“I would love to give you a token of my regard. Something to remind you of today, and of what I’ve said.”
“I cannot accept—”
“Yes, you can.” He picked up a small box from the dressing table. Apprehension caught her, made her catch her breath. Surely not—he wouldn’t be so precipitate as to ask her—no. She took a step towards him, then another.
When he opened it she breathed out, relief and disappointment mingling. A pretty brooch filled the space inside. It was fashioned in the shape of an arrow, with tiny diamonds studded over the silver. “That is so pretty. I can’t possibly accept—”
“You would distress me if you refused.”
“What would I tell people?”
He touched the brilliants set on the feathers. “Whatever you like. That it’s a trinket you’ve had for a long time. Or keep it concealed, if you wish.”
“What is the point of having such a pretty thing if I can’t show anybody?”
He laughed. Drawn by the flashing stones, she reached out and tilted the pin so the jewels caught the light streaming in through the wide windows.
“Go on,” he said softly. “Pick it up.”
She stroked the shaft, and he moved his hand to allow her to detach the jewel from the velvet base. “Ouch!” She cried out at the sudden pain when the pin caught her and pricked her finger. Just like Sleeping Beauty and the spindle.
“Let me see.” Heedlessly he reached for her and then cried out himself, a wordless exclamation. Jerking away, he put his thumb to his mouth and sucked.
When she would have approached him, he drew his thumb out of his mouth and threw up a warning hand. “No!”
His sharp tone startled her.
Then she saw his hand where his colourless blood glistened on his thumb.
“You’re an immortal.” Portia opened her own hand where her blood gleamed, as clear as his.
Chapter Five
What had he done? Dull shock reverberated through Edmund’s mind. She knew he was an immortal. Worse, he’d caught himself on the pin. The spell would be as binding on him as it was on her. Instinctively, he recognised the binding wasn’t the one he’d asked for, temporary infatuation, but deeper. There was no going back from this. The darkest enchantment in his power had taken effect.
She still didn’t know who he was. That was important. Except deceiving her stuck in his craw. His feelings for her had changed, and not at all subtly. He wanted her still, found her deeply attractive, but the feelings went so much deeper. Want had turned to need in an instant.
He thought of every foul word he knew—and he knew a lot—and recited them deep in his mind.
That meant he would somehow have to appease the duchesse, because he could not in all conscience go through with his arrangement to marry Susanna. True, he had only signed a document of intent, but in some courts that would be enough to invalidate anything he had with Portia. But it would not be fair to anyone to see that contract through. He would never love Susanna now. They would only make each other unhappy.
He would find a way. He had to.
His first consideration was for Portia. Would always be from now on and for the foreseeable future. God’s teeth, but he needed Lightfoot now. The damned man had done something wrong.
Or the satyr had emerged to play a mischievous, wicked trick. They did that sometimes. They had a wild, unpredictable side, and Edmund should never have forgotten that. Lightfoot had shown it by debauching any maid willing enough to share his bed, but now—the man had gone too far. Or the satyr had. He would suffer for this.
All manner of curses and regrets circled his mind, but he was headed on a slope he had no way of controlling. He’d had his chance. All he could do was make the most of what he’d done.
Eros could make people fall in love, temporarily or permanently. He could blind people with fast, intense infatuation and that was what he’d wanted here. He would flirt with Portia, but not do anything that would bind them forever, while he found out what he needed to about her father. That plan was over. He was in love with the woman before him.
So many complications! His thoughts went back to Susanna, then stopped. That was over too.
Deliberately, he relaxed his expression. Not hard when he looked at her lovely face. “An immortal,” he murmured. Despite her feeble attempts at a struggle, he folded her in his arms. “Sweetheart, this makes our courtship better.”
“Courtship?” She sounded bewildered.
“Why, did you think I’d deny you once I knew what you are? Even if I were mortal I wouldn’t do that.” He traced the rim of her ear with his tongue and felt her responsive shudder. His cock strained to attention, even though she’d brought him to release a short time ago. As the god of love, he usually had reasonable control over his own emotions, but not now.
So this was how it felt. Arousal roared through him, a wild urge to take her somewhere quiet and sate himself on her, making sure that at the same time he cared for her and cherished her. Very odd. The analytical side of him rationalised what was happening but the emotional side had gone out of control. He held on, gritted his teeth and recalled the fringes of civilised veneer he could still call on to help him now.
While he held her, had her with him, he could cope. Was she feeling the same way?
She whimpered as she nestled into him. “Make love to me.”
Yes, she was. He had just enough control left to reject her request. If they stayed here much longer—
“Portia! Where have you got to?”
Mingled relief and annoyance surged up inside him in equal measure. He held her shoulders, separated them, although his body was screaming for joining. Drag her back, take her!
He rejected the craving of his body. Barely. “We will talk. Soon. In the meantime, do I have your promise not to discuss this with anyone?”
She nodded. “Nobody.” Bewilderment clouded her mind and her eyes. “I need to think.”
“Do not tell anyone what I am.”
“Who are you?”
