So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  Mina seized his arm. “My father spoke of an eye. He’d seen the character in the scrolls, but didn’t understand the context.”

  Mark tilted his head toward the petticoat. “The scrolls speak in terms of prophecy. Of things that will come about in future centuries. I’m almost certain the eye the scroll refers to is a large mirror that eventually became the Eye of Pharos.”

  “Pharos . . . as in the lighthouse at Alexandria? One of the seven wonders of the ancient world?”

  “That’s the one,” he affirmed. “Legend tells that the Eye, a large mirror, could be used with a special lens, not only to incinerate approaching warships, but to destroy advancing armies.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is that true? Would this mirror hold such power?”

  Mark rubbed his chin. “I can’t say for sure. I’ve never actually seen the Eye. By all accounts, the mirror was stolen from the lighthouse, perhaps as early as the first century AD, and was allegedly cast into the ocean. By whom, or why, has never been told. Perhaps, if its powers are real, that was done to keep it out of the hands of those who wished to use it for purposes of evil.”

  “Such as the men who were following us. But why would my father wish to uncover such a mirror? He has no wish to do harm. He’s an eccentric, but gentle man.”

  “Perhaps he’s trying to stop them. To keep the mirror out of the hands of these men.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “My father . . . a hero? He should have just told me. But then . . . I think he knew I didn’t believe.” She blinked rapidly and swallowed. “What about you? Can the Eye help you?”

  Mark answered simply, “Yes.”

  There were conditions, of course. He’d have to deal with those when the time came.

  “We’ve got to find it,” she said.

  “If your father hasn’t found it already. He’s got the other scroll with all the instructions about where to look.”

  “But I thought . . .”

  Mark fingered the lace at the hem of the petticoat. “This is the third scroll, the one that tells how to use the Eye. Not where to find it.”

  She bit into her lower lip. “Remember when I told you my father gets things mixed up sometimes?”

  “It’s all right. This will be marvelous to know when the time comes.” Mark stood, weaving his fingers across the crown of his head. He went to the window and stared out.

  “I’m sorry.” She approached from behind him and touched his bare back. “I know you’re frustrated.”

  “A little.”

  “Mark . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Who are you?”

  He turned away from the window. “I’m me.”

  He bent. Kissed her lips. Stroked her waist.

  “I mean, who are you? You’re an immortal.” She closed her eyes. “I still have trouble believing. Where did you come from? How long have you existed on this earth?”

  “I’ll tell you later. We’ve had enough talking for now.”

  With his thumb, he hooked the edge of her dressing gown and tugged the thin fabric aside. He pressed a kiss to her neck and slid his mouth lower, licking and tasting the warm skin of her bare shoulder. Mina sighed and lifted her hand to the back of his head. With a gentle push, the shaped cup of her corset released her breast into his open palm. He sucked her nipple, hard enough to elicit a gasp. Drawing back, he admired the pink ring he’d left around her areola, and caressed the moist flesh with his thumb.

  “What do you say we try out the bed?”

  Late the following morning Mina awakened to the sound of male voices and a closing door. She lay naked atop sheets that were strewn every which way, their corners and edges no longer tucked beneath the mattress, the result of a long night of lovemaking. They’d done such things . . . wild things . . . wicked things. Every part of her body ached, as if she’d fought a mighty battle. She supposed she had. They’d wrestled, twisted and mauled each other until morning.

  Get on top.

  No, you.

  On your hands and knees. Yes. Like that. Oh, how pretty.

  She smiled, pushing away the melancholy ache of sadness inside her chest, the one that told her nothing had changed between them. Not really. Her heart remained locked away, safe and sound . . . but it rattled in its cage, discontent and complaining. When would she allow the tangle in her chest to untangle and simply fall in love?

  Not yet. Not now. Not him.

  Comforting sounds came from the sitting room. The pouring of liquid, and the contact of a teacup against a saucer. She threw back the covers and pulled on her dressing gown. Not bothering to look in the mirror or brush her hair, she ventured out.

