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

by Lynne Connolly

  “I see.” His mouth flattened. “So if he asks for your hand, I’m to say yes?”

  She must not tell him what to say, he wouldn’t take kindly to that. “If you consider him suitable, Papa.” She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “I know it’s sudden, but we are sincere.” She was, at any rate. “I have no guarantee, of course. It could be something else entirely. After all, he is a neighbour now.”

  The reminder was timely. Sir Mortimer clicked his tongue. “So he is, and he is in possession of a property I had my eye on. I suppose having it in the family would be a good idea. You can persuade him not to look outside when the moon is dark.” He brightened. “Or even recruit him. I can always use an extra pair of hands. Business is booming.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “I’m moving people as well now. I have no idea why they cannot go through the regular channels, but there it is. I don’t ask. Mortal concerns are none of mine.”

  She considered that a short-sighted view, but her father had deliberately restricted his efforts to local matters, so perhaps he also restricted his moral view.

  “Now I hear a horse outside. If I’m not mistaken, that is our visitor. Off with you, girl, but stay close.”

  She left the study, hoping she could see Edmund before he went to the meeting, but she arrived too late. An ostler was leading a roan horse to the stables, and a hat with a pair of gloves nestled inside stood on the small table in the hall.

  His. She felt his presence on the hat when she brushed her fingers over it, then turned, guiltily exchanged a glance with the footman stationed in the hall to wait for the visitor and scurried away to find her embroidery. Anything to keep busy.

  Sir Mortimer sat behind his desk like a king in his throne room, which was fairly close to the truth. He ran the biggest smuggling gang in these parts, therefore he was the king.

  While Edmund wondered exactly who Sir Mortimer was in terms of Ancients, right now his attention was on other matters. Namely, the sweet woman hovering nearby. He sensed her presence, but didn’t open his mind to her, too concerned that it would take his attention from the coming interview. It would not be easy. He’d known Portia less than two weeks, so he had some convincing to do.

  He accepted the coffee a servant brought in, and they got to business.

  Sir Mortimer had his hands folded over his stomach, which, like the rest of him, had a generous quality. Nobody could call Sir Mortimer fat, precisely, but he was in proportion, and since he must be several inches over six feet tall, that was a generous measure. Edmund, who was six feet and an inch, probably missed Sir Mortimer’s total by an inch or two. And he wasn’t built on such gigantic proportions. Unused to being looked down on, in the literal sense, he was glad they were conducting this interview sitting.

  His desk was about fifty years old, judging by the style, in the ponderous fashion of a generation ago, with grooves and ink stains attesting to its frequent use. The bookshelves lining the walls held a variety of volumes, a mixture of printed books and what looked like daybooks and account books, all jumbled in together. A tantalus on a small nearby table contained three full decanters of spirits.

  Sir Mortimer must have been reading the newspaper, for it was roughly folded on one side of the desk, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on top of the no longer crisp folds. The aroma of tobacco permeated the air. So Sir Mortimer was a pipe-smoker. Lightfoot enjoyed a pipe or two at night. Was Sir Mortimer a satyr? Not with those massive proportions. Satyrs tended to be more slender.

  The seat Edmund was using was well-worn, and he wondered if any of the girls had suffered the punishment often meted out to children—spanking for a misdemeanour. The notion sent an unwelcome flash of heat through his groin, although if Portia bent over that chair with her bottom exposed, he could think of far better things to do with it.

  He had to begin this before he tortured himself beyond bearing. “Sir, I have become enamoured of your youngest daughter, and I would like to address her with marriage in mind.”

  Sir Mortimer grunted. “Well, that was blunt. So tell me about yourself.”

  Without lying, that could prove difficult. “I’m Edmund Welles and I am possessed of property in Scotland.” True enough. “However, my mother lives there and I don’t wish to discommode her more than I have to.”

  Sir Mortimer interrupted him with a loud guffaw. “A tartar, is she?”

