Lord of Fire

by Gaelen Foley

  Alice held him in a somber gaze. “Some.”

  “It is not the sort of thing one normally tells a young lady. . . . But I promised I would not shelter you from the true workings of the world, didn’t I?”

  She nodded. “I want to know.”

  “By the time the town fell, we had suffered so many casualties that the troops were beyond rage. They were frenzied. They were our men—Englishmen—but they turned into animals. They sacked the town. Looted, raped, murdered civilians. It took us officers three days to bring them under control again.” He watched her face. She seemed to be taking it in stride. Her expression was troubled, but by no means hysterical, and for his part, he needed to speak of it. “We erected a gallows and hanged the worst offenders. After that, I left the army—I thought surely there had to be a better way.”

  “You joined the Diplomatic Corps instead?”

  He nodded.

  She studied him with a thoughtful pause. “I admire you for it,” she declared suddenly. “I’m sure many of your comrades disparaged the choice, but diplomacy is ever more civilized than war. What great strength of will you must have, to have defied the majority’s opinion. I wish my brother had chosen as you did, or better still, had possessed the same strength of will. . . . May I tell you why Phillip went to war?”

  “You can tell me anything,” he replied, inwardly dodging the pang of guilt at her misled compliment. His role in the Diplomatic Corps had been anything but peaceful, but of course he could not tell her his true role as spy. He shuddered at the thought. If she knew the truth, it would surely drive her away, as it had driven Damien away. He could not take that chance. Besides, it was dangerous information. It was safer for her to keep her in ignorance.

  “Caro made remarks that called my brother’s manhood into question,” she said, fleeting bitterness passing over her delicate features. “But she merely wanted him out of the way so that she could misbehave in London without her husband looking over her shoulder. Unfortunately, Phillip did not see through her ploy. He took her words to heart—and off he went.”

  Lucien shook his head. “Men do foolish things in the name of pride,” he said in regret.

  “He was invalided home with terrible saber wounds that had become infected. Peg and I—she’s our old nurse, who minds Harry now—we tended him day and night, but we knew he wouldn’t recover. Phillip knew it, too, but at least he got to see Harry again and we got to say good-bye.”

  “Were you close?”

  She nodded. “Losing our parents at a young age drew us together.”

  Lucien tensed, scanning her face.

  She looked away. “He lingered for three weeks before he died. He was twenty-nine.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  She gazed at him for a long moment as though sizing him up while the wind riffled through their hair and clothes. Then she smiled wryly. “Don’t be. If Phillip were alive, he would have challenged you to a duel and shot you dead for all of this.”

  “Ah,” he said in chagrin as she turned away with a chiding smile and walked on.

  Feeling rather penitent, Lucien caught up to her a moment later, then forged ahead to the crest of the path where he searched out his visual marker: a dead, gnarled tree trunk, hollow and gray. Going past it, he stepped out onto the limestone outcrop that was their destination. It jutted out from the hill, affording a stunning view of the valley in all its jewel-toned, October glory, lit up by the fireball of the sun, which had just begun to set.

  The shot of wind that rushed up the cliff face lifted his hair and ran riot through his long black wool greatcoat so that it billowed behind him as he stood on the edge. “Behold, madam,” he said with a sweeping gesture full of theatrical grandeur as she appeared a moment later, rosy-cheeked with exertion. “The legacy of my ancestors.”

  He turned and offered her his hand. She glanced nervously at the precipice, but took his hand and came slowly to him. He drew her to his side and they stood together.

  “Oh, Lucien, it is magnificent,” she said softly, her gaze drinking in the vista of the hills clad in amber, maroon, rusty orange, and scarlet.

  “Indeed,” he murmured, gazing at her delicate profile and her milky skin illumined by the dazzling light. Then he glanced at the valley again, lest she catch him staring. “How I ever wound up with all this to my name is beyond my comprehension, but it does keep one in comfort.”

  She visored her eyes against the sun. “I did not know the marquesses of Carnarthen were related to your family and the dukes of Hawkscliffe.”

  “They’re not,” he said drily. “To be specific, the lords of Carnarthen no longer exist. They are a lost breed, alas. The title went defunct when the legitimate line died out with the death of the tenth marquess.”

  “There is an illegitimate line?”

  He held his arms up at his sides. “You’re looking at it.”

  Her eyes widened, and her fingertips flew to her lips. “Oh! I’m so sorry—”

  “Not at all,” he said frankly, amused at her discomfiture. “My father was Edward Merion, the last marquess of Carnarthen, a rum chap, and I am proud to be of his blood, bar sinister or otherwise. Carnarthen’s ancestral pile in Wales and two other large holdings reverted to the Crown upon his death, but luckily for me, there was no entail on Revell Court, so he was able to leave this property to whomever he chose. You look shocked.”

  “Well . . . yes! I thought the duke of Hawkscliffe was your father!”

  “That’s what it says on my birth certificate,” he replied with a shrug. “Of course, it is a lie.”

  “You are telling me you are a . . . bastard,” She whispered the last word.

