The Pact of the White Blade Knights

by Barbara Russell

  The woman eyed her, a finger on her chin. “Small size. Our seamstresses might have to adjust the dress. Please, follow me.”

  Head giddy with fine fabric and shiny colours, Hazel weaved through the shops’ aisles when she bumped into a hard chest clothed in an expensive suit.

  “Miss Hazel, fancy that.” Mr Alexander Harcourt removed his bowler hat and bowed, keeping his keen gaze on her.

  Blimey. Between the museum, the list, and Tyon’s offer, she’d forgotten to inform Mr Harcourt she couldn’t work for him.

  “Good afternoon.” She dropped a curtsy. “What a surprise. Gentlemen don’t usually enter a boutique.”

  He flashed his charming smile that added a pair of dimples on his shaven cheeks. “Why, it’s the best place to meet beautiful ladies and to find the perfect gift for a woman.”

  “Mr Harcourt—”

  “Alexander, please. I insist.”

  “Alexander, I’m terribly sorry for not having contacted you earlier, but I’ve decided to accept Mr Sancerre’s offer.”

  A flicker of anger lit his wide eyes, but it lasted a moment. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  He smiled again, but the smile didn’t brighten his face. “Well, the offer stands. After you finish working for Tyon, consider calling me.” He paused. “Are you currently working in Tyon’s house?”

  The question sounded casual, but an expectant note rang in it. “Yes,” she replied cautiously.

  “I know Tyon’s address. I can bring some of the texts to his house, if you want, if you’d allow that.”

  “All right.” No harm with that. “I’ll be there every morning and afternoon. Come any time you want.”

  “Thank you very much.” He donned his hat and touched its rim. “Good day, Miss Hazel.”

  He didn’t sound cheerful though. Somehow, the deep tone of sorrow in his voice caused her chest to tighten. Whatever he needed from her, it pained him he couldn’t have it, but it seemed even accepting his offer didn’t please him.

  ~ * ~

  PACING ON THE pavement in front of Hazel’s house, Tyon fixed his bowtie and waited for her. What a ridiculous idea he’d had. Attending a dinner party at Lord McCormack-Brighton’s. He hadn’t appeared at a dinner party in years, and the few times he’d gone, it’d been a matter of minutes to eat a particularly dangerous sin.

  He tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, wondering why fancy clothes had to be so damned uncomfortable. The collar chafed his neck, and the waistcoat pressed against his ribs. He missed the days when he’d worn only a rough tunic, daggers strapped at his side, and a pair of leather sandals that couldn’t keep the dust of Nicaea out. He missed the weight of his crusader’s armour before a battle, when going to battle meant facing an enemy made of blood and flesh, not this game of cloaks and shadows, when his knights had fought at his side, and he could’ve made love to a beautiful woman without causing a bloody earthquake.

  “Tyon?”

  He spun on his heel at Hazel’s voice and stilled. Even his heart slowed. She stood behind him, dark curls framing her heart-shaped face. Her mauve and amethyst dress matched her eyes and swirled around her legs in a swish of satin and silk. A white underskirt showed a splash of pink lace. The fitted bodice enhanced her slim waist and full breasts concealed by a sash draped over her bare shoulders.

  He could spend the entire night pulling those strings and ribbons tying the gown to her beautiful body and unwrapping her inch by inch like a parcel.

  “What do you think?” She smoothed the skirt. “Is it appropriate?”

  The tight fist of desire clenching his gut was expected, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard to control the burst of power coursing through him. His power ordered him to take her and sheath himself into her velvety channel. He gave a squeeze to his cilice for good measure. The pain lessened the lust, but didn’t destroy it. Either his body was growing accustomed to the pain, or his need for Hazel was increasing.

  A little frown of worry settled between her brows.

  “You look lovely.” It was all he could manage to not gather her in his arm and peel that beautiful dress from her creamy skin. He opened the carriage’s door and bowed his head.

