by Lois Greiman
Faye fiddled with a fold in her skirt. The silence was as heavy as ash. “She does own clothes, does she not?”
“Yes,” Madeline said, and let the corner of a smile shine through for a moment.
Lord Gallo muttered something. Faye couldn’t quite decipher it, but it almost sounded like a curse, which was ridiculous, of course, because Lord Gallo did not curse. Not when out and about. But not in the privacy of Lavender House either. And that fascinated her. For in her experience, men were often entirely different in private than in public. Tenning had treated her like a coddled child when with others. Like his cherished pet. None knew the atrocities he forced her to perform. Just as none seemed to know of the beast he kept in his employ. Lucifer, he called him. Lucifer would come for her if she did not obey, if she did not garner the secrets he wished to know of others.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked softly, but he stood and turned away.
“Perhaps we should return to the business at hand,” Madeline suggested, not glancing at her husband.
Faye stopped her fiddling and forced herself to sit still.
“Maybe you could explain to us why you felt the need to strike Lord McBain with a potted palm.”
“As I’ve said, I believed him to be evil.”
Lord Gallo lifted the teapot from its place on the sideboard, freshened his wife’s cup, then seated himself again. Faye glanced at him and forced herself to relax. Though she had spent more than four years under his protection, his nearness still made her twitchy. But perhaps he was aware of that fact. Perhaps that was why he tended to remain in the background during these discussions.
“And what brought you to that conclusion?” Madeline asked.
Memories slid up Faye’s spine like phantom wisps of smoke, but they were not memories she would share. Not today. Not ever. “He’s…” she began, and felt her throat freeze up.
“A man?” Madeline supplied. and Faye zipped her gaze to Lord Gallo and away. “Is that why?” Her voice was quiet.
“You yourself said he may be involved in Brendier’s death,” Faye said.
“We know the Scot paid the baron a visit shortly before his death,” Madeline said. “But that hardly proves culpability.”
“No, of course not,” Faye agreed, nerves tangling. “But he’s…” She stopped herself.
“A man?” Madeline asked again.
Faye remained silent a moment, but finally forced herself to speak. “It seems likely,” she said.
“Faerie Faye…” There was humor in Madeline’s voice, but perhaps there was more. Disappointment maybe. The possibility steeped Faye with a soft infusion of sadness. “Not all men are evil.”
Faye shifted her gaze to Lord Gallo again. The sight of him made her stomach twist. “I realize that.”
“Do you?”
She dragged her attention back to Maddy. “I know it in my head.”
Madeline smiled as she crouched beside Faye’s chair and reached for her hand.
“But not your heart.”
Faye refrained from flittering her attention to Gallo again. “I’m having a little trouble convincing my stomach, too.”
Madeline laughed.
“And what did your stomach tell you about McBain?”
“He was large,” she breathed.
“He was that,” Madeline agreed, and there was something in her voice that made Faye search the older woman’s eyes.
“You do not think large a bad thing?”
“Well…” Madeline seemed flustered suddenly. Almost embarrassed. “Not in every…I mean, no. Not necessarily.”
Faye nodded. She could learn. She could change. She was sure of it. “I’m sorry. Truly I am. I know I should not have injured him.”
“That’s not our concern. Not principally, at any rate,” Madeline said. “I doubt you did him any great harm. He’s built like a stone garrison, after all. Legs like pillars. And did you notice—”
Lord Gallo cleared his throat. He was scowling a little, a rare expression on his usually stoic countenance. A mischievous smile almost seemed to flit across his wife’s classic features. “The point is, you cannot simply strike men whenever they frighten you,” he said.
“Yes,” Madeline agreed, but there was something in her eyes again. That intriguing spark of mischief as if she were playing some sort of incomprehensible game with her standoffish husband. “That is exactly what I meant to say.”
“But neither do we want you to take undue risks,” he added.
“Also true,” Madeline said. “Was there some reason you felt particularly at risk?”
The truth trembled on Faye’s tongue, but she held it there. Hid it there, though the similarities between Lucifer and the Scot loomed in her trembling soul. “It occurred to me…” Quite recently. This very instant, in fact. “That perhaps Luci…” She stopped herself, searching wildly for his name. “Mr….” What was it? MacDoom? MacDeath? Mac…
“McBain,” Madeline said.
“Yes.” What was wrong with her? She had the social skills of a shrew mouse. “Perhaps Mr. McBain struck Lord Rennet to keep him from speaking to me.”
Now they were both scowling at her.
She refrained from clearing her throat. “That is to say, if Lu…Mr. McBain is, in fact, the murderer, and Rennet knows something of his crimes, then would it not make sense for him to try to keep the other quiet?”
“By knocking him unconscious,” Jasper said.
Faye nodded.
“However,” Madeline said, “it would also make sense for McBain to strike if he were attempting to protect you from some perceived threat.”
“Protect—” Somehow, in the near hour since the garden incident, Faye had never considered such a possibility.
“As Lord Gallo protects you,” Madeline added.