  He grinned. “Aye, what of it? It’s as good a family as any to belong to. The clan issues from the area around Mount Snowdon. The Carnarthen lords even boast their own bit of ancient Welsh lore. My father told me we are descended from warlocks and berserker warriors. What do you think of that?”

  She gave him a dubious look. “I think that is more of your foolery.”

  “As I stand here, it’s true. He told my mother that Damien and I are the final flowering of our line. Twins, you know, are magical beings.”

  She scoffed halfheartedly, eyeing him as though she knew not what to believe.

  “I tell you, it’s true. Damien and I always had this superstitious notion—which we conceived of when we were quite small—that as a pair, we were invincible, that nothing could ever harm us if the other was close by. That’s the only reason I joined the army. I was sure that Damien would get killed if I weren’t on hand. But, then, even after I left, he proved more than able to fend for himself,” he added with a wistful laugh, as though his estrangement from his twin were not one of the greatest thorns in his heart.

  She appeared uncertain of whether he was teasing her or not. “So, which one are you, warlock or warrior?”

  “Why, it’s just an old peasants’ tale, ma chérie,” he said with a coy smile and lifted her hand to his lips, placing a breezy kiss on her knuckles. “Still, it’s strange to think that one night my mother went to the Grotto, met my father, and voilà—”

  Her gasp interrupted him. She yanked her hand out of his grasp. When he looked at her again, her eyes were as round as china-blue saucers. “Your mother went to the Grotto?”

  “I’m afraid so. On the other hand, if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t exist, and then where would I be? The Duchess Georgiana was a wild, flamboyant hussy, God rest her soul, but she spoke her mind and was true to herself. She was an original, I’ll give her that. You still look shocked.”

  She stared at him in perplexity.

  He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “All right, my dear Miss Montague, I will let you in on the family secret, though I really thought everyone in the ton already knew. Only my eldest brother, Robert, the present duke of Hawkscliffe, and my little sister, Lady Jacinda, are of the true blood. The rest of us are, as they say, cuckoos in the nest. Georgiana�
��s husband only claimed us as his own to avoid the humiliation of having been cuckolded yet again by his wife.”

  She stared at him intensely for a long moment, absorbing this with a scandalized look, then turned away. “I believe,” she said gravely, “that it is time for tea.”

  His smile faded. He thrust his gloved hands into the deep, voluminous pockets of his greatcoat and looked down at the toes of his polished black boots. “You think less of me because of my parentage.”

  “No—”

  “Yes, you do. I can see it in your face.”

  “No, Lucien, it isn’t that. I am . . . embarrassed.”

  He studied her warily.

  “I don’t know what to make of you,” she said simply, shaking her head. “Surely this causes you pain and has caused you pain all your life, and yet you laugh. I don’t understand. And I am not accustomed to speaking so intimately, especially with a man I barely know.”

  “Alice.” He turned to her and stared into her eyes, willing himself to keep his hands in his pockets, though he longed to take her into his arms. Her questioning gaze was so serious, so vulnerable. “Pray, do not be embarrassed. That was not my intention. I like talking to you.”

  She smiled uncertainly, the wind playing with wispy tendrils of her hair.

  He returned her smile, drew his hand slowly out of his pocket, and gently brushed her hair out of her face. Her smile widened, and a blush filled her cheeks.

  “Who can account for it?” he murmured. “There are some people that we know all our lives and yet never really feel we know them at all. But there are other people—” Unable to resist the temptation, he ran a feather-light caress down the curve of her cheek with one leather-sheathed knuckle. The cobalt depths of her eyes flickered with response, but she said nothing, heeding his every word. “—people we meet in a day, and instantly, it feels as though we’ve known them all our lives.”

  Holding his stare, she turned her cheek away from his touch. “How many women have you said this to?”

  He flinched and drew his eyebrows together in sudden anger, though he knew he deserved it. “I am not toying with you,” he said, his tone low and hard. “Perhaps there was a time when I would have, but I am not a boy anymore. I have seen too much death and too much pain and now all I want is—” His words broke off.

  “What, Lucien? What do you want?” she whispered.

  His fractured gaze dropped to her lips. His touch slipped down from her cheek to her jaw, tilting her head back. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. He caught a glimpse of the desire and confusion swirling in the blue depths of her eyes before he closed his and lowered his head, caressing her mouth with his own. He pulled her carefully into his arms, trembling at that magic moment when he felt her graceful body melt receptively against him. She parted her lips and let him slip his tongue into the warm, honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Blissful longing racked him. He held her face between his leather-gloved hands and drank of her kiss, savoring her with a tenderness that came from his knowledge of her innocence. She clung to him, there on the precipice.

  “Please,” she moaned, trying to turn her face away. Her cheeks were rose-red, her eyes feverish blue beneath her sandy lashes.

  “Look at me.” He cupped her jaw and made her meet his hungry stare. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She peered uncertainly into his eyes. “I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “I’d rather die.”

  “Why must you kiss me?”

  “Because I cannot bear waiting for you to kiss me.”

  If she had been poised to continue bewailing her fate, his blunt answer visibly caught her off guard. “You actually expect me to kiss you?” she retorted in breathless indignation.

