by Candace Camp
“What are you saying? That they died because of...all this?” She made a vague gesture at the letters before them. “That the Sanctuary killed them?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But we have to consider the possibility.”
“No...” Lilah groaned. “Now you’re going to tell me that this is a...a...”
He nodded, finishing her sentence, “A curse.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“NO.” LILAH JUMPED to her feet. “I cannot. I have reached my limit. It is difficult enough to accept that I have this bizarre ability. It’s even harder to conceive that my grandfather and father followed a religion my grandfather dreamed up and held strange ceremonies in some secret place, where they recited incantations about ancient gods. But curses are simply more than I can agree to.”
Con went to Lilah, taking her in his loose embrace. “I have trouble believing all of this myself. I don’t really mean a curse, not in the way of ‘you have disturbed this ancient resting place, and now you will be eternally cursed.’ It’s just that it seems the two things—the Sanctuary and their early deaths—must have some connection. Either circumstance is odd, but the two things together is—well, that’s pushing my limit.”
“But what could possibly be the connection between their early deaths and this ‘Sanctuary’?” Lilah pulled away and began to pace. “How could finding that place or participating in these rituals cause someone to die years later?”
He thought for a moment. “What if there was something in the room, poison in the air or on an object they touched? Maybe there’s a well that they drank from, and it contained...something dangerous.”
“Years later?”
“Like arsenic—it built up over time as they continued to visit, until finally it killed them.”
“But if it was a poison, wouldn’t their deaths be similar? My father died of a heart attack, but Sabrina’s had apoplexy.”
“I’ve no idea,” Con admitted.
“We don’t have anything that really connects the two,” Lilah went on, gaining steam. “We don’t know when or how Niles’s father died, and Niles is still alive. Second, it’s possible that my family and Sabrina’s don’t have long life spans. Perhaps many of our ancestors died young. It’s a strange coincidence but not impossible.”
“We should talk to Aunt Vesta. We can look into the family histories. See if all your ancestors met early deaths. Perhaps this valet you talked about could tell us.”
Lilah said quietly, “If you are right about this, if the early deaths somehow happened because our grandfathers found the Sanctuary, then Sabrina and I—”
She saw the realization hit Con, too. “No. No. It doesn’t mean that.” He went to her and took her arms, looking intently into her face. “If a poison in the Sanctuary killed them, you and Sabrina wouldn’t be affected. Neither of you have ever been there. Anyway, you’re right. A curse is ridiculous. You are not going to die.” He set his jaw in such a pugnacious way that Lilah had to smile.
“Well...if you forbid it...”
“I do.” He kissed her, hard and quick. “Come, let’s find out what your aunt can tell us.”
As it turned out, Aunt Vesta could tell them very little. She couldn’t remember when Bertram Dearborn died or how, and she was equally ignorant about Sabrina’s grandfather. “And Papa simply didn’t wake up one morning. I was quite young, you understand, when they died. But I cannot imagine that a holy place would make anyone die. It’s a Sanctuary.”
“They called it that,” Lilah said. “It doesn’t mean it actually is.”
“Oh, no, no, I am sure Papa was right if he said it was a sacred spot. He was sensitive to such things. That’s where I got it. Your father, sadly, was not.” She gave a little sigh at the thought of her brother’s lack of discernment. “Besides, the Goddess wouldn’t harm her faithful servants. She’s a kind and loving being. She blessed them.”
“You knew about the goddess? The Matres?” Even Con sounded a trifle exasperated. “Your father told you about his religion?”
“No, only in a general way—‘one mustn’t forget the old gods,’ that sort of thing. But of course the Sanctuary would belong to the Goddess. She is the giver of all life after all. Mother Earth, you understand. Obviously she must be the source of the power.”
“Well, I wish she’d use her power to show us where the key is,” Lilah retorted.
