Lord of Fire

by Gaelen Foley

  She could no longer imagine how life had been before she had known Lucien. She must have been sleeping like the princess in the fairytale, waiting for his kiss to awaken her. She felt as though he had always been a part of her—in her blood, in her heart. On Wednesday night, she reclined on the leather couch in the dim library, her head resting on his lap while he sang her to sleep, petting her hair. Her last thought before drifting off was that she had fallen irrevocably, irretrievably in love with him. The joy of it was shadowed only by the swirling undercurrent of danger she sensed in the silences of Revell Court and in its enigmatic master. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.

  She knew Lucien cared for her, but his regard for her apparently had not dulled his appetite for depravity; preparations were taking place for another bacchanalia in the Grotto. Huge quantities of wine were delivered. In the courtyard, she saw a few of the black-coated guards cleaning their guns. The image haunted her, whispering to her that something hidden, perhaps even darker and deeper than the orgies of the Grotto, was going on at Revell Court. Something sinister—and her beloved with his eyes full of secrets was at the heart of it.

  She was not sure if she suspected Lucien of criminal activities or sacrilegious ones, or for that matter, which was worse. She was afraid to ask, for fear of dashing the enchantment of their growing love, and of rousing the dangerous side of Lucien that she had faced that first night in the little room behind the dragon’s eyes. He was the perfect lover, provided she did not cross him. One rule, one forbidden thing. Plagued by fears, she paced in her room while he practiced at swords in his studio with his band of hard-eyed young rogues. She had befriended them the day before, but soon discovered that trying to get information out of them was futile. She was still uncertain of their role. They were too highborn to be servants and a bit too young to be merely his friends. They seemed to be connected to the Grotto.

  Devil take it, why did he have those parties at all? she wanted to yell. If only someone would trust her with the truth. Why did he squander his money and time and taint his good name with such wildness? None of it fit the man she knew.

  Trust me, he had said. She reminded herself for the umpteenth time. The Lucien Knight she knew was a sensitive man of great intelligence and strength. She had to withhold judgment until he was ready of his own accord to tell her everything. If he really had wanted to deceive her, he would have made up some cock-and-bull story to explain away all her fears, she reasoned with herself, but he respected her too much to fill her ears with lies. Did that not count for something?

  In any case, the end of their promised week together was drawing near. Would they part? Would they stay together? She did not see how she could stay with him unless he gave her the answers she needed. Even if he had begun to consider offering marriage, she was not prepared to spend the rest of her life in the dark about his activities. The uncertainty of her situation agonized her in dizzying counterpoint to her euphoria in his presence. She knew she should not stand for this, being kept in ignorance, but she refused to give him up. She could understand now why Caro had forsaken even Harry to be with Lucien. A woman could become as addicted to that man as an invalid was to her laudanum drops.

  Hanging onto hope for all she was worth, she thrust her fears away and hurried out to join him in his studio. Nothing routed her fears faster than his smile. Watching him at his practice, his sheer male beauty made her yearn with desire. Yet, as she watched the dazzling speed of his sword and saw the wolfish snarl on his face, she wondered why, if it was merely practice, he fought with such savagery. If only one of the boys had fought him alone, Lucien would have made mincemeat of him. Surely, here was a man struggling inwardly against something—or someone, she thought, gazing at him rather helplessly. If only he would confide in her. She knew that he suffered, but he would not speak of the cause. She had seen the hatred that blew like smoke through the depths of his eyes when he sometimes sat staring into the fire, brooding and far away. She had learned how to bring him back from that dark place inside himself by drawing him gently into the deepest, most soulful kisses she had to give. Perhaps the mystery of what troubled him was the source of all the secrets that stood like a wall between them.

  Perhaps, she thought, watching him with a deep, wanton hunger, if she gave herself freely to him, he would reciprocate—her virtue for his trust. The recklessness of such a gamble made her shiver. She could either win him or lose everything. She looked on in silence, unable to escape the feeling that she was blindly battling to save his soul.