  Her brow relaxed as she grabbed a fistful of skirts and climbed inside. He sat across from her in the most distant corner of the seat and tapped the driver’s box to signal his driver to go. If she so much brushed his knee with hers, he’d pull her to his lap and bunched her skirts up to her waist until her secret heat was bare to him.

  She adjusted the satin folds, looking adorable in that sea of mauve fabric and dark tendrils. “May I ask how you obtained two invitations for tonight’s dinner in an exclusive house at such a short notice?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Excuse me?” She gazed up. “Are we going to gate-crash Lord McCormack-Brighton’s party?”

  “Of course not. I’m sure the butler we’ll let us in. I can be very persuasive.” Once he’d eat the butler’s sins, he’d give a little push to the man’s mind and convince him that letting them in was a good idea. It worked well with simple minds as it’d worked with Sir Morris.

  Hazel pressed her lush lips together. “What do you mean by that? Do you want to threaten the staff?” Lilac eyes seared him down.

  A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth at her fierceness, and something inside him unclenched. “I might. Only a little.”

  She opened her mouth then closed it, the rocking of the carriage causing her curls to swing. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Guilty as charged.” He bowed his head.

  “Impossible man.” She huffed, but beamed, her inner beauty glowing from inside out in a golden shimmer. “This is another one of your secrets, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “I hope one day you’ll tell me all of them.” The humour was gone from her voice.

  He rasped a hand over his chin. “I hope one day I could.” He’d gladly share the burden, but it wasn’t for Hazel to carry it. The more she knew the more she was in danger. She hadn’t found the hallow yet, but Aleximanus wanted already to turn her into a lust-breather.

  The carriage rocked to a halt, and the driver opened the door. “Lord McCormack-Brighton’s house, sir.”

  Tyon exited first and didn’t offer his hand to her. His power simmered on the edge of release again, and her mere sight shattered his control. Physical contact was out of the question.

  She scowled when she squeezed her skirts through the door and joined him on the pavement, standing too close to him. The sweet warmth of her skin reached his body, stirring the powerful hunger he battled to keep under control.

  She raised her hand, offering it to him, a questioning light in her stare.

  He inched away from her. “I can’t escort you properly.”

  Her hand lowered. “It’ll be odd if we go inside without me at your arm. Why can’t you take my hand?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She drew in a long inhalation that strained her bodice and lowered the neckline of an inch. The tempting mounds of her breasts turned more rounded. “And now?”

  He cursed his weakness that robbed him of the simple pleasure of holding her hand. “Now we join the party.”

  They strolled on the gravel path to the porch. Violin music drifted from the house, and the yellow glow of the rooms inundated the hedgerows in the garden. A footman opened the door with a bow, revealing a shimmering foyer. The marble floor was so sparkling it blinded Tyon. He preferred the dark sobriety of his house and the simple, plain furniture to this display of luxury.

  The master of ceremony smiled from behind a desk. “Good evening, sir and madam.” The yellow light from the sconces glinted off his pomaded hair. “Who should I announce?”

  Hazel shuffled back, eyeing the exit, probably ready for a hasty retreat.

  Tyon focused on the man’s head. Goodness flashed in blue across his forehead. Only a few black tendrils coiled up, writhing
and snapping at the goodness. He filled his lungs with the man’s sins. They had to be something minor like lying about not drinking sherry to his physician. This man wasn’t evil.

  The sins rushed through Tyon, leaving an ugly knot in his gut. They were ordinary sins though, nothing to do with the sin-breather-induced sins of Sir Morris.

  As the earth absorbed the man’s sins, Tyon sent a little push through the temporary connection that linked him to the man. An urge to be slightly negligent tonight and let them pass.

  The bright lights glared at Tyon when he closed the link and the sounds of chatter rushed back in his ears. He swallowed the curdled taste in his mouth. “I’m afraid we don’t have any invitation.”

  Hazel squashed her reticule between her fingers and shot him a glare as if to say, ‘it won’t ever work.’

  “It’s all right.” The master of ceremony nodded a few times, flipping the pages of the guests’ list. “Please, follow this corridor. Should the lady wish to freshen up, the dressing room is on the left. Enjoy your evening.”

