by Clee, Adele
“Yes,” she said as his hands moved to grip her hips, to help her find a slow, intoxicating rhythm. “You were right.” She sank down, sheathing him to the hilt.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Love, you’re so hot, so wet, so damn hungry for me. Right about what?”
“When you said I would never give myself to a man I didn’t love.”
He stilled, held her impaled. “What are you saying?”
She hummed. “That I’m in love with you, Lucius. I love everything about you. Your strength. Your devotion. The streaks of blue in your eyes that sparkle when you’re amused.” She rocked on his erection. The slightest movement flooded her body with waves of pure pleasure. “I love the way you kiss me, the way you care for me, the way you drive hard into my body. I love you.”
Lucius stared at her, his slow smile spreading. “You love me?”
“More than I could ever explain.”
His eyes shone with emotion, every beautiful blue fleck filled with joy. He responded by threading his hands into her hair, anchoring his mouth to hers.
He broke contact on a gasp. “God, Sybil, I’ve loved you for so long. When I saw you on the stairs that night, you stirred something inside me. Something so profound, I’ve held you in my heart ever since.”
A rush of happiness made her lean forward and kiss him softly on the mouth. But then a sudden urgency overtook them—the need to show their love in the physical act that brought such immense pleasure.
One minute she was astride him, the next she was bent over the opposite seat as he pounded into her sex with a fervency that spoke of love as much as lust. The slapping wasn’t loud enough to convey the depth of her feelings. The whimpers and moans weren’t deep enough. The rocking not wild enough.
When the muscles in her core convulsed and clamped around him, she cried, “I love you, Lucius.”
“God, I love you,” he gasped. “More than I could ever explain.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lucius gathered Sybil closer to his chest and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. She slept soundly, breathing softly, despite the wind rattling the leaded windows in his bedchamber. The bed hangings swayed as if a spectre stood tapping from the other side. That, coupled with the chill air, served as an ominous warning of what was to come.
Unlike him, Sybil had been unperturbed when he explained that his mother wanted to meet him at the Black Swan. One would expect the reunion to take place during the day, over a meal and a tankard of ale. Where his mother would produce a hundred heartfelt letters written to her son, but never sent. What reason could Julia Fontaine have for insisting he come under cover of darkness?
She must be terrified of the duke, Sybil had said.
Yet Lucius suspected a sinister motive.
Instinct said his mother was the missing piece of the puzzle. A puzzle he was desperate to solve. After twenty years, her sudden arrival couldn’t be a coincidence. Surely her choice of coaching inn, and the place she had made her first appearance, carried some significance, too.
Sybil stirred at his side, and her hand came to rest on his chest.
God, he loved her.
He was so in love with her, his heart ached.
It took strength of mind not to imagine a bright and glorious future. He would marry her, raise a family, be a loving husband and father. But what about his loyalty to Atticus? What about his work for the Order?
“I’m sorry, Lucius. I must have fallen asleep.” Sybil’s gentle voice reached out to him in the darkness. “I promised to stay awake until it was time for you to leave.”
He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. “I’m going soon.”
She came up on her elbow and looked at him. “Won’t you let me come with you? I can sit quietly in the corner and read beneath the candlelight while you speak to your mother.”
“I want you to stay here. I need you to stay here.” He planned to delve deep into his mother’s history, planned to pick apart her account of the tale until he found the truth. He couldn’t do that while worrying about Sybil. “Tomas and Jonah will keep guard during my absence. There’s a pistol in the nightstand drawer. I can load it before I leave.”
“A pistol? There’s no need.” She stroked his chest, the soothing caress making it harder to leave. “I shall be fine here.”
Lucius nodded, confident there was no place safer than Bronygarth.
Reluctantly, he slipped his arm free from her warm body, drew back the coverlet and climbed out of bed. He could feel the heat of Sybil’s gaze as he dressed. Indeed, it took immense effort not to shout to hell with his mother and jump back into bed to satisfy the woman he wanted for his wife.
The cautious part of his nature made him load the pistol. Despite Sybil’s reassurances, he tasted the nervous tension in her kiss. Dismissing a strange unease, he promised to return in an hour before insisting she lock the door.
He gave his men specific instructions. Made them swear to protect Sybil with the same unwavering loyalty they did their master. Then he mounted Phaedrus and rode through the merciless east wind until he reached the coaching inn.
The Black Swan.
The metal sign creaked as it swayed wildly. The image of the black bird was there to aid the illiterate, yet the creature stared at Lucius with its evil eye, marking him the enemy. Some said a black swan was a symbol of suffering, or a metaphor for shocking surprises. Some said it spoke of Machiavellian schemes.
Lucius feared all explanations were true.
Dismissing his unease, he rode Phaedrus under the wide archway and into the yard. A lit lantern and a roaring brazier confirmed the inn was open for business. The wind played havoc with the brazier’s flames, threatening extinction before giving a sudden reprieve. He, too, felt whipped into uncertainty, tormented by a higher power.
