by Win Hollows
Or was it Maxwell that was her escape?
Either way, she decided she really should have injured herself far sooner.
****
“Once I saw dimly, but through the light of St. Raphael’s eyes, I now look upon our Holy Savior’s true healing power. Page thirty-eight, line seventeen.”
“At first I thought it was simply a dying man’s vision of the afterlife, and I’m sure that’s what he wanted the casual observer to think,” Asher said, pacing Max’s library. Their roles were reversed now, Max sitting behind his desk while his cousin stood in front of it, coursing with excited energy. “Even the phrases from the texts are not overly helpful to the untrained mind. It must have taken him years to amass just the right combination of books to be able to disguise his true meaning within them.”
“Asher, get on with it,” Max said, his own excitement beginning to rise.
“All three quotes have to do with sight, which means none of them can be distinguished in relevance from the others based on subject matter.”
Max knew this already, having read them several times over the course of the last couple of weeks. He glanced at them again, trying to decipher whatever it was that Asher was seeing.
SOCRATES: And in this process of acclimatization he would first and most easily be able to look at
(1) shadows and after that (2) the images of people and the rest of things as they are reflected in water.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Act 1, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare
In this way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies.
- Poetics by Aristotle
They were now in Asher’s handwriting, with notes scribbled all over the parchment page on which he’d written the lines over and over.
“So?” Max asked.
“So I had to assume it was not the sight part of the texts that mattered,” Asher explained. “I researched everything I could about St. Raphael, and it turns out the name Raphael literally means God heals. So that didn’t really help, as everything having to do with this artifact regards healing.”
“Asher, if you don’t hurry up…” Max looked daggers at his enthusiastic relative.
“I started to think, if James MacDowell was trying to point someone in the direction of the Lance of Longinus, then why mention an archangel that can be found in a thousand places all over England? There would be no point if someone had to go look under every statue, painting, or pane of glass depicting the archangel Raphael. That would take roughly seventeen years if one went about it as methodically as possible without ceasing. I calculated it. And that’s only on England’s shores. I cross-referenced the text lines with all mentions of St. Raphael, and nothing came of it.”
“So St. Raphael isn’t important?” Max rubbed his temples. Listening to Asher was always like this when he got going.
Asher leaned over the desk. “Oh, but it is. Not he. It.”
“What do you mean it?”
With a smug smile, Asher propped a hip on the desk and crossed his arms. “The St. Raphael MacDowell refers to in his epitaph is not a who, but a where.”
Max sat up straighter. “A place?”
Asher nodded. “The only reason I know this is because when I asked for everything in the records pertaining to the saint, the archives simply gave me every document that mentioned the name St. Raphael. This happened to include an account of the Catholic Church’s dealings with St. Raphael. At first, I thought they were talking about the archangel or divine intervention, but it soon became apparent they were referencing a small township that lies in France. A town called St. Raphael.”
Max stared in wonderment. “A place. It’s a place!” He threw his arms up.
“Quite so.” Asher shifted his perch on the desk and put a finger on the parchment. “But that’s not the interesting bit.”
Max leaned forward. “Go on.”
Asher looked much too pleased with himself as he pointed to a place on the paper. “When I began to examine these lines under the assumption of St. Raphael as a place, it still wasn’t clear what help they were. However, once I was able to track down someone who had lived in St. Raphael as a child, it became obvious.”
“How did you manage that?” Max was generally impressed by his cousin’s mental prowess, but it couldn’t have been easy finding someone from such a specific place.
“That part was easy.” Asher waved the question away.
Or perhaps it wasn’t so hard.
“I just asked the French baker on Harley Street if he knew where I could find anyone from southeastern France, and he pointed me in the direction of a French-speaking church in the area. The vicar had records of all his parishioners, their birthplaces, etc. I simply waited until a Sunday service and cornered a little old lady. Bribed her to answer my questions. Wasn’t very difficult.”
It was actually impressive work, if Max was honest. He had spent many a mission tracking people down through similar means. “What did she say?”
“She told me all about her place of birth, most of which wasn’t anything you or I would be interested in. But then she mentioned what she called ‘The Eyes of St. Raphael.’ Apparently, it is a rock formation on the coastline that is completely underwater.”
Max inhaled, looking down at the page. “Socrates. ‘And in this process of acclimatization he would first and most easily be able to look at shadows and after that, the images of people and the rest of things as they are reflected in water.’”
Asher nodded. “Yes. The ‘Eyes,’ as they call are called, are two rings of rock that look upon the entrance of an underwater cave containing ancient religious writings in the walls. The townspeople know it quite well.”
Max shook his head slowly. “Brilliant. It is, after all, The Allegory of the Cave.”
His cousin smiled. “It sounds as if James MacDowell hid the Lance of Longinus in France, coz.”
Max smiled back at him wryly. If only Asher knew how ironic that truly was.
