He’d gone to the ball knowing that they must face each other at last and had thought that the pain would be bearable. And it might have been if Desdemona had played the part of a wellborn lady and behaved politely. But she’d not. She’d openly faced him with all the anger and hatred she felt, even speaking the words aloud to make certain he knew what was in her heart.
I would rather have been rendered forever powerless than live a single day as your wife.
He could still hear her voice and the sharp, biting manner in which she’d said it, still feel the pain that had knifed through him. More than that, he’d felt all those secret, self-denied failings rise up into his consciousness. The effect had overwhelmed him. Where Morcar usually might have found the strength to laugh her words away or pretend he didn’t care, he’d instead given way to the pain and let it rule his heart. With all the social world watching, with so many magic mortals present whose good opinion he needed, Morcar had let Desdemona Seymour’s words drive him from the Herold ball in shame.
Now, standing alone in his darkened bedchamber, he was too disconsolate to care what anyone thought of him. Grimly he thought of how furious his father would be at such a sentiment. Cadmarans were rulers. Leaders. They did not show weakness before others, never before their own kind and certainly not in the presence of mere mortals.
But it scarce mattered now. The painful truth of the matter was that Morcar was not his father, nor his father’s father. He was not … admirable. His own people, the dark Families, had no use for him beyond the protection his powers gave. If Serafina gained the power of the cythraul, those few clans who yet stood with him would abandon him in a moment, never looking back. Morcar had never been able to gain their real loyalty, as his forebears had done. Because he had never been worthy.
With a wave of one hand he started a blaze in one of the large chamber’s two fireplaces, and moved toward a table set with various decanters to pour himself a drink. Just as he neared it, something stopped him. A feeling … a sound. A voice calling his name.
Morcar stood still and listened, realizing at once who it was. He told himself that he was aggravated at Philistia’s insistence in pursuing him, but his heart felt something altogether different. The foolish girl might only fancy herself in love with him, but even misguided devotion was welcome to him now. The rest took but a moment to decide. Philistia Tamony was a mere mortal and inferior to his kind, which gave him every right to use her for his own benefit. And she wanted him so greatly that he’d not need to use magic to bend her to his will. She would give herself willingly and supply the comfort he needed. In return, Morcar would make certain that the loss of her virginity was as pleasurable as he could possibly make it. They would each gain something tonight.
He traveled into his garden and found Philistia standing just within the gate. She was startled by his sudden appearance but didn’t cry out. She laid a gloved hand over her chest and drew in a sharp breath, but her expression filled with gladness at the sight of him.
Morcar opened the cloak he wore in silent invitation. Philistia gazed at him for a long moment, hesitating, then moved forward. She pressed against him, small and delicate and chilled by the night air. He enfolded her within the warmth of his heavy garment and took her into his bedchamber.
He said nothing as he threw off his cloak and began to remove hers. When she opened her mouth to speak, he brought his down upon it, kissing her with all the hunger and need he felt, willing her to answer. She did, opening to him with an immediacy that enflamed Morcar to an even greater desire.
He pulled away her garments one by one, letting them fall to the floor, and discovered with hands and mouth how exquisite her delicate body was. She was far more beautiful than he’d imagined or hoped, her skin white and smooth, like warm satin beneath his fingers. He explored her small, high breasts and the curves of her hips and thighs, delighting in the pleasure sounds his touch elicited. Philistia stood pliant beneath his kisses and caresses, and when he laid her down upon his soft feather bed she reached her arms out to receive him.
Morcar was rigid with desire and impatient for release, but she trusted him so completely, had opened herself to him so fully, that he made himself wait for her readiness. For the first time in memory, he wanted his lover to experience as much pleasure as he could impart without the use of magic. He wanted to see Philistia’s sweet face when she reached fulfillment; only then would he allow himself to follow.
But it seemed impossible not to hurt her; she was so much smaller than he. Though he strove to be gentle, when Morcar at last pushed into her depths she uttered a sound of pain and clutched at his shoulders until her fingernails bit into his skin.
“Shhh, darling,” he murmured, kissing her damp forehead. “Relax. I want to make you mine.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yours. Please, Morcar.”
She squeezed her eyes shut as he pressed harder, breaking past the resistance, and her slight body stiffened beneath him. Morcar held still, waiting until she relaxed before he at last began to move, surely and carefully, watching as her eyes opened with unfocused wonder, as her expression began to reveal her increasing pleasure.
“I love you, Morcar,” she said, and again, “I love you.”
The words were meaningless to Morcar, and he let them fade from his thoughts, instead reveling in the pleasure humming in every pore of his body. He collapsed atop her with a hoarse sound, exhausted, replete with satisfaction. With an effort he rolled to the side and heard her gasp for air at the absence of his heavy weight.
He attempted to say something to her, to tell her that she’d pleased him very well for a mere mortal, but he couldn’t call up the energy to do more than curve a hand about her small bottom as she nestled against his side. His eyes closed and he sighed deeply, and as one of her arms slid about his chest to hold him, Morcar fell into a deep and welcome slumber.