  Mark stood at the window, looking out over the Thames. In the distance, and visible over his naked shoulder, arose the Egyptian obelisk, Cleopatra’s Needle. He wore only a pair of loose, striped trousers. Golden skin flexed over the taut muscles of his shoulders and arms, and tapered down to sculpted hips. Her mouth went dry. She knew how that skin felt—like warm, smooth perfection.

  “Good morning.” He turned to greet her. He looked like a big, mussed lion, holding a tiny teacup. He wore a pensive expression, but his eyes . . . his gaze warmed when he saw her. “I had the kitchen send up breakfast. There’s tea for you, if you like.”

  A little zing of self-consciousness shot down her spine, into her legs. Things had been so easy between them in the dark. But here . . . now . . . she could not deny a sense of awkwardness.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving toward a brass cart, nestled amidst a solid bank of flowers. She poured a cup full of tea. “Where did all the flowers come from?”

  “There’s a stack of cards and telegraph messages as well, on the escritoire.” Mark came to stand beside her. He set his empty cup on the tray. “The porter said they were brought over from Trafford’s house. I haven’t looked at the cards, but I’m quite sure that ridiculously huge arrangement in the corner is from my banker.”

  “At least there are no red and white-striped roses.”

  “I admit to thinking the same.”

  She pulled the card from the nearest arrangement. “Interesting.”

  “What does it say?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Just one word. Idiot. And it’s underlined about twenty times.”

  He smiled. “That would be from my twin.”

  “Your twin. What is his name?”

  “Her name is Selene.”

  “She seems delightful.” Mina chuckled, returning the card to its place. “When do I get to meet her?”

  “I’m certain she’ll put in an appearance sooner than I prefer.”

  “Will we be going out today?”

  “Much as I’d like to hole away here and make love to you for the foreseeable future . . . we’ve got to make contact with your father and find out if he’s gained possession of the Eye.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Have you heard the Dark Bride’s voice again?”

  “No, and it’s a relief, to be sure. But Transcension doesn’t just go away. Even if Lucinda was the Dark Bride, it’s just a matter of time before something takes her place. I’ve only got until the next wave of energy moves over London to try and make some sort of progress. I can’t predict what sort of condition I’ll be in afterward.”

  She nodded. “We’ll start at the telegraph office. I know a handful of my father’s closest associates. Contacts he must use in order to get around, from country to country. Geographically, they are so far removed from London and its society, I doubt they’ve heard word of his supposed death.”

  “Good.” He bent to press a kiss against her shoulder. “I’ve a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  Mark’s lips twisted. He appeared mildly abashed. “Who was that man outside Trafford’s house?”

  “What man?” She turned from him and pretended to look at the selection of jams.

  “The one on the steps, when we were leaving.” He tugged a length of her hair from the center of the back of her head. “Tall.
Dark haired.”

  He pulled, a teasing, steady tension, until she tipped her head backward. He pressed a kiss to her nose.

  She smiled ruefully. “I won’t be able to hide anything from you, will I?”

  “No. So don’t bother trying.”

  She pressed her lips together. “He is Lieutenant Philander Maskelyne. I made mention of him last night. Remember? Before you told me you were tired of talking.”

  “He’s the English guide your father hired for the Tibetan expedition.”

  She sipped from her cup and swallowed, licking her lower lip. “He’s an adventurer. A well-known ascentionist. And yes. The last time I saw him”—she offered him a hopeful smile—“he was with my father.”

  Mark blinked. “So there’s a chance the lieutenant knows where the professor is.”

  She nodded. “Either they parted ways or my father is here in London as well.”

  “All right then.” Mark’s nostrils flared. “Where can we find this Lieutenant Maskelyne?”

  She planted her cup on the tray.