A young groom approached, said he was waiting for the mail coach from Edinburgh, that the driver always stopped for his supper before continuing to town. Lucius flicked the lad a coin and left Phaedrus in his care before marching to the main door of the inn.
Tucking the sheathed blade into his boot, he straightened his shoulders and entered.
The taproom was empty but for an Irish wolfhound curled by the fire. Lucius approached the oak counter, but there was no sign of the innkeeper. He waited. The creak of hinges forced him to turn towards the rear of the room. His mother stood in the doorway. Her red dress hung off bony shoulders, looked to have been made for a much larger woman. Indeed, her frame was more skeletal than trim.
“Lucius. You came.” Her welcoming smile barely masked her apprehension. “Forgive the rather crude surroundings, but I prefer it here to town.”
His mind struggled with the sudden onslaught of questions.
Had his overtly suspicious nature led him to misjudge her?
Was her arrival nothing more than a coincidence?
“Such things matter not to me.” He preferred a shabby castle in the woods to an elegant townhouse. “Forgive my absence earlier. A matter of great importance prevented me from keeping our appointment.”
“I understand,” she said evenly, and yet Furnis had said she’d sobbed upon finding him away from home. Evidently, she had overcome her distress. “Come through to the private parlour. No one will disturb us there.”
Lucius crossed the room and ducked his head to clear the low lintel. His mother directed him to the long table positioned near the open fire. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, waited for her to sit before dropping into the crude wooden chair opposite.
Should a reunion be this difficult?
Should it be so fraught with tension?
“You must have many questions.” She snatched the stoneware pitcher and filled two matching mugs with ale. “Ask me anything.”
Twenty years’ worth of whys and wherefores surfaced. The need to interrogate, to challenge, to attribute blame, left him wondering where to start. He swigged his ale. An old ale. A pale, well-hopped brew too good to be served in a roadside i
nn.
“I was in love with your father in the beginning,” she said to break the long, drawn-out silence. “But the pressure for him to marry and sire heirs caused a terrible rift between us.”
“And yet he never married.”
“No. I fear the duke’s obsession with me poisoned his mind. I left because it became intolerable, because I feared for my life. One cannot remain in a destructive environment.”
In the dim light, it was hard to see the scar on her cheekbone. She has not aged well, he thought. He wanted to believe it stemmed from the distress of leaving her son. He wanted to. But couldn’t.
“I begged him to let me take you away, too,” she said, yet her tone lacked conviction. “But you belong to the duke—”
“I belong to no one,” Lucius snapped.
If anyone had a right to make such a claim, it was his friend and mentor. The person who taught him how to be a man. Or Katharine Fontaine. The stranger who had enabled him to prosper.
“Tell me about my grandmother.” Many times, he had tried to form a mental picture of the benevolent lady. “What was she like? How did she come by such a fortune?” Why had such a generous woman allowed her daughter to become a courtesan?
Julia Fontaine looked as if he’d asked her to name every Home Secretary since William Petty. She opened her mouth, mumbled incoherently before saying, “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Was her hair as dark as mine? Did she think of me? Why did she not attempt to visit?” He had a catalogue of questions.
She pursed her lips and seemed to consider her answer carefully. “I don’t remember her,” she finally admitted. “My mother sent me to live with an uncle when I was five.”
Lucius fell silent, lost in a moment of confusion.
“She died a year later,” Julia added.
“Died?” Lucius reeled from the shock. “That’s impossible. She died a month before my eighteenth birthday. My inheritance was held in trust until I reached my majority.”
“Lucius, Katharine Fontaine was destitute when she died.”
“Destitute?”
“She was buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“Then who in blazes left me a fortune?” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew the answer. A conniving, manipulative devil, that’s who. A father who couldn’t give love or affection but could give money freely.
“It can only be the duke,” she said, echoing his sentiment. “He has the means to trick you. He would see it as his duty to provide for you financially.”
“His duty to control me, to prove I need him,” Lucius corrected. Hatred raced through his veins. He might have sat there and let animosity fester. He might have plotted and planned a way to repay his father. And he would repay him. But the urge to get this meeting over with and return to Bronygarth, to Sybil, led him to say, “On the subject of manipulation, you said the duke made it impossible for you to return.”
She cradled the mug between dry, cracked hands and stared at it for a time. “Melverley chased me from town. Ensured no one extended me credit. Had me barred from every social event. Prevented me from becoming another man’s mistress. Indeed, no man dared make me an offer.”
Oh, Lucius knew the bitter, domineering devil only too well.
The duke would do anything, anything to get his way.
He studied the frail woman before him, all limp limbs as she sagged in the seat. He found it rather ironic that the picture on the wall behind was of a weeping willow. The drooping foliage dangled close to the water. His mother’s hair hung loose, the ends an inch from her full mug of ale. And yet another image invaded his musings—that of a woman sobbing by a lake.
Sybil!
A shudder of fear shook him to his core.
He needed to get this meeting over with.
Every nerve in his body said he needed to leave the Black Swan.
“So you went north,” he said, though his mind was elsewhere now.
“Yes, to Scotland. There’s something about crossing the border that makes one feel safe. Free.”