  Edmund grimaced. “Somewhat. A redoubtable lady with an iron will, I would say.” That and more. It occurred to him that Sir Mortimer could prove an ally. Perhaps he could use that to discover the nature of his prospective father-in-law’s identity. He let his mind brush that of his host’s, only to find what he expected. A simulacrum of the human mind, the cover most immortals used to conceal their identity. The duchesse had taught him how to disguise his own ingresses, but he found himself caught, tentacles winding around his presence. He would let his host lead the way with revealing the immortality aspect of this conversation.

  “Thought you could get away with it, hey?” Sir Mortimer demanded.

  Edmund concentrated on shoring up his mental processes, covering the mortal mind with a veneer of the immortal and hiding his true power deep, deep down. He sent thanks to the duchesse. Without her help, he’d never have managed it. His barriers, she’d informed him, had been exceedingly weak, probably nurtured by his mother to be that way. She set about helping him to repair the defect.

  The thought of the duchesse brought to mind the nymph she’d obviously intended Edmund to marry. The one problem he needed to resolve, now he’d decided on a different course. He was bound to Portia, and determined to stay that way. The thought of life without her was unbearable. Not to be considered for a minute.

  Sir Mortimer rumbled deep in his throat, the sound of an oncoming tidal wave. Then it erupted and broke in a gale of laughter.

  Edmund waited patiently and pasted a smile to his face.

  “Then we don’t have to concern ourselves with family and means and that nonsense,” Sir Mortimer said. “The neighbourhood has been gossiping about your peculiar circumstances—arriving in the district and immediately spending a fortune on that house on the cliff. Whatever made you do that?”

  “Portia likes it,” he said simply. That, and the convenience of the place and its defensibility. “I’m making it into a bower for her, although nothing is worthy of her.”

  “As you should.” Sir Mortimer, still laughing, picked up his coffee cup and drained it in one go. “How about something stronger while we talk?” He gave Edmund a glare, but his good spirits weren’t difficult to discern. “And tell me the truth, boy. Who are you and where have you been?”

  “To the world, I’ve been on the Grand Tour,” he said cautiously, but decided to tell as much of the truth as he could. Except who he was. He wasn’t nearly ready to take on his mantle as the god of love.

  Recent events had only proved his uncertainty was real. And he had no idea who this man was. Some of the Tritons were powerful beings. Sir Mortimer could be anything, from a merman to a god. If he were Poseidon, the joke would be on Edmund, since he wanted to find more Olympians, but he had no proof of that. He risked exposing himself to a powerful being, and not all were on the same side. The old war between the Titans and the Olympians was back in force and Edmund risked danger every time he opened his mind to another immortal.

  Sir Mortimer placed a brimming glass of port before him and returned to his seat. Edmund took a fortifying sip. “My mother kept me isolated from others of our kind.”

  “Overprotective, was she?”

  “Something of that nature. She may have been afraid I would put myself in danger if I exposed myself to others.” His mother was a powerful being, definitely ranked with the Titans if not one of them. As yet Edmund didn’t know which, but he’d damned well find out. She had been in the district thirty-one years ago, when the souls of the Olympians had been s
eeking new homes. One had found a home in her, and eight months later, out he’d come. She’d kept an iron grip on him ever since. Until last year. Her decision to have a Season in Edinburgh, then London, had given him his chance. He wasn’t going back. How to explain that to this man without giving away too much? If Sir Mortimer was a Titan, he would want to meet the Duchess of Kentmere, his lady mother.

  “Humph. A nurturing goddess, is she?”

  A fishing expedition. “I’m not quite sure what she is, sir, except she’s like us. While I was supposed to be at Versailles, dancing attention on the king of France, I was in truth learning my craft from a mistress of the art. Except I have not learned enough yet.” Not nearly enough, but he’d made a start. “I came here, as I said, to establish a house for myself. Preferably as far from my mother as I could get, if I may be so bold as to mention it.” Not only bold, he’d tell anyone who asked. His next step would have been to get his sister away from her, but he’d needed someone to bring her first. Now he’d have a wife who would help him. Whether this man agreed or not, Portia was his. For her sake he’d go through this ordeal.