  “That’s the problem,” she whispered, grasping his arms. “I’ve no idea. I’m so scared I botched things. At the time, his appearance on the steps caught me off guard. I didn’t want you to know about him. Things were different between us yesterday morning. I wanted to find him myself and see what he could tell me about my father. So yes, now he’s out there somewhere in this huge city, and I’ve no idea where. I’m so sorry, Mark. I suspect he’ll try to make contact, I just don’t know when.”

  Mark nodded. “It’s all right. We’ll find him.”

  “But what sort of time frame are we working on here? How long do you have until you . . . well . . . become . . .”

  “A raving demon, bent on the destruction of mankind?”

  She frowned, stricken. “Don’t say it like that.”

  Mark pinched and broke the stem of a fat, pink rose from an arrangement. “Based on the frequency of previous Krakatoan waves, I’d say a week until the next. Maybe two, if I’m lucky.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then . . . you won’t see me anymore.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Mark slid the rose over her ear. “To meet my assassin.”

  She gasped. “Your assassin?”

  He shrugged, as if his revelation were nothing. “That’s the way of things, Mina. The Shadow Guards won’t allow me to become a true threat to them. They’ll destroy me first. And I’ll have to let them.”

  “Oh, Mark, no.”

  He looked at the flowers, then the coffeepot. “I want you to know . . . you’re taken care of. If things go wrong, there will be a benefit to this short marriage of ours. You’ll be the wealthiest widow in England and be able to make all your own choices.”

  “I like making my own choices, but I don’t wish to be the wealthiest widow in England. I don’t want you to die.”

  “It’s all part of the risk I took when I crossed into Transcension, Mina. I knew it could happen. But know I don’t intend for such a thing to ever take place. You’ll be stuck with me for a good long while. I’m going to win this.” His eyes glowed with fervor. “Despite everything that’s happened, I’ve never been more certain.”

  Mina frowned morosely, and turned her attention to the stack of telegraph slips and calling cards. She found them to be a mix of congratulatory messages on their wedding, and notes of sympathy on the death of her aunt. And again, a card from Mr. Matthews. She paused at the next card in the stack.

  Her heart jumped inside her chest. “Oh, Mark. Look here.”

  “What is it?”

  She held it up. “It’s Lieutenant Maskelyne’s. He must have come by the hotel and left it. On the back he’s written the address of a boardinghouse.”

  Mark claimed the card and examined the scrawled words. “Get dressed, sweetheart.”

  Within the hour, they disembarked from a hansom in front of an aging three-story house distinguished from the other structures on the narrow street by its vivid green paint. Mark paid the driver to wait for them at the curb. As they delved down a shadowed corridor, Mina glanced at the peeling wallpaper. “Lieutenant Maskelyne can be rather snobbish. This place isn’t at all to his standards. He must be in hiding, or have run out of funds.”

  Mark scanned the doors. “What was the door number again?”

  She glanced at the card. “C2.”

  “This is it.” He lifted his hand to knock. Mina reached up to stop him.

  “Mark . . .”

  “What is it?”

  She considered him from beneath the brim of her hat. “Well . . . it’s just that he might be angry.”

  “About what?”

  Her lips twisted. “A lot of things.”

  “I don’t care what he is, as long as he tells us where your father is.” He rapped his knuckles against the wood. He leaned against the door frame, thinking it best to allow the man to see a familiar face first. The brass doorknob turned. The door scraped open.

  A low, masculine voice murmured, “Willomina.”

  Mark scowled at the intimate tone.

  Mina, peering inward, smiled brightly. “Lieutenant Mask—”

  Hands grasped her by the wrists and hauled her inside.

  “Philander, wait—”

  The door swung to almost shut. Mark halted the closure with the palm of his hand. With a quick shove, he pushed inside after Mina. There, he stood face-to-face with the man he’d seen on the street outside Trafford’s house. Only now, instead of a suit and hat, the fellow wore linen trousers and a white undershirt. Lean muscles corded his shoulders, arms and neck. He wore his dark hair short, military style, a cut that emphasized the masculine angularity of his skull. Though the man was taller than most, Mark topped him by at least two inches. Still . . . he had to concede that Philander Maskelyne was disturbingly handsome.