It was far too easy for her to become lost in the music and magic of the gypsies, Sarah thought with a measure of guilt. The women about her plied her with wine and laughter and extremely naughty words of advice to carry to the wedding bed they believed she was headed towards, very nearly making her forget that she and Malachi must return to London soon. But she was weak, and both the company and wine were so compelling and pleasant that Sarah almost couldn’t think beyond the moment.
On the other side of the fire the men sat together, drinking and laughing and watching the women. She’d caught Malachi’s meaningful gaze several times.
“Dance, Miss Sarah,” one of the younger women urged. “You must dance for the great lord. Fill him with desire for you.”
“Oh no, I really don’t think it a good idea,” Sarah said, laughing, even as several of the women began to show her how to move in the correct manner. “I’m sure he wouldn’t notice, save to laugh at my awkwardness.”
“He has eyes,” an older woman told her. “He’ll notice.”
“But you must call him to you,” said the first, swaying her hips and twirling about. “You must have power over him, to call your lover when you desire him. Otherwise his gaze might fall upon another who calls as well, and he’ll be lured away. Surely you don’t wish the Dewin Mawr to look at another.”
“Certainly not,” Sarah replied with feeling. “But I shouldn’t wish him to think that I …” She fell silent, wondering what, precisely, she did want him to think. Whatever it was, she knew it didn’t involve him falling prey to the lures of other females. Sarah gave her attention to the women before her and began to copy their movements.
She was fortunate in the fact that the dance wasn’t unknown to her. She had visited with gypsies in several areas of the Continent, and each tribe had been unique. But in certain aspects they were the same; in particular was their love of dance and music. This wasn’t her first time at taking her place around the gypsy fire. It was, however, her first attempt at using the movements of her body to lure a certain man to her side. And if he didn’t come, after she was about to make a compl
ete spectacle of herself, Sarah supposed she might as well resign herself to eternal spinsterhood.
Her determination having been made, Sarah set her thoughts directly upon the Earl of Graymar and began to move her hips to the rhythm of the music. It took no longer than a few brief seconds before Malachi put his cup of wine aside, rose to his feet, cast off both his coat and vest—this to the cheers of the camp—and began to stride in her direction.
“You’d better have a care, my love,” he murmured as he reached her, holding out his hands to set them on her waist. “I’ll have to fend off every man in the camp.”
“I had a feeling you’d be far better at this than me,” Sarah said as he began to move with her in the dance. “We are not well matched in this particular dance.”
“We are well matched in every way,” he replied, pulling her nearer and turning her in a breathtakingly fast circle. “I should be happy to give you personal lessons in the movements. One day. Just now there is something I think you would like far better, and God alone knows when we’ll have the chance again.”
“What?” she asked hopefully.
“Hold tight, love,” he said, wrapping his arms firmly about her just as their feet lifted from the ground. “Let’s go visit the stars.”
Morcar knew something was different even before he opened his eyes. Physically, all was well. Philistia Tamony’s small, warm body was still pressed against him, cradled in the crook of his arm with her head pillowed on his shoulder. His own body was hard with desire, ready to possess her again and enjoy the intense pleasure that had made him mindless hours earlier.
But something had changed.
He was … happy. Happy in a new way. And content, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. More than that, he felt a kind of inner lightness, as if some heavy weight had been cut out of his soul. He’d not been so relaxed and unperturbed since childhood.
The fact of it gave him pause. But only briefly.
He would ponder the matter later, he decided, moving his hand down the curve of Philistia’s slender back to waken her. He wanted her again. She had satisfied him so well and showed such remarkable promise that he believed she might remain his mistress for the rest of the Season. That would give him sufficient time to train her to his liking and enjoy her endearing affection. But he would have to take care. If the aunt and uncle were to discover the relationship, they would demand marriage, likely hoping to land their niece a wealthy, titled husband. And that would never do. Philistia was a charming girl, as females went, but she was mere mortal and completely unsuitable as a mate for an extraordinary wizard.
Philistia murmured sleepily as he stroked his hand gently over her, bringing his other hand to her body to arouse her further. She stretched and yawned beneath his caresses and smiled even before she opened her eyes, whispering, “Good morning, my lord.”
He kissed her soft, warm mouth and, turning to lie on his back, pulled her atop him.
“Good morning, sweet,” he murmured, sliding his hands up her thighs. “Sit up, darling. Let me look at you in the morning light.”
She did as he asked, smiling at him as if she had never known such happiness, as if he were the most wonderful man in the world to wake up next to. The thought filled Morcar with inexpressible satisfaction.
“Do you love me, Philistia?” he asked suddenly, surprised to hear himself ask such a thing. He could have forced her to say the words; he could have enchanted her to mean them. But she had said them freely last night, and their effect had been profound. It was the first time a woman had said such a thing to him without being either paid or enchanted to do so. “Do you?”
“I love you, my lord,” she said softly, and bent to kiss him gently. “With all my heart, I love you. And will until my life has ended.”
He found it difficult to breathe, suddenly. The tightness in his chest became an intolerable ache, and he had to blink to clear his vision, which for some reason had blurred.
