by Zoë Archer
He held the banyan out. “A shave, my lord?”
Bram took the robe and donned it, then sat. The rich fragrance of sandalwood soap rose up as Cleeve used a boar bristle brush to stir up the foam for shaving. As he did this, a maid appeared in the door, a tray in her hands.
“Coffee and rolls, my lord?”
At his nod, she came in and set the tray down on the bedside table. He paid his servants well to remember his habits, and they did. The maid poured him a cup of coffee—no sugar, no milk, just as he preferred—and set it on the washstand so he might have it close by.
“You chuckle, my lord,” said Cleeve, dabbing the foam on his cheeks and chin. “Something amusing at the theater?”
“This is all so damned ordinary.”
“My lord?”
“All this.” Bram waved at the shaving supplies laid out on the washstand, and the maid tidying his bed. “Everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed.”
Cleeve did his best to hide his confusion. Perhaps he thought his master still weathered the death of a close friend. Perhaps he believed his master showed the very first signs of madness. Whatever the valet thought, he simply answered, “Yes, my lord. Will you hold still, my lord?”
Bram remained motionless as Cleeve glided the razor down his cheeks, but his gaze flicked to the ghost’s hazy outline hovering in the corner. What did she think of this, the daily rituals of an English nobleman? Were they different from how men of her time met the day?
Likely she thought him a selfish rogue, attending to his toilette instead of rampaging up and down the streets of London, seeking the Devil and preparing for battle.
“Please do not frown, my lord. It makes it more difficult for me to shave you.”
He attempted to smooth out his scowl. But anger still seethed within him. He’d seen his share of battle and wanted nothing more to do with it.
Life would continue as it always had for him. Everything must remain the same. And if Livia or John objected to that, they could go hang.
“Lay out my fencing clothes,” he said once Cleeve wiped the last of the shaving foam from him. The academy had a chamber for changing one’s garments, but he did not want to go through the tedium of dressing, undressing, and dressing again.
The valet bowed and, after putting away the shaving supplies, moved to the clothes press. He pulled out a lightweight shirt and soft doeskin breeches, and a short padded jacket. Bram and Whit often practiced their swordsmanship first thing in the day. Bram had abandoned these regular training sessions after Whit deserted the Hellraisers—training at home rather than try to cling to what had been lost. Yet Bram would make everything return to normal.
Dressing for his practice, he felt Livia’s continued stare. His jaw tightened. Yes, he’d go on as he always had, and there wasn’t a damned thing the ghost could do about it.
The shouts and grunts of men echoed in the arched ceiling. Pale sunlight washed down through high windows, illuminating men moving back and forth across the scarred wooden floor. They lunged and danced, thin swords forming arcs and whistling as they cut through the air, and off to one side, a man vaulted up and over a wooden horse. Though she had no sense of smell, Livia imagined the large chamber reeked of sweat.
She hovered, unseen, beside Bram as he strode into the hall. Though the clothing and weapons differed from her own time, she recognized this place.
Men are always looking for an excuse to fight one another, she thought.
Because we’re good at it, Bram answered.
And not much else. It’s a marvel we women keep you around at all.
You like us between your thighs well enough.
She had no answer to that. Gods and goddesses, how she missed the pleasures of the flesh! So basic, so satisfying. The most essential element of life. She hadn’t felt a man’s touch for over a millennium. Was it any surprise that her thoughts kept straying toward the carnal, especially when Bram flaunted his delicious masculine form?
Easier to think of frustrated lust than the Dark One’s strengthening power. She had been pulled behind Bram as he rode toward this fighting school, weaving her way through the streets. Even in daylight hours, a combustible tension lay heavy over the city, a thick, choking net of malevolence revealed in mistrustful glances and broken windows.
“Good day, Lord Rothwell.” A red-faced man with close-cut hair stepped forward, a sword beneath his arm. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “It’s been a spell since last we’ve seen you.” He glanced past Bram, and for a moment, Livia thought the man might see her. But his gaze moved right through her. He was looking for someone. As though Bram usually arrived with company.
