THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  “The torches produce a lot of smoke,” she continued, “but if the wind is right, it escapes through the windows.”

  Con and Race were wandering through the unsteady chiaroscuro of the room, studying the tools of torture on walls, shelves, and tables, glancing at the wretched victims. Three hung in chains on the wall along with ancient weaponry. Another screamed silently as his foot was crushed by the iron boot. On the piece de resistance, the rack, a woman stretched, arched in agony.

  The waxwork figures were astonishingly realistic, and the first time she’d come here she had been shocked. She looked at the two men, but couldn’t read their thoughts.

  “No waxworks of the torturers?” Con asked, flipping a cat-o‘-nine-tails on the wall without expression. Of course, they were used in the army and navy on real flesh. They were used in the streets on thieves and whores, too.

  “The earl or his guests liked to play those parts.”

  Susan looked at de Vere, expecting to see him reveling in his treat, but he was looking around with a slight frown. “Why?” he asked.

  She found herself sharing a look with Con. It was an excellent question, but to those familiar with Crag Wyvern and the Demented Devonish earls, it hadn’t occurred.

  “Because he was stark, staring mad, of course,” Con said. He looked at Susan. “Does any of this actually work?”

  She knew what he was asking: Had it ever been used? “Of course not, but it’s designed to be played with.” She went to one of the haggard wretches hanging on the wall, scarred, bruised, and burned. “The burns aren’t wax, but painted metal over wood, so a hot iron can be put against them. They can be covered with mutton fat to create smell and smoke. There are bladders of red fluid in various places that can be pierced to bleed.”

  Con shook his head. “He could have joined the army surgeons and had so much more fun.”

  Susan was hit by a sudden feeling of associated shame. This place had nothing to do with her, but she had thought it merely ridiculous when she should have been deeply horrified.

  Like the dragon’s bride fountain.

  She glanced at the rack, struck by a similarity between the arched figure there and the arched “bride” bound to the rock. What a foul and twisted mind it had been to think up such things.

  She should have seen them for what they were. She should have avoided contact with the mad earl entirely. Instead she had chosen to work here, and thus had let Crag Wyvern coarsen her.

  She had almost been snared by the dragon.

  Thank God for de Vere and Con, who’d seen real horror and suffering, the suffering of friends and heroes in battle and under the surgeon’s knife, while the demented earl and his idiot guests played mad games here.

  She longed to leave now, but Con had walked over to the rack. “And this?”

  “It is operational to a degree. Do you want to see?”

  “Oh, by all means.”

  “Dammit, Con, it’s a woman,” de Vere protested.

  “It’s wax and a wig, and should we feel less pity for the tortured man than for the tortured woman?”

  Susan went over and grasped the handle on the large, ratcheted wheel. It took all her strength, but she turned the mechanism another notch. The taut figure stretched another impossible inch. Its back bowed, and a high-pitched shriek of agony bounced around the stone walls.

  “Christ Almighty!” Con leaped forward and pulled the locking pin, letting the wheel spin backward and the ropes go loose. The figure sagged, its waxen arms flopping bonelessly. A long wheeze told of the bellows mechanism relaxing somewhere inside.

  For a moment they all stood like waxworks themselves, then Con seized a hangman’s ax off the wall and severed the ropes at the victim’s hands. The next blows cut through the ones at her feet and into the wood beneath. Then he swung again, to dig deep into the wooden wheel, splitting it.

  De Vere hauled the victim out of harm’s way, but then he shed his jacket and grabbed a mace. He smashed the heavy iron ball into the bed of the machine, sending splinters flying. Con laughed, ripped off his jacket, and swung the ax.

  Stunned, Susan retreated from swinging weapons and flying wood and two maniacs who had moments before seemed to be civilized gentlemen. But her hand over her mouth was holding back laughter as much as anything— at the wildness of it, and the rightness. It was past time parts of Crag Wyvern were smashed to bits.

  Perhaps she was dazzled, too, at the sight of Con in destructive fever, swinging that mighty ax. It should frighten her, but he was so magnificently physical that she felt dizzy. His back was to her now, and through waistcoat and shirt she could see the muscle and power in ferocious action.

  From the first blow, there’d been nothing tentative about him. Her gentle, fun-loving Con was used to wielding weapons to destroy, used to swinging them to cut through to the marrow, to kill before he was killed.

  It appalled her.

  It made her prickle with raw lust.

  She tore her eyes away to look at de Vere, equally masculine, equally ferocious. More so. His face was toward her, and there was something terrifying about the fury and passion with which he destroyed, as if he’d reduce wood and metal to splinters, to dust, to nothing.

  His violent certainty, however, stirred nothing in her, while she wanted to rip Con’s clothes off.

  She looked back at him, wondering what his face would show. He suddenly stopped to stand looking at the destruction, leaning on the ax and sucking in breaths. His shirt was plastered to his skin again, this time with sweat.

  De Vere was still smashing the mace down on the shattered machine. Would Con try to stop him? She thought he might be killed and braced herself to run forward, to interfere.

  Instead he turned to face her.

