori said with a bow to the apparition hovering over their heads. “You see her, don’t you, son?”
“I see something.” Samuel squinted in the direction his father was gazing. There seemed to be a hazy entity floating about ten feet below the rafters. This was not the first spirit being he’d encountered, but usually their features were clearer to him. “I can’t tell who it is.”
“She’s very recognizable. Right there.” Grigori pointed at the haze. “It’s Miss Anthony and the little vixen is larking about the castle in naught but her chemise and stays. Quite fetching, I must say. The girl has a pleasing set of curves. This is going to be more fun than I expected.”
Samuel reared back and punched Grigori in the face. He put all his weight behind the blow, yet his father didn’t fall. Grigori did however rub his jaw and move it back and forth, testing to make sure the bones still articulated properly.
“Well, that stung,” he admitted. “And here I thought you didn’t care about her.”
Samuel glared at him. “I’m warning you.”
“What can you possibly threaten me with? Even though I’m totally foxed, you can’t do something as simple as knock me down.” Grigori chuckled, then all mirth left his features and he shot a fierce look at Samuel. “When one is already damned, precious little else matters. I will do as I will, as I always have, and you can’t stop me.”
Samuel roared with rage and laid into Grigori, pummeling him with both fists until his father finally collapsed to the floor.
Grigori sprawled on his back and laughed. He hiccupped a few times as he gasped for breath. “Not bad. A few of those blows actually got my attention. You’ve got some grit, son, I’ll give you that.”
Then Grigori leaped to his feet and threw a punch to Samuel’s gut that lifted him from the floor and made him fly backward a good fifteen feet before landing on his arse. Grigori leaned over to peer down at him. “And I am not even at the top of my game. Watch yourself, son. After a certain point, you will be expendable. And that time might come sooner than you imagine.”
Quick as thought, Meg zipped through the stone walls of the castle and back to her chamber. She paused a moment at the sight of her own body. She never thought she looked like herself when her eyes were rolled back in her head so only the whites showed. But the body was wearing her chemise and stays. She recognized the embroidered French knots along the edge of her bodice, so she slid into the house of flesh and drew a shuddering breath. She still hadn’t discovered the source of that horrendous noise, but what she had learned was upsetting enough.
Meg trembled, as she always did when confronted with violence. It was part of why she had run away from Rowney and Oswald. The two of them had always tried to settle things with a fight.
She hadn’t been able to hear enough of their conversation to understand why Samuel launched into a bare-fisted brawl with his uncle. He and Grigori Templeton were both solidly built men, but Samuel had youth on his side. Why hadn’t he been able to best the older fellow handily? And, most disturbingly, why had Samuel’s uncle been able to see her in her disembodied state?
Clearly there was more to Grigori Templeton than met the eye.
There was nothing she could do tonight to unravel these mysteries so Meg shoved her questions aside, took several steadying deep breaths, and continued to undress. Then she donned her night rail and slid between the bed linens. As she tried to warm her feet by rubbing them together, the wondering returned with no answers in sight.
At least she didn’t have to wonder about one thing. Samuel didn’t care about her. Not in “that way.” She’d heard it straight from his own lips.
Earlier that evening, Meg had started up to the roof with him with a light heart. She’d wanted to have a delightful time under the night sky, while they ate their picnic supper. Instead, there’d been precious little delight. Samuel had been distant as the stars most of the time. Even now, she couldn’t remember exactly what had led to that spectacular kiss, which he’d broken off without explanation. He’d have ended their evening then and there if she hadn’t coaxed him back to their meal and into conversation about the stars.
Meg released a shuddering sigh. Well, if Lord Badewyn didn’t care about her in that way, then she wouldn’t care about him, either. She’d simply experienced her first kiss. That’s all.
Then why did her chest feel as if someone were piling bricks on it?
Before she could concoct an answer to that distressing question, someone rapped on her door. This night had been so full of oddities, she almost didn’t wonder at the irregularity of a late-night visitor. Meg rose and shrugged on her wrapper, but before she reached the door, it opened as if by its own accord.
Samuel stood in her doorway, his expression forbidding in the dim light of her fireplace. “Get dressed.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You’re leaving. Tonight. Now.”
She slammed the door in his face. “Of all the cheek!” Meg might not be a real lady, but she’d done nothing to deserve such ill-mannered treatment. The duke would be coldly furious when she told him about it.
Samuel pushed the door open again, even though she leaned against it with all her might. This time, he didn’t remain in the dark corridor. Samuel strode into the room and relit her candle. He had changed into rough clothing, a coarse-cloth shirt, and woolen trousers topped by a serviceable jacket and oilskin cloak.
