Temptation & Twilight

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “Well, they’re the only kisses I am liable to receive, so I shall take them,” she teased, but Maggie merely grunted as she pulled the corset from Elizabeth’s breasts and tossed the silk-and-steel garment onto the bed. Her companion liked to claim that Rosie was a nuisance, but Lizzy knew she had a soft spot for the dog, regardless of what she wanted people to believe. Maggie might give the impression of being a commander, but inside, she had a very kind heart and a rather romantic soul. But she’d given it all up to stay and live with Lizzy. More than her lady’s maid and her eyes, she had been a substitute mother, a nurse and was now a treasured friend. Lizzy could not have gained any measure of independence if it had not been for her. People thought it a testament to Lizzy’s own courage and drive that she had accomplished so much despite her blindness, but really, it was because of Maggie’s strength, her untiring nature and unrelenting belief that Lizzy could succeed. She owed much of what she was to her companion, who had been with her since Lizzy was fifteen and Maggie barely eighteen. They could have been sisters, and despite the difference in their social status, got on as if they were family.

  At some point, Lizzy was going to have to once more bring up the topic of her friend living her own life. The trouble was, Maggie was every bit as stubborn as she, and would hear none of it.

  “Now, then, you’re down to your chemise. Why don’t you sit at the dressing table and I’ll brush out your hair?” With one last nuzzle, Elizabeth left the dog and turned, making her way across the room without assistance. She found her way to the table and slowly lowered herself onto the waiting chair.

  “I met a gentleman tonight,” she said, trying to keep her thoughts away from Alynwick and what had transpired between them at the musicale.

  “Did you now? Must be a handsome gent for just the mention of him put those roses in your cheeks.” Smiling, Elizabeth flicked her hair over her shoulders.

  “I’ve blushed more tonight than I did when it was actually acceptable for me to blush.”

  “Nonsense, ’tis a woman’s right to blush whenever the spirit moves her. Nothing to do with age or steadfast sensibilities.”

  “I allow it was rather nice,” she said, recalling how it felt to walk beside a man who was not her brother, or her brother’s friends. “Lady Lucy assures me that he is most handsome—and tanned.”

  “Tanned?” Maggie mumbled. She had hairpins in her mouth again, Lizzy could tell. “What proper English gentleman allows his flesh to get tanned?”

  “A perfectly improper one, I think,” Elizabeth answered, chuckling when Maggie gasped in surprise.

  “And you, an innocent speaking like a coquette!” How she wished she could see Maggie’s expression.

  In her heart she knew her companion was not shocked by her frank speaking, but was actually smiling. Maggie was not an old matron. She was in the prime of her life, and must occasionally think of the opposite sex.

  “I am nearly thirty, Maggie. Coquettes are young women who flirt and flit about. I am the furthest thing from one.”

  “What would you know of improper gentlemen?” Maggie asked, and Elizabeth lowered her sightless gaze to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Quite a bit, actually, was her first response, but she bit it back, knowing Maggie would be standing behind her, watching her face in the dressing-table mirror.

  “Nothing, other than they can be rather enticing, don’t you think?”

  “I cannot say,” Maggie scoffed. “Myself, I think I would prefer a nice gentleman to a rogue that made me blush.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Miss Maggie Farley. You’d throw over a nice ‘gennleman’ any day for a rogue. Do not bother to deny it. I can hear the excitement in your voice. You’re enticed by the very image.” Maggie tsked. “This is proper talk for two respectable ladies?”

  “No, it isn’t, is it? But just once I think it might be all right to be completely unrespectable, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, I do not.”

  “Oh, Maggie, you will not give an inch, will you?”

  “Only an inch, mind,” she allowed as she pulled the brush through Elizabeth’s long, thick hair. “I will admit I hope you invited him to call. I would like to get a glimpse of this tanned improper gentleman. And I shall give you a good accounting of him. Not that I doubt for a second that the mischievous Lady Lucy did not do so!” Lizzy smiled at the memory of Lucy’s hushed descriptions. “She did indeed. But I would like to see him through your eyes.”