  “Expect it? No. Desire it? Yes.” He gave her a lazy half smile. “With every fiber of my being.”

  She stared at him with a quizzical expression somewhere between thrill and alarm. “But . . . I don’t know how.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” he whispered.

  She did not pull away. Blushing helplessly, she flicked her gaze downward to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. He drew nearer, offering himself. He tilted his head, so close he could feel her soft breath on his lips, warm and soft against the wind’s sharp cold.

  A second later, she mirrored his movement, tilting her head in the opposite direction. She lowered her lashes as her lips danced a mere sliver of an inch away. “I don’t know how,” she protested again barely audibly, then rested her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes, kissing him as softly as an angel.

  Lucien held perfectly still, filled with such pleasure that he wanted to die rather than ever to let it end. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him again, more firmly this time. Her slender body trembled against him as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She was tentative, careful, but her breasts heaved against his chest and her eyes had turned a sensuous shade of midnight blue when her gaze met his. Her lashes drifted closed, and he lost awareness of everything in the world but her as she pulled him down to her and skimmed the tip of her tongue past his lips into his mouth.

  Shocked and entranced, he surrendered to her will, wanting nothing more than to fulfill her every whim. She groaned as she tasted him more deeply, raking her fingers through his hair. She ran her hands along his jaw, his throat, tracing the edge of his cravat, demolishing his capacity for reason—then she suddenly stopped and pulled back.

  When he tried to reach for her again, she braced her hand against his chest, firmly holding him at arm’s length. “No.” Her eyes blazed with cobalt fire, warning him back. Her lips were wet and bee-stung, her cheeks rosy. “That’s enough,” she panted, her bosom rising and falling rapidly.

  His famous cunning fled. His Machiavellian mind was blank with lust. Drunk with the taste of her, his silver tongue was left devoid of one coherent line with which to coax her back to him. She lowered her hand from his chest and marched unsteadily away.

  “Alice,” he panted.

  She kept going, returning to the path in the shady woods. He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to weave together the tatters of his sanity. He dragged his hand through his hair and surrendered to a quiet, utterly intoxicated laugh. Good God, he had not seen that coming. He strode after her into the woods, where gray dusk had already arrived. She had a lead of several yards on him, and she was all but running back to the house.

  “Alice!”

  No response. She didn’t even pause.

  “Wait!”

  She brushed off his call with an annoyed shrug. He had to jog to catch up, but when he reached her side, she ignored his questioning gaze, her dark blue skirts luffing like sails in the breeze as she marched on relentlessly.

  “Alice?” he asked gingerly.

  “Stay away from me.”

  He noticed the scarlet blush in her cheeks and realized she was mortified by her lusty response to him. A rakish grin spread over his face. “My darling, there is no reason to be embarrassed—”

  “You are making me break my promise to my brother that I would take care of Harry. Do you realize that? Do you even care?”

  He grabbed her arm and stopped her. She whirled to him.

  “Stop it,” he ordered quietly, but he saw fear darting through her eyes, not of him, but of her own feelings. She was not prepared to accept her passion—at least not her passion for him.

  “This is not who I am! I am not your plaything—”

  “Don’t say that again. I know you’re not. Alice, I told you I’m being sincere. I’ve never been more earnest in my life. Or is that what frightens you?”

  “You frighten me! You, Lucien—Draco—whoever you are! All you care about is yourself—your pleasure! Do you even realize how selfish you are? Are you able to see it?” She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “If not, let me remind you that you are holding me here against my will. You forced me into this. I don’t want to be here, and I am not getting involved with a . . . a jaded sc
oundrel whose only wish is to debauch me!” She tore the white musk rose he had given her out of her buttonhole, threw it on the ground, and started to stride away.

  “I am alone, Alice.”

  His sharp words took even him by surprise and stopped her as she reached the meadow. She paused and looked warily over her shoulder, her long shadow stretching over the faded grasses. His body was rigid, and his glare was fierce as he stood there staring at her. He felt naked before her—impatient, frustrated—but he could not stop himself. Somehow he had to make her understand.

  “Don’t you see?” He checked the dark note of pleading in his voice, but he could not expunge the tone of quiet despair. “I need . . . I don’t know what I need. All I know is that I am alone. Entirely . . . alone.”

  There. The words were out.

  He held her stare, his entire soul at her mercy. He saw the tremor that shook her, saw her battle with herself, but she was an ivory tower of virtue; she did not break.

  She passed a scathing glance over him. “I’m not surprised.”

  He flinched, dropped his gaze.

  She turned on her heel and walked away.

  Chapter 6

  Hours later, Lucien swept out of the gates of Revell Court astride his Andalusian stallion and rode into the black, windy night. The horse’s hoofbeats thundered over the wooden bridge, its long, vigorous strides flying over the road, taking the hill in lusty exertion.

  He rode low in the saddle, a taut give in the reins, the wind rippling through his hair and the stallion’s mane. Around him, the blowing woodlands were alive with the creaking of branches and the rattle of dead leaves. The horse didn’t like it, snorting in warning at the wind, tossing its head.