“You needn’t do that, Katherine.”
“Be still and let me mend you as best I can.”
He held his arm straight so that she could wrap the fabric around his arm.
“Why fire?” she asked again, busying herself with the makeshift bandage.
“Flamma are all touched by fire, an otherworldly power given to each of us.”
She remembered the way he moved, the way the demons moved, with supernatural speed and agility. A drop of rain dripped from his tousled hair, landing on his shoulder before rolling forward. She followed its path as it slid down and over his pectoral. Trying to regain her composure, she inhaled a deep breath, which was a mistake. She breathed in the heady scent of rain and beautiful man, her agitation amplified by his proximity and the undeniable power surging through his body. She longed to touch him, to know what all that strength would feel like under her fingertips, but she was paralyzed by her own desire and wavered on a dangerous precipice. When she’d cinched the bandage into a neat knot and finally chanced a glance at him, his smile nearly buckled her knees.
“There,” she whispered. “That will stop the bleeding.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?”
His shoulders went rigid as if he were holding himself in tight control. Katherine knew his thoughts had wandered away from the wound in his arm. She asked again, “What do you mean, George?”
His eyes slid closed. “I love to hear my name on your lips.” He opened his eyes again, his jaw set in grave lines. “What I mean, my lady, is that I am bleeding inwardly, and I know of only one way to stop it.”
Katherine was well aware of the tension filling the room, of the rise of her heart rate, of the longing in his gaze, which surely matched her own. She realized she was tumbling over that cliff. And she didn’t care, quite content to drown in his aquamarine gaze.
“How can I stop it, George? Tell me.”
“I’d rather show you.”
Chapter Fourteen
George’s will had been an iron fist clenching the reins that held back his passion for Katherine. But once he’d carried her into this cabin, removed her jacket and touched her sweet, soft skin while firelight bathed her in heartbreaking beauty, he knew he was lost. A man adrift, floundering in an ocean of longing and need—treading perilous waters and sinking fast. There she sat, listening to his insane confession of demons living among them, with perfect poise and calm and control, asking him to tell her how to stop his internal bleeding. Like a balm from heaven, she offered what succor she could give.
Did she really want to go that far? She knew as well as he did his deep heart-wound was put there by her. That night he swept her onto the dance floor at the Weathersby ball, she was his, no matter that law decreed her married to another. But that wasn’t what had slit him in two. It was her presence in the world and him without the right to claim her. Only one thing could mend the gash inside him. Her. All of her.
She dropped her gaze to his chest for the second time. She was weakening. A stronger man would have insisted they dress—wet clothes or not—and find a more public place to continue this discussion. George was strong. A warrior forged in the fires of desert crusades and barbarian battles decades long. He was the slayer of dragons and destroyer of demon spawn that the human world had never seen nor knew existed. Creatures that would make a lesser man crumble and cower in fear. George might appear the gentlemen, but he was a battle-hardened guardian, bearing many scars from wars past.
She found one. Her fingers rose to the puckered line crossing from his bicep to his pectoral. He shivered under her exploring hand as she traced the scar. He’d nearly lost his arm that day.
“What happened to you?”
He did not answer. He had no words. The sensation of her light touch feathering over his skin to another scar on his abdomen overwhelmed him. Damas had given him that one five centuries ago on a mountainside in Romania. George had found a demon den preying on peasant girls. Damas had not been the high lord in charge, but he was there all the same. Enough reason for George to engage and try once more, unsuccessfully, to banish the master of deceit back to Hell. Another failure where Damas was concerned. By then, the prince had found it a pleasant game to torment George whenever he could.
Katherine’s hand glided upward, not toward a scar but to cup George’s jaw, as a lover would. If only they were. Then the pain—acute and severe—would lessen.
“Why do you look so sad?” she asked.
He wanted to laugh. How could she not know? She was killing him. And he would not be coy or flippant any longer.
He wrapped her nape with one hand and gripped her waist with the other, locking her close against him. “Because I want you, Katherine. In every possible way a man wants a woman, I want you. In my arms, in my bed, in my heart, in my soul. I want to fill you until there is no room left for any other, until your first waking thought is of me, until you whisper my name in your dreams.”
Pink flushed up her neck and cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession. He did not stop his declaration. Too late for that now. He eased closer, their lips inches apart, giving her a chance to pull away if she dared.
“I want to see your golden hair spilled across my pillow every morning. I want to hear you laugh late into the night after we’ve gone to bed and the world is asleep. I want to watch you shudder with pleasure when I’m inside you. Over and over again.” His timbre ground low. “I want all of you, Katherine.”
She gasped. He might have gone too far, but she did not pull from his grip. Rather, she welcomed him when he descended and hovered over her parted lips. She pressed forward first, sliding her tongue into his mouth.
Ecstasy. Pure and raw.
He walked her back into the wall and crushed his body against hers, relishing the sensation of her softness yielding to him. He wanted to be gentle, but fire burned within, and there was no way to hold it back. She moaned into his mouth, and his body grew harder still. He trailed his mouth up her jaw and down her neck, sliding his hand to cup her breast. She moaned louder. He groaned as he scaled his lips over her collarbone, farther down, grazing his lips and tongue over the swell of her breasts.
