“Were you not determined to travel to Surrey and discover your own father’s secret?”
Ian took another draw on the flask. Clearly the expected lecture was in the offing.
“I will get there.” He grimaced at the mere thought of encountering his arrogant, disdainful father. “Eventually.”
He sensed Raoul move, then the warmth of his hand as it gently squeezed his shoulder.
“Ian, there is nothing to force you to seek out your father. You are content with your life as it is. Return to London and enjoy it.”
Ian gave a sharp, bitter laugh. As much as he disliked the thought of stepping beneath his father’s roof it was preferable to returning to London and the cold, empty rooms that awaited him there.
It was nothing short of pathetic.
“Oh yes, quite content,” he muttered.
Raoul’s fingers tightened, his expression concerned. “Ian?”
“What of you, Raoul?” Smoothly stepping from his friend’s grasp before he confessed the haunting restlessness that would not leave him in peace, Ian managed a bland smile. “When do you begin your own search for the truth?”
Raoul arched one pale, perfect brow. “I cannot leave London until the end of the theatre season.”
“Ah, yes. The irresistible Romeo who slays the ladies of the ton with his honey voice and come-hither glance.”
“Actually, it has been years since I played Romeo,” Raoul retorted dryly. “My current role is that of King Lear.”
Ian shrugged, knowing full well what role his friend was performing. He had attended the production on opening night and on a half a dozen evenings after that. Like most of London, he remained in awe of Raoul’s extraordinary skill.
Not that he would ever admit his admiration, he wryly acknowledged. Not without the threat of a hot poker.
“No doubt it is your own royal blood that makes you such a convincing king,” he drawled.
Raoul shrugged aside the noble blood that ran in his veins. “Hardly royal.”
“No?” Ian lifted his flask in a mocking toast. “Unlike Fredrick, our lives are still shrouded in mystery. Who is to say what we might discover?”
The sleek black carriage pulled away from Oak Manor at a sharp pace, urged on by Fredrick’s muttered command to flee the lingering guests with all possible speed.
He had waited a fortnight for this moment, he acknowledged, as he reached out to tug Portia firmly onto his lap. Or perhaps a lifetime.
Gazing down at the beauty of her upturned countenance, Fredrick found his breath tangling in his throat. When he had first seen this woman standing in the shadowed foyer of the inn he had known that she was different from any other woman he had ever encountered.
Wonderfully and spectacularly different.
“Alone at last,” he murmured, his hand absently stroking her shoulder that was left bare by the daring satin bodice. No one had been more shocked than him when Portia had arrived at Oak Manor attired in an ivory gown that was designed to set a man’s blood on fire. He had been slowly burning throughout the brief ceremony and wedding breakfast his father had insisted upon. “Thank God.”
She offered a slow, tantalizing smile that did nothing to ease the tightness of his groin.
“You do realize that I still have no notion of where we are going?”
He growled low in his throat as his gaze drifted to the ripe swell of her breasts blatantly revealed by the low cut of her neckline.
“I promised myself that I would whisk you somewhere that we would not be interrupted once I had you as my wife.” His frustration was thick in his voice. Although Portia had willingly allowed Mrs. Cornell to take command of the inn, she remained living in the attic until they were wed. Which, of course, had meant that they could not find a moment alone. “I want to walk through the gardens without concern that some disaster is looming in the kitchens, and hold you in my arms with the knowledge that there will be no one knocking upon your door at some inconvenient moment.”
Her breath caught at his soft caresses. “And where would this magical place be located?”
“My father has offered us the use of his hunting lodge. He promises that there are no more than a handful of servants who are all quite discreet and not one neighbor within twenty miles at this time of year.”
“Good heavens, we shall be terribly isolated.” She gave a tormenting bat of her lashes. “Whatever shall we do with ourselves?”
He shivered, his fingers continuing to explore the silken heat of her skin.
“Do you desire a description, or would you prefer a demonstration?”
She stilled as she gazed deep into his eyes, her expression sending a wave of golden pleasure through his body.
“I love you, Fredrick Colstone,” she said softly, her hand lifting to touch his cheek as he gave a small jerk of surprise. “What is the matter?”
He gave a rueful shake of his head. Even after two weeks he found it difficult to think of himself as anything other than Fredrick Smith. And no doubt a part of him would always be the shy, determined young lad that Dunnington had molded into a man.
“That name still seems ... odd,” he admitted.
“You shall have to accustom yourself to it,” she warned, her eyes darkening with concern. “By the time we return from our honeymoon everyone will know that you are Lord Graystone’s legitimate heir.”
He gave a pretend shudder. “Then perhaps we should remain hidden at the hunting lodge.”
“Oh, no,” she swiftly countered, her expression resolute. “No more hiding. From now on we will confront the world with our chins held high.”
Fredrick wrapped her more tightly in his arms, his heart overwhelmed with the love she had stirred to life. He had come to Wessex to dig through the past and instead discovered his future.
“An easy task, so long as I have you at my side,” he whispered, his head lowering toward her waiting lips.