  “I confess I am eager to relate my accounting.”

  “And you shall. I expect him to call any day.” The brush was replaced on the table and Maggie’s strong hand gently wrapped around Elizabeth’s upper arm. “Well, then, to bed, Beauty, if your prince is calling.”

  “I didn’t say it would be tomorrow.”

  “He’d be a fool to let any length of time pass till he next saw you. You are much too beautiful to risk losing.

  Why, there might have been other gentlemen present who desire to call upon you.”

  Just one, and he was the most improper man of all.

  Alynwick took no notice of the rules of their world. He cared about nothing, no one, other than himself. Elizabeth would not fool herself into believing that the scoundrel wished to call upon her. He observed none of the proprieties. No, what Alynwick had been about was ruining her evening with Lord Sheldon. For what reason, she could not fathom, other than he had always enjoyed making sport of her. And she had allowed it—for a time. What Alynwick did not realize was that she would no longer tolerate his interference in her life, her friendships or indeed, any possible courtships.

  He could go hang for all she cared.

  “’Night, miss,” Maggie murmured as Elizabeth settled back against the fluffed-up pillows.

  “Maggie,” she found herself whispering, “what is the time?”

  “Nearly two, miss.”

  “And dawn?” she asked quietly as she turned to face the window she could not see out of. “What time does it arrive, now that we are in the midst of November?”

  “Thinking of your gentleman caller, by chance?” her companion teased.

  “Perhaps.” But she wasn’t. For some ungodly reason she was thinking of a mist-shrouded field and tendrils of early morning light flickering off gunmetal.

  “Dawn will arrive by six. There is no need to fret. I will wake you with plenty of time to help you prepare.” Maggie’s departure was silent, with only the click of the closing door alerting Elizabeth to the fact her companion had departed. Gathering Rosie close to her, she ran her hands through the spaniel’s long, silky coat.

  “I won’t sleep tonight,” she whispered to the dog.

  “Damn him, he’s robbed me of another perfectly decent night’s sleep.”

  Rosie made a little growling sound as she struggled to get comfortable. Despite the blackness that shrouded her, Lizzy turned to face her bedroom window. Beyond the glass, she could see in her mind’s eye the black, sooty grime of London. The town houses and the spire of churches and the dome of Saint Paul’s—all memories from when she’d possessed sight.

  She saw a field covered with a thick white blanket of frost, and tendrils of mist hovering over the ground. In the breeze, wool greatcoats flapped, and she heard pistols fire, the shots cracking through the silent air, leaving grey smoke twirling upwards from the barrels.

  She imagined the scene a hundred different times in those long hours she lay silently in bed, but it was always the same. The colour of blood had swum before her eyes, and the prone body of a man was revealed with the parting of the crimson.

  It was Alynwick. And despite her attempts to deny it, her heart ached at the very thought.

  Unable to withstand the images she saw in her head, she felt around her nightstand, searching for the drawer pull. Finding it, she opened the drawer and lifted out the little leather journal that lay hidden inside.

  Opening the cover, she allowed her fingers to trace over the brittle vellum page. She ha
d found the diary of her notorious ancestor Sinjin York years ago, while playing in the attic of her family’s country house. She hadn’t understood what it was until she was older.

  Once she discovered that it was a very detailed account of Sinjin’s illicit affair with an unknown woman whom he called “My Veiled Lady,” Elizabeth had been on a quest to discover the woman’s identity.

  She had lost her sight before she could, and now she was left with only the memories of passages she could no longer read.

  But tonight, for some reason, she took comfort in the feel of the familiar brittle pages, which she knew held Sinjin’s flowing script. And words that had captured not only her imagination, but aroused her womanly needs—needs she had always imagined sharing with one person.

  4th May, 1147—Carpathians.

  I have taken up the cross for my kingdom in the fight to protect Jerusalem and all of Christendom.

  My army is amassed, and a truce, however tenuous, has been reached between myself and the French king, Louis VII, whose army has joined with mine.

