Today they were strolling hand in hand down the long portrait gallery.
“I shan’t bore you with the names. My father beat them into me, and I thought it all rather useless. But there are a few portraits I would show you.”
They strolled a few yards more and came to a portrait that stared down at them. “Sinjin York—the infamous Templar.”
She smiled up at the man, thinking how Adrian had inherited his eyes—and perhaps his crooked smile. “He was a rogue, I can tell.”
“Yes. There is a rumor that he seduced the Marquis of Alynwick’s daughter, got her with child and promptly abandoned her. There’s a curse, they say, that it is forbidden for any of the House of York to take a lover from the House of Alynwick.”
“Or what will happen?”
He frowned. “I’m not certain. Locusts or floods or something equally horrifying, I think.”
She laughed. He had spoken a bit of his ancestors and only a touch more about the Brethren Guardians. Like Black, he was loath to involve her, but Lucy decided not to pry. He would tell her, in his own good time—just like Black had done with Isabella.
Tugging her along he brought her to the next portrait. “My father.”
Lucy could not hide the little gasp of shock. This is what her husband would look like in ten years. He was handsome, very masculine, but his eyes lacked the warmth of Adrian’s, and his mouth wasn’t soft and lush, but firm, pinched into a hard line.
“I have stood here so many times wondering how it could be that I have so little resemblance to the woman who bore me. It is as if he created me out of some black magic.”
“Adrian—”
“He made Anastasia into what he wanted for a mistress—something common to assuage his deep-seated fantasies, but something he could boast of to his cronies, someone who would flatter his pride. And he made me, too.”
“No,” she said, rising on tiptoes so she could kiss his lips. “He made you a duke, a Brethren Guardian. He did not make you the man you are. You did that, Adrian.”
Clasping her to him, he hugged her for a long while and she felt his guilt and fear subside. “Do you want to see something very special—something magical?”
Giggling she whispered, “You already showed me that this morning.”
He swatted her bottom. “Minx! Not that!”
Following him, Lucy gave him her hand as he guided her from the portrait gallery, to a maze of corridors with stone walls and doors. “If you take that door, it will lead you to the cellars and a way out over the moors. There is always a horse there, ready to be ridden. Only the groom knows of it, and he takes excellent care of it.”
“I can picture it now, a knight in armor with his Templar tunic riding hell-bent over the moors with his sacred relic.”
He laughed. “What a romantic dreamer you are, my love. It makes me want to wake you up in the middle of the night and put you on horseback and take you riding over the moors beneath the moon and stars.”
“And what of the chalice, your grace? You have forgotten an integral piece of the story.”
It was dark. How he could even see to lead her, let alone where she stood next to him, Lucy could not believe. But he found her, pressed against her. The cool stone wall was suddenly against her back and her husband was pressing up against her.
“I haven’t forgotten the chalice. I would take care to fill it,” he whispered wickedly, “to put my lips to it and savor what flows from it.”
It aroused her, at the same time it made her laugh. “That is a very naughty analogy, your grace.”
“I’m a gutter rat,” he whispered against her lips. “We’re known to be crass and licentious. Shall I show you?”
“Not in here,” she said. “I fear this is a wonderful place for spiders, and I’m not fond of spiders.”
“And I thought you an adventuress. What of your séances and the occult, there was no fear then, and a little spider saps the vinegar out of you?”
“Indeed.”
“Come along then,” he said on a sigh. “If we cannot dally here, we will where I take you.”
They climbed a set of steep stairs—in utter darkness.
“How the devil can you see?” she asked.
“My father’s training. He made me learn how to get around in the dark—a Brethren Guardian task.”
“The man sounds perfectly horrid, Adrian. I thought my father cold and uninterested, but I have learned that I have little to complain about.”
“He taught me things I would never learn otherwise. In a way he proved useful to me.”
The door creaked open, and Lucy found herself in a tower. It was medieval in design and smelled of mildewing artifacts and dusty antiques.