  Tyon offered a quick nod and strode along the hallway.

  Hazel’s quick steps hounded him. “I don’t understand. He believed you so easily.”

  He grinned. “Another one of my secrets.”

  “Indeed.” She sidestepped a server balancing a silver tray with champagne flutes.

  A waltz from the orchestra in a corner covered the hushed chit-chat from the guests. Ladies in voluminous skirts and swaying bustles hid their laughs behind feathery fans while gentlemen in tuxedos sipped from wine globes and champagne flutes.

  Hazel shifted closer to him as if seeking protection. His heart warmed at the thought that she might trust him enough to feel safe with him. A vein in her neck beat a wild pulse under her skin.

  “Don’t be nervous.” He snatched a couple of champagne glasses from a passing maid and offered one to her. “We aren’t going to stay long. All I need is you pointing me the relic.”

  Her gloved fingers closed tentatively around the glass’ stem. “It’s a canopy vase shaped as an owl. I don’t understand why you need me.” She took a sip and closed her eyes briefly. “Not that I’m complaining. You paid for this beautiful dress and the champagne is delicious, but I’m not sure what you expect of me.”

  “I need to watch you when we’re close to the artefact.” And see if her aura turned greener and pulsated brighter. If it didn’t, then the relic wasn’t the hallow he was seeking.

  She scrunched her face. “Why would you do that? I still don’t understand.”

  “I know.”

  “Good evening.” A lady with grey hair twisted in a complicated chignon stopped in front of them. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly. As you can see the main hall is filled with guests.”

  “It’s understandable.” Tyon bent over in a stiff half bow.

  “Are you friends of my daughter?” she asked, fanning herself.

  Hazel’s hand trembled. “How is she?”

  Tyon smiled. Answering a question with another question was always a good way to deflect the attention.

  “Oh.” The lady’s generous bosom raised and lowered. “I’m afraid Rachel isn’t faring well this evening. She had to stay in bed. Her stomach is still upset, poor thing. Verna has been fussing around her all day as usual.” She let out a sigh. “Rachel wanted to go out tonight before attending the dinner party. It turned out, she couldn’t do any of these things.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hazel’s shoulders relaxed. “Please, send Rachel our best wishes.”

  “I will.” The lady took a quick dip and ambled away towards another couple.

  “Do you know the lady?” Hazel whispered, inches away from him.

  “I think she’s Lady McCormack-Brighton. From the way she greeted us, she sounded like the hostess.” He half ran, half sauntered towards the end of the room and the French windows opening to the garden, before someone else asked them if they were Rachel’s friends. From the quiet corner, he could keep an eye on the crowd without attracting too much attention. A cool breeze drifted from the half open window, bringing the earthy scent of wet grass.

  “So, you were saying you need to watch me?” Hazel followed on silent feet, smiling at gentlemen bowing her way. “I have to say, it sounds like sorcery.”

  “It is.” He sipped his champagne and let the fuzzy bubbles slosh down his throat before twitching his mouth in disgust. Champagne. Too sophisticated for his tastes. He preferred a good old ale, brown and frothy that spoke of earth and hard work.

  She swept into his field vision, a storm brewing in her gaze. “Sorcery? Are you mocking me again?”

  “I am not.” He put his glass down on a table. “As I told you, I don’t lie, and I don’t joke.”

  “Sweet lord. You sound serious.” She swallowed another sip, her throat moving under the velvet choker around her neck.

  “This is a serious matter.” More than you imagine.

  “Then tell me what is it all about!” Exasperation crept in her voice.

  To his right, a door opened to a sitting room where glass cases lined the walls.

  “That must be the chamber where Lord McCormack-Brighton keeps the relics.” He tilted his head to his right.

  “You aren’t answering any of my questions.” She laid her glass onto the nearby table.

  He turned to her and faced wrath clad in mauve satin. Her lips were pressed into a harsh line, and indignation flushed her cheeks.

  He longed to kiss that indignation away from her lips. “There are things I can’t discuss with you, for your own safety, but I’ll share what I can to make you understand how serious this affair is.”