He hadn’t told her. Nor would he, before he discovered more about her father and his activities. “An immortal, like you. Do not ask any more, please. I have only just discovered myself, and now this—” He shook his head helplessly. “Please, nobody. Not even your father.”
“I have to—” she began, but he interrupted her.
“Just for tonight. I’ll call on him in the morning. I want to ask for your hand. And I will tell him what I am and tell him I want to care for you more than anything else. I will furnish him with all the details he needs.”
A shadow passed away from her. He felt it deep in her mind, but he wasn’t sure why. Would calling on her father mean so much to her? “He knows you’re immortal, I take it? Is he an Ancient?” He wanted to take that back. It put her in an invidious position, of choosing to betray her father to her—future husband.
That sounded odd. He’d get used to it.
He took her hand, and when she curled her fingers around his, he felt invincible. A wonderful feeling he’d do his best never to betray. “I swear, you won’t regret it, not for a minute.”
After dropping a swift kiss on her knuckles, he led her to the small door at the side of the room. “This leads to another bedroom. We can go through to another, unfurnished one from there. Your sisters need not know we were here alone together.”
“Surely it doesn’t matter—” She broke off as he turned to face her.
“It matters. No scandal shall ever touch you, because you do not wish it. Because I won’t have you distressed, not for a minute.” He meant it. Her wellbeing had become more important than anything else. Even his own family, his sister and his mother, who he still had to deal with. He had a respite here. Aurelia was safe, planning to enjoy her first Season in London. He had time.
Two rooms later they were standing in
a charming but empty room, spacious enough to hold a bed and associated furniture. They stood far enough apart to separate, even though the effort killed him. And there her sisters found her and bore her off.
Edmund held himself stiffly apart, smiled as he should and kissed the ladies’ hands, thanking them profusely before helping them into the carriage. He did not envy Portia the questioning she was about to receive from her sisters, but he could do little about it. What he could do was hunt down his manservant who had remained maddeningly absent while he was entertaining his visitors.
That absence was explained as he strode through the house roaring “Lightfoot!” when the man in question scurried out of a door leading to the servants’ area.
Edmund scented the air, ensuring Lightfoot saw him. “You’ve been seducing my staff. Can I never have a household where not one of the maids is expecting?”
Lightfoot sniffed. “I take care of them, your grace.”
Edmund groaned. “Get a hold of yourself. And for God’s sake, remember who I am.” As far as he knew, nobody remained within earshot, but it only took one curious servant and his secret was out. He was balanced on a knife-edge.
“Come with me.” Without waiting for his man to catch up with him, he strode to the parlour where they’d had refreshments earlier. Someone had cleared it, so Edmund had a clear path to march to the window, turn around and walk back to where his manservant stood, head bowed.
“What solution did you use on that arrow?”
“Mostly concentrated oils, sir. All pure, I swear it. Lovage, a touch of nightshade, mandrake, attar of roses, lemon—”
He stopped when Edmund grabbed him by the throat. “Mandrake? You said mandrake?”
Lightfoot nodded, probably because he couldn’t speak, although he choked a little.
“Did you know that mandrake shouldn’t be used unless you wish to enchant a man?” He forced himself to keep his tones reasonable and steady, but he had to speak through gritted teeth, his jaw so hard he feared it might shatter. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Finally he released Lightfoot and shoved him away. The man staggered but kept his feet, and clutched his throat. The sound of harsh breathing echoed around the panelled walls.
“You have condemned me,” Edmund said. “I pricked her and sent the spell out. Then I caught myself with the damned pin.”
“Ah.” Lightfoot tugged his coat back into place. “Sir, may I venture—”
“No, you may not!” Edmund took some steps across the room, but it wasn’t large enough for him. He needed the fresh air. “Dear God, Lightfoot. I meant to enchant her, to flirt with her, not to fall in love!”
“Some people say the difference between flirtation and love does not exist.”
He slashed a hand through the air, his anger filling him to the exclusion of all else. Almost all else. Always he felt for her, his love. That would remain with him. No chance of redress, and no cure. Until death, or the complete loss of his senses destroyed him.
Was it so bad, to ally himself to the enchanting Portia?
No, of course not, but it was not fair for her. He had gone abroad to escape his designing mother and to discover more about who he was. He’d found a friend. Or at least an ally, but he’d only begun to learn what he needed. He hadn’t banked on finding a woman to care for and protect. At least she was an immortal. That was one thing that would help.
He tunnelled his fingers through his hair, undoing all his good work in his bedroom. It lifted away and he shook off the ribbon holding it back impatiently. “What in hell can I do now?” He turned around. “Don’t answer unless you have some superb ideas. I am in love with her, and I have no choice but to marry her. You see that.”
“Yes, I do, sir.” The satyr concentrated on the rug instead of Edmund.
“I am visiting her father tomorrow, seeking an interview. Did you know Portia was immortal?”
Shock registered in Lightfoot’s face and his mind. His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. “She is?”
