War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  “Like what?”

  “As if I’m going to turn into a pillar of fire or something.” He leaned across the table and took her hand gently in his. “I had no choice in what I am. I harbour the god Mars, but inside, I’m Marcus. I was born as him and I remain so. I only bear the essence of the god. I swear, Ruth, the last thing I would ever do is harm you. Have I ever given you cause to think so?”

  He had not. Even at his gruffest, when she’d first arrived at his home, he had never hurt her, always treated her with consideration—well, perhaps not that, but he had not forced himself on her or behaved like a god of old.

  And it was Marcus she loved. She could no longer deny it, but she would not tell him so. Not yet. A vestige of fear remained, the whole notion of what he was, but the way he put it, she could understand. Like being born with a carbuncle or green eyes, or too much height, he could not help it.

  Her fear did not entirely leave her, but she could cope with it now. Deep inside, she knew he would not harm her.

  Marcus did not press her further. Instead, he picked up the decanter and offered her another glass of wine.

  She spent the rest of the journey in solitary state in the carriage, sleeping most of the time, recovering from her grazes and her exhaustion. For the most part Marcus left her alone, probably to stew and worry, but Ruth was past that. When they spent time together at the posting-inns, they spoke of impersonal matters, their conversation as impassive as if they’d been married for years. They travelled as Mr. and Mrs. Allingham, a wealthy couple who could afford the best but preferred to keep themselves private. They occupied separate rooms.

  Despite her apprehension, Ruth could not help gazing out of the carriage window in awe as they traversed the outskirts of the city, and then continued to the coaching inn on the Strand where they would disembark. What happened then, she did not know, but she waited on events. At least she was in the place she’d planned to be, although her confidence in her ability to lose herself, even in these crowds, diminished. That stroke of warmth the night they’d made love, when he’d touched her. That was when the damage was done, and he had linked them in a way she did not quite understand. It was as if he tied her to him with ropes of steel. He would find her, wherever she ran.

  Outside the inn, he handed her into a hackney-cab, instructing the driver of the address before they set off. Her valise sat at her feet. She refused to be parted from her only link with the world she had known. It appeared incongruous now, scuffed and battered, a mute accuser.

  They jolted through the streets, past several green areas, parks and squares, and towards a huge building of red brick, with towers that evoked ages past. “That’s St. James’s Palace,” Marcus said, the first words he’d spoken to her since they had boarded.

  She gazed at it in awe. So much history had happened behind those walls.

  The carriage came to a halt. Marcus opened the door and helped her out, then tossed a coin to the driver, who touched his whip to the brim of his hat and drove away. Before she could do so, Marcus picked up her valise and indicated for her to go ahead. They ascended the steps of a gracious building, which, unlike the Palace opposite, was in the modern style. Through a black-painted door was a small lobby area. A tall, thin man of uncertain age stood behind a desk. He glanced up when they came in. “Good afternoon, your grace. A good journey?”

  “Tolerable, Lightfoot, thank you. Is the comte in?”

  “Upstairs in his private salon, sir.”

  Marcus indicated Ruth. “This is Miss Ruth Simpson. She’ll be staying here for a while.”

  The man raised a dark eyebrow. “Not the first Miss Simpson we’ve had here, sir.”

  “This is the other’s sister, but she is entirely different.”

  “I can see that, sir. For one thing, you’re happy to see her.”

  Marcus’s mouth flicked in the shadow of a grin. “Yes, I am. Before you ask, the children are safe and well and in the charge of two excellent nurses.”

  “I know that. I sent one of them to you.”

  Marcus barked a laugh, tucked his hand under Ruth’s elbow and led her through an arch into a larger hall.

  Two men were standing admiring the portraits that lined the double staircase. Marcus nodded to them but did not stop to introduce her. He guided her up the stairs and along a corridor where the sound of their footsteps was muffled by drugget flooring, before pausing to tap on a door.

  He went in without waiting, ushering Ruth in first. They stood in a large drawing room facing the street. Outside the old towers of the palace loomed, but inside all was elegance. The main colour was blue, a forget-me-not shade, with ivory and gold.

  Standing before the flower-filled fireplace was a magnificently dressed Comte d’Argento. He bowed, the skirts of his apple-green taffeta coat rustling, fine lace falling over the backs of his hands. “Welcome to the Pantheon,” he said. “Where on earth have you been?” His smile faded when he gave them a second look. “Ah. All is well with you, Ruth?”

  She put up her chin. “No. I was whisked from the side of the road, made to appear a liar and brought here.”

  D’Argento raised a brow and smiled. “You don’t say. Marcus was in a fine passion when you left. Had the whole house up in arms. I could not track you, but I thought you might have left with the ladies Nerine and Damaris. You did not, did you?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “How could you think that?”

  “Since they left the morning after you did and they had no desire to see you wed to Marcus, very easily. They would not have hurt you, but they would have spirited you away. They would have swallowed their enmity to get a second bite at him.”

  Marcus growled. “No seconds, thirds or fourth. I am done with them.”

  “They do not appear to think so,” d’Argento said smoothly. He indicated a sofa. “Would you care to sit?”