She lifted her delicate hands and with cool fingers caressed his cheeks, then slid them upward to smooth the hair from his forehead. “I love you,” she murmured once more, kissing him. Then again, and again, kissing him each time she said the words. Morcar lay still beneath her, letting the words flow over him, letting her touch push every other thought or sensation away. It was a spell, though he doubted she knew what she was doing. He was far too powerful a wizard not to recognize magic when it happened. She was casting a terrible spell upon him, the most powerful and unbreakable that could befall his kind, and though he knew it could mean nothing but misery for either of them, he was powerless to make her stop.
Soon he would be furious about it. Beyond furious. Now he could only lie beneath her kisses, captive, and let himself be taken by the magic she made. Grasping her by the waist, Morcar rolled until Philistia lay pressed into the soft mattress. Entwining her hands with his, he brought their bodies together, capturing her gasp in his kiss.
“Philistia,” he murmured as he taught her his rhythm. “Tell me again. Don’t stop.”
She gladly obeyed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Serafina lay sprawled across Julius Tamony’s naked body, smiling and replete.
“You’re marvelous, love,” she said, turning her head to nip him with her sharp teeth. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.” Sighing, she pushed upward to gaze into his weary half-closed eyes. “If only you weren’t mere mortal, I might keep you longer. But we’ve only a few days, darling, and then you must be given to the cythraul. I shall miss our times together.” Bending, she kissed his slack lips, then lifted herself from his body and lay beside him, caressing his chest with her fingertips. “Sleep now, Julius. I don’t want to damage you before the cythraul takes possession. What an ill welcome that would be for the demon.”
Obediently Julius’s eyes closed and his breathing deepened. Serafina had meant it when she’d said that she would miss him. But having the power of the cythraul would more than make up for the loss. The thought, as she rolled from the bed and searched for her robe, filled her with anticipation.
She was the first to discover all the clues about the cythraul’s arrival. The two great wizards Malachi and Morcar thought themselves so superior to any other magical beings that they’d not truly considered Serafina worth worrying over. How surprised—and sorry—they would be when she was the one who met the cythraul and leashed its power. And how foolish Malachi would feel when he realized that it was his incaution that had given her the final clue, for she was related to the faeries by blood and her spies were everywhere. Even in the forests where the Theriots made their gypsy camps.
She slipped the robe over her arms and tied the belt at her waist, then sat before her candlelit mirror to brush out her curls. The room was dark, lit only by the candles set near the mirror, but darkness didn’t affect her vision. Gazing at her reflection, she turned her face from side to side, examining it for any sign of her animantis heritage. She seemed to have been changing of late, in small but worrisome ways. Her teeth had grown a bit sharper, and the tips of her ears seemed—at least to her—to be growing more pointed. The changes were so slight that only she appeared to notice them; her minions assured Serafina that she still looked entirely human.
A movement across the room caught her attention and she swiveled on her chair, casting a freezing spell toward the shadow-darkened corner. It bounced away uselessly, as did the next she sent, and the one after that. Swearing, she stood and raised both hands, ready to use the full force of her powers to stop the intruder, but before she could open her lips she found herself being wrapped and bound by invisible cords. Her arms were forced to her sides and her legs were pressed together. Her mouth was covered and stopped, and then her body was bent and pressed back until she sat on her chair once more.
Malachi moved out of the shadows and with the turn of one hand caused the candles in the room to give off greater light.
“Good morning, Serafina,” he greeted calmly, the black cloak he wore set
tling about his shining boots as he came to a stop before her. “I shall release you from your bonds if you’ll promise to cease your foolishness. You cannot touch me with your magic, and I so dislike seeing powerful beings go to such waste. Apart from that, I wish to speak to you, and it will be easier if you cooperate.”
She nodded, and Malachi waved a hand to make her bonds disappear. Serafina sputtered with rage. Digging her nails into the chair’s cushion, she demanded, “What are you doing here? I have a right to privacy in my own domain, regardless what the Seymours may think. The Guardians will hear of this.”
“They already know,” Malachi said dismissively, looking about the room with an air of distaste. “You needn’t fear that I intend to make a habit of such visits. Poor Julius.” His gaze fell on the sleeping man. “He’ll be insensible with wretchedness if he recalls the hours he’s spent here.”
She laughed at that. “He’ll remember nothing but pleasure, such as no mortal woman could give him, mere or magic. I might have taught you something about the ways of my kind, my fine lord, if you’d been brave enough to let me.”
Malachi shuddered before turning cold eyes upon her. “The idea of lying with you, with any animantis, sickens me. The Seymours have made many mistakes in the years following the exile, but never that, thank God.”
“That is all that we lack to be made perfect,” Serafina said, rising from the chair to face him. “The seed of the Seymours. But I shall lay claim to it once I’ve gained the cythraul,” she promised. “Your seed, Malachi, growing within me.” She set a hand over her stomach and laughed at his open revulsion. “Perhaps I shall even let you live long enough to see it born. To see what our child will be like. Or perhaps not.” She smiled at the thought.
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