“Afternoon, Tranmere.” Bram’s voice was clipped. “I’m looking for a good, hard fight today.”
Tranmere made a tsking sound. “You an’ everyone else, my lord. Not so much practicing proper swordsmanship as it’s a battle royale. Been like this for weeks, but today’s especially fierce.”
Turning her attention back to the rows of men, she noted their bared teeth, their wild swings at one another. As if they were truly battling, driven forward by a need for blood and pain.
She knew who was responsible.
“Perfect,” said Bram. “Find me a partner.”
Tranmere bowed before hurrying off.
Why do you come to this place? she asked Bram. I would’ve thought you’d had enough of fighting.
Anger coursed through him. He still didn’t care for the fact that she’d experienced his memories.
Always need to be prepared, he answered.
Prepared for what?
Anything.
Tranmere trotted forward, a large man trailing behind him. He and Bram nodded to one another.
“Mr. Worton will be happy to spar with you, my lord. I believe his fighting style matches well with yours.”
“I don’t care for pretty forms and dainty foot positions,” Worton said. “Just a good, tough fight.” The sword he carried wasn’t as thin as those used by the other men, looking more like a weapon of war than a genteel sport.
“Then I’m your man.” Bram hefted his own sword, and it was equally brutal.
Without another word, Bram and Worton paced off toward an unoccupied portion of the chamber. Unseen, Livia drifted through the fencers as they leapt and attacked. Intriguing, how the techniques had changed over the millennia. Though Tranmere had bemoaned the lack of finesse the fighters showed today, they were still quite different from the soldiers and gladiators she’d seen practicing or in actual combat.
She’d always had a fondness for soldiers and gladiators. They made for very good company in bed. Their calloused hands, their uncomplicated need. Subtle and nuanced? No. But she seldom wanted subtlety in lovemaking. Had wanted. Never again would she feel the sweat of a lover’s body on her own skin, or the vibrations of their groans against her flesh.
She must stop thinking these tormenting thoughts. Yet it was difficult when surrounded by young, hale men in their prime, all gleaming with perspiration as they vigorously used their bodies.
The tie that bound her to Bram drew her through the chamber and close to where he and Worton stood. They each took a few practice swings through the air, loosening their muscles, until, satisfied, they faced one another. After a terse bow, they took up ready stances, swords upraised.
Worton swung. His blade only tapped Bram’s sword. Once, twice. Getting a sense of Bram’s readiness. Bram held his position, not allowing Worton to drive him back. Yet he wasn’t content to let his opponent do all the testing. He, too, took a handful of investigative swings, as though sounding the depths of a shore. The men held themselves loosely, but the casualness belied a tension even Livia could sense.
Bram and Worton circled one another. Their strikes grew harder, more direct. A swing, a block.
The tension suddenly broke as Worton lunged. Bram countered with quick, fluid motion. And then the fight truly began.
She had seen combat. In the gladiato
rial ring. In a few skirmishes as she had journeyed from Rome to Britannia. Like any good Roman, she admired fine fighting skill, for it revealed not merely a strong body, but also a quick mind. She could claim no expertise in the techniques of armed battle, only knowing talent when she saw it.
Her gaze held fast to Bram. She could not look away even if the Dark One appeared right beside her. This—Bram in combat—this was beautiful.
Bram and Worton traded strikes. They circled, struck, lunged and darted back. Worton had the advantage of height and reach, yet Bram had speed and vicious accuracy. Their swords rang as they exchanged blows. A furious exchange.
She was rapt. This was not a genteel sparring exercise. These men seemed gripped by a need to hurt one another. They grunted as their padded jackets absorbed the sword point’s force—though the points were dulled, the strikes still would have wounded were it not for the jackets’ protection. Worton fought hard, relentlessly, yet he could not match Bram for ability.
In truth, Bram seemed made for this. He had a fluidity of motion that enthralled her. Each strike from Worton he blocked with the speed of a serpent, and his own attacks were brutally, savagely beguiling. She had seen him practice his combat, but with a true opponent, he transformed into another man. A man well-versed in the art of killing.
