Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3

by Lynne Connolly

  “I do, sir, but we have come to terms with whatever happens in the dead of night. I frequently retire early, especially if I plan to ride out the next morning. The hunting is nothing on Leicestershire, but we have a lively hunt in the area and I’m an enthusiastic member.” Thus closing the subject of smugglers.

  Mr. Welles had no choice but to discuss hunting, which he did for a few moments, before bowing and moving away.

  Edmund had been warned off in no uncertain terms.

  The older man exuded the aura of an immortal. Either he was unpracticed or ignorant or maybe so arrogant he didn’t imagine Edmund would know what he was up to. Whatever it was, his crude excursion into Edmund’s mind had left him gasping with the impertinence of the attempt. Of course he’d foiled the suggestion that he didn’t want to move into the district, that he would not like it here. Sir Mortimer had tried to read Edmund’s mind, damn him. A year ago he might have succeeded, but not now. Edmund had learned, he’d trained and worked hard to catch up on what his mother had failed to teach him.

  He was too wise to block Sir Mortimer’s attempt, which could alert the man to the fact that Edmund knew what he was doing. Instead Edmund filled the forefront of his mind with a plethora of thoughts, all of which people would expect from him. The consideration of the land, the coast, the houses available and the possibility of building from scratch, and a touch of interest in Portia Seaton. Nothing like the shocking attraction that had seized him from the first, but something to colour his thoughts. The sheer mass of thoughts would effectively block any incursion into his deeper, more private thoughts.

  Damn, but he knew few immortals. After the great disaster of over thirty years before, when a Titan had hatched a plot to destroy the Olympians in a massive explosion, the younger immortals had dispersed or been lost. Only now were they beginning to come together. Edmund was reborn to a family favourable to the Titans, and his mother had done her best to keep him under her thumb and ignorant of his true nature. He’d escaped her scrutiny by pretending she had succeeded, and then going abroad.

  Edmund had found someone in France to help him, and met others. Now he knew more, he could protect the people he loved.

  If he knew more immortals, he could decide on his next action easier. He’d write to France to see if there was a way to tell if one was Titan or Olympian. Until then he could be in danger, revealing his true self.

  So he continued with his pretence. Was he about to make a breakthrough? He had decided to buy an establishment his mother had no knowledge of. He had enough liquid assets not to disturb his main fortune, something she was bound to notice. Choosing to use his relatively common surname instead of his title had proved useful. A duke would be the centre of attention, not the best way to surreptitiously make enquiries about immortals.

  The only trouble was, he’d have to warn his valet to keep his clothes relatively plain. Maybe he should send for some country clothes. He had his Versailles wardrobe with him, and even the riding clothes were too fancy.

  While he strolled around the room, smiling and chatting to people who recognised him as a gentleman, his mind worked at double speed. He slipped out of the room to find his valet. He daren’t use mental communication at anything but close quarters, because he was not at all sure of his ability to keep his messages secret from powerful beings. The Seatons could be minor immortals or even gods. He had no way of knowing yet. Not for the first time he damned his inexperience in such matters.

  Lightfoot wasn’t far away, hovering in case his master did something horrible to the diamond set. “I need plain clothes, Lightfoot, and get me a room here, at this hotel, under the name Welles. No mention of my consequence.”

  “Sir, I hardly think—”

  He sent a mental message. There are immortals here. I need to find out more before I announce my presence.

  No more arguments from Lightfoot. He bowed. They were standing in a private parlour, and Edmund could send out his senses enough to detect any listeners at the door. There were none. He could speak aloud. “The Seaton family are staying here. There is a house, a wreck called Thorncroft Grange close by. I want it. Buy it for me. If any part of it is habitable, set up some kind of establishment there. If anyone makes enquiries about me, I’m Mr. Edmund Welles of a vague address somewhere north—say, Cumbria—and I’m wealthy but with no family ties.”

  Lightfoot nodded. “Sir. Why not Scotland?”

  He gave Lightfoot a pitying look. “Because if anyone asks about Edmund Welles in Scotland, they’ll say, ‘Do you mean the Duke of Kentmere?’ It’s too late to change my name, because I already introduced myself. I wish I’d had the wit to invent a surname, but there you are. I didn’t.”

  Lightfoot bowed and Edmund knew the tasks he’d set were as good as done. He had no idea how the valet would find him a room in a crowded inn, but he would. He’d ensure the person he put out was well compensated, and might even end up with the suite he’d booked at the first inn.

  He hurried back to the assembly where he found amusement in comparing this company with the ones in the more fashionable places he was used to. He found them much the same. The same preoccupations and obsessions—are large hoops out of fashion this year? Is it better to have an enamelled snuffbox or a painted one? Should poachers be hanged on sight?

  Plus the added excitement of smugglers came into consideration. Edmund had to admit he knew little about smuggling except it was a constant pain to the government, both here and in his home country. He had never concerned himself too much with the practice, although he’d turned a blind eye to the occasional barrel of fine French brandy that turned up on his doorstep.