  We will march to Bucharest, where we will meet with the German emperor. Then on to Byzantium, where I pray we will be allowed a peaceful crossing. I have received a missive from the Byzantine emperor, Manuel I Comnenus, who will guarantee our safe passage.

  We leave on the morn, the 6th of May, the feast day of Saint George. The priest that travels with me will not hear of crossing the woods and mountains on the eve of Saint George. For at nightfall on this day it is believed that all things evil have full sway. The priest is old and superstitious, but I relent for the peace of my men, who are swayed by the tales of village peasants and gypsies, who fill their minds with talk of unnatural creatures that roam unseen around us.

  I must remind myself that the Carpathians are a wild and untamed place, far removed from my beloved England. If I close my eyes I can still see the rocky coastline of Yorkshire, smell the brine of the North Sea and taste the salt on my tongue.

  My memory turns to Isolde, whom I treasure above all things on earth. She was fearful of my leaving; however I allayed my lover’s fears by telling her to remember me—my voice—for it will comfort her in the months ahead when she is alone.

  I assured my beloved Isolde that God will not forsake me on the field of glory, for which I fight for in His name. I shall return to her, the Crusades won, my heart still beating for her. I cannot help but wonder what she is doing, if she is sitting beneath the night sky thinking of me, as I am thinking of her….

  Elizabeth had memorized that passage, just as she had all the other thrilling pages that followed. At first she had thought the diary merely an account of Sinjin’s travels from England to Jerusalem, and the events of the Crusades. And perhaps in the beginning that was the intention. But she had no sooner turned the page and read the next entry, than she’d been drawn into Sinjin’s private world of love, lust, obsession and sin….

  17th May, 1147

  Entered Constantinople. Reached an amicable arrangement with the Seljuk Turks. The men are nervous, fearing an attack from the Seljuks, who have been known to make alliances with the infidels. Spirits are low, especially now that it seems our priest has gone mad, possessed by some unseen thing, rambling about an unholy aura that follows us. He claims he sees that aura hovering over me—a warning, he claims, of temptation and sin.

  The man is mad, and I have dispatched him with four men to Sighisoara, where he will embark on a journey back to England.

  The men believe the priest’s ramblings, and it is more and more difficult, what with the constant fatigue and heat and very great thirst, to appeal to their rational minds.

  Tomorrow we leave for Edessa, where we will rest for a few days and regain our strength. Then I shall follow my Templar brothers, who will bring us to the Holy City and our fate—the fight to keep Jerusalem in Christian hands.

  —Addendum; early dawn. I dreamed of a woman. Not Isolde, but a temptress, covered in jewels and a veil. She whispered to me, beckoned

  to me in my sleep to a land of exotic pleasures. I awoke with the memory of the priest’s wild eyes as he gave his dire warnings to me. Some sinful temptation was following me, and it would be my ruination.

  My brethren must never find out about Isolde, nor must they ever discover my dreams of the woman, for I have taken my Templar vows of chastity. But I am only a man. Man was not made to be celibate. The Dukes of Sussex were born to love women, to pleasure them with bodies honed by fighting. And I have my fair share of desires.

  Even now, my body is hard and aching, with images clouding my judgement. Not images of beautiful Isolde, but the mysterious woman of my dreams.

  I cannot help but think that this journey to the Holy City will change everything I have ever known—everything I am. I suspect it will not be the war we wage that does so, but instead, the woman of my dreams, whom I know awaits me in Jerusalem. Perhaps I am cursed as the mad priest claims, but no curse could prevent me from moving heaven and hell to find her.

  No power on earth to prevent him from moving heaven and hell to find his beloved… Elizabeth wished she could find a man who felt that way about her. Silly, naïve dream, she thought as she clutched the diary to her breasts and allowed herself to slip into sleep. She owed it to Sinjin to discover this Veiled Lady. To reward his passion and devotion by learning their story, and perhaps one day recounting it to her nieces and nephews. For she did not dare think of her own children. She would not have a story like Sinjin and his lover. She had long ago given up that dream.