“At your side is where I shall always be, my wicked baron.”
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The auction house on the outskirts of Chicago didn’t look like a cesspit.
Behind the iron fences the elegant brick structure sprawled over the landscape with a visible arrogance. The rooms were large with vaulted ceilings that boasted beautiful murals and elegant chandeliers. And on the advice of a professional, they had been decorated with thick ivory carpets, glossy dark paneling, and hand-carved furniture.
The overall atmosphere was the sort of quiet hush that only money could buy. Lots and lots of money.
It was the sort of swanky place that should be peddling rare paintings, priceless jewels, and museum artifacts.
Instead it was no more than a flesh market. A sewer where demons were sold like so much meat.
There was nothing pleasant about the slave trade. Not even when the trade was demons rather than humans. It was a sordid business that attracted every decadent, demented slimeball in the country.
They came for all sorts of pathetic reasons.
Those who bought demons for mercenaries or bodyguards. Those who lusted after the more exotic sex slaves. Those who believed the blood of demons could bring them magic or eternal life. And those who purchased demons to be released into their private lands and hunted like wild animals.
The bidders were men and women without conscience or morals. Only enough money to sate their twisted pleasures.
And at the top of the dung heap was the owner of the auction house, Evor. He was one of the lesser trolls who made his living upon the misery of others with a smile on his face.
Someday Shay intended to kill Evor.
Unfortunately it would not be today.
Or rather tonight.
Attired in ridiculous harem pants and a tiny sequined top that revealed far more than it concealed, she paced the cramped cell behind the
auction rooms. Her long raven-black hair had been pulled to a braid that hung nearly to her waist. Better to reveal her slanted golden eyes, the delicate cast to her features, and the bronzed skin that marked her as something other than human.
Less than two months before, she had been a slave to a coven of witches who intended to bring Armageddon to all demons. At the time she had thought anything was preferable to being their toady as she helplessly watched their evil plotting.
Hell, it’s tough to top genocide.
It was only when she had been forced back to the power of Evor that she understood that death was not always the worst fate.
The grave was really nothing compared to what waited for her beyond the door.
Without thinking Shay struck out with her foot, sending the lone table sailing through the air to crash against the iron bars with astonishing force.
From behind her came a heavy sigh that had her spinning to regard the small gargoyle hiding behind a chair in the far corner.
Levet wasn’t much of a gargoyle.
Oh, he had the traditional grotesque features. Thick grey skin, reptilian eyes, horns, and cloven hoofs. He even possessed a long tail he polished and pampered with great pride. Unfortunately, despite his frightening appearance, he was barely three feet tall. And worse, as far as he was concerned, he possessed a pair of delicate, gossamer wings that would have been more fitting on a sprite or a fairy than a lethal creature of the dark.
To add to his humiliation, his powers were unpredictable under the best of circumstances, and his courage more often than not missing in action.
It was little wonder he had been voted out of the Gargoyle Guild and forced to fend for himself. They claimed he was an embarrassment to the entire community, and not one had stepped forward when he had been captured and made a slave by Evor.
Shay had taken the pathetic creature under her protection the moment she had been forced back to the auction house. Not only because she had a regrettable tendency to leap to the defense of anyone weaker than herself, but also because she knew that it aggravated Evor to have his favorite whipping boy taken away.
The troll might hold the curse that bound her, but if he pressed her far enough she would be willing to kill him, even if it meant an end to her own life.
“Cherie, did the table do something I did not see, or were you just attempting to teach it a lesson?” Levet demanded, his voice low and laced with a lilting French accent.
Not at all the sort of thing to improve his status among the gargoyles.
Shay smiled wryly. “I was imagining it was Evor.”
“Strange, they do not greatly resemble one another.”
“I have a good imagination.”
“Ah.” He gave a ridiculous wiggle of his thick brow. “In that case, I do not suppose you are imagining I’m Brad Pitt?”
Shay smiled wryly. “I’m good, but not that good, gargoyle.”
“A pity.”
Her brief amusement faded. “No, the pity is that it was a table and not Evor smashed to pieces.”
“A delightful notion, but a mere dream.” The gray eyes slowly narrowed. “Unless you intend to be stupid?”
Shay deliberately widened her eyes. “Who me?”
“Mon dieu,” the demon growled. “You intend to fight him.”
“I can’t fight him. Not as long as I remain held by the curse.”
“As if that has ever halted you.” Levet tossed aside the pillow to reveal his tail furiously twitching about his hoofs. A sure sign of distress. “You can’t kill him, but that never keeps you from trying to kick his fat troll ass.”
“It passes the time.”
“And leaves you screaming in agony for hours.” He abruptly shuddered. “Cherie, I can’t bear seeing you like that. Not again. It’s insane to battle against fate.”
Shay grimaced. As part of the curse, she was punished for any attempt to harm her master. The searing pain that gripped her body could leave her gasping on the ground or even passed out for hours. Lately, however, the punishment had become so brutal she feared that each time she pressed her luck it might be the last time.
She gave a tug on her braid. A gesture that revealed the frustration that smoldered just below the surface.
