by Win Hollows
Her lip curled as she watched his salt-crusted blond hair droop over his face. This man’s death would not weigh on her conscience, and the world felt lighter knowing he wasn’t in it.
The other man’s death, however…
She and Max approached Losif’s body slowly, knowing there was nothing that could be done now. Max sat down with his head in his hands, knuckles white.
She touched his shoulder. “He died better than most,” she said quietly. “A hero, with his best friend nearby, at peace with his God.”
Max looked up at her with reddened eyes. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
“He thought it was.”
Max put his head back down and touched the hem of Losif’s robe. “It should have been me. I’m the one who has killed and robbed and lived without care for anything but my own selfish gains.”
Kneeling beside him, she stroked the monk’s hand. “We both know that’s not true. You must let him have this, Max. Let him rest now with the knowledge that his life has meant more than staying in his monastery ever could have.”
Max’s fists clenched in the sand.
Chirp chirp.
Elorie frowned as Losif’s robe began to move, and a shivering lump formed. It moved across Losif’s stomach, up his chest, and down his sleeve to pop out cuff of it.
“Porthos!”
The trembling monkey crawled into Elorie’s hands. She hugged him close, but was careful with his slight weight. She could see he was injured from the monk’s fall, and probably other abuses as well. The outline of his bones shone through his dirty hair. “Oh, Porthos. You kept him company, didn’t you? You didn’t leave him. ’Til the very end.”
“Ellie,” Max said, reaching up to touch her hair.
“What is it?”
He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you hit your head?”
Frowning, she reached up and pressed her now-smooth palm to the back of her head. There was no pain, no dried blood matting her scalp, nothing. And the skin of her upper arm was unbroken as well. She looked at Max, who shook his head and shrugged.
“Do you think…?” she trailed off, not even knowing how to ask such a thing. Could the Lance have done this?
“I don’t know,” he answered her unspoken question. “But I wish…” He looked over at his friend lying in the sand. “Perhaps if I had made Losif touch it before…”
Elorie took his hand. “No, Max. This was his destiny, and he was proud of it.” She knew Max wanted to blame himself for the monk’s death, but she wouldn’t let him do it. That sort of thing ate people alive until they couldn’t live with themselves.
Neither of them would mention to anyone else what had happened to Elorie’s wounds, for what would they say, and who would believe them? Nothing seemed quite real today, and perhaps her injuries had been in her imagination to begin with. It was possible she hadn’t been bleeding at all, only in shock from the pain. She had seen Ruben’s blood when she’d bitten him back in the cavern, that much she remembered. But the rest? It was all lost to the sea now.
She had nowhere to put the tired monkey in the clothes she was wearing, so she held him as she and Max dug out the sand around Losif and gently piled it atop him. There wasn’t a good way to get him back to his monastery, but she had a feeling the monk would have liked resting in such a place with so much sacred history all around him. She could picture him telling every saint within earshot of the legends of the Damarek and the cavern of the Knights Templar.
The fisherman’s boat they had come in had drifted away, and Elorie couldn’t help but hope the unfortunate man had no family he had left behind. They took Ruben’s longer boat after dumping his body in the water and rowed back to shore, not bothering to go all the way back to the docks in St. Raphael. But the sight that awaited them there was not expected.
A tall, well-dressed man with an inscrutable face and blue eyes was waiting on the shore as they let the surf take the boat in until they climbed out of it to walk from where it stayed beached. Two more men in English royal livery stood a ways off with rifles at their sides.
She had known this moment would come. Her chest pounded as she looked at the man in expensive British clothing. It was time for her reckoning.
“Were you successful then?” he asked.
Max stepped forward, as though preparing to debrief his overseer.
Elorie took a deep breath and cut in front of him. Here went nothing. “Yes, Mr. Cunningham. I have it here.” She pulled the Damarek from the inside of her sodden knickers and presented it to him on her open palms. Swallowing, she didn’t let herself look at Max’s face, though she knew he was staring in open confusion beside her.
“Losif is dead,” she told him. “Please tell the Order of Bartholomew that he died sacrificing himself for us and the Damarek. He rests under the guard of the Knights Templar.”
Cunningham nodded as he took the spearhead from her hands and placed it in a plain wooden box, shutting the lid with a clack. “I shall make sure they know of his bravery.”
Elorie nodded, still not trusting herself to look at Max. But he didn’t let her for long.
“What’s going on? Ellie?” he asked, his voice thin.
“So it’s Ellie, is it, Miss Crescenfort?” Cunningham raised a brow. “You know you could have chosen to omit your involvement. Our agreement still stood until a moment ago.”
No, she couldn’t have left without Max knowing. She smiled at Cunningham fondly before turning to Max. The look on his face was one she would never forget. Betrayal. Pain. Anger. It was best this way, but it made the moment no better for having to say goodbye.
“Max…” She pleaded for his forgiveness with her eyes, praying he could see the words she couldn’t say here. “You were never supposed to know. You were never supposed to care.”