  No madness in his face, but a deep and dangerous fire that made her instinctively retreat. He walked toward her, his eyes dark, and she would have retreated further, but her back was already against the great door, cold iron bolts digging into her flesh.

  She didn’t know what his face showed, but she was nothing but instinct now. Instinct to flee. Melting instinct to surrender to the dragon.

  He collapsed over her, hands and strong arms catching him but caging her, and lowered his head to claim a ruthless kiss.

  She could, perhaps, have escaped. She didn’t know what he would have done if she’d ducked away. She could have turned her head. Instead, she surrendered.

  With the clang and crash of continued destruction filling the stone chamber and violence in the very air she breathed, she surrendered to a kiss that had nothing to do with the sweet explorations of eleven years ago.

  Did she remember a taste? She thought so, but that could be illusion. She remembered his smell, though, strong now with maturity and heat, spicy and deep, and branded in her senses.

  Lady Anne. The thought came from somewhere far away in the distant sanity of her mind.

  For Lady Anne’s sake she would not reach, or touch, or curl her arms around his wide shoulders. But she let herself stay to be consumed by the dragon’s hot mouth and potent smell so that her nipples ached and her legs shook.

  They betrayed her in the end and she began to slide down, the bands and bumps of the unforgiving door scraping along her back. He came with her, mouth still on hers until he straddled her and captured her head to demolish her entirely.

  Hands clenched, she still would not touch, but tears leaked, perhaps because she would not touch....

  Silence.

  There was silence.

  Still ravaged by his hungry mouth, she forced her eyes open to the flickering room. She couldn’t see de Vere, but he must be watching them.

  She touched then, pushing at Con’s shoulders and arms, fighting free to gasp, “Stop it!”

  Silly thing to say, and far too late. He’d stopped anyway, eyes closed. Too late for other reasons, as well.

  That kiss had kindled deeper, stronger fires....

  She could see de Vere now over Con’s lowered
head, apparently sane, watching them with knowing interest. Con still had her pinned to the floor with his weight and his legs. Her back was bruised and stinging, her legs cramping.

  What was he thinking? Was he thinking as she was of fire, of greater fires? Or was he bowed by regret?

  She made herself speak with quiet firmness. “Con, let me up.”

  He shuddered, looked at her, then quickly pushed away and rose, grasping her hand to pull her to her feet as he had that first day on the headland. Her legs failed her for a moment and she leaned back against the door. He was still holding her hand, looking at her as if seeking something to say.

  What was there to say, particularly with a witness?

  What would have happened if there hadn’t been a witness?

  For a moment, unworthily, she thought of it, the pleasure of it. She thought how it might have broken his commitment to another.

  Then he shuddered—like a horse, with every inch of his body—and let her go. He turned to his friend. “Destroyed enough for your liking?” It sounded a little hoarse, but it was probably more than she could manage just yet.

  “Sorry about that,” de Vere said, like someone who’d knocked a cheap vase off a table. Or was he apologizing for watching?

  “Perhaps it’s a useful release.” Con walked over to pick his jacket up off the floor and shake it free of wood chips. “I’m sure Crag Wyvern can provide plenty of things to smash.”

  They were both ignoring her. Was it a type of courtesy? If they didn’t look, it hadn’t happened?

  Or was it an insult? Ignore the convenient drab.

  Had she just been assaulted, or had they exposed a deep, forbidden passion?

  Curiosity or passion, she wanted him. With a shivering ache and a hollow need, she wanted Con. If it weren’t for Lady Anne she’d shed all pride and restraint and beg him to take her to his bed, even if it was only to be once. Like him she wanted to do what they had done eleven years ago, and do it this time with adult bodies, with knowledge, strength, and will.

  And heart. And heart. But that was her secret to keep.

  “I was sobered by something indestructible, actually,” de Vere said.

  His tone shocked her back to sanity. She focused to see him step back and gesture at the heap of broken wood and twisted metal. She pushed off from the door to stagger to the wreckage to see what was there.

  A body?

  Some new bizarre device?

  She saw the glint of gold at the same time de Vere said, “Your missing money, I assume, my lord earl.”

  She halted and looked down at twisted metal and splinters of wood and the gold coins spilling beneath them. Some of the splinters were parts of the shattered chests that had contained the gold.

  Oh, God. No chance now of claiming it for David. She’d not be able to stop him risking another run, and Gifford would be watching and waiting....

  But Con had promised protection.

  She remembered to breathe. Con had promised protection. But could even the Earl of Wyvern stop the law if David was caught red-handed?

  Chapter Eighteen

  “We were lovers when we were fifteen.”

  Con was lounging in the enormous, steaming Roman bath, Race nearby. They both had their heads resting on the curved edge, looking up at the domed ceiling that contained yet another picture of a dragon claiming a bound woman.

  It looked like the same bound woman. Same model for everything, including the waxwork on the rack. A beautiful young woman with a lush body. Generous thighs. Big breasts. Long, tawny hair. He wouldn’t mind lying here enjoying her charms, but not while she was screaming for help and being impaled by a dragon.

  A shame to ruin a piece of art, but it was going to have to be painted over.

  Susan wasn’t that lush sort of woman. She had all the right curves now, but she wouldn’t be as soft. He was sure of it. Too much time spent climbing cliffs and swimming.