“The only way up here is through that tunnel. There are never torches in case the place gets invaded—by whom I haven’t a bloody clue, but there you go. It’s a virtual castle, and you, fairy lady, are the princess, caught in a marauding knight’s lascivious hold.”
“I wonder if I should scream?”
“Only in wicked delight.”
“I thought you had something to show me?”
“Later, I think. I’d like to show you something different now.”
“And what would that be, good knight?”
“How much I love you,” he said, pulling her to him. “How hard I am,” he whispered wickedly.
Adrian captured her face in his hands and brushed his lips softly against hers. Her lips parted beneath his and her soft breath caressed his mouth. He kissed her, long and slow and thoughtful, showing her without words how he felt about her.
Lucy moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him against the little mounds of her breasts. His body tightened and he brought her closer as he deepened the kiss. His fingers skimmed along her bodice to brush his thumb against her hardening nipple.
She tugged him ever so slightly closer to her and before he realized it, he was closing the door. Their kiss was unbroken and he felt Lucy’s body restless against his. Her fingers were clenching in his hair in an eager, almost wanton fashion that made him long with a desire that burned deeply in him. He would never get enough of her—never.
The kiss, despite his best intentions, turned more carnal and Lucy returned it with exuberance, matching his rhythm and allowing her tongue to playfully dance with his. His finger traced the delicate line of her collarbone and shoulder. Without thinking, he lowered one sleeve, exposing a small perfect breast to his hand. He cupped her, skimming his thumb along her hard nipple. She moaned into his mouth and he broke off the kiss only to slide the remaining sleeve down her shoulder, revealing her fully to his gaze.
She was perfect. Filling his hands with both breasts, he watched the expression of pleasure cross her face. Their eyes met and he very purposely skimmed both thumbs across the taut, dark nipples. Holding her gaze, he went to his knees, all the time watching her, seeing how she followed him with her beautiful green eyes. Unable to resist the temptation she offered when she filled his palms with soft flesh, he pressed forward, nuzzling the valley of scented skin with his lips.
She whimpered and clasped his head to her chest and for a second he was content to press the side of his face between her breasts and listen to the rapid rhythm of her heart. Then he flicked them with the tip of his tongue, first in short flicks, then in slow, languorous circles, relishing the taste, liking the way her nipples puckered for him.
Her knees gave out and she slid to the floor in a puddle of blue watered silk. He held her tightly, stroking her nipple, feeling it firm and quiver beneath his fingers.
Then he was laying her back onto the floor, raising her skirts. She was spread wide and inviting, and Adrian closed his eyes, as he plunged deep inside her.
She arched perfectly, taking him all; he never wanted to leave. “How perfect you are,” he said as he reached for her hand and brought it over her head. Their fingers were locked, and he watched her body accept his. “Perfect,” he thought. This was a marriage
in the true sense of the word, and when he finished, he lay with her, entwined in her arms, listening to her heart beating rapidly.
“Shall I get the chalice then and show you?”
“Later,” she whispered, “just lie with me here, and hold me.”
Her suggestion was far nicer and more pleasurable than his, and he indulged her. It was hours before he showed her the ancient chalice, and he did not regret it. There was peace between them. In the beginning, at the inn, there had been a sort of truce, one based on cool politeness. But this feeling, this contentment, was peace and acceptance. They were married now, man and wife. He knew her, what she desired, what made her wet and moan, but most importantly he understood how she thought, her fears, her desires.
As a child she had thought of a picket fence and cottage. Wildflowers and a country lane. She had thought of children, of gardening and looking up to find her husband standing there. He wanted to give her that dream. Wanted to be part of it.
“I’ll follow you into your dreams,” he murmured to her. She slept deeply, and he kissed her ear. “I’ll be your very breath.” And he meant it.