“But—” It wasn’t possible. That wasn’t how the world worked, Faye thought, then skimmed her gaze to Lord Gallo. He sat perfectly still, watching her. And for the hundredth time she wondered why he had found her. Why he had brought her here. To teach her, he said. To help her. And maybe it was true. Maybe. For never had he touched her or gained a farthing at her expense. Not in all the months since he had brought her to Lavender House. Still, some men had patience. No souls. But patience.
“But what?” Madeline asked.
“I do not think that was his intent,” she said.
“And why is that?”
She shook her head, trying to explain without explaining. “He was so…large.”
“Indeed,” Maddy agreed, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Did you happen to notice the width of his—”
“I believe we’ve already discussed his size at some length,” Lord Gallo said, and Faye skittered her gaze to him.
Gallo was not a large man, though sometimes he seemed so. Large and intimidating, but his bride had never shown even a modicum of fear where he was concerned. Indeed, at the moment she almost seemed to be enjoying the unfamiliar terseness in his tone.
“Big does not equate bad,” Madeline said. “You must remember that.”
“Sometimes it does,” her husband argued, and now she laughed out loud though she didn’t turn toward him.
“They are not one and the same, Faerie Faye. Therefore…” Maddy paused, maybe to think, maybe for dramatic emphasis, but if that was the case, the pause was hardly necessary for her next words fairly knocked the air from Faye’s constricted lungs. “You must go to him and apologize.”
“What?” Faye rasped.
“I don’t know if—” Gallo began, but Madeline held up her hand, halting his objections.
“You struck a perfect stranger for no good reason.”
“I doubt he’s—”
“Not a genteel slap, mind. You hit him in the face with a potted plant.”
“A palm,” Faye whispered, though even in her own mind she wasn’t certain why that made a difference.
“For no good reason,” Madeline added. “A celebrated soldier who might
very well have been trying to save you.”
Faye scowled, saying nothing, but it would have hardly mattered if she had. She was certain she would not have been heard over the erratic pounding of her heart.
“Rennet was trying to take liberties, was he not?” Madeline’s voice had softened.
Faye managed a nod.
“He’d drawn you out into the darkness of the garden.”
And the darkness had been lovely. It was the pretty golden baron she’d found frightening. But not as frightening as the towering Highlander. Never that frightening.
“Were you trying to escape?” Madeline asked. Her voice was little more than a murmur, as if she loathed belaboring the point. And yet she did.
Faye nodded again, desperately wanting the entire episode behind her.
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“Yes.” Her throat felt tight. She couldn’t look up, knowing she was not to blame yet feeling in the very depths of her being that she was.
“Might the Scotsman have heard you?”
She thought about that for a moment, tried to swallow her fear. “Perhaps.”
The room went quiet, then, “Faerie Faye,” Madeline murmured.
Faye forced her gaze to her mentor…to her hero.
“Have you forgotten that you made us a vow?”
Her chest ached.
“You said you would become a full member of this coven. That you would embrace your powers, work for good, find the man who murdered Lord Brendier.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Brendier was well thought of by the committee,” Madeline said, “and we’ve no way of knowing what might have caused his death.”
“Perhaps he truly did die of the wounds sustained in the duel.”
“Perhaps, but we cannot go to the committee until we’ve exhausted every possibility. It is they who fund Lavender House, after all. Indeed, they hold this sisterhood in the palms of their hands.”
“Perhaps Shaleena could go to his estate,” Faye said, suddenly hopeful. “Touch his belongings and divine—”
“Brendier has been dead for more than a week now. His killer’s imprint, if indeed he left one, has grown cold. Besides, Lady Onyx has been…” She shook her head and scowled. “Unpredictable of late.”
It was true. During the last few months, she seemed less focused. And even though she was still as sharp-edged as a saber, at times Faye would see her staring into space. Or stranger still, Shaleena would stare at Cur. Not in that way she stared at other men, as if she intended to devour them whole. But as if she was thinking, remembering. True, Cur was young, not yet twenty years of age. Still, that had not curtailed Shaleena’s flirtations in the past. And it had certainly not caused her to remain clothed.
“What of Ella?” Faye asked.
“My nephew is not yet walking, and Ella is a mother even before she is a witch.”
“Rosemond then. Or Heddy or—”
“The committee is counting on you,” Madeline said, and the room, always so comfortable, always her haven, suddenly felt too small. “I am counting on you,” she added, and Faye caught her gaze. Her mentor’s eyes were solemn, as green as smooth-cut emeralds and wise beyond Faye’s wildest hopes. “You are stronger than you know,” she said, and, rising smoothly to her feet, left the room.
Not half an hour passed before Jasper turned down the gas on the bedchamber lights and eased onto the mattress behind Madeline.
She remained as she was, staring dismally at the wall in front of her, worry gnawing her gut like a rabid hound. “Was I too harsh with her?” she asked.
Jasper sighed. “You are the one who insists she is stronger than we realize. That she has yet to trust her own powers.”
She rolled onto her back and found his face in the darkness. He had a beautiful face. But it was not necessarily his best feature. Not when he was naked, as he was now.
“Maybe I was wrong,” she said, and refused to be distracted by his chest or his arms or his other attributes, equally astounding but not quite so visible. “Maybe I pushed her too hard. After all, the mission is…”
“Simply a means of coaxing little Faye to realize her potential?”