“Can you ride?” he asked bluntly.
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“I’ve never sat a horse.” Since becoming part of the duke’s household, Meg had mastered a number of ladylike graces—how to serve a proper tea, which conversation topics were safe and which should be avoided like the plague, as well as slogging through how to read and write. She’d learned many things at Lady Easton’s hands, but the equestrienne’s art wasn’t one of them.
Samuel began to pace before the fire, scrupulously ignoring her. “It can’t be helped. We shall have to ride double then. Wear something appropriate.”
Meg didn’t have anything remotely resembl
ing a riding habit with her. And she wasn’t about to embark on a journey in the dead of night on the strength of nothing more than his terse order. Crossing her arms over her chest, she tapped out her frustration with one stockinged foot.
“Why aren’t you getting dressed?” he demanded when he finally looked her way again.
“Perhaps because there is a gentleman—and I use that word very loosely indeed—prowling around my chamber.”
He turned to face the fireplace, bracing his hands on the mantel. “There. No more prowling. You have my solemn promise I won’t look, but we must go quickly.”
“Why?”
“Because your guardian sent you to Faencaern Castle for your safety. I cannot guarantee it here any longer.”
The castle walls were still as stout as ever. No one could breech its defenses to harm her. “I don’t understand.”
“No, of course, you don’t. How could you?” Despite his promise to remain staring at the fire, he turned and closed the distance between them. Samuel grasped her shoulders hard enough she was sure it would leave a bruise. She didn’t think he meant to because his expression wasn’t angry. He was clearly agitated and the cause of his concern seemed to be…
Me! Her insides churned with excitement, but she ordered them to quiet down. He wasn’t making passionate love to her. He was only concerned for her safety and then only because of her association with the duke. She reminded herself that he didn’t care about her in “that way.”
“If you’re afraid of infuriating His Grace in case something ill befalls me—”
He released her and resumed pacing. “I’m not afraid of the Duke of Camden.”
Clearly, he was afraid of something. Or someone. And on her account.
Maybe he does care. And in “that way,” no matter what he said to his uncle.
“I promise I will explain all, but not here, not now. You must trust me, Meg.”
When he said her name, he had her. She’d do anything for him if only he’d keep caressing that little syllable.
“Very well. Back to the fireplace with you, while I change.” She fetched the awful bombazine back out of the wardrobe along with the right unmentionables to go with it. The ensemble wouldn’t be attractive, but it was the most practical garment for travel she possessed. “It’s Mr. Templeton you’re worried about, isn’t it?”
“We can’t talk about it now.” Ashen, he started to turn to face her again, but caught himself in time and glued his gaze back on the fire. “And don’t say his name again. You, of all people, know the power of calling someone’s name. For God’s sake, hurry. We haven’t much time.”
There are rhythms built into the universe—morning and evening, seedtime and harvest, birth and death—cycles that are repeated because they perform a useful function. But I’ll be damned before I become a party to Grigori’s infernal “Grand Cycle.”
And it may well come to that.
~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Ten
Grigori’s tongue tasted as if a whole band of gypsies had tramped through his mouth. After dancing through a cow yard. Barefoot. He opened one eye and surveyed his surroundings uncertainly.
He was sprawled on the stone floor under the long dining table. Something sticky under his cheek made it difficult to raise his head. The castle’s footmen were tiptoeing around him, trying to clean up the mess from last night’s supper without the least clink of any silverware on the plates.
How long had he lain there? He believed his fight with Samuel had taken place just last night, but since excessive drink had rendered him nearly comatose, he wasn’t the best judge of how much time had actually passed. It had been several decades, maybe half a century, since he’d allowed himself to become that ape-drunk.
Gingerly, Grigori rolled out from under the table and sat up.
His head pounded. “A physical body is so frail sometimes,” he said as he massaged his temples. “It is a curse unto itself.” He cast a quick glare at the ceiling and launched one of his rare prayers heavenward. He was sure none of them reached high enough, but it was an old habit. Hard to break.
“Thank You very much. It’s not enough for You that I’m banished to earth, caught in nearly human form like a bug trapped in amber. You had to make me susceptible to human weaknesses like feeling crapulous after a night of drinking, too. Words fail me in expressing my gratitude, O Beneficent One.”
Grigori no longer heard that still small voice that meant the Almighty was speaking to him. In weaker moments, he’d admit he missed hearing it, but now, he didn’t expect a reply. It was part of the whole damnation business—being cut off from the Source of All Joy forever and all that.