“George.”
Her hands tangled in his hair, clenching. She arched her back to give him a better angle. “George,” she said again, panting. “We can’t…”
He moved back to her mouth and stole her breath, stopping her words. She was exquisite in every way, and he couldn’t taste her enough.
A zing of Flamma energy snapped him to attention. He jerked away from her toward the door, readying to lunge for his sword. But he knew who it was, the signature of iron and flame a distinct combination. Every Flamma bore their own sensory mark.
“What is it?” asked Katherine, out of breath, while he stalked to the door.
“It’s all right. Only Jude.”
When he opened the door, Jude was leaning against the frame with a devilish grin. George blocked his view, though Jude could see Katherine well enough on the other side, disheveled and grabbing her riding jacket and gloves.
“I worried when I saw the electrical storm, but I see there was no need.” He noted George’s shirtless state.
“Where’s Parsons?”
“Back in bed, I imagine. The poor sot has no stomach for drinking. And he said he was part Scot last night. A lie, no doubt.”
“Has anyone marked our absence?”
“No. But they will soon.” Jude glanced toward the pond. “Did we have a breach?”
“Not exactly. They didn’t cross the ward, but their target had crossed it for them.”
Jude angled his head to get a glimpse of said target. “And how is she taking all this in? Quite cheerily, I imagine.”
George combed a hand through his tousled hair. “Wait outside. I need you to take my horse and return to
the mansion with Katherine. I’ll need to sift. My shirt is soiled and my coat torn.”
Better to avoid everyone in his current state since there were few explanations that would suffice.
Jude nodded at his wrapped arm. “Are you badly hurt?”
“I’m fine. Just be sure to get her back safely.”
“Aye, Captain.” Jude winked and shoved off the door frame in the direction of the horses still by the pond.
George closed the door to find Katherine completely dressed. She had set her hair in a braided twist, very similar to her original style, and had pinned her hat back into place, covering any difference. The ostrich plume sagged sadly.
“We must go,” he said while strapping his sword back into place.
“No. I need more answers. I still don’t understand everything and—”
“I don’t want to compromise your reputation, Katherine. We need to head back and separate for a while. Until it is safe.”
“But I—”
He stepped toward her. She stepped back. An instinctual move.
He clenched his jaw. “Are you afraid of me now? After what just happened?”
“I am not afraid.”
He laughed. “Perhaps you should be.” The depth of his feeling for this woman was a volatile thing. A certain cause for fear. “Personally”—he finished buckling his belt and grabbed his coat—“I’m terrified.”
“Why? Do you think that man…that Lorken will return?”
George draped his shirt and coat over his arm. No use trying to wrestle into it.
“I am not afraid of Lorken. That demon filth will smile his last soon enough.”
Katherine held herself like a queen—upright, strong, ready for any challenge. George moved slowly toward her, but did not reach out and touch her as he longed to do. This time, she did not flinch away. The energy between them had not changed, only shifted into something breakable.
“I will withhold nothing from you. I promise. But for now, we must part. You will return on horseback with Jude.”
“Mr. Delacroix? How will you get home?”
“I can travel as the demons can.”
Her pretty brow knitted together. “You are not—”
“One of them? No.”
“I was going to say…an angel. You said that sifting was a power of the angels.”
George couldn’t restrain the smile spreading across his face. “I’m afraid I am no angel either.” He lifted his hand and tenderly cupped her cheek. She let him. He breathed easier. “This is a longer conversation, my lady. It must wait.”
He took one last, lingering look, then stalked outside, leaving the door open. Jude held the reins of both horses.
“Guard her well, just in case there was a breach. We’ll have to do a perimeter check tonight.”
“Trouble is certainly brewing,” said Jude. “But I believe you have more to worry about than demons at the moment.”
“Interestingly enough, I don’t give a damn what your opinion is on the matter.”
He sifted away with Jude’s echoing laughter following him.
Chapter Fifteen
George ignored Katherine at dinner for the second time, seated at the head once again with Lady Mable and Penelope. Lady Mable tried to engage with Mr. Langley on her other side, but he was not much of a conversationalist as he continued to stare down the table at Jane in happy conversation with Jude. The poor man was sadly besotted. Jane would admit nothing before dinner, still pretending they were old friends. Nothing more.
Katherine was forced to endure the nonsensical blathering of Mr. Parsons, who claimed to be an expert rider and regaled them with his numerous achievements during his days at Oxford. When the main course of roast venison was served, Lady Helene, seated on her right, was finally able to cut in. Katherine visibly sighed with relief.
“I’m so happy that you came to the party,” said Katherine, moving her carrots around her plate, but not eating.
“Yes, I am as well. Lord Weathersby is on the mend from a little cold. Nothing to worry about. I say, are you feeling ill yourself, my dear?”
“No. Not at all,” she lied, her nerves on edge ever since this afternoon.