A giddiness coursed through him, and he was tempted to go saddle a horse and make for the nearest packet ship to France. He and Asher were the only two people living who knew where the Damarek currently was, so it wasn’t as if there was a race afoot at this very moment. However, the urge to finally obtain it almost overwhelmed him, and he had to clench his hands to prevent Asher from seeing how this information affected him.
“So what is my reward?” Asher sank down into one of the chairs across from Max.
Max shrugged. “What is it you want?”
“The truth.”
Max frowned. “What truth?”
“I saw how you looked at Lady Crescenfort. You practically had a fit when you saw her lying there in the Marlings’ garden. Why don’t you court her?”
Oh, good grief. This wasn’t what he wanted to discuss with Asher. “Perhaps I will.”
“You have no intention of doing any such thing or you would have done it by now. Instead, you brought her here so you could be alone with her without Society watching.”
“She was injured! Her reputation would have—”
“Yes, yes, whatever you say. But we both know the real reason she’s here. So why won’t you do the honorable thing? Go to her parents.”
Max turned his eyes heavenward to ask for patience and then sighed. “I can’t. She’s … French.”
Asher raised a brow. “And? Why is that a problem?”
His cousin was right, of course. In the normal way of things, taking a French bride was hardly frowned upon in this day. “I have other obligations. I can’t be traipsing off to wherever England sends me with a wife in tow.”
Asher raised one shoulder and pinned him with his icy blue eyes. “With the right woman, you could.”
Max looked away. Elorie was the right woman for s
uch a thing. Just not on the right side. “Leave it alone, Ash.”
Asher sighed. “I tried for as long as I could, you know. Resisting Ivy. Worst few months of my life. Nearly killed me.”
“I believe you,” Max muttered, although he doubted Asher had had to worry about the lady doing the killing.
“I’m better now,” he said softly. “Better than I ever was before. She holds me to that.”
Max looked at his cousin. “What if she were unsuitable? Would you still have married her?”
Asher smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. We’re all unsuitable, really. I was a train wreck. And I would marry her a thousand times over, no matter who she was.”
In the face of his cousin’s unwavering certainty, it was hard to not be jealous of him. Certainly, things had worked out in Asher’s favor, but that didn’t mean they would in Max’s situation. He was fairly certain pursuing a French spy was treason, and no one wanted that on the family tree. There would be no convincing Asher of the folly of such a thing without revealing Elorie’s secret, and he wouldn’t do that just to earn Asher’s approval. He had lived without it for years, and he wouldn’t compromise her for it now.
“I’m not you, Asher. I’m not ready for marriage.”
“Then do the right thing. Let her go. Don’t do something irrevocable.”
His nostrils flared. Who was Asher to tell him any such thing? “I’m sure you did plenty of irrevocable things before Ivy, cousin.”
“I did,” he conceded. “And I wish I could take back every one. It wasn’t fair to them. To me. Or to the woman who is now my wife. Don’t you think I wish I could erase all those meaningless interactions? Don’t you understand how vile I was, and how wholly unworthy I am to touch her? Do not make the same mistakes I did, Max. Because no matter what you think now, when you finally decide you’re ready, these things have a way of coming back to haunt you. Don’t make her a ghost of your past that you can’t erase.”
Anger rose in Max’s chest. At Asher’s words, yes, but more at the thought of Elorie becoming a ghost of his past. He feared that was the only way this could end between them, and the mere mention of it terrified him. Asher had no right to bring up any of this, as he couldn’t possibly understand his relationship with Elorie Lavoie.
“As fun as listening to your regrets is,” Max drawled. “I have things I need to do, especially now that you’ve provided this information.”
Asher smiled at him sadly. “So be it.”
****
After she had seen the Blackbournes off, Elorie found Max in the library, poring over what looked like an atlas of maps. When their eyes met, she saw a brief flare of something akin to anger, but then it melted into a sweeping look of her person that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than carnal approval.
“I have something for you,” he said abruptly.
She tilted her head in question.
Max rose from his chair and opened a door in the liquor sideboard to his left. Reaching in, he removed a thin box the length of Elorie’s forearm wrapped in a single dark-green ribbon. Without ceremony, he extended it toward her while he watched her face carefully.
“Max, you didn’t have to—” she started.
“I wanted to.” He crossed his arms and half-sat on the desk as she opened it.
After untying the ribbon, she slid the wooden box cover from its counterpart and beheld the set of five objects nestled on forest-green velvet within. Each was an exquisitely crafted throwing dart carved from wood and tipped with a wickedly sharp copper point. “Oh, Max,” she whispered. Engraved designs wrapped around the wooden handles, the detail of leaves and tiny flowers flawless. As she held one in her hand, she saw the French proverb Qui ne risque rien n'a rien was carved amidst the foliage on each. “He who risks nothing has nothing,” she murmured.