  In the master’s wheel, he won another point, wiped his brow with the back of his arm, and attacked again.

  Lucien could feel Claude Bardou drawing closer. He could feel it. He did not know how or why he knew, but some sixth sense honed through years of moving deftly behind enemy lines assured him that the storm was coming closer. As the days with Alice passed, he felt his life separating into two disparate halves, dark and light. He had existed for so long in a gray half-world of shadows, but he sensed he would not be able to stay there much longer. Soon a choice would have to be made. He felt pulled in two directions. Her light was the only thing that kept him from embracing the darkness in order to fight Bardou’s evil with evil of his own; her love was the counterforce that stopped him from going over the edge that he had walked for so long.

  One thing was certain. From the depths of his being, he loathed lying to her. He longed to tell her everything, but he was terrified of how she might react. How could he risk losing her when right now she was all that was holding him together?

  Every moment with her was a resplendent, fragile gift, like the beauty of sunlight beaming through a drop of dew. He wanted nothing more from life than to make her happy, but he had a formidable duty to his country and a vendetta that he owed the man whose blood was on his hands. Thus, at the same time that he was learning how to love for the first time in his life, he was dealing in ruthless treachery, clandestinely, behind her back, setting traps to snare men and women in their own vices—whatever availed to help him get to Claude Bardou.

  On Thursday afternoon, he finished writing a few letters in his office high in the attics above Revell Court, then went looking for his fair companion. He found her sitting in the large, rustic salon on the first floor with his five young rogues. She was studiously making a charcoal sketch of Marc while the other young men sat around idly chatting and joking, drinking coffee, and praising her for the accuracy of the portraits she had drawn of each one of them.

  Unnoticed, Lucien paused in the doorway, watching her in quiet pleasure.

  “I still don’t understand why you have these silly nicknames,” she was musing aloud, trying futilely to charm a few secrets out of them—the little vixen. Giving Marc’s wavy brown hair a bit more shading in her sketch, she finished the portrait, carefully removed the page, and presented it to her subject.

  Marc’s eyebrows lifted. “Miss Montague, you are most talented!”

  “If only I could coax Lord Lucien to sit for me,” she said with a sigh, smiling at him as he walked into the room.

  “I already know what I look like. I have a twin brother, remember?” He sauntered over behind her chair and gave her shoulders a soft squeeze. She caressed his hand on her shoulder.

  “But you’re you. You’re my Lucien. I don’t care about that other one. Let me sketch your portrait,” she insisted, resting her head on the chair’s back to gaze up at him sweetly. He blushed a little at her affectionate words in front of his men, but they took up her cause.

  “Go on, let her,” Marc urged him with a grin, showing him his portrait. “Look at how well she drew me!”

  “She even made Talbert look handsome,” O’Shea remarked. “God knows that takes talent.”

  “Hey!” Talbert objected.

  “Aye, let her make your portrait, Draco,” Jenkins chimed in cheerfully. “We could use it for shooting practice.”

  “Ha, ha,” he replied.

  “Go on, humor the la
dy,” Marc urged him, laughing.

  “Yes, please, please let me!” Alice begged prettily.

  Lucien balked, but there was little he could refuse her. “Oh, very well,” he grumbled at last, willing to take her undivided attention however he could get it.

  She clapped her hands in delight and the lads cheered. She grabbed his hand and tugged him over to sit before her. “You had better stop scowling or that is exactly how I will portray you.”

  Lucien sighed. He would have relented sooner, but in truth, he did not like being studied too closely in the light. Now he found himself intrigued to learn how she saw him—who he was through her eyes.

  “Don’t you gentlemen have work to do?”

  The lads grinned knowingly and left the two of them alone, thanking her again and sliding the salon doors shut behind them.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” Lucien murmured.

  “They are very agreeable.”

  “And I’m very greedy. I want you all to myself.”