  Disturbingly because of the way he stared at Mina.

  Mark’s gaze narrowed on the man’s hands, where he continued to claim his wife. Burn. Burn. Burn.

  The lieutenant snatched his hands away, then stared at his palms. He blinked in disbelief.

  He looked between them, lips curled into a sneer. “So this is he? Your rich viscount?”

  Mina’s expression went blank. Obviously, his bluntly worded greeting stunned her.

  “I saw you on the street yesterday outside my uncle’s house. I’m so relieved to see you safe here in England.”

  “Safe?” he laughed caustically. “Thanks to your father, I’ve got a target on my head. It’s only a matter of time before those crazed immortality freaks find me. Don’t expect me to cover for him either. I’ll sell him out in a second. Bastard shorted me nine hundred pounds.”

  Newspapers littered the desk. Folded into a neat rectangle atop all the others was the feature about their wedding and honeymoon. There were also two pistols and a rifle, polished to a high sheen.

  “I’m sorry you’re in danger and shorted in pay,” Mina responded, clasping her hands together. “But tell me . . . my father is alive?”

  “Alive enough to pack up everything and disappear in the middle of the night.”

  “Where did you see him last?”

  “In Alexandria.”

  “Egypt?” Mark interjected.

  Maskelyne nodded curtly, his nostrils flared. “Whatever he was looking for . . . well, it wasn’t there. I demanded he pay up through the next leg of the journey. The next morning, he was gone.”

  Mina asked, “What was the next leg of your journey?”

  “I don’t know. Bastard wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Did he still have possession of the scrolls?”

  “Damn well, he did. If I’d gotten my hands on them, I swear I’d have thrown them in the Nile. They’re a bloody curse on all of us.”

  Mark warned, “Mind your language in front of my wife.”

  “Your wife.” He chuckled. A lecherous smile cut the lieutenant’s lips. “Want to bet I know your wife better than
you do?”

  Mark lunged, planting a fist to Maskelyne’s face. He felt the satisfying crack of bone against his knuckles.

  “You like the word ‘bloody’?” Mark growled. “Philanderer Masculine? Go look in the mirror.” He raised his fist again.

  “Mark, no.” Mina’s voice broke through the thick haze of his fury. She was on him, a blur of arms and skirts and orange blossom scent, both of her small hands gripping his wrist.

  “You broke my nose,” the lieutenant shouted. Blood streamed out of his nostrils, over his lips.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mina exclaimed. “Please send your doctor bill to the Savoy Hotel.” Mina tugged at Mark’s arm, leading him into the hallway. “We’re finished here. Let’s go.”

  With a shouted curse, Maskelyne slammed the door behind them.

  “Why did you do that?” she hissed. “Was it the voice? Did the voice tell you to do that?”

  “The voice?” he growled. “You’re damn right it was a voice. My voice. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

  “The one, what?”

  His cheeks went taut. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Mina flushed and her mouth fell open—and snapped closed. “That’s none of your business.”

  Mark lunged toward Maskelyne’s door.

  Mina wedged herself between him and the wood. He stared down into her face, his jaw rigid and his eyes reflecting the violence of emotion within.

  She gripped his shoulders. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t realize you were a virgin when we married. I should have been more gentle with you that first time.”

  His head jerked. “What did you say?”

  “Was I your first?” she demanded sardonically.

  “Of course not.”

  She smacked his shoulder. “Then you’ve no business throwing punches at anyone.”

  “He seduced you.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Her face crinkled up with impatience. She stormed down the hallway. “We seduced each other. I was curious. And for your information, completely willing. Stupid, but willing.”

  “Did you love him?” he called after her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Pursuing her, he grasped her arm. “Did you love him?”

  She pulled his hand and flattened it to her temple. “You tell me. You can do that, can’t you? Read my emotions? My thoughts. Yes, yes, I’ve sensed you prodding around in there, especially last night when we were . . . well, you know. Anyway, have at them. I’m an open book.”