“Oh, no, dear girl.” Aunt Vesta shook her head gravely. “Those from the beyond are never forthright. They move on a different plane. That is why we have to interpret their messages. Never give up hope, Dilly. I am sure it will come clear to you. Although...” She frowned. “The Goddess may reveal herself only to a believer.”
“I think I have become one,” Lilah admitted in a less-than-happy voice.
“What? Do not tell me—you have awakened to the Truth?”
“I don’t know about that, but I started walking in my sleep again. And, well...” Lilah sighed. “I sensed some sort of energy.”
“It speaks to you?” Aunt Vesta gaped at her.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Lilah demurred. “I am just...aware of it.”
“She is crying out,” Vesta exclaimed, clutching her hands to her chest. “Clearly the Goddess wants her Sanctuary to be found.” She paused. “Hmm. Perhaps if we three believers...”
“I am not going to participate in a summoning ceremony,” Lilah said flatly.
“In any case, I doubt it would work without the key.” Vesta patted Lilah’s hand. “I am sure you will come up with the answer.”
Lilah was far less certain of that.
* * *
WHEN LILAH AND Con returned to the smoking room, they found that the servants had placed the trunk, now wiped free of dust, in the middle of the floor. Con knelt down next to it, Lilah beside him, and they began to empty the chest. Lilah set the white robes aside on one of the chairs. Beneath them were several books on ancient British religions as well as other pantheons of the Norse or Celts. Lilah picked up a hard rectangular object, wrapped in velvet, which turned out to be another book, worn with age and bound with a leather tie.
“This is really old.” With great care, Lilah set it, velvet and all, in her lap. “Do you think this is Last John’s journal?”
“One hopes.” Con leaned over to watch as she opened it. The top page was splotched with mildew and various stains, and the ink was so faded the words were almost invisible.
“If it is, I’m not sure we can get anything from it. It’s in terrible shape.” Lilah turned the page, and the corner crumbled in her hands. She closed the book and rewrapped it, setting it aside. “We’ll have to read that with the utmost care.”
Con turned back to the trunk, pulling out the other books and several candles, as well as a humidor—empty—and a case containing a pair of spectacles. Watching him, Lilah thought how much she would like to run her hand down his arm or across his shoulders, to lean her head against him. Even better would be to snuggle against his side, his arm curling around her shoulder. It wasn’t passion—though she suspected it might quickly turn into that—but a happy, almost giddy desire to be close to him, to link the two of them together in even a small way.
Unaware of her thoughts, Con continued to fish around in the chest. Finally, he pulled out a small wooden box.
Lilah’s eyes widened. “The key? Open it.”
“No, it’s yours.” He held it out to her.
Her pulse tripping, Lilah lifted the lid. Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. “No, just some odds and ends. A button, a little rock. A ring and tiepin.”
“Look at this ring,” Con said, plucking it from the box and showing it to her. The top of the ring was a tiny compass.
Lilah laughed. “I wonder why Sir Ambrose was so fascinated with compasses and clocks.”
“Maybe he didn’t want t
o be late,” Con joked. “Or he was afraid of getting lost. Though he wouldn’t have gotten far with this one. It doesn’t work. It’s frozen on southwest. Still clever, though. Wait, this looks like...” He pressed his fingernail against the side. The top of the ring opened, and a tiny triangle popped up on the flat face.
“A sundial!”
“Like a poison ring,” Con commented.
“But far nicer.”
“Yes. I wonder if you can do it with the same hand.” Con closed the compass and slid it onto his finger, using his thumb to open the ring again.
Lilah watched Con’s face, bright with his usual delight in something clever, and her heart rolled in her chest. He closed the lid and started to slide off the ring, but Lilah stopped him, her hand closing over the ring and his hand. “No. Don’t. It’s yours.”
“But, Lilah...”
“I want you to have it.”
“You’re giving it to me?” His face changed subtly.
She nodded, her hand dropping away. In the next moment Lilah realized how inappropriately she’d acted. A lady would never give such a gift to a gentleman who wasn’t her husband or a member of her family. Jewelry was too valuable, too personal, especially a ring, hinting as it did of commitment.