Had he been this adept, or did soldiering shape him into an expert fighter? Whatever the origin, it came to full fruition here. Men would gladly lose years off their lives if they could wield a blade with half of Bram’s ability.
Murmurs distracted her enough to pull her gaze away from Bram for a moment. The other swordsmen had stopped their practice in order to watch Bram and Worton fight, as though drawn by the force of Bram’s skill.
“A guinea says Rothwell takes it,” someone said.
“Only a damned fool would bet against him,” came the answer.
Worton must have heard this pronouncement, for his attacks increased, growing stronger, more aggressive. Yet Bram continually beat him back. He fought with targeted hostility, as though far more than a gentleman’s reputation with the sword was at stake. She wondered if, when Bram looked upon Worton, he saw someone else, something else. The Hellraisers? The Dark One? Perhaps even himself?
The light of fury rose in Bram’s eyes. Sweat glossed his forehead. As soon as Worton began his retreat, Bram pressed forward, giving no quarter. Worton backed away, until he couldn’t go any further, the wall behind him. He tried to block a strike—too late. The point of Bram’s sword struck him right in the heart. A fatal blow without the padded jacket and dulled tip.
Worton lowered his blade. “I yield,” he panted.
Yet Bram advanced, his expression hard and merciless. His sword point hovered close to Worton’s right eye. The bigger man sucked in a breath as he pressed against the wall. He dropped his sword, and the sound reverberated metallically through the chamber.
Would Bram actually drive his blade into Worton’s skull? He truly might. Even with the tip of the sword blunted, it could pierce an eye—and, wielded with strength, go even further.
“I say, Rothwell,” someone called. “The man’s yielded.”
“My lord,” added Tranmere nervously, hovering near, “you’ve won.”
Bram showed no signs of hearing them. A demand to kill seemed to have him, unrelenting. He kept his sword close to Worton’s eye. The bigger man screwed his eyes shut, as though something as flimsy as an eyelid could stop a blade.
This must not happen.
She drifted close, keeping herself unseen, and spoke directly into Bram’s thoughts.
Fine warrior you are, to slay an unarmed man.
He’s the enemy, Bram answered.
Of what? Hygiene? I’m sure the sweat of his fear stinks like rancid meat.
I have to kill him.
Go ahead. Yet it takes a special variety of coward to kill a man with no weapon.
I’m not a damned coward!
Then put your sword down.
Bram blinked, as though awakening from a daze. He stared at the cringing Worton, then down at the blade in his hand. Slowly, he looked around at the faces of the gathered men, their eyes wide and expressions cautious.
“My lord?” Tranmere took a wary step forward.
The tip of Bram’s sword lowered, then he dropped his hand, so the point scraped against the floor. Worton and everyone else within the chamber exhaled. Even Livia, who had no need of breath, eased out a sigh.
Bram glared around the room, almost in challenge. No one accepted. Without a word, he strode from the room.
He stormed down the winding, narrow stairwell. Men ascending the stairs pressed into the wall, careful to avoid his gaze and angry scowl. Bound as she was to him, Livia hovered at his side, his rage and confusion twisting beneath the surface of her own phantasmal skin.
This has happened before, she said.
Not to me. His voice in her mind was a snarl. Not since I left soldiering.
When I freed the Dark One, she amended. A madness gripped everyone, a need for blood. I saw a respected citizen, a merchant, stab the proprietor of a bathhouse for having the water too hot. There were riots in the marketplace. The army mutinied.
So I’m a symptom of a greater illness, he answered.
Not an illness. A plague.
She and Bram reached the street. Clouds obscured the sun, throwing the remaining daylight into early shadow. A servant hurried to open the door to the waiting carriage, but Bram was faster, and he threw the door open himself. He flung himself into the vehicle. It rocked with the force of his body against the upholstered seat.
“Home,” he snapped to the servant.
The servant closed the door and hopped onto the back of the carriage.