  It appeared that here, and along the coast, smuggling was rife. The practice deprived the Crown of huge amounts of revenue. It provided goods that might well be dangerously shoddy and even smuggled spies and Jacobites into the country. That last he learned from a red-faced squire he learned was a friend of Portia’s father.

  Sir Mortimer Seaton was well respected hereabouts, a man of substance. Although Edmund smiled and nodded and agreed, he found out little more. Seaton had three daughters and a son, currently abroad on the Grand Tour but due back any day. He did not stint his daughters, but was a careful man. Whatever that meant.

  Edmund danced a few times more, but didn’t ask Portia to stand up with him again, not wanting gossip to surround her. He’d thought Edinburgh the most gossipy place in the world, but since he’d left for his travels in Europe, he’d learned differently. Everywhere was, and mostly they talked about the same things, except there was always some local bias.

  He dropped a few hints about Mr. Edmund Welles along the lines that he’d given Lightfoot. On the spur of the moment he’d decided he would become a Cumbria gentleman who had a modest amount of land, but owned a rich coal mine or two. That would explain the diamond buttons. Otherwise how did a man of such modest means afford them?

  When he judged Lightfoot had enough time to make most of the arrangements, he went in search of his room. It was much more modest than his previous accommodation, but discreet, and, glory be, on the same floor as the Seatons.

  The stage was set. Now he planned to take as much advantage of the situation as possible.

  Disappointed to see Mr. Welles leave so early, Portia nevertheless set herself to enjoy the evening. The news had come that the road was too frosty to traverse with safety, and so they would stay here for the night. They might get time to shop in the morning. Portia was not addicted to the pastime, but strolling along the streets of Dover with her sisters was a vast improvement on sitting at home sewing and yawning. She’d read every book in her father’s modest library, heard his seafaring stories and was ready for a change.

  More than ready, if the truth be told.

  Her first surprise was to find herself in a room of her own. Although the room was more accurately termed a cupboard, she’d enjoy the unaccustomed privacy.
Not even the maid could sleep in here. She wondered how that had come about. She came to the conclusion that it was an oversight by her mother, who would have set a maid with her had there been room.

  As it was she needed Millicent’s help to disrobe. She left the bulkier part of her clothing in the larger room, promising to collect it in the morning. She stayed rather longer than she should, chatting and discussing the evening, particularly the fascinating Mr. Welles and the prospect of a new neighbour. Then, candlestick in hand, she left the room to traverse the short length of corridor to her own room.

  “Miss Seaton.”

  The words, though softly spoken, nearly made Portia drop her candlestick. A hand came around her and steadied her arm, and the heat of a male body warmed her back.

  Belatedly recognising the voice, she spun around, facing him. Mr. Welles wore a robe over his shirt and breeches, but he’d removed the dazzling coat and waistcoat. His stock had gone, leaving a disturbing trace of male skin visible through the open collar of his shirt.

  So close, his presence stunned her. In the dim, flickering light, his face was almost otherworldly, his eyes glittering with untold promises.

  At least she hadn’t shrieked and roused the house. “Mr. Welles, this isn’t proper!” she hissed. Not that she cared very much about propriety, but she had to say it. Otherwise, what would he think of her? This was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in forever. She thrilled to have a male body so close to hers. Especially his.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but my room is close to yours. When I heard someone moving about, I feared for you and your sisters.”

  Did she believe that? No. “You mean you heard someone and you thought you’d investigate?”

  Was he lurking? As if a man with his looks and wealth needed to do that!

  He met her eyes and her heart stopped. Then it started again. As if it knew something had just begun. Fanciful, yes, but she had reason, being an immortal in a world of mortals. That was normal for her. Meeting a handsome stranger was not. And if she handled this right, a kiss or two might be coming her way.

  Her mother would lecture her for hours if she discovered Portia’s transgression. The notion made the prospect even more enticing. If she got into trouble, a scream would bring everyone running. She could enjoy the deliciousness of a clandestine encounter, however brief, without the danger.

  Or just enough danger to add spice, at any rate.

  They gazed at each other for what seemed like forever. She wasn’t sure who reached for whom, or who put the candle down on the nearest window ledge, but she was in his arms and he was kissing her in an instant.

  His mouth opened over hers, and she followed suit, eager to learn this new way of kissing. She’d only shared guilty, closed-mouth kisses with men—boys—before this. He cradled her close, then cupped her face, guiding her to the position he wanted her.

  She’d have stayed there forever, but someone coughed and they broke apart. Her breath shortened and her heart, already beating harder than usual, threatened to burst out of her chest. Thank goodness, the cough came from within one of the bedrooms, and they were still alone.

  The sound reminded her of their lack of privacy. Standing in a corridor kissing a stranger—what was she thinking?

  Retrieving her candlestick, she took the two steps to the door of her room and glanced back at him. She kept her voice very low when she spoke. “Sir, I wish to speak with you, but you should know I won’t—”

  “I know.” He was with her in an instant, opening the door. Then he closed it before she could go in. “My room, I think. At least I have chairs.” Taking her hand, not offering his arm in the formal way, he led her to the next room along. Her wicked heart thrilling, she went with him. Already she trusted his word, although she should not.

