by Mia Marlowe
After he opened the hatch door, she shot a parting glance at the night sky. Some of their evening together had been as magical as the heavens and some of it was just as frankly bewildering. Meg headed down the steep stairs to his study. Then in silence, they made their way down the long curving steps of the keep, across the bailey and through the great hall again.
By the time they reached the foot of the stairs that led up to the guest rooms, Meg decided castles were built to confuse people with all their ups and downs and twists and turns. Perhaps like the ladders used in the old keep, everything was about confounding an enemy. The entire place had a defensive posture. Samuel Templeton couldn’t have chosen a home that more closely reflected his guarded personality.
Without exchanging a word, they climbed up to the floor where her chamber was. She stopped at the door with a hand upon the latch. “Thank you, Samuel.”
“I’m pleased to have been able to show you Fomalhaut.” He inclined his head slightly, but the rest of him was ram-rod straight.
“You showed me more than that.”
“The night sky is splendid. I was happy to be your guide.”
He’d been her guide for more than star-gazing. Her lips still tingled. “No, I mean you showed me a little of who you are. At the risk of not seeming very lady-like once again, I would like to know more.”
If it were possible, he seemed to stiffen even further. “Miss Anthony, I cannot conceive of a world where you are less than a lady.”
You might be surprised.
Meg was more than a little surprised that he’d stopped calling her by her Christian name so quickly. Had their kiss meant so little to him? Surely she wasn’t the only one who sensed what might be a connection between them?
His face gave away nothing. He might have been carved of granite.
But Meg wouldn’t be swayed by the mask he tried to hide behind. They’d had a moment together—a splendid time when the world seemed to spin a little slower and nothing beyond the circle of Samuel’s arms meant a thing. He must have felt it, too.
Whether he had or not, Meg wasn’t about to act as if it hadn’t happened. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Good night, Samuel. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Then she hurried into her chamber and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, aghast at her audacity. She’d not only let a man kiss her this evening, she had kissed him. And with no encouragement on his part at all. Lady Easton would have a conniption if she learned of it.
She covered her face with her hands, her cheeks heating with embarrassment.
Then she heard something. It was the soft, but unmistakable shifting of booted feet on the stone corridor. Lord Badewyn was still there on the other side of her door. She crouched down to peer through the keyhole. Lamplight illuminated the corridor, but he was too close to the door for her to see above his waist. She pressed her ear to the door. He seemed to be just standing there. Then she heard the tramp of his footfalls as he walked away, but before he left, she heard something else.
“Good night, Meg.”
She clasped her hands to her chest. He’d called her by name. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Meg Anthony was wrong.
Someone had missed her. When Samuel reached the great hall, he saw that the smaller dining chamber adjoining it was still flickering with the light of dozens of dear beeswax candles. He strode into the room.
His father was seated at the head of the long table. Partially empty platters and serving dishes were spread over the white linen. Globs of gravy stained the cloth. Grigori had hitched one leg over the arm of his chair. He’d discarded his jacket, untied his cravat, and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He looked a proper rogue, an image reinforced when he dispensed with a goblet and drank straight from a bottle of the best Riesling in Samuel’s cellar.
“There you are, son. Welcome to my very empty table.”
“I sent my regrets.”
“So did our Miss Anthony. I can only surmise the two of you were together.”
It was pointless to lie to Grigori. His father was too good a liar not to smell untruths in others.
“I was showing Fomalhaut to her,” Samuel said.
“Brilliant. A rare star this time of year. A rare man as can find it. Hope you showed her something else, too. A man of your endowment shouldn’t be shy.” His brows waggled suggestively. “I can only assume she was properly impressed. You are my son, after all.” His words slurred together. If Samuel didn’t know better, he’d say his father was bosky. “You see, son, courting a female is not all that difficult.”
“I’m not courting her.”
“The devil you aren’t.”
“I thought you said he didn’t like you to swear by him.”
“Unlike the Almighty, the Prince of Darkness is not omniscient.” Grigori took a long pull on the Riesling. “What Lucifer doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”
Samuel sat down at the far end of the table. In addition to the congealing food, there were several bottles of whisky lying on their sides amid the epicurean squalor. “I gather you sent the servants on to bed.”
“I did. No point in having them stand around. Can’t have a decent conversation with any of them. Or an indecent one, come to that.” Grigori knocked back the bottle and then growled in frustration because it was empty. Flinging it into the nearby fireplace, he shattered the bottle into thousands of glistening shards. “Well, maybe Malachai. He’s a good listener at least, but that’s the whole of it.”
Samuel had known Grigori to consume copious quantities of alcohol before, but never once had he shown the least sign of being in his cups.
“You’re drunk,” Samuel accused.
“As a lord.” Grigori put a fist to his chest in an effort to stifle a belch but he wasn’t successful.
“Why get so jug-bitten?”
“It’s tradition.” Grigori pointed his forefinger skyward. “Each time a son of mine goes courting, the Grand Cycle begins again. It would be a sin not to mark the occasion.”
“You have odd notions about what constitutes a sin, but I suppose that’s to be expected,” Samuel said. “Besides, there will be no cycle this time, grand or otherwise. I will break it.”