  Did she ride? He didn’t know....

  He’d wanted a bath for the past hour, but they’d had to deal with the gold first. He’d thought it best not to spread the word, so he’d summoned only Diego to help carry it up and cram it into the safe in the office. It hadn’t all fit, so he had a bundle wrapped in a towel, and stashed in one of his drawers here.

  Susan had disappeared and it was doubtless just as well. What was there to say about that kiss?

  There was a great deal to think about it, but he couldn’t bear to. Not yet.

  When they’d finally finished, he’d remembered the Roman bath and told Diego to see if it could be used. So here they were, soaking together like warriors of old after battle.

  It was heaven marred only by the persistent image of Susan in the water with him instead of Race.

  And, of course, by the complete insanity of that kiss.

  That damnable, betraying, annihilating kiss.

  Race hadn’t said a word about it, so in the end Con had felt he had to say something.

  “I guessed,” Race said. “Pretty good going at that age, especially for her.”

  Con wanted to defend Susan’s virtue, but it had happened. And happened again since with other men, apparently. He hadn’t forgotten that. He was trying to pretend it didn’t matter. He remembered Nicholas saying something a couple of years back about the unfairness of holding women to a tighter virtue than a man was willing to accept.

  There seemed to be an instinct to it, though.

  He wondered if she were quietly raging at the thought of him in the arms of other women. In other women. It had mostly been a utilitarian use of whores.

  It doubtless didn’t bother her.

  They were just friends, after all.

  He laughed and it bounced around the tiled room.

  “Life is damned funny at times, isn’t it?” Race said idly. His eyes were shut and he looked blissfully relaxed.

  Race was a friend, but more in the manner of brothers-in-arms than friends who shared intimate matters. In better times he could imagine talking about Susan with Van or Hawk, and even with a Rogue, but he’d not expected to be doing it with Race.

  The Roman leaders had shared baths like this. Had it loosened their tongues? He amused himself by contemplating the effect on British politics if the powerful in London met naked in hot, communal water.

  “She always was an unusual female,” he said. “She was raised by her aunt and uncle at the manor house, but she’s actually the daughter of the squire’s wayward sister and the local smuggling master, Melchisedeck Clyst.”

  “Wonderful name.”

  “It’s not uncommon hereabouts. He was transported a few months ago and apparently his lady went after him.”

  “Wild blood on both sides,” Race remarked. “With a tendency to abnormal constancy.”

  “Lady Belle? She’s certainly constant. Constant to the exclusion of her children.”

  “Children? How many did she have?”

  “Three, apparently. Susan, David, and one who died young. Lady Belle treated Susan as just another girl, not even as a niece. Mel Clyst took a sort of interest.”

  He found himself telling Race about the time Mel Clyst had warned him off his daughter.

  “I suppose she never told him then,” Race said.

  Con lapsed into silence, studying the fact that he’d never imagined that Susan would tell anyone, never mind Mel Clyst. Despite her behavior and her motives, he’d taken for granted that the friendship between them had been real, and therefore she wouldn’t spitefully get him into trouble.

  Of course, if she had, it might have ended with them married, which would not have fit with her plans.

  She’d apologized today.

  And meant it, he thought.

  As he’d already accepted, most people came close to doing regrettable things in their lives. And the difference between did and almost did was often accident, or even weakness and cowardice.

  Something inside him was cracking painfully open. He wanted to hold it closed with his bare
hands, as he’d seen dying men trying to hold their innards in.

  “Lucky you didn’t get her with child,” Race said.

  “Very, though I was too callow to give it thought then. Astonishing to think about, having a ten-year-old child.”

  Children.

  He’d never thought of children, though he’d assumed they would follow marriage. Now, however, he could almost picture them. Sons at Somerford, playing in the woods and valley as he, Van, and Hawk had played. Daughters too, perhaps, enjoying the freedom Susan had enjoyed...

  He realized the children in his mind were his and Susan’s, the daughters slim, agile, and adventurous.

  Friendship.

  What mad fool had talked about friendship?

  “A ten-year-old,” he said again, grieving a little for that nonexistent child.

  “And a half dozen others by now, no doubt,” Race teased.

  Con splashed him, too lazy to have even a playful fight over it.

  How strange life was, though. Paths taken, often for little reason, and others left behind.

  He’d joined the army at Hawk’s suggestion. Hawk had wanted to escape his unhappy family. He’d suggested that Van and Con join with him. Still raw from Susan, Con had agreed. He had been a second son who needed a profession, and one that would keep him far away from Crag Wyvern and Susan Kerslake seemed ideal.

  Van had been an only son like Hawk, but with a loving family. He’d had more of a struggle, but he’d always been wild, and eventually his parents had let him go.

  So they’d made plans to buy commissions in the same cavalry regiment, but in the end, Con had chosen the infantry. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly, and the infantry were the meat of the British army, where steadiness and discipline were key.

  He’d served his country, mostly in ways he could be proud of, but all the same, his reasons for joining the army had been rooted in cowardice. It had been a way to avoid future visits to Crag Wyvern.