She hovered at the sidewalk, invisible, watching the carriage drive away. A woman crouched by the side of the street, a child in the crook of her arm. The woman stretched her hand out to all the fine gentlemen walking past. No one threw her any coin. The child—girl or boy, Livia could not tell—stared directly at Livia.
“Strange lady,” it chirped. Yet its mother paid no attention, busy wheedling and beseeching the passersby.
Someone walking quickly knocked the woman to the ground. They did not stop to help her up. Nobody did, and the child began to cry.
A sharp tug yanked Livia from where she hovered. She was dragged behind Bram’s carriage like a tattered ribbon. Helpless to stop herself, she could only follow, unseen by everyone she passed. She had never felt so alone.
Not quite alone. Down the length of the connection binding her to Bram, she heard his thoughts.
I don’t know myself anymore. I don’t know a damned thing. I’m lost.
She had been lost too, not so long ago. Yet Bram had an advantage that she had not: a guide. Would he accept her guidance, or continue to fall headlong into the dark unknown? Once, she might have cast an augury spell taken from the arcane wisdom of the Etruscans. Her magic had been split apart since then, and as to what the future held, in that she was as lost as Bram.
In the glass, Bram surveyed his appearance, a soldier readying himself for battle. The night and its pleasures were a battle, one from which he always emerged victorious. Nothing would change that.
He studied his reflection as his valet made final adjustments to his ensemble. The deep red velvet of his slim coat appeared almost black until candlelight turned it the hue of spilled blood. Complex embroidery worked its way down the front of his bronze satin waistcoat and at the very cuff of his matching breeches. The black silk solitaire around his neck could not fully hide his scar—nothing did. He’d grown almost used to the fact by now.
With his hair pulled back into a simple queue and bagged in silk, his stockings faultlessly white, his buckled shoes gleaming, and the jeweled shortsword at his side, he appeared every inch the aristocrat, a man who expected and would receive entrance anywhere he chose. No one would suspect that only hours earlier, he’d nearly killed a man for no reason. All that had preven
ted him from taking Worton’s eye—and life—had been the scornful words of a ghost.
A tremor worked through him. God, he’d almost murdered someone. And he had wanted to, to see Worton sprawled upon the ground at his feet. Bram hadn’t thought of him as simply a fellow swordsman engaged in training, as Bram himself was. A red-edged fever had taken hold of him. Worton had transformed into the Algonquin, into a French soldier, into a creature with a twisted face and a mouth full of fangs.
Insanity. Yet he’d been driven by a need to kill this enemy. Was this the madness of which Livia spoke? The one that had gripped her own time after she had freed the Devil? He tried to picture what London would be like if its streets teemed with men and women eager for blood—and shoved the image from his mind. The hell he’d experienced in the Colonies would resemble a May Day fete by comparison.
No—it wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t, no matter what the ghost claimed.
He felt her near, somewhere at the edges of his bedchamber. She was never far. Strange—he thought he’d find her presence an anathema, but there was a curious . . . comfort in having her close.
As if one took comfort from the millstone around one’s neck.
Cleeve tugged gently at the lace at Bram’s wrists, ensuring that just the proper amount showed. It was easier to prepare for actual warfare. A check to make sure the weapons were all sharp enough and ready to fire, and then into the heat of battle. A French grenadier didn’t care if Bram’s stock lay perfectly snug against his throat. He only wanted Bram dead.
The fine hairs on the back of Bram’s neck rose. Livia was drawing closer, hovering near. He couldn’t see her, but he sensed her, his body growing alarmingly attuned to her presence. If he let his eyes almost close, he could nearly see her, the soft outline of her curved form.
What might she look like if she truly walked upon the ground? All women had their own innate rhythm and movement, unique to each female. He had made a considerable study of it. Some moved with intrinsic sensuality, others with deliberate provocation as if throwing down a gauntlet. Both intrigued him, for he did enjoy challenges. There were women who moved with the rigidity of automatons, uncomfortable in their bodies. He avoided them.