by Mia Marlowe
Samuel seemed to know. He drove her to a pinnacle and then tumbled off it with her. Everything was suddenly lightning flashes of sensation and shuddering limbs and the hot steady throb of Samuel’s life spilling into her.
It went on and on as time wove around them, loose-jointed and tottering like a drunkard. Maybe it would never end and she’d be joined to this man for eternity—one soul, one beating heart between them.
But then the glorious madness faded.
Meg was suddenly aware of the lumpiness of the mattress under her. She shifted under Samuel’s weight.
He raised himself up on his elbows, his silver-gray eyes shining down at her. “I wish I could make you mine, Meg. Before God and man, I do.”
She forced herself to smile. “Seems to me you’ve already made me yours in the way that counts. And I’ve made you mine.”
Her heart still hammered in her chest, but not from excitement now. Everything was ending far too quickly.
A shadow passed over his handsome face. “Grigori can assume any shape he pleases. Mine included. I think from now on if we become separated, even for a little while, we need a code between us.”
“A code?”
“So you’ll know it’s me.” He smiled. “How about if I call you ‘Sunshine’?”
“Coming from a student of the stars I’d expect ‘Starlight.’”
“No, let it be Sunshine. It’s cheerful enough to be out of character for me, and you are just as life-giving as the sun to me.” His smile faded. “Never let Grigori know we’ve been together like this. He’d use the knowledge for his own ends. And if a day dawns when you discover something has happened to me—”
She put her fingers to his mouth lest he speak the unspeakable and tempt the devil. “That day will not dawn.”
It couldn’t. There would be no dawn in a world where he was not. Or if it came, she’d make sure she wasn’t there to see it.
For better or worse, the die is cast. I am hopelessly enamored of Meg Anthony. Poets who claim to wallow in impossible love have no conception of the word’s true meaning.
Oh, how I wish I did not.
~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Thirteen
The innkeeper rapped lightly on their door. Judging from the meaty, yeasty smell wafting through the cracks and the keyhole, he’d arrived with their supper. Samuel rose from bed, wrapped a sheet around his waist, and collected their meal at the door, giving the man another generous handful of coins. Meg dove under the covers, setting the comforter shaking while she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Samuel figured it was nervous laughter. She was embarrassed at being almost caught in the act.
It was one thing to be swived royally. It was quite another for someone else to know she had been.
“Come out, Meg. He’s gone,” Samuel said as he set the supper tray down next to the pitcher and ewer on the washstand. The innkeeper had done well by them. There was a crock filled with stew, a loaf of barley bread, still warm, and two mugs of ale. “Everything will get cold if you don’t come now.”
She flipped the coverlet down so that her face was only visible from the nose up. “Is the door locked?”
“As much any can be in this place. The latch is pretty loose.” Samuel sniffed appreciatively at the steaming crock. He tore the crusty loaf in half, pinched off a piece of bread, and dipped it in the stew. With a satisfied sigh, he popped the bread in his mouth and chewed. After their long night and day of travel, it was heaven in a bowl. “The stew will be as gone as our innkeeper if you don’t come get your share soon.”
“You can’t expect me to lark about the room without a stitch.”
He shrugged and helped himself to a bowlful of the meaty stew. “A man can dream, can’t he?”
“A man could also hand me my chemise, at least.”
He waggled his brows at her and grinned. “Now why would a man do that?”
“A man might not,” she allowed, lowering the covers a bit, but still clutching them close under her chin, “but a gentleman certainly would. Please, Samuel.”
He leaned against the washstand, continuing to wolf down his stew. Bed play was hungry work. “Don’t you realize I love a chance to see every bit of you, Meg?”
“If you say so,” she said doubtfully. “But now that we’ve…I mean, since you know all about me—”
“Oh, I highly doubt that. They say it takes a lifetime to unravel the mystery of a woman.”
A lifetime we don’t have.
He shoved away the unwelcome thought. It punctured the buoyant feeling he’d enjoyed since claiming Meg as his own. Making love with her was all he’d imagined the act would be and more. He hoped he hadn’t rushed her, but judging from her responses, it had been just as pleasurable for her as for him. He’d never experienced such a strong sense of accomplishment over a new skill.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
With any luck at all, he and Meg would have time for more practice in the string bed. After all, the memories he made with her here would have to last a lifetime of empty nights without her.
And I’ve circled back to the crux of our problem again, blast it.
Samuel set down his empty bowl and retrieved her discarded chemise. Bringing it to her bedside, he delivered it with an exaggerated bow, determined to keep the mood light. “A pox upon me! Your effects, my lady.”
“I’m not a lady, not really.” She sat up, covers tucked under her armpits and reached for the garment. He held it just beyond her grasp to tease her.
“You are to me. Now, how does the lady propose to reward her willing slave?”
She crossed her arms over her chest in consternation. “What do you want?”
“As you suspected, I want to see you lark about without a stitch, but clearly that’s not going to happen. So I’ll settle for a kiss instead.” He bent down and took one before she could argue him out of it. To his delight, she draped her arms around his neck and drew out their kiss. The coverlet fell, baring her breasts, so he reached for them. They were perfect, just the right size to fit his palms and topped with pink nipples that hardened in his hands. He gently kneaded her breasts and she groaned into his mouth.