  “I see. So you stepped ashore and decided on Kent?”

  “It suits me. I like it. And the house is delightful.” Should he mention what he found? Yes, he probably should. “The damage was inflicted deliberately. The gap in the roof was achieved by punching it through from the inside of the house. We found the remains of the tiles on the ground outside, not on the floor of the attic.”

  “Humph. Why do you think anyone would do that?” Sir Mortimer glared at him, daring him to tell the truth.

  “To prevent anyone buying the house. That, plus the rumours that the building was in such bad shape it would be better to demolish it. I am finding little trouble refurbishing it.”

  “If you have the money.”

  “I think we both know I have adequate. I can treat your daughter like a princess, sir, and I intend to. She is the most enchanting woman I’ve met in the whole of my life.” Enchanting indeed. That was exactly the right word. Except that he had done the enchanting.

  “Humph.” The grunt seemed to punctuate Sir Mortimer’s thought processes. Not that Edmund made the mistake of imagining Sir Mortimer of anything but sharp thinking.

  The fact that this man was a mere baronet, living in the country and carving out a small kingdom for himself, did not speak of a Titan. The ones he’d known or heard of had overweening arrogance of the rule-the-world variety. He couldn’t imagine one would content himself with a small part of a small island. They didn’t adhere to anyone’s rules. They had their own lives, rather like the satyrs and centaurs, and avoided the conflicts. They had their own disagreements and politics so complicated Edmund despaired of ever understanding them. Although Lightfoot had tried.

  “Why would someone not want the Grange inhabited?” Sir Mortimer demanded. He slurped his port and put it down half-empty.

  Edmund took a sip of his before he replied. “The view?” He took another sip. “This is splendid stuff, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever had so fine in this country.”

  “Nor likely to, unless you’re one of my customers.”

  Aha, like that, was it? Blunt and straightforward. “Indeed, sir.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  Edmund took a breath. “I saw you, sir.” He lifted his chin and met his host’s gaze head-on. The only way with this man. “Frankly, sir, it’s none of my business. Tell me what nights to close the curtains and give the staff the night off, and you have it.” While he didn’t agree with smuggling, he could hardly combat it. And what was a few cases of French brandy and, it appeared, excellent port?

  “Ah. Maybe you’d like a part of the family business? My son is far too young to concern himself with such things and my daughters, while excellent helpers, will move on when they marry.”

  Edmund spluttered over his port and hastily swallowed before carefully replacing his glass. “Your daughters help you?”

  A knowing smile spread over Sir Mortimer’s face. Edmund’s cheeks must be red as his waistcoat. Indignation suffused him, fury that he should put his children—Portia—in such danger.

  “If discovered, they’d be executed. Hanged.”

  “Ha! It won’t come to that. Do you think I’d let any of them suffer that fate?” Sir Mortimer shook his head. “I would never allow it. I own most of the excise officers hereabouts and while customs and one particular magistrate bother me from time to time, they’ll never take us. I have more than bribery on my side, after all. If I sensed any disturbance during a run, they’d be gone if I had to knock them out myself.”

  Edmund believed him. It also revealed something about his daughters.

  A beam of sunlight chose that moment to shine through the windows, across the highly polished surface of the mahogany desk. “I don’t wish to have an active part in your goings-on.”

  Sir Mortimer shrugged and eyed his empty glass. He consumed drink in proportion to his size. “A pity. As it stands, you could be my heir. I don’t have entailed property. My son will of course inherit the title and estate, but the business—I was looking for a good deputy. I don’t want to be out every night, and I was considering handing over some of the smaller runs.” He turned his hand from side to side in a comme ci, comme ca motion. “Maybe I can persuade you in time.”

  “Maybe.” Never. “So do I take it that you approve of my addressing your daughter?”