So instead of sitting in quiet contemplation waiting for a response to his admittedly impudent prayer, he struggled to his feet and started to bellow for a bath to be drawn in his chamber. The sound of his own voice made him feel as if his head were being cleaved in two. Tea and a breakfast tray were ordered in hushed tones. Then he trudged his way to the most opulently furnished chamber in the castle.
And why shouldn’t I have the best?
It was all his in any case. Samuel was just the latest placeholder, as all his sons had been, stretching back some eight hundred years. Before he conceived of what he liked to call “The Grand Cycle,” his life had been solitary and nomadic. If he’d wanted to tarry in a region, he had to create a new persona; but he could only remain so long before his longevity became a topic of curiosity and he’d been forced to move on. Now, since he was the power behind each Lord Badewyn, he’d been able to amass wealth in abundance, far beyond what might be acquired during the normal span of human years. Grigori provided positions for a grateful staff that could be counted upon to be discreet since part of the terms of their employment meant they remained at the castle their whole lives. He had a home to return to periodically and even some semblance of a family.
That’s not too much to ask, is it? Considering how much I’ve lost.
Of all the pleasures he’d discovered during his time on earth, the sense of belonging to a family had surprised him. Grigori hated to admit how much he had enjoyed Samuel’s early years, his halting steps, his first words, and his precocious intellect. Of all his offspring, Samuel was the only one with whom Grigori could converse about deep things, of philosophy and science, of mathematics and metaphysics. Samuel followed his logic perfectly and sometimes, even rushed ahead of Grigori. On occasion, this particular son had even led the old Fallen One to fresh conclusions, to ideas that had never occurred to him in the course of thousands of years of debate.
He tamped down any sense of paternal pride. It only made this part of the cycle harder.
Grigori stripped off his soiled clothing and sank into the steaming hipbath. One of the silent footmen came and went, depositing the breakfast tray and laying out the fresh suit of clothing Grigori had ordered. His valet cared for the upkeep of his wardrobe, but Grigori rarely saw the man. He always preferred to dress himself. No one needed to see his tattoo-like mark, the one that labeled him as fallen, or rejected, or whatever the Almighty wanted to call him. Besides, no one could have a better sense of style than he, so the argument in favor of a valet was moot.
Finally, as the bath water was just becoming tepid, Malachi arrived with a tumbler of whisky.
“The hair of the dog that bit you, sir,” the steward said laconically.
“Actually, it was whisky and wine. Lots and lots of wine,” Grigori said as he accepted the drink, “but this will do.”
When he knocked back the tumbler, the amber liquid burned down his gullet. He loosed a prodigious belch and felt better for it. Then Grigori threw the empty glass across the room and enjoyed the sound of it shattering on the floor. Destruction, even on a small scale, was always satisfying.
“Where is Lord Badewyn?” he asked the steward who had dropped to his hands and knees to clean up the unnecessary mess. Malachai anticipated his master’s proclivities and
was never without a small whiskbroom and dustpan. Where he secreted those items on his person Grigori never discovered, but he applauded his servant’s foresight none the less.
“I have not encountered his lordship this morning,” Malachai answered. “He did not come down to breakfast and the maids say his bed was unused last night. The bedclothes had not been disturbed.”
Grigori chuckled. Samuel might protest, but he was clearly taken with the duke’s ward. Everything was proceeding according to plan. It was only a matter of time.
“What about Miss Anthony?” Grigori asked. “Wherever she is, Badewyn will be there, I warrant.” He fell short of suggesting that his lordship was in the lady’s bed, but a father could hope, couldn’t he? Grigori never chastised his sons for anticipating their nuptials. He cultivated a rather loose regard for the rules and tried to instill the same in his progeny. Besides, they deserved some compensation for their contribution to the cycle.
Malachai shook his head and kept sweeping in short staccato bursts. “Miss Anthony seems to be missing as well. Her bed, however, was used.”
I’ll just bet it was. Grigori allowed himself a lascivious smile. He hoped Samuel would teach her a few things about pleasing a man. Inexperienced women were so very tedious. “No doubt they’ll turn up when it’s time for supper.”
Slipping around to find a quiet place to copulate undisturbed in a well-populated castle became hungry business after a while.
“I doubt they’ll present themselves this evening.” Malachai finished sweeping and rose to his full lanky height. “His lordship’s horse is gone, you see. And a good bit of Miss Anthony’s things are missing as well.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that straight away?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Grigori glared at him.
