The Lost Soul of Lord Badewyn (Order of the M.U.S.E. Book 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  Malachai bowed, careful not to spill any glass shards from the dustpan. “If there won’t be anything else…”

  Grigori waved him away, glaring at Malachai’s retreating back. He wished he was still able to shoot lightning from his fingertips. It would be so gratifying to incinerate, if not a whole city, at least one taciturn servant from time to time.

  Though the bath water was fast becoming too cool for comfort, he forced himself to sit perfectly still. The surface between his knees stopped wavering and he bent his will toward discovering the whereabouts of his son.

  His effort went unrewarded.

  Grigori had never been able to See Samuel at any distance, not even when he was a child. It was a source of real consternation. His other sons had been no trouble to track in any shining surface. Grigori had no idea why this one was so different.

  How could a Watcher be so stymied?

  “Very well, we’ll go for the girl.” He emptied his mind of all thoughts but those of Miss Anthony. She appeared briefly in flickers and disjointed images, but Grigori couldn’t get a solid bead on her.

  She must be with Samuel.

  Whatever power shielded his son from Grigori’s gaze was also hiding her. Swearing fluently, he rose from the bath and dressed in record time. It was time to roust some riders and loose the hounds.

  Even if he couldn’t follow Samuel and the chit by supernatural means, there were other ways to track one’s prey.

  Through the dark watches of the night, they took narrow paths through the mountains at a much faster pace than Meg thought prudent, but then, nothing about their headlong flight had seemed the least prudent. When they reached the first small village, Samuel traded his fine blooded Arabian for a sturdy hill pony. Giving the villager some extra coins, he ordered the man to ride north into Scotland. Samuel instructed the villager to trade for a new mount once he crossed the border and, if he valued his skin, to return home by a different way. Then Samuel and Meg turned south.

  “Why did you do that?” Meg asked. The pony was sure-footed enough, but his gait wasn’t nearly as smooth as the Arabian’s had been. Since Meg’s gown was too narrow for her to ride astride, she was seated in front of Samuel on the rough peasant saddle with her legs draped to one side and his arms around her to steady her. She clung to the pony’s mane to keep from leaning back into Samuel any more than she had to. “You certainly made a poor bargain.”

  “On the contrary, with my horse and a few pence, I bought the most precious commodity on Earth—time. Anyone tracking us will follow the Arabian’s trail, not ours.”

  “So you believe we’re being followed?”

  “I don’t believe it. I know it.” Samuel’s arm around her waist tightened.

  “Where are we going?”

  “A little village called Gryffydd. I’ve Seen it in one of my Watchings. We’ll be safe there for a while,” he said. “Hush, now. Sound carries strangely in these hills. If you must talk at all, make it a whisper.”

  He’d all but told her to shut it. Meg felt like shouting just to spite him, but she clamped her lips shut. If someone as big and strong as Samuel was concerned for her safety, she supposed she ought to be, too. But still, it wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more civil. No one had ordered her about so rudely since she’d run away from Uncle Rowney.

  “You are a very strange man,” she whispered.

  The silence between them stretched for so long, she’d almost given up on a response, but then, his chest heaved and he said, “That’s because I’m not a man. I am Nephilim.”

  “You’re what?”

  “The offspring of one of the sons of God and a daughter of men,” he said into her ear. Despite his strange words, little tendrils of pleasure followed in the wake of his warm breath spilling down her neck. “You’ve read Genesis, haven’t you?”

  She’d tried, but all those begats and odd names had stopped her cold. Now she wished she’d tried a bit harder. “So you’re saying that—”

  “This is not the time or place for conversation,” he interrupted. “Once we stop for the night, I will explain. I promise.”

  Her curiosity twitched like a cat’s tail, but she was satisfied with his promise. What she couldn’t be satisfied with was the idea that they weren’t stopping until nightfall. They’d already ridden most of the previous night and even the rising of the sun hadn’t raised her spirits. Samuel seemed to be taking a circuitous route now, turning off the path to trudge through shallow riverbeds whenever he could. Samuel produced a couple of crusty rolls and wedges of cheese from his saddle bag. They washed down their meal with clear water from the stream. Meg was forced to relieve herself behind an ancient sessile oak, festooned with lichen and ferns. Then she and Samuel remounted and moved on.