Elorie looked up to find Max’s eyes burning into hers. Gulping, she acknowledged the underlying meaning in his gift.
“Do you like them?” His voice was lower than usual.
She couldn’t lie. “Very much.” Elorie put the box of darts down on the bookshelf lining the wall near her. She came toward him and put her hands on his chest. Then she stood on her toes to place a lingering kiss on his cheek.
Leaning against the desk behind him, he angled his face toward her upturned one. “You can do better than that,” he goaded.
Elorie clenched her jaw, feeling the fire build up in her because of his taunt and because she wanted to kiss him so fiercely that every other woman he’d ever kissed would be obliterated for him.
As if he could read her mind, Max shook his head. “It was never a competition between you and anyone else. It has always been you.” He paused, honey-colored eyes caressing her features. “I just want to set you free.”
His words ignited her, and she pressed herself against him, dragging his head down to hers where their lips melded with long-denied heat.
Max grabbed her buttocks and lifted her up so that she had no choice but her wrap her legs around his hips. Without breaking their kiss, he carried her to the old wine-colored sofa on the other side of the room and laid her back on it, careful not to rest his weight on her torso.
Though her side ached, it was the furthest thing from her mind as Max kissed his way hungrily down her neck. She sank into the soft cushions at her back, sighing as rippling chords of tingles rushed over her skin at the contact. When his mouth came back up to hers, she met his kisses with a possessive ferocity, her fingertips digging into his shoulder blades as she held him to her.
Max’s hands began to wander, and he reached down to cup her bottom, raising her against his ready body. She moaned into his mouth at the sharp swoop of desire his closeness caused.
“It can be this always,” Max said. “Whenever we want, for however long we want. Nothing else would matter.”
Elorie tensed.
Seeming to sense her withdrawal, he pulled back. They both breathed heavily, but neither moved for a long moment, holding inches apart.
Finally, Max cleared his throat. “Shall we wait to finish this … conversation until tonight’s music lesson?”
Elorie nodded quickly, both grieving and grateful for the temporary reprieve from the desire he made her feel.
Max rose up and lifted her with him so she wouldn’t have to use her abdominals. Although she was fairly certain her wounds required little coddling at this point, she couldn’t deny it felt nice to be treated so gently by this man.
“Thank you. Thank you for understanding,” she told him, not meeting his gaze.
“I don’t understand you at all,” he replied. “I don’t know why you fight this so hard when giving in would only make you happy. I could make you happy,” he added.
She winced as she rose from the divan. As she walked toward the door, she paused and looked back at where he still sat, his gaze never having left her, and said softly, “I know you could.”
Chapter Sixteen
At seven sharp that evening, Max came to escort her to the music room. They walked slowly, arm-in-arm down the hall, and she could tell he measured his steps to ensure she wasn’t in any discomfort. It was an interesting dynamic between them, she mused, considering they had been so very enamored of the other’s physical vitality.
The room was much the same as the day before, bright hues coloring the space that had become dear to her in so short a time. They followed the same sequence of events as the night before, as if deviating would break the strange sort of spell the room had over them. Max played for her, a slow and hushed melody this time, and then helped her through half a page of stumbling notes from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Every moment his arms enveloped her from behind as she played, she tucked away the memory to savor later, when she wouldn’t have him any longer. Each whisper in her ear to use this or that finger, every soft breath on her neck and murmur of praise, she drank up and stored in her mind like a feverish librarian hoarding books on her shelves.
When she had reache
d the end of the page, Max took his hands from atop hers and squeezed her waist. “You might end up better than me at this,” he said with pride.
Elorie snorted. “I somehow doubt that.” But his words caused her chest to tighten with joy all the same. She really didn’t care if she was the worst pianoforte player in the history of England and France put together, but she would plunk away at the keys every day for the rest of her life if Max was the one teaching her.
He slid his hips around so that he straddled the bench beside her and took one of her cheeks into his palm. “I’m going to ask you again now.”
Elorie froze, having known this was coming, but wanting to delay it. “You don’t have to,” she told him.
He dropped his hand. “I do. I have to ask you because if I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Closing her eyes, she could already feel the anguish building inside her at refusing him again.
“I need to know why,” Max insisted softly.
“You don’t need to know. It’s just your masculine ego that can’t take anyone telling you no that needs it.”
Having expected to rile him into a tangential argument, his smile was unexpected. “Viper, you can’t manipulate me like you do everyone else.”
His calm assurance grated. “I’m not manipulating you,” she said with a growl, pushing up from the bench. “I’m trying to save you, you idiot.”
He laughed. He actually laughed at her!
Elorie stalked around the back of the bench, fists clenched, while he lounged against the piano. Why was he always so relaxed, leaning against everything all the time? She was like a raging storm, and his ocean of calm never peaked.
“What are you saving me from?” he asked in amusement.
Gritting her teeth, Elorie let venom into her words. “From loving someone who will never love you back.”