She blushed vividly. “Oh. I’m sorry. That was so forward. I shouldn’t—”
“No, you don’t.” Con tucked his hand behind his back. His eyes danced wickedly, matching his smile. “You can’t take it back now. It’s mine now, Miss Holcutt.”
“Yes, it is,” she murmured. As he was hers. Wherever he might go or whatever he might do or be, he was hers. Even if she never saw him again, Con was hers.
* * *
LILAH’S GIFT TOUCHED Con in a way he’d never felt. His chest flooded with warmth, and a host of emotions rose in him—desire, tenderness, a need to protect and shelter, all tangled together with an unaccustomed uncertainty, even trepidation.
“Lilah...” He curled his hand behind her neck and leaned closer. “Are you sure?” He wasn’t entirely certain what he was asking, knowing only that he could not make a misstep. There was so little room for error with Lilah.
“I am.” Lilah drove every thought out of his head by stretching up and nipping his lower lip.
Con groaned and kissed her, bearing her down to the floor, his mouth hard and hot on hers. His lips traveled down over her throat. Her bodice was the sort of modest dress she favored, with a high collar of lace. The faint scratch of the lace against his lips, her skin warm and soft beneath it, was intensely arousing. He lifted his head. “The door,” he managed to croak. “It’s open.”
“Well, then...” Lilah’s smile sent a shiver through him. She wriggled out from beneath him, rising to her feet and moving away. She paused and looked back at him over her shoulder, her mouth curving up playfully. “I propose we go elsewhere.”
Turning, Lilah sauntered out the door. Con stood for a moment, staring after her. Then, breaking from his paralysis, he grinned and started after her.
Lilah was standing in her open doorway when Con reached the top of the stairs, and he stopped just to look at her, to take in that smile, that hair, the long, slender figure in a prim dress that perversely increased his passion. Then in two long steps he was inside her room, closing the door behind him and twisting the key in the lock.
When he turned back around, Lilah was strolling away from him, reaching up to unpin her hair. Con leaned against the door to watch, hands thrust into his pockets as if to keep them from reaching out for her, his body outwardly relaxed and inwardly electric.
With every pin she tossed into the porcelain dish on her vanity, with every curl that slipped from its moorings and tumbled to her shoulder, the hunger in him swelled. Combing through her hair with her fingers, she looked back at him. “How are you at unfastening buttons?”
Con was across the room like a shot. “Taking things apart is one of my primary skills.”
He felt her low laugh all through him. Con gathered the bright fall of Lilah’s hair and moved it over her shoulder, letting it slide like silk through his palms. He undid her buttons slowly, letting his anticipation build.
The sides of her bodice sagged apart, and Con bent to place his lips gently on the delicate white skin revealed. He wanted to rush, to consume, to satisfy his need in a hard, bright burst of pleasure. Yet he held back, enticing them both with his slow caresses and the long, lazy journey of his lips.
“Lilah,” he whispered, sliding his hands over her body to cup her breasts as his lips roamed up her throat to tease at the cord of her neck, to nip at her earlobe.
Lilah made a breathy noise of surrender, melting back against him, and that almost undid him. Con shoved down her chemise, and the pop of the ribbon tearing loose sent a stab of lust through him. In the mirror above the vanity table, he could see his hand sliding over Lilah, and that, too, was amazingly erotic.
With infinite care, he continued to undress her. His own clothes he whipped off with considerably more haste. Slowly, languorously, they made love. Hands and lips exploring, testing. Laughter muffled against skin. Bodies moving in wordless invitation. Every breath, every moan temptation and satisfaction. At last he slid inside her, finally joining in heat and hunger, in a blinding explosion of pleasure.
Afterward, as Con held her in his arms, spent and at peace, the familiar words from the wedding ceremony drifted through his mind. With my body, I thee worship. He had never realized before how very apt that phrase was. He could, he thought, continue worshipping Lilah this way forever.