  A son of God and a daughter of men. Her mind chased the idea around as they rode. The pony’s determined plodding fell into a rhythm. Meg relaxed and let her head drift to Samuel’s shoulder. Surrounded by his distinctive male scent and snugged under his woolen cloak, she was surprisingly warm, but not exactly comfortable. His thighs were too hard for that. And she was far too close to his male parts for her insides not to start turning back-flips. It was almost, but not quite, as exciting as his kiss had been. If she turned in his arms, maybe he’d be tempted to kiss her again.

  Or maybe she’d slide off the horse.

  She decided to stay still, safe within the circle of his arms and warm cloak. However unruly her insides were becoming, she was too tired to act on its urges. She let her eyelids close—only for a moment, mind!—and had no idea when she slipped from drowsy awareness into the hazy land of dreams.

  Usually, she didn’t remember her night-phantoms. As they rode along, shadowy images came together in her subconscious and then broke apart like storm clouds gathering and dispersing, as if they couldn’t decide to go ahead and drop a deluge. Finally, one dream sliced through her mind with the startling clarity of a lightning bolt against a black sky.

  Meg would remember it all her life.

  Stars fell from heaven, tails of fire trailing them. She couldn’t hear herself think over the shrieks of the pushing, scrambling crowd. Someone jabbed an elbow into her ribs, trying to muscle around her. Gasping for breath, she pressed her spine against a stone wall and let the mob stampede by. Fear was contagious. It reached out to grasp her throat with its bony claw.

  There came a voice from heaven—a monstrous big voice, louder than the thunder of a waterfall, deeper than the ocean’s depths—but the words it spoke were in a language she didn’t understand. People fell to their knees. They buried their faces in the dirt. Something besides stars was falling now.

  She shielded her eyes and looked up. And suddenly, she was unafraid.

  The pony stumbled and Meg was jolted awake. A soft rain had been falling, but she hadn’t been aware of it until that moment. She pulled the edges of the cloak tighter around her chin. Though she shivered, it wasn’t from cold. She hadn’t been fearful at the end of her dream, but the eeriness of it sent a ripple of apprehension over her.

  “Not far now,” Samuel said as he kneed the pony into a trot.

  Meg hoped it was far enough for her to stop the shakes that threatened to overtake her on the heels of that vivid dream. She’d seen the world of the tapestry with its cowering mob and the angel falling from the sky. She’d lived it.

  And in her nightmare, the lone standing woman was her.

  The only thing more difficult than not having a well thought-out plan is knowing what will happen if my spontaneous efforts fail.

  ~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn

  Chapter Eleven

  Light spilled from the small window of a rustic inn. The thatched roof was patched in places, but seemed to be turning the rain. If it had been no more than a leaky hovel, Meg would still have been grateful to see it.

  Samuel helped her dismount, took off the cloak they’d been sharing and draped it over her shoulders alone. It trailed the ground. Meg clu
tched the oilcloth garment tighter around herself while Samuel handed the pony’s reins to a waiting hostler. He flipped an extra coin to the lad, ordering him to give the sturdy mount a thorough currying and some hot mash. Then he shouldered the saddlebag, picked up Meg, and carried her across the muddy yard between the stable and the inn’s door.

  Meg clung to his neck. Despite the foul weather and their headlong flight, his simple courtly gesture was too comforting for words. It made her want to trust herself to this man and trusting anyone was something she’d rarely done in her life.

  “I know this place isn’t up to your usual standards after living under the duke’s care, but it’s the best this part of Wales can offer,” he murmured as they entered the low-ceilinged common room. Samuel stomped on the threshold to knock the mud off his knee boots.