He took a step back, his chest heaving. “You… You’re…”
Now that she had to say it aloud, she just felt exhausted, although she was trembling from head to toe. “I was never truly working for the Hand of Charlemagne. I have been Cunningham’s source within the enemy’s camp for quite a long while. With me competing against you, it ensured England’s victory in the end, no matter what.” She attempted a smile. “We made for good enemies, didn’t we, Max?”
He blinked as if seeing the light of day for the first time. She watched him swallow, the lump traveling down his neck from where his jaw was clamped shut. “I don’t believe a truer statement has ever been said.”
Keeping the lump in her own throat at bay, she nodded and turned back to Cunningham as if her heart wasn’t failing where she stood. “I believe this is goodbye, save for the occasional social function, should you ever be in Hampshire.”
He smiled down at her. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Crescenfort. Would it be appropriate to congratulate you on your pending nuptials?”
She smiled, glad for his nonchalance in contrast to the agony coursing through her. “No, but thank you nonetheless.”
“You’ve learned much since you came to me as a girl four years ago, scared and determined to do something bold. If I may say, I’m glad you have shed the former quality, but the latter is something you should keep, no matter your present course.”
Never having done so before, she was sure it shocked the both of them when she quickly hugged him with both arms and didn’t let go until he returned the contact. When she let go, she was pleased to see he wasn’t immune to her as much as he pretended, his eyes just a bit too bright with a noticeable sheen.
“My men will see you home. You have served your Queen honorably.”
“That’s not why I did it,” she reminded him.
He pursed his lips. “Can’t you just let me make the speech?”
She laughed and squeezed his hand before stepping in the direction of the riflemen. But it was no use. She turned to look back at Max one last time. He stood just as he had in the music room that night, wooden with hate toward her. She had betrayed him again, and there we
re some things that trust could never again grow from.
“I love you, Max. I always have. I always will. In my heart, I ran away with you a long time ago.” She didn’t wait for him to respond or react in any way, but turned and walked away up the beach.
Elorie knew she might as well have left her soul buried with Losif on that spit of sand, for she’d never recover having loved and lost her greatest enemy, the magnificent Earl of Eydris.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She didn’t understand weddings. The celebration part, she understood. Making vows before God, she understood. But it was all the lace that made no sense whatsoever. How much lace did one need to declare that they were signing their life away? Her mother and sister were dressed in it. The ring pillow was embroidered with it. The church’s vestibule and pews were draped in it. And her dress…
Elorie prided herself on being able to make an escape in whatever attire the occasion called for, but the layers and layers of lace bound her legs into taking small steps and about suffocated her when she sat down. Perhaps that was why there was so much of it: to prevent the bride from running away.
She sighed and gritted her teeth as she walked down the aisle, hundreds of eyes attempting to pierce her lacey—of course—veil. It seemed everyone in Christendom had decided to turn out for the wedding of the reclusive Duke of Morley to the mysterious Miss Crescenfort, even in the pouring rain. Or at least everyone in the ton. She knew most of these people couldn’t care less about her happiness on this occasion, but she was sure the gossip regarding their persons and reasons for marriage would be running rampant by now.
Elorie hadn’t even discussed it with her friends, for she couldn’t tell them the true circumstances anyhow. Besides, Lilah and Raquel were still in mourning and wouldn’t be here. Ivy and the Marquess of Blackbourne might be amongst the crowd, but she hoped not. Her own family was sitting on the front row, her mother beaming in all of the attention her daughter’s nuptials had created.
Elorie refused to look at the man standing at the front of the church with the priest. Why look at him more than necessary? She would get more than she wanted to of seeing his face after today. Her last few moments of freedom were her own, and she preferred to spend them not being disgusted.
It was difficult, however. Morley had insisted on placing his own footman guard over her house for the past several days and had come to call three times since she had returned from France, once to accompany her to a musicale as her fiancé. It seemed that even though she had proved her chastity, her cooperation was still in question.
Little did they know there was no cause for concern. She had no intention of reneging on her betrothal contract. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t eventually kill the bastard and take Celise somewhere far away, but today, she would play the part of blushing bride perfectly. She had only to fix her eyes on her sister’s laurel-crowned blonde head in the front pew to remember her resolution.
Though the organ music played loudly, she could still hear people whispering as she went by. Even though she’d gone to several public functions of late, it seemed most people still knew very little about Dierdre Elorie Lavoie Crescenfort.
Good.
They could all go hang, as far as she was concerned. The minute this farce was over, she would be heading to Hampshire with Morley, once again outside of London’s ever-prying eyes.
When she reached the altar at last, she had to resist the urge to swat at her voluminous dress. Itchy. So itchy. The priest was smiling as if he married off men old enough to be their bride’s fathers every day. For all she knew, he probably did. She wasn’t the first woman to marry someone many years her senior, especially among families of wealth and power.
Her nose twitched as Morley raised her veil and flipped it to flow down her back. The murmuring in the crowd grew louder as her face was exposed.
“On this day, in front of these present witnesses, we stand testimony to the marriage of…”
She tuned the priest’s words out. How long would he drone on before they could say their piece and she could take off this idiotic dress?