Then she broke off their kiss, pulled the coverlet back up and grinned at him. “You were concerned about my stew getting cold, I believe.”
“Hang the stew.” He dropped the sheeting at his waist and started to climb back into bed with her, but she straight-armed him.
“No, I think you’re right. I ought to eat while it’s hot. Besides”—she cast him a perfectly wicked smile filled with promise—“you’ll want some more, too. You’ll need your strength for later.”
She disappeared under the covers with her chemise and after a few moments of thrashing, reemerged wearing the garment, every button neatly fastened and every ribbon tied. Meg slipped out of bed and padded over to the fireplace. Poking the wood into a better configuration, she coaxed the waning fire back to life.
Samuel watched her with absorption.
“There,” she said, dusting her hands on each other. “Aren’t you thankful we have our own fire in the room?”
“I asked for the best accommodations available.” Samuel had never been gladder to have more money than he could spend in several lifetimes. “But I’m more thankful that your chemise is nearly transparent when you stand before that fire.”
“For shame, my lord. Has anyone ever told you you’re very single-minded?” she scolded, but he couldn’t take her words to heart. The corners of her mouth kept turning up.
“I never expected to become a satyr, but I seem to be. I guess it’s because I’ve been saving up for so long.” He was ready for her again and aching to see her as bare as Eve. He decided to lead by example. Samuel dropped the sheet and strode across the room toward her. In Eden, Grigori had told him, the man and his wife were naked and were not ashamed. Samuel felt no shame before Meg. He hoped she’d soon be comfortable enough around him to feel none as well.
“I can’t get enough of you, Meg.”
When he tried to pull her into his embrace, she side-stepped to pull free of him. “Stew first, me later.” She softened the rejection with a smile. “I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He turned his back on her, strode to the washstand, and started to pour water from the pitcher into the basin.
“Oh!” The word popped out like a mouse squeak. “There it is.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “There what is?”
“Your birthmark. The one that proves you’re Lord Badewyn.” Meg covered her mouth to mask a giggle. “It’s on your bum.”
He rubbed his right nether cheek where he knew the dratted thing was. “Never seen it myself.”
“I should hope not. You’d have to be frightfully limber to twist around that far.” She drew closer still eyeing his bum. “It’s a perfectly proportioned five pointed star the color of port wine.”
“I know what it is,” he said testily. It had been mortifying to have to prove himself to Malachai by displaying the blasted thing for the steward’s inspection. “How do you know of its existence?”
“I heard about the mark from Cadwallader. The only thing she didn’t know was where exactly it was located on your body. She just said it was in an ‘unmentionable’ place.”
Thank God for small favors. “How could your maid know about my birth mark? Only Malachai has seen it.”
“But the help were all told that you’d been verified as the rightful heir and it seems all your older brothers had a similar mark. The story was handed down from one generation to the next,” Meg said. “It’s become the stuff of legend below stairs in Faencaern Castle.”
“A star-shaped mark on my bum?” He chuckled. “Some legend.”
“Clearly, your people are hungry for entertainment of any kind. But according to Cadwallader, they all knew about the mark and counted it as indisputable evidence that you are the right-wise born Lord Badewyn. That little sign relieved them out of all knowing,” she said. “But the hiding place of the mark on your august person, well, as you can imagine, it’s caused no end of speculation among those who serve you.”
“It seems I shall have to find some other way to entertain them. Anything to take their collective minds off my bum.” He turned back and continued to pour water into the basin so he and Meg could wash.
But before he could plunge his hands into the liquid, he began to see flickering images in the surface. He stared fixedly at them.
Meg started to shoulder around him. “If you’re not going to wash, I will.”
“Wait.” He stopped her with an arm flung before her chest. “I see something in the basin and when a vision comes unsought, I must Watch it.”
Meg stepped back to allow him room to peer into the increasingly still water.
The vision was a dark one. Not sinister. Merely dark. But there was enough light for him to see a pair of fellows prying open the ground floor window of an elegant town house. Once they got it open wide enough, the older one gave the younger a shove inside. Then the younger reached back to haul his companion in after him. It was no easy trick. Neither of them were small men and the window hadn’t opened very far. The last fellow in seemed to be stuck for a while until the first one put a booted foot against the wall and heaved with all his might.
Samuel never heard anything when he Watched, but since the intruders seemed to have encountered some difficultly, he didn’t think they’d made their entry in complete silence. If there was anyone in residence at the town house, they’d have heard the pair of draw-latches bumbling about.
His vision expanded to follow them. The room they entered was well-appointed, with a long, centrally located table and twelve matching chairs.
A dining room.
The furnishings were mahogany, ornate with thick carving on each of the table legs and on the backs and arms of the chairs. There was a large sideboard whose drawers were probably filled with fine linens. The intruders didn’t stop in the dining room, but instead made their way to the adjoining butler’s pantry. Ornate “C’s” were carved into every drawer and door panel. Samuel had seen that crest before.