“You think I should just give in? Accept defeat?”
“What choice do you have? What choice do any of us have? Not all the fighting in the world can change the fact we belong—” Levet rubbed one of his stunted horns. “How do you say ... lock, stock, and jug ...”
“Barrel.”
“Ah, yes, barrel to Evor. And that he can do whatever he wants with us.”
Shay gritted her teeth as she turned to glare at the iron bars that held her captive. “Shit. I hate this. I hate Evor. I hate this cell. I hate those pathetic demons up there waiting to bid on me. I almost wish I had let those witches bring an end to all of us.”
“You will get no arguments from me, my sweet Shay,” Levet agreed with a sigh.
Shay closed her eyes. Dammit. She hadn’t meant the words. She was tired and frustrated, but she was no coward. Just the fact she had survived the past century proved that.
“No,” she muttered. “No.”
Levet gave a flap of his wings. “And why not? We are trapped here like rats in a maze until we can be sold to the highest bidder. What could be worse?”
Shay smiled without humor. “Allowing fate to win.”
“What?”
“So far, fate or destiny or fortune or whatever the hell you want to call it has done nothing but crap on us,” Shay growled. “I’m not going to just give in and allow it to thumb its nose at me as I slink into my grave. One of these days I’m going to have an opportunity to spit fate in its face. That’s what keeps me fighting.”
There was a long silence before the gargoyle moved to stand near enough so that he could rub his head on her leg. It was an unconscious gesture. A quest for reassurance that he would rather die than admit.
“I am uncertain I have ever heard such an inelegant speech, but I believe you. If anyone can get away from Evor, it’s you.”
Absently, Shay shifted the horn poking into her thigh. “I’ll come back for you, Levet, that much I promise.”
“Well, well, isn’t this touching?” Abruptly appearing before the iron bars of the cell, Evor smiled to reveal his pointed teeth. “Beauty and the Beast.”
With a smooth motion, Shay had pressed Levet behind her and turned to regard her captor.
A sneer touched her face as the troll stepped into the cell and locked the door behind him. Evor easily passed for human. An incredibly ugly human.
He was a short, pudgy man with a round, squishy face and heavy jowls. His hair was little more than tufts of stray strands that he carefully combed over his head. And his small black eyes had a tendency to flash red when he was annoyed.
The eyes he hid behind black-framed glasses.
The thickly fleshed body he hid behind an obscenely expensive tailored suit.
Only the teeth marked him for the troll he was.
That and his utter lack of morals.
“Screw you, Evor,” Shay muttered.
The nasty smile widened. “You wish.”
Shay narrowed her gaze. The troll had been trying to get into her bed since gaining control of her curse. The only thing that had halted him from forcing her had been the knowledge she was quite willing to kill the both of them to prevent such a horror.
“I’ll walk through the fires of hell before I let you touch me.”
Fury rippled over the pudgy features before the oily smile returned. “Someday, my beauty, you’ll be happy to be spread beneath me. We all have our breaking point. Eventually you’ll reach yours.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
His tongue flicked out in an obscene motion. “So proud. So powerful. I shall enjoy pouring my seed into you. But not yet. There is still money to be made from you. And money always comes first.” Lifting his hand he revealed the heavy ir
on shackles that he had hid behind his body. “Will you put these on or do I need to call for the boys?”
Shay crossed her arms over her chest. She might only be half Shalott, but she possessed all of the strength and agility of her ancestors. They were not the favorite assassins of the demon world without cause.
“After all these years you still think those goons can hurt me?”
“Oh, I have no intention of having them hurt you. I should hate to have you damaged before the bidding.” Very deliberately his gaze shifted to where Levet was cowering behind her legs. “I merely wish them to encourage your good behavior.”
The gargoyle gave a low moan. “Shay?”
Shit.
She battled back the instinctive urge to punch the pointed teeth down Evor’s throat. It would only put her on the ground in agony. Worse, it would leave Levet at the mercy of the hulking mountain trolls Evor used as protection.
They would take great delight in torturing the poor gargoyle.
As far as she knew their only pleasure was giving pain to others.
Freaking trolls.
“Fine.” She held out her arms with a furious scowl.
“A wise choice.” Keeping a wary eye on her, Evor pressed the shackles over her wrists and locked them shut. “I knew you would understand the situation once it was properly explained.”
Shay hissed as the iron bit into her skin. She could feel her power draining and her flesh chafing beneath the iron. It was her one certain Achilles’ heel.
“All I understand is that someday I’m going to kill you.”
He gave a jerk on the chain that draped between the shackles. “Behave yourself, bitch, or your little friend pays the consequences. Got it?”
Shay battled back the sickness that clutched at her stomach.
Once again she was going to be placed on the stage and sold to the highest bidder. She would be utterly at the mercy of some stranger who could do whatever he pleased with her.
And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it.
“Yeah, I got it. Let’s just get this over with.”
Evor opened his mouth as if to make a smart-ass comment, only to snap the fish lips shut when he caught sight of her expression. Obviously he could sense she was close to the edge.
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