  A fire flickered in the grate, welcome on this chilly night. The sheets on the bed were turned down, an intimate sight that made her shiver with possibilities. Those things could not happen, but that wouldn’t stop her dreaming.

  He led her to the low couch at the foot of the bed and with gentle hands drew her to sit next to him. “You are safe with me,” he murmured. “I swear it.”

  “I hope not,” she said before she could control her recalcitrant tongue.

  He stifled a laugh against her shoulder. His hot breath heated her neck, and then his tongue as he pressed a kiss there. “You are, madam, irresistible.”

  “Good.” So was he, though she’d keep that to herself for now.

  Gently, he turned her head, with two fingers under her chin. Then he kissed her again. This time they were sitting. Just as well because she might have fallen down had she been on her feet.

  Her legs tingled, at the top, where she sometimes explored herself furtively under the covers.

  When she leaned her head against his shoulder, he moaned against her lips. He moved away a little to murmur, “Open for me, sweetness.”

  Yes, oh, yes. She opened her mouth.

  Immediately he was back, tracing her lips with his tongue, before plunging inside. He licked deep, stroked her tongue with his. Nobody had ever dared go this far with her before. His hands held her steady, but didn’t venture further than her back, as she accustomed herself to the thrust of his tongue, a rhythm her body welcomed. When she moved closer to him, he made a sound low in his throat, like the purr of a big animal. She didn’t do it for him. Her breasts ached, and she needed pressure to ease the sensations she didn’t know what to do with.

  With a growl he pressed her closer, supported her with one hand spread across her back. She flung her arm around his neck, giving herself to him with wild abandon, but that was when he chose to draw back. He peppered little kisses on her lips and her nose.

  Gazing at her, he smiled. “I never expected so much bounty. I cannot go further, or I’ll lose control.”

  “Pah!” That was an understatement. “While I appreciate the gentlemanly behaviour, I did not come in here for that. Do you think, sir, that I can’t take care of myself?”

  His lips curved in a smile that turned her insides to water. “I think that you don’t really know what a man can do. You’re in no danger from me, I swear it, but what if I’d been someone else? You know anyone taking you can claim you. If people find us here like this, they can force the issue.”

  “Marriage?” She had to keep her scornful laugh low. “No, sir, if I don’t want it, I will not have it.”

  “Even at the risk of disgrace?”

  “Only my family are on this corridor, sir. And you. They won’t say anything if I ask them not to.”

  Instead of disappearing, his smile broadened. “Then are you giving me permission to carry on?”

  She thought, then she shook her head. “Give me a moment, sir.”

  “Edmund. I think we’ve earned that privilege, don’t you?”

  “Maybe. My name is Portia.”

  “I know.” He touched her mouth, traced it with a feather-light touch, tempting her to move in for more. No, he was tantalising her on purpose. Tempting her to move closer. She kept her robe firmly belted around her, despite the insidious voice urging her to open it for him. One thing she did know, she shouldn’t give everything away at once. Mortal women did not.

  Even if she longed to surrender to him more than anything in the world, she must not.

  “The moment I saw you, I knew we’d share something special.” His voice was low, intimate, all traces of formality banished. “I didn’t know what it was. I’m glad we’re to be neighbours.”

  “How can that be?” Her head against his shoulder, she gazed up into his face. Although gently born, she was no fool. She knew the many ways a man could use and despoil a woman. She felt safe with this one but she had resources of her own she could draw on if she needed to defend herself.

  She shouldn’t, because of—so many reasons.

&n
bsp; He clasped her shoulder, holding her gently but firmly. “I know what you’re thinking. I see it as clearly as if you’re speaking aloud. I swear, you’re safe. I want to know you better, not drive you away, and God, I know I should not have done this, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

  That was blunt enough to please her. Although she enjoyed flattery and compliments, she took none seriously. Honesty, on the other hand, she listened to. His eyes, a blue she’d always wished she had, were open and clear. Should she risk a mental incursion? No, not yet, not yet. Kisses didn’t mean she trusted him with more than an ordinary woman would.

  “I believe you.” She got a kiss for that, and it was some time before they spoke again.

  “You said neighbour?” were her next words. Her head rested against his surprisingly broad shoulder. Surprising because his coat hadn’t revealed such bounty, seemed to be cut to conceal it. In the loose robe, with only that and his shirt between her and his skin, his muscles were apparent every time he moved. His warmth held her captive.

  “I have made enquiries about Thorncroft Grange. I’m viewing it soon. I told you I wanted a house locally.”

  Shocked, she drew back, and he kissed her again. “I could get addicted to this. Don’t worry, if the house is totally unsuitable I won’t buy it, but it appears to be in a good location. I can rebuild.”

  “It’s beautiful. The location, I mean. Better than ours, even. It’s close to the coast, but not so close it’s in danger. It might be better built a little further away. You could consider changing the approach so it doesn’t catch the winds.”

  “You like it.” She loved his soft, intimate tone. “Then I shall buy it.”

  She should tell him his main opposition. “My father wants it. He wants to extend our lands and demolish the house. But the land is poor, and he’s held off actually buying it. He thinks nobody else would want something so isolated.”

  “I see. Would he object to having a new neighbour?”