“You won’t.” Grigori shook his head slowly. “Do you think you’re the first to have tried?”
“I’ll succeed.”
“Ballocks. There’s no point in resisting. This is the way of things and there’s no changing. I’ll prove it to you.” He stalked the length of the table, popped the cork on another bottle, and upended the last of the Riesling into an empty silver tray near Samuel. The golden liquid lapped at the edges of the dish and then settled into a still translucent pool.
“There you are, my Watcher. Look for yourself.” He grasped Samuel by the neck and forced him to stare at the clear surface. “Tell me what you see for our Miss Anthony.”
Samuel was a big man. He was stronger than most, yet he couldn’t match Grigori for brute strength and he knew it. Closing his eyes would be pointless. If thwarted, Grigori would only grow more violent. All Samuel could control was his own mind. He forced any thought of Meg away lest he trigger an image of her in the shimmering liquid. Instead, he bore down on thoughts of his father. The surface of the Riesling flickered.
The world around him faded.
Samuel heard rippling water. And feminine laughter. The air was heavy with the breath of green growing things. He pushed forward, shoving aside the undergrowth to reveal a hidden pool. A group of young women, wrapped in white linen, disappeared into the woods, leaving one of their number behind. She was still hip-deep in the water, turned away from him. Her dark hair hung down her back, but it didn’t disguise her slender waist or the graceful flare of her hips. What he could see of her olive skin was flawless.
“Atara.” Samuel recognized the voice as Grigori’s.
The girl turned and seemed to look right at him. Samuel was seeing the girl through his father’s eyes
, he realized. His muscles twitched under his skin at the thought of inhabiting Grigori for even the short span of a Watching. But he still had a firm sense of himself, so he made no effort to cut off the vision.
The girl’s dark eyes were wide-set and lovely, a trifle alarmed if the whites that showed around them were any measure. Her features were delicate, a pure expression of the Golden Mean. In bone structure, it was an ancient face, everything in exact proportion, as stylized a beauty as any Grecian sculptor ever conceived. It was a face of such symmetry and balance, Samuel’s chest constricted. Beauty always moved him, which was part of why the night sky so often held him captive.
The girl’s mouth turned up in a timid smile.
“Atara.” This time the voice belonged to one of the women who’d already left the pool. “Where are you?”
“I’m home,” Atara murmured and began to swim toward him. “Home with you, Grigori.”
She rose from the pool, water sloughing from her skin, leaving her glistening and—
As he closed his eyes, the vision was abruptly cut off. “Atara,” Samuel said. “I saw Atara.”
Grigori released Samuel’s neck and backed away, a stricken look on his face. Then he grabbed his own ears and bent double. He erupted with a sound that was a cross between a bellow and a roar. The noise went on and on. Everyone in the castle would shiver in their beds, clutch their blankets a little tighter and pray, hoping the horrific sound was just a trick of the wind howling through the mountain passes.
Samuel knew that whatever else the noise was, it was the sound of a creature in grave distress.
Grigori finally ran out of air. Then, he bolted from the chamber.
And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.
~ Genesis 6:1-2, King James Bible
Chapter Nine
Samuel found Grigori slumped in a ball before the faded tapestry in the great hall. He was pounding his fist on the unforgiving stone floor.
“Stop it,” Samuel said. “Or—”
“Or what? Are you afraid I’ll hurt myself? Do you think I haven’t tried?” Grigori laughed mirthlessly as he substituted his forehead for his fist and continued to pound. Finally, when he couldn’t even raise a bruise, he gave up and sat upright. “I am reserved for judgment. It appears I don’t get to punish myself.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Do you think only humans know how to grieve? She was my wife, Samuel. My only wife.” Grigori rose haltingly and put a hand on the frail tapestry, caressing the lone standing woman’s figure. “I loved Atara. With every fiber of my being, I loved her. She was all I knew of Woman. All I ever wanted to know. So lovely. So…trusting. Together, we made a whole world. How could I not give up everything for her?”
Samuel’s gaze flicked to the portion of the tapestry where the angelic figure was tumbling from heaven. When Meg had studied it that first day, she’d had no idea she was looking at his family’s history.
Grigori’s grief dissolved from rage into alcohol-sodden tears. He sobbed as if his heart would break.
As if he has a heart.
Samuel had no comfort to give him. Even if Grigori had acted impulsively or in ignorance, his private hell was of his own making. Now that Samuel’s father knew better, he was still intent on inflicting the same pain over and over, on each of his offspring from one generation to the next.
The sins of the father.
Grigori collapsed to his knees. “I didn’t know what would happen to her. You have to believe that I didn’t know.”
“I’m willing to believe you didn’t know the first time.”
“How could I?” he snarled. “Women give birth all the time on this pismire planet.”
“And some of them die doing it.”
“But not all of them.” Grigori loosed a string of profanity, breathtaking in both its crudity and its eloquence. Then he fell into sobs again. “Why must all mine?”
“Maybe because you can’t mix angel with human and not create a monster.”