“Indeed. The pin drew blood. Or rather, it drew ichor.” A human would see it as red, but Edmund saw it for what it was. Glittering, clear, utterly lethal if a human came into contact with it. His mother had always been meticulous about blood injuries, but she hadn’t told him why. Only that he was a special person and his blood was akin to the blue blood of royalty. Gullible fool that he’d been, he’d believed her. Now he knew better.
What he didn’t know was why his mother had kept his true nature from him. He still didn’t know. “I intended to create a base of sorts here, somewhere I could regroup and collect my thoughts. Somewhere for my friends to meet as far away from Scotland as possible. But I needed to know more about Portia and her family.” He growled low in his throat. “Now what? I have a wife? Will this wear off?” Nothing he knew said it would, but perhaps there was something he could do. Even enforced absence might help.
Lightfoot shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I know of nothing. Your previous supposition was correct. If she’s an immortal—”
“Yes, that’s the only saving factor.” Edmund spun on his heel and took another turn about the room.
“Sir, if I might suggest some vigorous exercise in the open air?”
“No.” Edmund grimaced. “I need to get this house in order faster than I thought. Three weeks, if I can manage it.”
“Sir,” Lightfoot said. Was that satisfaction Edmund heard in the satyr’s tone? Surely not. If it was, Lightfoot would pay. If his mistake wasn’t a mistake at all, Edmund would personally throttle him. And he wouldn’t stop at a threat this time.
“Mr. Welles wishes to speak with me this morning,” Sir Mortimer said, perusing the letter that had lain on top of the pile of letters the footman had just delivered to the breakfast parlour.
Portia dropped her butter knife and dived under the table to retrieve it. Her father’s voice continued, muffled but still clear. She fumbled the knife and pressed her other hand to her cheek. Hot. How could she bear this?
Last night had been torture because he wasn’t there. She, who had never wanted a man before, now longed for him with the fervour of a religious fanatic. The only place she found peace was in his arms.
She touched the diamond arrow which she’d pinned to her shift, under her gown. A guilty secret. It had behaved itself ever since, after that first accident. The pin had barely touched her, but Edmund’s distress that she was even marked had soothed her immediately. And the knowledge that he was as she was. That filled her with joy, and made her long for their wedding. If her father would allow it.
“Could it be a result of the visit yesterday?” her mother asked.
“Rather fast if it is,” Sir Mortimer said. “Which of you girls caught his fancy?”
Anthea and Millicent stared at their plates. Portia reached for her tea-dish but decided against picking it up. Her father would be bound to see how her fingers shook. Instead she picked up her silverware and gripped the knife and fork tightly, until the tips of her fingers turned white.
Their brother, allowed down for breakfast to improve his manners, or so their father said, glanced at each of his sisters. “It’s Portia,” he said.
“Shut up,” she said, immediately reverting to the schoolroom, wishing she were a child so she could pinch Freddie as he deserved.
It was too late. Her father swung his gaze to her. “Is it indeed? Do I believe my youngest daughter should be married before the older?”
“I’ve been married, Papa,” Millicent pointed out.
“I’ve a good mind to turn him Anthea’s way,” Sir Mortimer continued. He lifted his tankard to his lips and took a deep draught of the small beer that he preferred to tea or coffee. “She should be next.”
“Papa!” Anthea and Portia protested in the same moment, and then stopped, confusion taking the place of complaint.
Portia met her father’s steady gaze. “I want to see you after breakfast in my study,” he said. “Your swain is calling at eleven, so quick-smart, miss!”
The perils of having a loving father.
Portia barely had time to go to her room to wash her hands and straighten her cap and gown before she had to go back down to the study. She felt like the child she’d wished she’d been, unsure and nervous. As if her father would hurt her. He might try to protect her. She didn’t need or want protecting.
Maybe Edmund did.
That chilling thought sent her mind whirling and her knees shaking. Edmund was an immortal, but he hadn’t said who or what. If he was a minor immortal, like her, her father would blast him into oblivion, if he chose to.
She hurtled downstairs and to her father’s study. He was sitting behind his desk, waiting for her. “He will be here in half an hour,” he said, glancing at the big clock adorning the mantelpiece. “So I need the answers to a few questions. Is he immortal?”
Edmund had asked her not to say. “I can’t tell you, Papa. I promised.”
Sir Mortimer raised a bushy brow. “So he is. Does he know that you are immortal?”
She pursed her lips and refused to answer.
Her father shrugged. “Very well. Then the most important question is, do you want him?”
“Oh yes, Papa, more than anything else.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Has he seduced you?”
From a normal modern father, this question would be the decider. If Edmund had debauched her, then they would marry, or her father would send her away until the results of the act were known. But being an immortal had its benefits. She would not conceive until she wished to. Nobody need know a thing. But she could not lie about this. For one thing, her father might kill Edmund for it, if he thought his daughter was deliberately compromised, or that her suitor had hurt her.
“No, Papa, he has not. But we have—touched.” A vivid memory of Edmund’s erection filling her hand came back to her, but she resisted and forced it back. Heat blossomed deep inside her, sending warning tingles to her groin. Just at the memory!
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 8