THE WINDOW RATTLED, stirring Lizzy from her sleep. Was it the wind? she wondered. She thought of calling for Maggie, but her companion had been unwell that day, so instead she tossed back the covers and padded across the floor. The breeze blew in, robbing her of breath. Strange how the window, which had been locked, suddenly blew open…
“Don’t make a sound.”
Her mouth was covered in an instant and a cloth pulled down firmly over her face. She fought, her cries muffled as a second person reached for her feet.
“Wait till she’s out, and then we’ll bring her to the carriage and collect our wages.”
“She’s strong,” the other grunted, letting her foot slip from his hold. She fell to the floor, her body uncoordinated from the ether. The side of her head hit, and she heard nothing else as she slipped slowly into a state of mental darkness.
“Check her,” the voice said. “If she’s dead, Mr. Lasseter will have our bullocks strung up.”
“Alive,” his partner announced. “Let’s load her up before someone comes to check on her.”
Minutes later she was in the carriage.
“She’s nothing much to look at,” a woman’s voice said sourly. It was so familiar…
“She’s worth more to me than you can imagine.”
“What now, my love?”
“Alynwick. He’s the next piece in the puzzle. Bring him to me.” Too drowsy to react to what she was hearing, Lizzy finally gave in to the blackness.
THE NEXT MORNING the sun was shining, the snow was melting and the air seemed to promise a bit of warmth. Inside, Adrian was cold—freezing. Tossing the letter onto his desk, he got up and strolled to the window, contemplated the grounds and tried to gather his self-control. It was never a difficult task for him, but this morning he was finding it nearly impossible to harness.
The door to his study opened, and he heard the soft tread of his wife. “You sent for me, darling?”
“Yes. Have your things packed. We’re leaving.”
He half turned from the window, with a wave of his hand he motioned to his desk. “I’ve had a letter from Lizzy. Something is wrong. She claims that Alynwick is acting out of sorts. Plus, she has been hearing strange things in the night, doors opening, windows unlocked, when she is certain they had been locked. I don’t like it. She’s alone, and I have only Alynwick to rely on to take care of her. I knew it was a mistake not to drag her into the carriage myself.”
“I can be ready at once, Adrian.”
He reached her and held on to her tightly, as if he wouldn’t let her go. “You’ll not leave my side, do you understand. Not while we’re traveling, and not in London. I want you with me every minute.”
“All right,” she said as she smoothed a hand down his back. “I won’t go anywhere without you.”
“I dread what I will find when we arrive.”
So did she. She just hoped it wasn’t a heartbroken Elizabeth.
“Goddamn Alynwick, he was always reckless and impulsive. If he’s put my sister in danger, I’ll kill him, Brethren or no.”
THE CARRIAGE RIDE had been grueling. They had barely spoken to one another; Adrian was lost in his thoughts and worries for Lizzy. Shadows were beneath his eyes, and she felt a measure of peace when he allowed her to hold him.
They were within the city now, and the sky, as if sensing their turmoil, had turned gray and leaden.
When the carriage pulled up in front of the house, they both jumped down and ran up the steps where Hastings waited uneasily.
“Tell me the worst of it,” her husband demanded.
“Lady Elizabeth has been gone for three days, your grace, and the Marquis of Alynwick with her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I DON’T LIKE this, Adrian,” Lucy said the next evening as she watched her husband from across the table. “Is there another way?”
“No, there isn’t. Where else would she be but there, at the damned club? It had been his intent all the time, to take Elizabeth—to steal the artifacts for himself while I was out of London.”
“Alynwick is many things, but he’s not a kidnapper or a thief.”
“He’s in league with Orpheus. We found the evidence at his house, letters with the seal of Orpheus. Outlines of plans. Mentions of a fourth Templar. He was in league with Orpheus all this time. He knew our every move, and he betrayed us,” he growled. “Black and I will deal with him in a way that is fitting to his betrayal to us and my sister. I entrusted him with Lizzy, and the bastard lied to me.”