  “Poor me,” she teased demurely, seating herself on the ottoman and picking up the tools of her art. She blew the powdery dust off her charcoal and began to study him, but when she noticed his smoldering stare fixed on her, she snorted in ladylike disdain. “Do not try to tempt me, Lucifer,” she ordered loftily as her hand began moving over the page. “I’m working.”

  He gave her a rueful smile and slung his arm over the chair’s back in a leisurely position, warmed by the autumn sunlight flooding in through the mullioned windows, lulled by the soft scraping sound her charcoal made as she wisped it lightly over the paper. They sat together for a quarter-hour in companionable silence.

  Letting his gaze travel possessively over her, he drank in the loveliness of her face as she sat in a ray of sunlight. To be sure, she had a temper to match those red streaks in her golden hair, he thought fondly. Her pale blond eyebrows were knitted in thought as she worked. She had luxurious lashes and cobalt eyes with the power to devastate him. She had a smattering of light freckles on her cheeks and fine, aristocratic features. Her breasts were perfection, and her exquisitely curved hips had been formed for bearing children. His children.

  Good God, he had never planned on falling so completely under her spell. It scared him to fall so hard, so fast, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Indeed, he wanted ever more of her.

  She suddenly looked up at him, then tilted her head, assessing him closely. “Something’s not right.”

  He tensed with instant guilt, unsure of what she meant. Alice set down her charcoal and sketch pad, wiped her hands on a rag, and walked over to him.

  “What is it?” he asked uneasily.

  She plucked at his cravat. “This . . . and this,” she said, tugging on the sleeve of his waistcoat. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

  “Oh-ho,” he murmured with a grin, coming to full attention.

  “Do you mind taking a few things off?”

  “Anything for art,” he replied as his heart skipped a beat.

  “Best let me do it.” Sliding him a frisky look, she began untying his cravat.

  He leaned back in his chair with a lazy half smile. “Do with me what you will.”

  “Oh, I intend to.” She nudged his legs apart and stood between them as she pulled his undone cravat slowly off his shoulders, meeting his gaze. Next she unbuttoned his waistcoat and slipped it down off his shoulders. Leaning forward to let her remove it, he brushed his face against the inner curve of her breast. She moved away from him, smoothing his waistcoat over her forearm.

  Nearly panting with anticipation, he watched the sway of her hips and the elegant curves of her derriere as she bent to lay his waistcoat neatly over the arm of a nearby chair.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Not . . . yet.” Turning, she shook her head and sauntered back to him. Without a word, she slipped between his legs again and reached down, pulling his shirt almost roughly out from the waist of his trousers.

  He smiled darkly. God, she excited him.

  She took her time unbuttoning it all the way down his chest and belly, then slid it off his shoulders, caressing him as she went. He stared at her, aroused, compliant. He was rock hard. She leaned down and kissed his shoulder as she finished taking his shirt off of him, then kissed her way slowly up the side of his neck. He tilted his head back, his pulse slamming in the artery where her lips lingered at his throat. She caressed his sides and his chest with her silken hands, stroked his arms, ran her fingers through his hair, enslaving him with her feverish touch.

  Wrapping her soft arms around him, she held him for a moment, then kissed his forehead. “You are a beautiful man, Lucien Knight,” she whispered.

  Grasping her wrist, he pulled back and gazed up at her in raw yearning. “When, Alice? How much longer must I wait?”

  She passed a wary glance over his face and gracefully slipped out of his hold. “That depends.”

  He stared at her, awaiting instruction, as she settled herself back on the ottoman where she had been sitting across from him. “You have only to name what you want.”

  “I am afraid if I lie with you that you will think I am like Caro.”

  “Good God, never!”

  She veiled her gaze behind her lashes and considered this, looking impeccably demure and very, very wary. “Lucien?”

  “Yes?”

  “What would happen . . . if I gave in?” She swept her lashes upward and met his momentarily blank stare.

  “What would happen?” he echoed, stalling for a moment or two to come up with the perfect reply. Watch yourself—don’t scare her off. For the love of God, say the right thing.