“You are not a monster, son. You are Nephilim. Be proud of it.” Grigori narrowed his eyes. “You are part of a mighty race, ‘men of renown,’ according to scripture. Would you argue with holy writ?”
“You certainly did.” Samuel folded his arms over his chest. Normally, he didn’t like to tangle with Grigori on the Good Book, but he was sure he had the high ground this time. “What about ’Thou shalt have no other gods before me?’”
“Lucifer isn’t my god. He’s my general. There’s a difference. He may want to be God, but trust me, he doesn’t have the character for the position.” Grigori untucked his shirt from the waist of his trousers and used the tail end to wipe his face. “Besides, don’t go quoting the commandments to me. There is a different set of rules for angels.”
“You have free will as humans do.”
“Yes, to my sorrow, we do have that,” Grigori said, sounding more sober by the minute. “But no hope of redemption.”
Meg pulled off the tired old bombazine gown to get ready for bed. There were only a few things to commend the ensemble. First, the stiff fabric wore like iron. It would last far longer than the prettier, more fragile dresses in her wardrobe. And secondly, the gown was designed so that Meg could get into and out of it without needing a maid’s help. While Cadwallader would have been eager to hear about the evening’s events, Meg wasn’t ready to share them with anyone. Not even her gregarious maid.
He kissed me.
Even if the kiss had ended strangely, she still hugged that little secret to herself. Lord Badewyn had kissed her.
And he’d called her by her Christian name. Sometimes even married people didn’t do that. Or if they did, it was only in private. Just like the agreement she and Samuel had made about it.
He was a very closed-off man, but in several ways, he’d opened to her tonight. She longed to dive into him, to discover who he really was. She was sure it would be worth the effort. Even if it only led to one more kiss. Of course, it might lead to…other things, the kind of things Meg had been warned against all her life.
Ladies were expected to remain pure, of course, but if their dowries were large enough, a future husband might wink at an indiscretion. Low-born women knew they had only one chip in the game. Give it up and a girl may as well start kicking up her heels for pay. Meg had guarded her virginity as if it were her last hoarded coin.
But Samuel’s kiss had made her want. He’d made her realize it would be easy to give herself to him.
This flirting business was a dangerous game.
Meg was stripped down to just her chemise and stays when the horrific howling began. She ran to the arrow slit that served as a window, thinking it was the wind, but there was no trace of a breeze. The sound, whatever it was, came from inside the castle. It was a noise filled with excruciating pain.
Suddenly she needed to know where Samuel was. Every bit of her ached to be certain he was safe.
“I’m ever so sorry, Your Grace, but this is an emergency,” she muttered as she lit a spill from the banked fire and transferred the flame to a candle. She placed the candle on the small table next to the only chair in the chamber. At least if she was going to disobey her mentor and use her gift without permission, she’d be as careful as she could about it. The candle would help her spirit return to her body. It was no guarantee of safety, but it was better than going without a friendly light to guide her home. As the roaring went on and on, she settled into the chair and emptied her mind of everything but one name.
“Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn.”
Then between one breath and the next, she was hovering near the ceiling, gazing down at her empty body. Usually, she was happy to fly free of it, but tonight, her body had shown her it was capable of some amazingly pleasant and frustrating sensations. She definitely had more t
o learn in that department. Then she realized that the awful sound had stopped, cut off like a thread snipped by a pair of shears.
The silence lit a fire under her. She had to Find Samuel. Zipping through stone and mortar, she homed in on his essence like a pigeon coming to roost. He was in the great hall with his Uncle Grigori who seemed to be pounding his own forehead on the unforgiving floor.
Why he didn’t collapse or, at the very least, bleed profusely, was a wonder.
With relief, she saw that Samuel seemed fine and was in no immediate danger. Meg knew she should whisk back to her body, but she burned to know more about this very strange encounter between the two men. It wasn’t polite to eavesdrop and Lady Easton had drummed that point home with thoroughness.
But as Vesta says, “Sometimes, it’s the only way to learn anything worth knowing.”
She strained to listen, but try as she might, she could only hear Samuel’s side of the conversation. Grigori’s lips moved. Surely he was speaking, but in her present spirit form, she could hear nothing coming from his mouth. She was used to not being able to discern smells, but this was the first time she’d been unable to hear someone speak while she was Finding. Judging from Samuel’s words, he and his uncle were deep in a theological discussion, which certainly didn’t explain why Grigori was trying to bash his own head in. Or why he erupted in a fit of tears.
“You may not be able to redeem yourself,” Samuel said, “but you can stop this blasted cycle you started.”
Grigori gestured wildly, clearly impassioned, but Meg couldn’t make out a single word.
“No, I’m not ungrateful,” Samuel said. “I’m fully aware it has taken hundreds of years for you to amass the wealth that allows me to live in this castle—”
Hundreds of years? Grigori wasn’t that old. Judging from the sprinkling of gray at his temples, he’d seen perhaps forty-some winters. Surely he was no older than the Duke of Camden and His Grace wasn’t counted a graybeard at all. And besides that, what did Mr. Templeton have to do with the estate? Meg knew enough about how titles and lands passed from one generation to the next to know Faencaern Castle must have belonged to Samuel’s father before him, not his uncle.