  Move heaven and hell… She thought of that, heard it whispered in a dark, velvety, caressing voice, and saw the eyes of the devil himself. If only he had thought that way all those years ago.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “NOW, LARABIE,” Black growled as he came to his feet behind Alynwick. “This is uncalled for. Allow us to emerge from the carriage, and your second and myself will commence with officiating this duel—utilizing the proper rules.”

  “Why should I?” Larabie snarled as he kept the barrel of the pistol raised to the spot between Alynwick’s eyes. “The bastard has never played by the rules before.

  Defiling a man’s wife,” he grunted. “I should shoot off your bollocks instead of your head.”

  “Larabie,” Alynwick drawled, “let us see if you’re man enough. Pull the damn trigger.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Larabie’s second advised. “At that range, you’ll have the bastard’s brains splattered on your coat.” Larabie’s slow smile was downright chilling. “Good.

  I’ll have my wife wash her lover’s blood and guts from the wool. Would serve the bitch right for what she’s done to me.”

  “Gentlemen…” Black’s voice sounded much too resigned, and dare Iain say it, bored. “At this close range, we shall all be sprayed with Alynwick’s grey matter, considering he has some, of course.” If Iain hadn’t been watching Larabie’s trembling hand, and the softly bobbing barrel of the duelling pistol aimed at his head, he would have turned and sent his friend a glare.

  “Let us be reasonable,” Black murmured as he carefully shifted his tall body forward, filling up the door space of the coach. “A few paces out into the pasture, and then we may commence.”

  Larabie suddenly whirled, warning Black away. That was when Iain saw his chance and took it, wrestling the pistol from his opponent. He had not expected it to be loaded—and he had certainly not expected to hear the ear-shattering crack of a bullet blast in the silence of the night.

  Time seemed to shift, to stall, as Larabie’s jowled face grew white. With a smile born of arrogance, Alynwick waited to watch the earl’s expression turn from shock, to pain, to terror. It didn’t. Instead, Iain felt the burn of his own skin being torn apart. Then the heat of his blood seeping out, onto his shirt. The force of the bullet threw him back against Black, who caught him, covering his body with his own.

  “You ass,” Iain rasped as he clutched the sleeve of Black’s coat. “Isabella will hang me by my bollocks
if you get hurt.”

  “Shut up,” Black muttered as he efficiently placed Iain on the damp ground. “The doctor!” he ordered, and Iain saw the tips of Larabie’s boots and those of his second move back, making way for the physician.

  His body burned, the pain was substantial, and he suddenly was thankful that he had sat in his carriage for hours, drinking himself into a stupor. It had numbed the pain somewhat, and made it so he had not cried out, either in surprise or discomfort. He would not give that fat, fucking Larabie the pleasure of his weakness.

  “I trust you are satisfied,” he said, trying to breathe as normally as possible.

  “Honour was met,” Larabie’s second announced, and Black all but flew between the small space that set them apart, confronting the man with his fist knotted in his cravat.

  “Honour was not met,” he snarled. “Larabie shot him in cold blood. None of the rules were adhered to. It wasn’t a fair duel.”

  “It wasn’t fair of him to bed my wife!” Larabie roared, and Iain, not wanting to hear the earl’s pompous voice a second longer, rasped and waved his friend back over.

  “Let it go,” he murmured as Black knelt down beside him. “I don’t think it’s fatal, anyway. Besides, I plan on playing this up to the lady. Surely she will see to it that I am well compensated for this business.”

  “Damn you, this plan of yours is going to hell.” Iain shrugged and winced in pain as a tearing burn made its way down his left arm. “Shoulder, I think.

  Bloody bastard is lucky it’s my left.”

  “Make way, gentlemen,” the physician ordered. He set his black bag down on the damp grass beside Iain’s head. Alynwick’s coachman had taken a carriage lamp and was holding it over them, allowing its soft glow to illuminate the scene. Above him, Iain could see Larabie’s jowls quivering. To his left stood Black, his expression the colour of his name. The doctor pulled at Iain’s coat, revealing the soaked shirt beneath.

  “Well, will the bastard live, or shall I make plans to leave for the continent tonight?” Larabie muttered.