  “Yes.”

  He cast about, his body throbbing wildly to realize she was considering giving herself to him. “Why, you would feel a moment’s pain, ma chérie, and then you would know great pleasure.”

  “After the pleasure!” she exclaimed, half hiding behind her sketch pad in scandalized modesty.

  “Afterwards? Well . . .” He chanced a cocky little grin, but his heart pounded. “I suppose I would have to marry you.”

  She peered over the edge of her sketch pad. “Have to?”

  “Oh, Alice,” he said ruefully, softening his voice, “you know I’m mad for you.”

  “Are you proposing to me, then?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his heart slamming. “I reckon I am. Aye, why not?” He swallowed hard. “What do you . . . That is, er—will you?”

  There was a trace of pity in her smile, but amusement danced in her eyes. “How many languages do you speak, again?”

  He scowled. “You may have received dozens of proposals before—and I’m sure this one ranks as the very worst of them all—”

  “Yes, definitely,” she agreed, nodding.

  “But it’s the first one I’ve ever attempted, so do please bear with me, madam.”

  “Of course,” she answered gravely, pursing her lips to chase away her taunting smile.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You little vixen.” He got up, crossed to her, and bent down, kissing her soundly. Then he wiped a smudge of charcoal off the tip of her nose with a doting frown. “Don’t you even think about saying no. I know you are famous for it, but this is me you are talking to,” he added, giving her a severe look.

  “The wicked Lord Lucifer?”

  “The same.” He noticed her sketch and paused, taken aback by the likeness. “Well, hang me.” He grasped the edge of the sketch pad and turned it so he could see it better, but she smacked his hand away.

  “Don’t look!”

  “You’re good,” he said, thoroughly impressed.

  “I’m not finished,” she muttered, pulling the sketch pad up close to her body, careful not to smudge the drawing.

  A smile danced on his lips. He knew he was smitten, but even when she was cross, he found her adorable. Gently, he tilted her chin upward with his fingertips and searched her eyes. “Look here, you. If we left for Scotland on Saturday af
ter my guests have gone, we could be married by Wednesday.”

  Her eyes widened. "To Scotland!”

  “Aye, Gretna Green.”

  “Elope?” She pulled away from his light touch and gave him a look of revulsion.

  “Of course,” he replied, instantly uncertain again.

  Changing like the English weather, Alice turned prim. She pointed at the chair he had abandoned. “Go back over there and sit down,” she ordered him with a quelling look.

  He knitted his eyebrows in defiance but did as he was told. “You are going to be a terrifying old dragon lady when you’re elderly.”

  “And you will be a randy old goat.”

  “I know a special license is more fashionable, but the bishop will never grant me one,” he muttered. “He thinks I am the Antichrist.”

  “What about the traditional way? Announcing the banns?” she asked loftily. “Or does that lack flair for you?”

  He shook his head with a smirk. “It’s for peasants.” In truth, he shuddered at the thought of having his name publicly proclaimed throughout the parish for three weeks in a row. Claude Bardou might already be looking for him.

  “I see.” Alice sat back with a sigh, rested her cheek on her fist, and studied him. “I suppose there are worse fates than a Gretna wedding. Which brings me to my next question.”

  “Yes?”

  She sat up, rested her elbows on her bent knees, and clasped her hands loosely. Looking at the ground, her cheeks turning bright pink, she spoke slowly. “What if . . . a baby came along?”

  He stared at her, taken aback. The bachelor in him went mentally running off, screaming bloody murder, hollering at him to get out while he could, but an odd, slight smile struck him out of nowhere. He studied her, mystified. “Devil take me, but I don’t think that’d be half bad. Do you?”

  When tears rushed into her eyes, he realized his question had struck a nerve, but something told him that they were tears of joy.

  “Would you like that, Alice? A few wee ones underfoot?”

  She let out a shaky, incoherent sob of a laugh and covered her lips with her hand.