Scotland?
Why did the mere mention of the country set him on edge?
“Whereabouts in Scotland?”
“Whereabouts?” She looked at him as if the answer was of no consequence. “Moffat. It’s renowned for its mineral-rich spring water. They say the medicinal baths have healing properties.”
“Moffat?” His heart thumped in his chest. His stomach churned. “In Dumfriesshire?”
“Indeed.”
Suspicion didn’t just flare—it blazed.
“And you felt you could return to London now the duke is on his deathbed.” His cynicism was evident in his tone. “Why?”
Would she have the gall to say she wanted to be his mother?
“There is nothing to fear anymore.” She paused to cough violently into her handkerchief. “I received word of your father’s condition and came on the first stagecoach.”
Liar!
His father’s health had deteriorated this past week. No one knew. So how the devil had someone sent word to Scotland? How the hell had she got to London so quickly?
Lucius downed his drink and refilled the mug. Ale splashed onto the wooden table as his hand shook from suppressed anger.
Keep calm.
Extract the information.
“I’m curious to hear about your life there. Have you other children? Did you marry?”
“No. No other children. We tried.” She looked at the ale in the mug as if the liquid represented every tear shed. “My husband was desperate for an heir. It seems to be a recurring theme in my life.”
“So you did marry. You’re no longer Julia Fontaine.”
“No.” Her weak smile faded quickly. “My married name is Dunwoody. It’s not as elegant as Fontaine.”
Dunwoody?
Bloody hell!
It took the control of a saint to remain seated in the chair. His stomach roiled. Every puzzle piece appeared in his mind. Laid out before him. The solemn Scot watching his house, stealing the journal, hiring thugs to kidnap Sybil. The vowels in the name of Dunwoody. Her vowels, not her husband’s. The deeds to the property in Dumfriesshire. Cribb. The sketch of Warner.
Warner?
Is that how she knew his father was sick?
Did Warner know she lived across the border?
Yet the steward had only served his father for five years.
Think! Damn it!
He downed another mug of ale as a means of stalling while he assembled his erratic thoughts. There were so many confusing elements, so many pieces of information to slot together. Indeed, his mind seemed suddenly heavy, woozy, as he tried to make sense of it all.
Still, Sybil’s words penetrated the chaos.
Don’t fire a measly arrow.
Load the trebuchet and hurl a fireball.
“I agree,” he said. “Fontaine is of medieval origin, the name given to those who lived by water.” A weeping willow who sheds false tears. “Dunwoody rings of a debt-ridden devil willing to sell her soul to reclaim her vowels.”
The fireball hit with an imaginary bang, sending his mother shooting back in the chair.
“What baffles me,” he continued, trying to ignore the sudden need to sleep, “is how you know the steward.”
“The steward?” She glanced at his empty mug.
Why would Warner know where his mother lived?
Ah, because the duke’s obsession demanded it so.
“Mr Warner. The duke’s steward.” Hell, his head started spinning. “The friend who told you he was sick. The confidant who told you I lived in Brook Street.” The fop who surely knew he owned Bronygarth, too.
Sybil!
“Mr Warner,” he repeated. The urge to hurry, the urge to return home thrummed in his veins. “The servant who t-tends to my father while … while colluding with you.” The last comment was an educated guess. Melrose was the person who held the marionettes’ strings. But there could—
Damn.
Lucius shook his head and fought the need to lie down.
“Lucius? Are you unwell?”
Hellfire!
He could hardly keep his eyes open. He looked to the woman seated opposite. Concern was not the emotion etched on her gaunt face. Relief brought a faint smile to her lips. What the hell had she done to him?
“Angus!” she called. “Angus!”
Lucius vaguely recalled the parlour door opening, caught a hazy look at the solemn man in black, heard his mother say, “Forgive me, but there was no other way” before plunging into darkness, into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty
The sick roiling in Sybil’s stomach told her something was wrong. The tightening of her chest and a trembling trepidation forced her out of bed. She hurried to the window, dragged back the heavy curtains and stared out.
Dark blue waves of sunlight weaved through black clouds.
The morning sun would soon breach the horizon.
Lucius had been gone hours—far too long.
The logical part of her brain said reunions were complicated affairs. More so after a twenty-year separation. Indeed, how did one condense their experiences into a short conversation? Heightened emotions complicated matters. There would be anger, tears, heartfelt explanations. Blame. Remorse.
So why could she not calm her mind? Why did gut instinct scream for her to dress and ride to the Black Swan?
Trust your heart, dear girl.
Trust your intuition.
Her father’s words spurred Sybil into action. She raced to her room, washed in cold water that had been in the bowl at least a day. There was no time to worry about stays. A chemise and petticoat would suffice.
Jonah wasn’t keeping guard outside her door.
Did he have similar fears for Lucius, too?
Were they under attack from an intruder?
Had the floating ghost found its way into the tunnel?
Sybil hurried down the dark staircase, followed the sound of raised voices and came upon Tomas and Jonah arguing in the narrow corridor near the chapel.