  She took the seat, taking care to arrange the skirts of her new gown properly. This one was of flowered silk, very pretty, if a little faded at the seams. If she had the time, Ruth would have turned them and got much more wear from it. She hated to admit she liked it, since it was provided for her, with no option other than her old gowns. They would not have been suitable here. Whatever lay in store for her, at least she’d be respectably dressed when it happened.

  “This is truly a club?” she asked, partly because she had never heard of a club where women were admitted as well as men, but mostly because she did not want to discuss her own situation.

  “The ladies are staying here.” He glanced at Marcus, who groaned. “It can’t be helped. They do not possess a London residence. I’m trying to find their brother, who is currently as elusive as you, Ruth. The older brother, I mean. He is abroad, on the Grand Tour. Their other brother, the younger, remains in Yorkshire. To answer your question, yes, this is truly a club. We separate the rooms for those who prefer to consort with their own sex, but the main rooms here are mixed. So far the world has not collapsed. We also own simple bedroom suites for the use of members. We would be delighted to offer you our hospitality.” He flicked a glance at Marcus. “I do not know how matters stand between you.”

  “We are yet to resolve it,” Marcus said shortly.

  “I suggest then that you get on with it.” D’Argento scanned Ruth. In an instant she became aware of her gown’s shortcomings, the pattern not as bright as it could have been, the seams worn, and her single frill of Nottingham lace. He did not comment, nor did he disparage what she was wearing. “I will order a modiste to attend you, Ruth. Whatever the outcome, you left most of your belongings at the Abbey. I cannot imagine you own a wardrobe of clothes at your disposal, and you will need it.”

  Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but d’Argento held up his hand. “Think nothing of it.”

  “Have the accounts sent to me,” Marcus said. His tone was not much above a growl. “I would appreciate a
little time with Ruth before I leave.”

  Alarm streaked through her. “You’re leaving?”

  His face relaxed into a smile. “I won’t go far. Only to my town house.” He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, turning his head to glare at d’Argento. “May we have a little privacy?”

  “I will see where the tea tray has got to.” D’Argento rose, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Immediately, Marcus clasped her hands. “Do you feel quite well now?”

  “Yes. I never felt anything else.”

  He snorted. “You were exhausted and hurt. This last three days I left you alone because I did not want to tax you further. I wanted you at least part way recovered and rested before we talked properly. I was worried, Ruth.”

  She would not try to pull her hands away. He did not seem keen to release them. Besides, she got a kind of odd comfort from their warmth and felt somewhat reluctant to let go. Her fingers curled around his. “I should have left a note.”

  “You should not have run at all. Did you really think I would hurt you? Do you not know me better than that?”

  “I thought I did. Then I discovered what you are, all of it. It is all, isn’t it?”

  “Nearly.”

  “What do you mean? What else can there be?”

  He sighed. “I will keep nothing from you now. I cannot. My resolve has not changed, but in order to make the correct decision, you need to know everything, every last one of my secrets.” He closed his eyes and spoke without looking at her. “My mother was a murderer.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The desire to leave nothing between them, no secrets, overwhelmed Marcus. He wanted her so badly he would do anything to secure her. Abase himself? Easy. Admit the sin that haunted his life? Not so much. He opened his eyes.

  She stared at him. A surge of relief filled him when she did not withdraw her hands from his. “I understand all those revelations came as a shock,” he said.

  She laughed, a short, hard sound. “A shock? I nearly went out of my mind!”

  “Yes.” He could imagine. Her life was turned completely upside-down in a way she could never have foreseen. As his had. He should tell her. Maybe his story would help her. “I will tell you all, now you have promised not to run. I swear that you and the babies will be cared for, whatever you decide.”

  She nodded. “Then tell me.”

  “My life was turned around too in a different way.” She watched him, listening. He took a breath. “You know the story of the house, and the night Boscobel caught the essences of the fleeing gods.” She nodded cautiously. “My mother was an instigator. My father was a minor immortal, a wood-sprite.” The muscles at the corners of her mouth tightened. “It’s all right to smile. He was of average height and build, but he had an affinity with trees and woodlands. He could make trees grow. That copse on the estate and the wood did not exist before he was born. His parents kept his abilities secret. My mother discovered it. My parents’ marriage was arranged. After my sister was born—yes, I had an older sister once—my mother discovered his secret and became Boscobel’s lover for a time. My father insisted on her bearing him a son, so she gave him up, but her price was to go to that hellish house on that date. She caught Mars.”

  When he glanced down, she squeezed his hands. “Tell me.”

  This was for her. To try to let her know he understood what it felt like to see his world changed forever. “They brought me up like a prince. By then I was an only child. Mother never entertained another.”

  “You had a sister.”

  “I never knew her. I was told she fell into the path of a galloping horse, not that my mother was riding the horse.”