She covered her eyes with her hand. “What have I done?”
“I believe you have forced her to face her fears.”
“What if she gets hurt?”
“She already hurts,” he said. “The question is, who else might be injured while she learns to control her powers.”
“She’s so very gifted. Much more than she knows. But her past…” Maddy lowered her hand, found his gaze with her own. His eyes looked old and calm, even in the darkness. “What happened to her? Why won’t she tell us?”
He touched her face, etching her cheek as if memorizing the lines. “You rarely speak of the past.”
She closed her eyes to the feel of his fingers against her skin. “It’s too terrible,” she said. “Her past, it’s too awful to face, isn’t it?”
“She’s here with us now,” he said, and swept a lock of hair behind her ear. Feelings, soft and mellow, skittered like rainbows along the course taken by his magical fingertips.
“Because of you,” she said.
He smiled a little, that rare gem of contentment that made her world right. Safe. “I brought her here. She stayed because of you.”
Turning onto her side, she kissed his fingers. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
Tears blurred her vision. “For saving her. For saving Ella.” She closed her eyes to the memories, to the pain.
“The committee pays me to find the most gifted,” he said. “You know that.”
“I was not the most gifted,” she murmured, and opened her eyes, finding him in the darkness. Finding peace.
“Perhaps not then,” he said.
“I can never repay you,” she whispered, and at her words his ancient eyes grew more solemn still.
“You have already given me more—” he began, but she placed a finger to his lips, stopping him.
“I want to repay you,” she said, and ran her hand down his chest. It was as hard and smooth as glass. Strong and dark and beautiful.
“Ahh, well…” His words were little more than a sigh. “If you must.”
She moved closer, felt his desire shift against her. “I must.”
“Though I suppose it will not be as pleasant for you as if I were as large as say…a Scotsman.”
She smiled at the lovely edge of jealousy in his voice. She supposed she was petty. She also supposed she didn’t care. It had taken him years to reveal any emotion at all, and she could not help enjoying watching his eyes darken, hearing his breathing change. “Ahh, McBain,” she said, and sighed.
“God help us,” he groused, shifting away, and she laughed as she wrapped her hand around him, capturing his full attention
“I wouldn’t trade you for a dozen Scots,” she murmured, and kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Unless they were as large as—” she began, but in that moment he kissed her, making her forget that Scotsmen even existed.
Chapter 3
Rogan McBain’s eye was throbbing.
He stood alone in the kitchen of his rented town house and gazed out on the street below. The sun was just now rising from its rosy slumber. The time that always made him introspective.
Perhaps he should not have returned to London. He had seen enough trouble here in the past, and God knew he didn’t belong amid the preening ton. Hell, he barely belonged indoors. But where was he to be these days? He had been a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Army for more years than he cared to count, but it was no secret that some called him the Celtic Beast.
Below him, a bright chestnut clopped past, bearing a man in a scarlet waistcoat and blue greatcoat. A Redbreast, he was called, a member of London’s newest attempt to curb crime. But this city would forever revel in chaos. Perhaps the same could be said for th
e world at large.
Cupping his right shoulder with his left hand, Rogan rolled the joint backward, trying to alleviate the pain, but it was there to stay. One of a dozen aches to be expected after a score of years on the battlefield. The Anglo-Mysore Wars, the Battle of Boxtel, the Storming of Badajoz. He winced at the bloody rush of memories. What had those battles gained him? Gnarled scars, burning nightmares, aching limbs, and an eerie ability to sense the advent of trouble. Yet, despite his oddities, good men had died. Good soldiers and others. Innocents. And for what? So some foreign hunk of soil could be exchanged among the English hierarchy? Aye, his father had been English, but his mother’s kin had been Scots to the very roots of their brawny beings. His mother’s brothers, who had initiated him to battle, and who, in later years, had followed him into more than a few. His mother’s brothers, who had given their lives a thousand miles from their beloved Highlands.
They should never have ventured onto Spanish soil. Should have understood the curse that stalked Rogan McBain. But they had refused to turn back. When a Celt set his mind, there was little one could do to change it.
On the street below, a scruffy lad trundled a barrow of parsnips down the darkened lane. London was forever filled with ragged children. Cheap labor, they were, and little more. Chimney sweeps, millworkers, parish apprentices. McBain winced as memories marched in.
“Bain!” Connelly’s voice boomed through the house as he banged the front door shut and strode through the foray, boots rapping on hardwood as he passed through the great room, with its sparse furnishings. “Bain!” He came nearer, glanced into the narrow sitting room, then turned into the doorway of the kitchen. “What the hell happened to you?” he rasped.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Bain said, and in that second the carefully guarded concern fled Connelly’s eyes, replaced immediately with a spark of mischief as if he already guessed at the embarrassing cause of the other’s pain.
McBain scowled, scrunching the skin around his damaged eye. Despite the fact that it had blossomed into a dozen vibrant colors even before he’d found his bed, he had almost forgotten its existence. Just another benefit of too many battles. Or too much introspection.