“I still cannot believe it.”
“I’ve shown you the proof. You’ve read it, their correspondence. Orpheus is the descendant of the fourth Templar the legend speaks of. It’s been Alynwick all this time.”
“I realize that the information looks that way but, Adrian, think. You’ve known him forever. He wouldn’t hurt Elizabeth, and he would not betray you or Black. This is much too tidy, don’t you think?”
“I can’t think! Not while Lizzy is out there alone, unable to see or help herself. Damn it, Lucy, I can’t form a single intelligent thought.”
“I understand. I feel the same way, thinking of you entering that club with nothing but a gun. He killed Ana, and Thomas, too. He won’t stop till he kills you.”
“I won’t let him.”
“How will you prevent it? Please,” she begged. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Your passions are ruling your head. You need more time to rationalize it all.”
Adrian glanced up at his wife. On the eve of one’s potential death, it seemed most fitting to be sitting across the table from one who was your very life.
He had thought quite a bit about that today, the possibility that he might be returning home in the morning in a casket. It was a strange sensation, to feel your impending death while staving it off by gazing into the eyes of the woman who made you want to keep breathing.
“You know I must do this. Lizzy’s life depends upon us finding her—tonight.”
“I’m so afraid,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”
It was strange, he had never worried about death before, but tonight he was consumed with it. He’d even sent for his solicitor this afternoon to amend his will to ensure that Lucy would be properly cared for. Orpheus was a bastard, and he knew the man wouldn’t fight fair. Both his and Black’s lives would be in danger.
“I will see you at breakfast, my love. You’ll see…all will turn out well.”
Such an innocent statement, one that had a profound effect on him. He couldn’t imagine it, not being able to see her again, not staring at her over tea and toast, and the morning paper. Not sharing a tray in their room after a night of lovemaking.
By God, he could stand this thinking no more. Standing, he tossed his napkin onto the table and walked to her end. Without a word, he took her hand and helped her up, put his arm t
hrough hers and steered her out of the room.
“Adrian, don’t go. Please?” she said. “Not yet.”
Opening his study door he ushered her through, closed the door, locked it and shoved her against it. “Forgive me,” he said, his mouth descending to her throat. “I can’t be soft. I have to have you now. Tonight, before it’s… Well, before it’s too late and I must go.”
He was frantic with his need for her, his hands searching over her gown, the bodice, inching the hem up her thighs.
“Adrian—please,” she whispered, her voice breaking down into tears.
“No words,” he moaned into her mouth as his hand cupped and squeezed her thigh, then her bottom. “Let our bodies say what needs to be said. Actions speak louder than words.”
She accepted him, kissing him as frantically as he kissed her. He needed her, to be inside her, possibly for the last time. He wanted to give her something of him to remember in the long nights without him. He wanted to spill deep inside her and give her his soul—his child. She might already be pregnant and he might not ever see him or her. Which only fueled his need and fear.
“Yes,” she moaned as he lifted and wrapped her legs around his waist. He had nearly taken her like this the first time, and there was beauty in it, symmetry. That night had catapulted them into a discovery of one another. It had been the beginning, and this moment would be a new one.
“Lucy,” he growled as he struggled with the fastening of her gown, the chemise, and thank God, she had forgone the corset. It felt like forever before she was bared to him, her tiny breasts teasing him.
“Perfect mouthful,” he murmured before capturing her breast while his hand cupped her bottom, holding her. He suckled and licked and she cried out, her fingers raking hard through his hair. He had already freed himself, and he slid hard and fast inside her, stretching her, and she cried out, clutched him and rocked against him, encouraging him with her kisses that were all over, that were raw and uncoordinated. It was messy and loud, and frantic, and it was better than anything they had shared.
The way he slammed inside her taking her against the door spoke of his need, his wildness, the way she accepted him, encouraged him for more, told him what he needed to know, that she was his. She had always been his.
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