  “Understand? Well, I’d like to understand what I’m getting myself into. Don’t I deserve an explanation? And why can’t you hold my hand like a proper gentleman?” Her voice rose a notch when she asked the last question as if this particular matter bothered her more than the others.

  He didn’t desire anything more than hold her and feel her soft body against his. “Do you trust me?”

  “I, I.”

  The hesitation in her reply was a stab to his heart.

  “I need you to trust me.” He moved closer to her, ignoring the pounding of his heart against his ribs. “Last thing I want is to put you in danger. You have to believe me when I say your safety comes above everything else.”

  Her flowery scent—a hint of jasmine and wild roses—filled his nostrils. The choker on her delicate throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed. “I do trust you,” she said so low he barely caught it.

  Warmth swelled within him. He stretched his fingers towards her hand. Her gaze followed the movement. He might control his power for only a moment. He’d touched women in the past five years, but never a woman he was attracted to so much it hurt. Mayhap that was why his power surged and erupted so quickly. His fingertips almost brushed her glove when an angry male voice bellowed from behind them.

  In the garden, Sir Morris was looming over a footman and the butler. “I demand to see her.” The veins in his neck stood out against his reddened skin.

  The footman shrank back, casting glances at the ballroom. A few guests stared at the scene from behind the windows, muttering and throwing glances at Sir Morris. Even the maids and waiters slowed their paces, passing in front of the windows.

  The butler held his ground, but his tense face glistened with drops of sweat. “Miss Rachel isn’t in any condition to receive visitors. Orders of the physician. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I need to talk to her.” Sir Morris seized a lapel of the butler’s jacket and shook him. “Now.”

  “Sir, please.” The butler brought up his hands, but Sir Morris inched closer.

  Hazel shivered. “That man has no respect for anyone.”

  Tyon ground his teeth and unleashed an ounce of his power. Sir Morris’s head glowed with dark tendrils slashing the air. He might lack respect, but he was full of sins again. His soul attracted evil like a rod attracted bolts of ligh
tning, or a sin-breather had recharged him.

  The mutters and whispers from the small crowd gathered at the edge of the ballroom intensified.

  Tyon strode towards Sir Morris, put a hand on his shoulder, and yanked him off the poor butler. “Enough now.”

  “You again.” Sir Morris shrugged free. “What the hell do you want?” He gazed behind Tyon and snarled when Hazel stepped into the garden. “What is she doing here?”

  The butler adjusted his collar. “Sir, I must ask you to leave.”

  Tyon stood next to the butler, challenging Sir Morris to try anything. Even the footman straightened, probably more confident now that Tyon was facing that hurricane in a tuxedo. They stared at each other, Sir Morris clenching and unclenching his fists, Tyon ready to tackle the man.

  Sir Morris threw a hand up. “I’ll see Rachel. One way or another, mark my words.” He turned towards the gravel path that led to the road.

  The butler sprang forwards. “Let me escort you out—”

  “The hell with that!” Sir Morris yelled. “I don’t need your help.”

  When he thudded along the path, the butler wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and smiled at Tyon. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The footman released a noisy breath.

  “You’re welcome.” Tyon didn’t relax until Sir Morris’s ginger head disappeared behind the bushes.

  “Is he gone?” Hazel asked, standing close to him.

  “For now.” He led her to the ballroom, a finger brushing her elbow.

  The throng dispersed among giggles and words exchanged behind fans. Tyon gazed at the floor. His plan to not attract attention wasn’t working.

  “I can’t believe Sir Morris could be so rude and arrogant,” Hazel whispered.

  And that his aura darkened so quickly. Tyon’s power swirled inside his chest, thumping and prancing like a pony. If its efficacy was diminishing, he couldn’t tell. No. A sin-breather was behind Sir Morris’s dark aura, but why would a sin-breather target him?

  He shifted farther into the shadow of the ballroom. After Sir Morris’s scene, last thing he needed was more attention on himself or Hazel. She had to be shielded from any further involvement.