Then the image faded. He rubbed his burning eyes. They always felt like glowing coals after a Watching.
“What did you See?” Meg asked in a small voice.
“It was Camden House in London.” Samuel had met the Duke of Camden when he’d participated in a Season all those years ago. Unlike most of the events Samuel had attended, his evening dining with the duke had been most enjoyable. The food had been excellent, the wine and liquor top-notch and the dinner conversation stimulating. He and the duke had become fast friends, even though Samuel refused to become a permanent member of the Order of the M.U.S.E. His Grace’s home, like Camden himself, was understated, elegant, and immediately recognizable.
“What about Camden House?” Meg asked.
“Two men are breaking into it.”
Meg’s face blanched. “Who are they?”
“I don’t recognize them, but the intrusion seems to be happening right now.”
“How can you tell that?”
“I can’t explain it, but when I See something unbidden, it’s usually an ongoing event.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. A pinprick headache always seemed to form there after a scrying episode. “To look either backward or forward requires me to call forth a vision. This one volunteered itself.”
“What were the men in your vision like?” she asked as she washed her hands. He followed her example, leaving his temporary scrying vessel scummy with soap.
“They were both large fellows. Roughly dressed.” He dished up a bowl of stew for Meg and thrust it into her hands. Then he helped himself to what was left in the crock. “One is considerably older than the other. Father and son maybe.”
“Or uncle and nephew,” Meg said under her breath. “What are they doing now?”
Samuel shook his head. “The vision is gone.”
“Can you conjure it again?”
He set his stew bowl down and peered into the soapy water. “I can try, but since I don’t know the men I saw, I have no specific person upon which to focus.” He wished he could call up more of the event. Even if success was unlikely, he’d attempt anything for her.
“Never mind. I think I know them. At least I know how to find out for sure.” She hurried over to the rocking chair. “Bring the candle close, please.”
He did as he was bidden. “What are you doing?”
“You gave me a demonstration of your gift. Now it’s time for you to see mine. The duke has forbidden me to do it, but this is how I Find.” She took his hand and put it on her shoulder. “Keep touching me until I return.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“You’ll see.” She sat, closed her eyes, and murmured something that sounded like two names. Then to Samuel’s dismay, her whole body stiffened. Her eyes rolled back in her head and then she slumped down in the chair. Her complexion took on the waxy pallor of death. When he touched her cheek, he felt it cooling. Between one heartbeat and the next, she’d left him.
He picked her up and held her limp body close. Her head lolled back. She was boneless as a cat. “Oh, Meg, what have you done?”
She hovered under the thatched ceiling, peering down at Samuel and her discarded house of flesh. He looked so distraught, she almost whipped back into her body to comfort him. She should have explained what was about to happen, but if the burglary was happening now there was no time to lose.
And besides, the sooner she went, the sooner she’d return. With both the candle to light her way and Samuel’s touch to anchor her essence to her body, she was certain she’d have no trouble finding it again. She bent her will toward locating her uncle and cousin.
Free as a hawk on the wind, Meg soared through the passes of the Welsh mountains until she reached the rolling English countryside. It seemed to blur beneath her as she “thought” her way to the city on the Thames. London
spread out below her, a spider’s web of streets and courts. She recognized the broader ways of Mayfair and found the duke’s chimney, having balanced more than once against his distinctive iron weathercock when she went Finding without permission. She dived down through the roof, passing through the attic rafters and the servants’ quarters on the topmost floor as easily as if they were water. The butler’s pantry was another two stories down.
As she feared she would, she discovered Rowney and Oswald trying to wedge open the locked drawer that held the duke’s silver. The pry bar slipped and made a loud scraping noise against the fine English oak. The men froze, listening for sounds of someone rousing in the house. When they heard nothing, Rowney punched Oswald’s shoulder.
“Careful, idjit!” Rowney hissed. “Just ’cause most of the household is gone, it don’t mean the old geezer what serves as the duke’s steward and a few other lackeys might not be about.”
Oswald waggled the bar with menace. “If anyone makes to interfere with us, I’ll persuade ’em to let us alone with a good clout to the head.”
Meg would have gasped had she been in her body. If dear Mr. Bernard tried to stop their thievery, her cousin would damage him for sure. And maybe for good.
“If you think you can do better with the pry bar, old man, you’re welcome to try.” Oswald held out it to Rowney.
“Give it here then. There’s a trick to is, see. It’s not all muscle. Sometimes, you have to use a bit of what them Frenchies call ‘finesse.’”
Rowney slipped the narrow end of the pry bar into the crack in the drawer near the lock and bore down gradually, increasing the pressure until the oak gapped.
“I see what you’re about now. Hold it steady.” Oswald slipped his finger in and depressed the locking mechanism. The drawer opened with ease, allowing the pair to gaze down at the sterling silverware nestled in its velvet-lined compartments.
“Gorblimey,” Rowney said in the awe-filled tone most folk reserve for a supremely religious experience. “We’ve found ourselves a treasure trove and no mistake.”