He began to ask the duke questions, and she looked up at Morley’s waxy face as he spouted lies of cherishing and caring for her. She had to admit, he was good, putting on an expression of enchanted bliss as he did so. But she saw the glint in his eyes that promised all sorts of retribution for the years she had made him wait for this moment. It was a gleam of triumph, and she didn’t even respond with the stubbornness of a glare in return. What was the point? He had won.
“Do you, Dierdre Elorie Lavoie Crescenfort, first daughter of the eighth Earl of Crescenfort, take this man in holy matrimony? Do you agree to honor, obey, and remain faithful to the vows spoken here which bind you to him in the eyes of God before these witnesses?”
It was the way he said it—that phrase: the eyes of God.
The Eyes of St. Raphael flashed in her mind, clear blue waters, laughter in the sand, and him swimming alongside her.
Freedom.
She allowed herself to savor it for the briefest of moments, closing her eyes to feel the sun’s warmth on her back in a secret cavern’s waters filled with the promise of forbidden treasure.
Then she let it go.
Elorie forced herself to look upon her future and speak the words that would forever seal that part of herself away. “I d—”
The doors of the church burst open, creaking on their ancient hinges. In the doorway, framed by the gray light from without, was a man drenched from head to toe and quite scandalously attired in nothing but a white shirt and fawn-colored pants. The impressively developed muscles of his torso were outlined in astonishing detail from the clinging fabric of his thin shirt as he dripped all over the stone floor.
“I believe my invitation was lost in the mail,” he drawled.
“Max?” she whispered, her stomach fluttering with a thousand wings. What was he doing here? Surely he hadn’t come to witness her marry another man.
And then she knew.
He was here for her.
“Take a seat, sir,” Morley growled.
Max ran a hand through his wet hair, predictably ignored him, and strode straight down the aisle to the astonished gasps and protests of the crowd. He didn’t stop until he reached the altar.
Elorie’s heart sped, and her knees shook at the unexpected, dear sight of him. Seeing his vitality next to Morley’s sunken features and bony limbs was laughable. “You came,” she said simply.
“I came.”
She smiled into his fiery amber eyes, not caring a wit about anything else but the way he looked at her with determined hunger. Everything fell away, and they were once again on top of a castle’s walls looking out over the Scottish North Sea. There was nothing except his wonderful, sculpted face and wind-blown hair before he was about to do something that could not be taken back.
“What is the meaning of this? You will leave this church immediately.” Morley stepped between them.
Max pushed Morley aside as if he were nothing but a pesky fly. “We’ve got to get you out of that hideous dress and into those knickers again.”
Cosette gasped and stood. “Who is this? Elorie, what’s going on?”
Elorie ignored her mother and grinned. “It is rather hideous, isn’t it?”
Morley hissed from where he’d slammed into the pulpit. “How dare you come and interrupt what I have spent four years waiting for. I have paid for her hand long before—”
Max’s nostrils flared, and he spun to confront Morley. “Yes, about that,” he said. “I obtained a copy of your so-called betrothal contract.” Max advanced on him until Morley couldn’t move backward anymore. “And had it examined by a friend of mine. I think you’ll find that this”—he removed a piece of parchment from his boot—“revokes that contract for reasons of legality.”
Max shoved the document into the hands of the priest nearby, who spluttered as he unrolled it.
“That’s not possible,” Morley
jeered. “My own solicitors drafted it. It’s iron-clad. If she doesn’t marry me today, her family is in debt to me ten times over.”
“I know what it says,” Max replied, his tone unconcerned. “Yet I believe my friend’s interpretation of the law supersedes whatever trumped-up solicitor you hired to draft this nonsense of binding a terrified fifteen-year-old girl to someone like you.”
“No one supersedes a duke’s word,” Morley responded with confidence. “Whoever you are.”
Max smiled with what Elorie knew was deadly serious intent. “I’m the Earl of Eydris, and normally you’d be right. A duke is the highest power in the land.”
Morley smiled with his small, dull teeth.
“Except the Queen.”
Morley’s mouth fell open, and his head jerked. “Impossible. She wouldn’t interfere—”
“Oh, but she would,” Max explained. “For a very dear rapscallion who once saved her son Albert Edward from an abduction attempt. You might be powerful, Morley, but I’ve learned that doing things for others is rather more powerful, wouldn’t you say?”
Elorie breathed out, the flutter of long-dead hope rising up. Could it be? Had Max really gone to Queen Victoria herself to free her of this?
Morley’s chest heaved. “The vows have already been read. She is mine.”
“She is no one’s, least of all yours,” Max declared. “And if you ever come near her again, I’ll put a bullet in the center of your forehead without the least regret.”
“Ha!” Aunt Temperance exclaimed from where she sat beside Celise. “If you don’t leave with him, I will, Dier,” she told Elorie.
Elation burst open in Elorie’s chest. Finally. The burden she had lived with for what felt like longer than she could remember was disintegrating before her very eyes. She cleared her throat and stepped forward with a smile for Morley. “I believe that pleasure will be mine.”
Max smirked at the now-shaking Duke. “I can live with that.”
“Elorie, you cannot ruin this, not now!” Cosette stood with white-faced fury, her husband standing behind her.