Lady Helene eyed her plate. Katherine took a sip of water. “Perhaps I overexerted myself on my ride today, though I enjoyed it very much.” Not a lie. She did indeed enjoy her ride, before three men—no, three demons—attacked her and George.
“Yes. I remember you were once quite the horsewoman, weren’t you? When your father was alive.”
That was one thing Katherine adored about Lady Helene. She never tiptoed around subjects like her deceased father. Most society people avoided any and all discussion that might turn the conversation uncomfortable. Not Lady Helene. She spoke her mind and never apologized for it.
“I certainly was. Father loved his horses. As did I.” Katherine smiled, cherishing the sweet memories.
“He was good to you. I believed him an excellent father, no matter that the gossipmongers said he spoiled you and needed a wife to raise you properly.”
“Did they?”
“All the time, my dear. The single women of our circles only wanted to land him as their own. To criticize his skills as a father was the best they could do when he had spurned them.”
Katherine covered her laugh with her napkin. “I didn’t realize he was considered the catch of the ton.”
“At one time, he certainly was. Then you became the catch. And I was surprised that it was Clyde Blakely who fished you up.”
Katherine’s stomach twisted into a knot. She was poised with a fork of venison halfway to her mouth. She placed it back on her plate, knowing she’d never get it down her throat now.
“Surprised? How so?”
“He was handsome and charming, to be sure. But there was an element missing in him that I thought didn’t quite match what I thought would suit you best.”
Katherine drank another sip of water. “Are you going to tell me this missing element, or are you going to keep me in suspense?”
Lady Helene smiled, the wrinkles crinkling around her eyes with merriment. “I admire your spirit, girl. Reminds me of me at your age.”
Katherine thought she actually was going to keep her in suspense when she returned to her venison. She dabbed her lips with her napkin, then said, “Respect. That is what he lacked. And still does, if you ask me.”
Respect? Clyde was a nobleman and a dignified member of society. That was a strange reply.
“Let me clarify,” she said, dropping her voice and leaning closer. “Respect for the fairer sex. He is the kind of man who admires women for their feminine assets, but does not value their intellectual ones.”
Katherine cut into her meat, still pretending to eat. “I wish we had been good friends two years ago.” For it was after her father passed that Lady Helene reached out to the lonely new bride tossed into the swirling sea of London society. Clyde dragged her to every event that he could, so that others might covet what he now possessed.
“I wish that too, my dear.”
When dinner was over, George stood at his end of the table and tapped his spoon on his glass for attention.
“First, I’d like to formally welcome Lady Helene to our party.”
“Hear, hear,” said Parsons.
“I am happy to be here,” she said.
George was wise. When word got around that Helene Weathersby had attended his house party, he would be immediately thrust into all circles of high London society. Though Katherine wasn’t sure that he cared for such things. Still, it lent him an air of credibility for his dealings. Anxiety still riddled her frame since she didn’t know what those dealings were.
“Tonight, I thought we might dispense with regular civilities”—meaning the after-dinner separation of the ladies and gentlemen—“and p
lay a game instead.”
“Oh! I love games,” squealed Penelope.
“What kind of game?” asked her mother. “Whist? Picquet?”
“No. Not cards,” said George, shaking his head with a mischievous smile. “My friend Mr. Delacroix knows one or two more intriguing games he brought back from France.”
“Nothing improper, I hope,” said Lady Mable. “You know how the French are.” She lifted her nose in the air. “No offense, Mr. Delacroix.”
“None taken,” he said. Katherine marked his countenance growing darker, though his amiable smile remained in place.
“I adore all games, Lord Thornton,” cooed Penelope from the other side of Mr. Langley. “Where shall we play?”
“In the garden.”
“In the garden? In the dark!” Lady Mable appeared about to faint.
“Come along, Mother. It will be fun.”
“I have had extra torches added for our adventure,” said George. “Unless you all aren’t feeling quite so adventurous?”
“I certainly am,” said Jane with a grin.
“I’m in,” said Mr. Langley right after.
“Well, I’ll leave the outdoor adventure to the younger ones,” said Lady Helene.
“I’m with you,” said Lady Mable.
“I’ll have Mrs. Baxter attend you in the parlor with tea and cakes,” said George.
“That would be lovely,” said Lady Mable, rising.
“I believe I’ll join you ladies,” said Mrs. Langley. “This appears to be a game for the youth.”
So the rest of the party followed George down the long corridor to the back veranda overlooking the garden. The moon was high already, casting a silver sheen on the hedgerows. A line of lit torches extended into the maze.
“So how do we play, Mr. Delacroix?” asked Jane.
Jude stepped forward. “We called it Battre le Minotaure.”
“Beat the Minotaur?” asked Katherine.
“Yes, Lady Katherine.” He gave her a nod. “It is simply a version of hide-and-go-seek we would play at parties where there happened to be a hedge maze. Like this one.” He waved to the torchlit maze. “Everyone gathers at the center, except the minotaur. The minotaur gives a signal when the game has officially begun. Then you find your way out before he gets you.”
The Deepest Well Page 13