  Sir Mortimer leaned his arms on the desk and leaned forward in a confiding way. “Are you sure you don’t prefer Anthea? She’s the next in line. Or Millicent’s not too old to consider another marriage, and her husband left her a tidy estate when he died.”

  “I don’t need a tidy estate.” Edmund grinned. He had a more than tidy one of his own. “And I prefer Portia. Your other daughters are perfectly delightful and I feel sure they’ll attract the right kind of man in time, but I want Portia.”

  Sir Mortimer sighed and reached for the decanter. “I shall have to give in to Lady Seaton’s demands and take them to town one day. Perhaps this Season would be a good time. We’re in March now, so at the end of April—too soon. If we leave it late, then we won’t have to spend as much time in ballrooms and suchlike.” He brightened. “It’s time I bestirred myself and saw what was happening in the world, but I don’t want to make a commotion. With the current disturbance in the immortal world, I decided I was safer here.”

  Safer. That meant he wasn’t involved in the struggle. Edmund felt ashamed that he would drag the immortal world here, if he wasn’t careful. While he had decided to conceal his identity for the time being, he hadn’t wanted it to remain hidden forever. Just until he saw which way the land lay and had his own base.

  Breaking the news of his true identity to Sir Mortimer—and even more, to Portia—would be more difficult than he had imagined. He’d worked through various scenes in his head. None of them would work well. Perhaps just coming out with it was best. Not yet. His exalted status made him more vulnerable, not less, while he was so unlearned and unpracticed. His damned mother’s fault, but also his own, for not bestirring himself sooner.

  Would they welcome him confessing he was Eros? Even more, the Duke of Kentmere? “I imagine London would love you. Who would run your business while you were away?”

  Sir Mortimer shrugged. “You could do it. I have adequate deputies. The Season isn’t constant; we have some quiet times. There’s a run in a month. You may accompany me on it.”

  “I would be delighted.” Translated as he didn’t have much choice. Unless he was already gone.

  One thing at a time. He was rushing again. Secure the woman first. She meant more to him than his very life. Usually when men said that it was an exaggeration, but this time it wasn’t. If he didn’t have her, he’d waste away and eventually perish. Worse still, so would she. It was the worst part of his gift and the reason he used it s
o rarely.

  A person could escape the curse in two ways. By cutting himself off from all emotion, until the spell had itself pined away, or blanking the mind. Neither solution appealed to him. He’d take the one he was currently facing. If this man let him. If he did not, then elopement loomed ahead. Another solution he didn’t want to think about. Except he’d get her in his bed sooner.

  “So, sir, do I have your permission to address your daughter?”

  Sighing, Sir Mortimer levered himself up by placing his hands flat on the desk and pushing. It must be sturdy indeed to withstand that kind of treatment. “I can see no objection. Oh—” He stopped as if he’d forgotten something. “You didn’t tell me what kind of immortal you are.”

  “An unimportant one,” he said swiftly. “I’m still not sure, but I believe I’m some kind of wood spirit.” Or maybe a god.

  Sir Mortimer nodded. “These days it’s not your place in the hierarchy, it’s what you do with your gifts that matters more.”

  “Some say that’s how society should be organised.”

  Some people are fools.

  Chapter Six

  If her embroidery mattered, she’d have been in a lot of trouble by now. Portia sighed and began to unpick the little daisy she’d spent the last hour ruining. Her tension was too tight, despite the tambour frame. It would not do. Her skills in that regard were strictly average, but today her ability had sunk. The activity kept her in the parlour and at this time of day she had it to herself. She had tried to connect with her father and with Edmund mind-to-mind, but neither man answered her. Since she was also an interested party in their discussion she was mildly offended, but she could do nothing about it except storm the citadel of her father’s office.

  That would achieve nothing except to put her father against them. So she waited, and sewed, and unpicked. Who in mythology had done that? Oh yes, Penelope, the wife of Odysseus, who had promised to marry one of her importunate suitors once her tapestry was complete. For ten years, by night she unpicked what she’d done by day.