  The air in the inn was thick with the competing smells of ale, stew, smoke, and damp wool. Tipping back mugs, a few patrons huddled around a fireplace. Benches lined the walls and would serve as beds for travelers who couldn’t afford a private room. Or for those who drank too much to trust their feet to find the way back to their own homes.

  “Whatever I say,” Samuel whispered, “do not contradict me.”

  Meg nodded. She would have to be able to think to do that and she was far too weary.

  A balding fellow with florid cheeks stood behind an age-darkened bar, wiping the worn surface with a damp cloth. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  He ought to have said “my lord,” not “sir.” Clearly, the innkeeper didn’t recognize Samuel as the lord of Faencaern Castle. Meg realized this part of Wales was so isolated, its residents might not travel farther than five miles from their homes in their entire lives. Each little valley was its own small world.

  Which meant strangers stood out. If someone were to come along asking about a man and a woman traveling through and gave Samuel and Meg’s descriptions, they’d soon learn all they wished to know.

  “A room for me and my wife, good man.” Samuel slapped a handful of coins on the bar. “Bring us bread and some of that stew I’m smelling and you’ll find there’s more blunt where that came from. And more for the wise innkeeper who knows how to keep his own counsel.”

  Meg’s jaw sagged. All that registered of Samuel’s little speech was that he had claimed her as his wife. Then she remembered Samuel’s warning about not contradicting him and clamped her lips together.

  “So far as I can see, sir, you and the lady was never here,” the innkeeper said, secreting Samuel’s coins into his threadbare waistcoat’s pocket and laying a finger alongside his nose in a sly gesture of collusion. Then he led them up a set of narrow stairs to the rooms above. They were shown to a surprisingly tidy chamber with sloping walls under the eaves. The single window was shuttered against the rain. There was a string bed laden with thick blankets, a small washstand, and commode with a privacy screen. A rocking chair stood by a cold fireplace. The innkeeper knelt and stirred the embers to life.

  “That’ll chase away the chill and get you dry on the outside,” he said once the blaze flared up. “My missus has a way with the cooking, if I do say so myself. Her food’ll warm up your insides right enough. I’ll be back with a tray directly.”

  Once he closed the door behind him, Meg rounded on Samuel. “Why did you tell that man I’m your wife?”

  “Because he likely wouldn’t have rented us a room if he knew differently. Despite its humble appearance, this is a respectable inn. I’ve Seen it. The innkeeper is an honest man who doesn’t have much because he gives a good deal of what he earns to those in need,” Samuel said as he lifted the wet cloak from her shoulders and spread it over the spindled back of the rocking chair to dry. “If I’m to keep you safe, I need to keep you with me, so I told him you’re my wife. It’s a forgivable lie.”

  She retreated to a far corner, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. “If we are discovered here together, nothing will keep my reputation safe.”

  “Frankly, your reputation is the least of my worries,” he said.

  “So no matter what situation a gentleman leads a lady into, he bears no responsibility? There’s a man’s thinking for you.” She crossed her arms over her chest as she remembered something odd he’d said during their headlong flight. “But then, you claim not to be a man, don’t you?”

  “That’s right,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. “Perhaps you’d better be seated if we’re going to get into all that.”

  “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Well, I’m going to sit. You may have nodded off in the saddle, but I didn’t.” He peeled out of his jacket, settled into the rocker, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If you won’t sit, at least slip behind that screen and remove your damp things. You’ll catch your death of cold, otherwise.”

  It was a prudent suggestion, if not a strictly proper one. Teeth starting to chatter, Meg decided to follow his advice. She took her dry afternoon gown and fresh undergarments from the oilskin saddlebag and carried them behind the privacy screen with her.

  “You’re trying to change the subject by having me change out of my clothes,” she said. “Don’t be fooled into thinking I’ll let this go. What did you mean?” When he didn’t respond, she peered at him over the screen. His head lolled to one side and his eyes were closed. If he hadn’t drifted to sleep, he was doing a fair imitation of it. She raised her voice. “You promised to explain. I’m waiting.”