If only things were different, he would. And suddenly he wished they were away from here, living in some secluded cottage by themselves, with time stretching out in front of them. Nowhere to be, nothing to do, no catastrophes to prevent, no kidnappers, no threats. Just long lazy days spent discovering each other, talking, laughing, making love.
He let out a sigh. Maybe someday. But now they would have to catch their moments of pleasure when they could. They had to find a hidden key. They had to locate a secret room. Come up with two other keys that were or were not stolen. Renew some mystical bond with an unknown, unseen, but fiercely powerful entity. Avert catastrophe.
All by Midsummer’s Eve.
It was a good thing, Con thought, that he was an optimistic sort of man.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CON STOOD, GAZING down at the now-empty trunk and its contents spread out on the floor around it. Yesterday evening, they had gone back down to the smoking room and removed the last of the items from the chest, even checking beneath the lining. There had been no sign of a key, and finally, discouraged, they had gone to bed.
He had awakened this morning with renewed enthusiasm, but the contents of the trunk looked no more hopeful now. “The most promising thing we have is your ancestor’s journal, but I’ve been able to make out only a few words of it.”
“Why didn’t my father tell me about any of this?” Lilah asked in exasperation.
“He might have thought that you would reject it out of hand,” Con pointed out. “You held rather decided views on mysticism. Would you have accepted it if he had told you about the Sanctuary three years ago?”
“No,” Lilah admitted. “Probably not.”
“Still, it seems odd that he didn’t leave you any warning, given the consequences of not ‘renewing the bond’ every three years.”
“I would have thought he would leave the key with his attorney to give me after his death, along with some sort of explanation. But Mr. Cunningham gave me nothing like that.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want the attorney to know about the key,” Con offered.
“He could have hidden the key, then, and left a letter telling me where it was. A sealed, private letter. Mr. Cunningham wouldn’t have opened and read it, surely.”
Con shrugged. “Not unless he was unscrupulous.”
“I suppose Father could have hidden the key and left a letter for me somewhere in the house, telling me where it was—though that seems a trifle haphazard. But why hide both the key and the note telling me how to find it? Why didn’t he leave the information in an obvious place?”
“Maybe he had some reason to hide it. He thought someone was after the key—the successor to his title, for instance, or Dearborn, who had taken Sabrina’s key already. Sir Virgil feared that person might find it first. And it would do little good to hide the key but leave the message revealing its location where it could be easily found.”
“That would make sense. Perhaps Roberts might know something about it.”
“Who?”
“My father’s valet. Cuddington told me yesterday that he retired and is living in a cottage on the estate.” She added in a confiding manner, “I suspect Cuddington may have a personal interest in the man.”
“Cuddington? You’re joking.”
“I’m not. She blushed when she talked about him.”
“Do you think your father confided in him?”
“I doubt my father revealed secrets of the Brotherhood or their rituals, but Roberts was close to him. He’d been his valet for years. He might know where Father would have kept something important like that. Or if Father had spoken of leaving me a letter.”
“A valet is privy to all sorts of information, more than most of their employers even realize. You’re right. Let’s go visit the man.”
Roberts, it turned out, was unsurprised by their visit. He welcomed them at the front door with a smile and ushered them into the parlor, saying, “Bettina said that you might come.”
“Bettina?”
“Miss Cuddington, I should say. I happened to see her last night as I was taking my evening constitutional. Wonderful woman, Miss Cuddington.”
“There’s no one like her,” Con agreed.
Roberts insisted on making tea and bringing out biscuits for them, but once he had taken care of all the pleasantries, he went straight to the heart of the matter. “Miss Cuddington said you were interested in Sir Ambrose. I knew him of course. I came to the house as a footman when I was sixteen. Your father was but a young lad then. I often had the task of minding him.” He smiled reminiscently. “But I doubt that is what you’re interested in. What is it you’d like to know?”