  She caught her breath on a sawing gasp. “That doesn’t make her a murderer.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. He must tell her. “I loved my mother because she indulged my every whim. I was a spoiled child. I did everything she said, until the day she told me, quite calmly, she was planning to kill my father. And that she had destroyed my sister.” He would not recall the horror of that day. He swallowed, but did not stop else he might not find the courage to go on. “She said I was the god of war, and I should practice. She told me stories, brought me up on tales of bloodthirsty deeds. I knew right from wrong. When I refused, she told me she had practiced. Practiced!” He laughed bitterly. “She was deranged, the Blood Countess of England. What could I do?”

  “What?” She gaped at him, her face white. Was he doing the right thing? Terror raked him from the inside. He could lose her forever if she thought the woman had passed her murdering tendencies to him. He would not blame her. “Why did she do this? Was she truly mad? Unreasoning?”

  He shook his head. “Not at first. She saw me as a way to gain power, and slowly her focus narrowed until it was all she could see. That was when she turned mad.”

  “I went and told the Lord Lieutenant of the county. He was a friend of my father’s, but not surprisingly he laughed and told me I was foolish. I discovered later my mother had seduced him. He had nothing to do with my father’s death, but because he was her lover at the time, he felt somehow responsible.

  “She wanted nothing but me. When my father objected, she ignored him. Or I thought she did.

  “After I saw the Lord Lieutenant, she wanted me to kill my father, and she gave me a gun. She said she would claim it was a hunting accident.”

  “How old were you?” Her voice was a mere thread.

  “Eleven.” He swallowed. “Nobody would believe me. So I used the gun on her. My father saw it and killed himself. He probably thought I was mad. He knew she was fiercely ambitious, but not that much.”

  Despite his determination, images rushed through his head. He had an inkling that his father had killed himself, not only because he could not bear what had happened, the full horror of it, but because he must have known how much he had failed his son.

  There, he’d said it, rushed and unemotional, because he could not tell her any other way. The nightmare had nearly driven him mad. Although he must swallow back the grief suppressed for so long, he felt a freeing of his soul. Something inside him shook itself and opened up.

  “Oh my love.”

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. She called him her love? “The moment I met you, my soul stilled. All I knew was you.” He had ruined everything.

  She had to understand. He had to make her listen. “My godhead had brought me nothing but misery and greed. My mother centred her hopes and dreams on me, and her ambition destroyed her mind. She destroyed my family life, all the people I loved. So I turned my back on the Pantheon and the gods, refused to have anything to do with them, until d’Argento finally persuaded me.”

  Ruth said nothing at first, but watched him, before cautiously, so gradually, opened that damned door and let him in.

  Warmth surrounded him, enclosed him. What could he do but respond? Slowly he took her into his arms, drawing her closer, and let her see in his eyes everything he was and would be. “I love you so much, but mine is a poisoned legacy. I cannot ask you to do anything you do not wish to.” He wanted to tell her if she walked away from him it would kill him, but he held his tongue. He could not put her under that much pressure.

  She sighed. “You have done nothing but care for me, and ensure my happiness. I should not have run from you. I was running from myself, too, of the feelings I have for you. How could I fall so deeply for the man I had considered an enemy, until recently? But I did, even before you told me you were not the father of the twins. Before I knew you properly.”

  She came closer and laid her head on his shoulder. “Was your mother an immortal?”

  “No. A mortal with ambitions to become immortal.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “I see.”

  He cupped
the back of her head, her silky hair sliding against his fingers. “I would like us to try one day. Not yet.”

  “Would I feel any different?”

  “Not much. You would be stronger, but not to my extent. You would live as long as I do, and you would not catch illnesses. You would heal faster and more cleanly too.”

  She spoke into the cloth of his coat. “Do you wish it?”

  “Of course I do. If it is not possible, then I would wish to live with you to the end of your days and leave this earth when you do.” Suicide was a sin, but since his heart would shatter when she died, most of him would be dead anyway.

  “Then I wish it too.” She tipped her head back, so it was cradled in his palm and met his gaze. “I see you, Marcus. Inside, I mean. I know you.

  “How did you explain the death of your parents?”

  “The stories went around that the duke had killed his wife at the height of an argument, and seeing what he had done, had then killed himself. I let them believe so. I made out that I was elsewhere in the house at the time.”

  The word matricide haunted his days and nights, led to him restlessly seeking for a solution. At last he found it in this woman he held in his arms.

  He kissed her. Long and sweetly, trying to express his love in yet another way.

  She opened her mouth for him, met his tongue with her own, stroking it, their need increasing with the depth of their embrace.

  Their lips parted and she gazed up at him dreamily. “You should have told me before.”

  “Nobody but you, my fairy.”

  He smiled and touched his lips to hers. “That doesn’t matter now.” Yet he found himself telling her about the enchantment that wound its tendrils around Virginie and himself. “At first I saw the affair as release from the nightmares that haunted me. We used each other, Virginie and I, allowed our own needs that had nothing to do with each other to take control of our behaviour. After, when she freed herself, I went home to recover, and I found you.” He could not bear waiting another moment. “I want to ask you again. If you say no, I swear I will not trouble you again, other to ensure your future happiness. I will settle that estate on you, where you and the boys may live quietly, if that is what you wish, but I will ask you one last time. Will you marry me, my heart’s own?”