  He startled awake at her sharp tone and then dragged a hand over his face. “All right, but begin undressing or I’ll come behind that screen and peel you out of that wretched gown myself.”

  “Wretched gown, indeed. What did you expect me to wear when you ordered me to come away with you in the dead of night? This bombazine might not be attractive, but I can wiggle out of it unassisted, thank you very much. And in any case, how dare you threaten to disrobe me!”

  “I dare because you’re not the only one who needs to get dry, though I’ll wait until you’re finished with the privacy screen. I assume a lady would rather I didn’t start stripping out of my clothes here in front of God and everybody.”

  Meg tried to swallow, but her throat had gone suddenly dry. Samuel Templeton, in nothing but his skin. Now that would be a sight.

  Then a disapproving Lady Easton rose in her mind. Meg felt mildly chastised but the image of a naked Samuel would not go away. She wondered again about where the unusual birthmark that proved he was the real Lord Badewyn was located. Cadwallader had said it was in an unmentionable place. Then she realized he’d tugged off his boots and was working on his stockings.

  “No, you’re right. Hold a moment.” Thinking about him naked and actually seeing him that way were two very different things. Meg would never be able to keep up the pretense of being a lady under those circumstances. Her fingers flew down the line of pewter buttons that marched down her bodice. “I’ll try to hurry.”

  “Good.” Samuel stopped undressing after he peeled off his last stocking and stretched it across the hearth to dry.

  Meg shed the bombazine in record time and shot him a pointed look over the screen. “Now, I’m ready for your explanation.”

  “I doubt that. It’s such an odd tale, I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t lived the truth of it.” He huffed out a breath. “As I told you before, I am one of the Nephilim, the offspring of a daughter of men and a son of God.”

  “I understand well enough what a daughter of men is, but what is a son of God?” Her theological understanding was woefully inadequate at times but she was certain he wasn’t talking about the Son of God. “Do you mean an angel?”

  “A fallen angel, to be precise.”

  “So your father was—”

  “Is,” he corrected. “A fallen angel. It’s Grigori.”

  Well, that explained a great deal. No wonder Grigori had seemed to be able to see her when she was in her disembodied state. Having once been a creature of pure spirit, he
was undoubtedly still sensitive to that realm.

  “So you see, the generally accepted story is not true,” he went on. “My father did not die in Ankara as everyone at the castle was told. That was my half-brother, the man who pretended to be my father. Grigori styles himself my uncle, but he’s actually my sire. I was gotten on the wife of my very much older half-brother.”

  Despite Meg’s determination to remain standing, her knees gave way and she sank to the floor behind the privacy screen. She’d been exposed to some odd doings since she became part of the Order of the M.U.S.E., but never anything as outrageous as this. If she didn’t have such an odd gift herself, she’d have wondered whether Samuel had lost his wits to suggest such a strange thing were possible.

  “I apologize if my bluntness offends you,” he said. “There is no way to explain this tangled mess with delicacy.”

  She drew a deep breath and rose to look over the screen at him again. “Plain speech is better than delicacy if I’m to understand and, believe me, I want to understand.” She cast about for some way to make sense of his claim as she continued to strip off her stays and chemise. “When I first came to Faencaern Castle, I was fascinated by that tapestry in the great hall. Does that fit into all this somehow?”

  He sat back in the rocker and stared past her as if he could see through the sloping walls and into the craggy peaks they’d left behind. Then his gaze cut to hers and she felt pinned to the spot. “Like most tapestries, it commemorates an actual event. In the distant past, Grigori fell from heaven along with Lucifer. But unlike the Prince of Darkness, he claims he willingly left paradise for the love of a woman.”

  Meg’s insides glowed with warmth. She knew who this woman was. She’d inhabited her skin, if for only a little while, in that strange dream. Even with calamity all around her, the woman had been soothed by the sight of her beloved tumbling from the sky. He wasn’t falling. He was coming for her. They could face anything so long as they were together. “The woman standing alone. She’s the one.”