Chemise peered into the shadows, and her jaw dropped when she saw the goddess walking toward her. After conserving so many manuscripts, she'd recognize Isis anywhere. Isis looked remarkably like her pictures and the image on the pendant nestled between her breasts. “Lucien will be furious when he learns that you kidnapped me."
Isis laughed. “Do not presume so much, foolish mortal. You are beneath my notice."
"Then why am I here?"
"He gave you to me, fool.” She flashed a cruel smile.
Chemise burned. That had to be a lie. “It's not true,” she blurted out, but the goddess’ smug smile made her doubt herself. She glanced down at Lucien's ring on her finger and her confidence returned. Lucien would only hand her over to the woman he hated for one reason ... her protection. He was going after Zander alone, and he'd called in that last favor he'd talked about. Her steady gaze flashed back to the goddess. “You can't let him fight Zander alone."
Isis's eyes narrowed. “You're very perceptive for a mortal. He made his choice,” she said sourly, raking Chemise with an annoyed gaze. “There is nothing I can do for him."
"Choice?” Chemise asked, picking up on Isis’ envy. To think a goddess would be envious of her seemed ludicrous, but it was true.
"His life or yours. He chose poorly.” Isis turned to leave.
Chemise bolted from the bed. “Bullshit. You caused all this just because you had an itch that needed scratching.” She froze while Isis glared back at her. A heartbeat later, Chemise gasped as she was flung back against a wall.
Isis smiled. “I promised to keep you. I didn't say how."
Chemise glared back at her, refusing to cower despite Isis’ threats. “If you won't help him, I'll leave and do it myself."
Isis laughed. “You will remain here."
"The hell I will.” Chemise lifted the pendant from her chest, acting on a hunch, and watched Isis’ smug smile falter.
"Where did you get that?” Isis hissed.
"From my aunt,” she said, rubbing the pendant. Apparently, it had power. Now if she could just get it to work. She thought of Lucien and felt her body tingle.
"Stupid fool. If you go back, you forgo my protection."
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Chapter 5
Chemise felt the world spin away and touched down in her office at the museum. It was dark, still evening, so not much time had passed. She stepped toward the light switch, but the night watchman's plodding footsteps made her freeze. It wouldn't do to have him catch her in the act of stealing back her notes.
After his footfalls faded into the distance, she dared to switch on the lights, then ran to her desk. She'd left the notes in her top drawer. If she was lucky, they'd still be there. She pulled open the drawer and found her notes on top. She let out a sigh of relief, but the sound of her office door opening made her look up in a panic. Zander stepped into the office and shut the door. His searching gaze scanned the room, and she noticed the lamp in his hand. Was Lucien trapped inside? Her senses told her he wasn't. She would have felt his vibrations.
"Where is he?” Zander asked.
"You're still asking the same stupid questions.” She watched his eyes ice over at the jibe and she pulled her notes out of the drawer. She only knew one way to fight him. “I'd worry more about me, not him,” she said.
He laughed as he saw the notes in her hand. His gaze made the edges of the paper singe.
She patted out the fire. “You. You're the one who burned the scroll and got me fired."
He grinned. “It's one of my favorite tricks."
He wasn't just nuts—he was a firebug. She clasped her notes tight, chanting, “Genie from..."
Zander stopped in his tracks and threw her a glare. “Stupid mortal. You cannot defeat me."
But she sensed his doubt—it was why he'd destroyed the scroll. This was fate. “I wouldn't be so sure of that. I have Isis’ protection,” she said to distract him, and she watched his mocking smile.
"You would be at her palace if that was so."
"I was. I left."
He shook his head. “That was your first mistake."
"Why aren't you with her?"
His eyes narrowed. “I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you."
He raised the lamp, and she fell silent at the threat. If he smashed the lamp, Lucien might be injured or killed.
"That's better; shut up and sit in your chair. I'll deal with you at my leisure."
She sank into her chair and gasped when she heard Lucien's steady treads heading their way. The cold smile on Zander's face chilled her. She reached for her wilted plant. When Lucien opened the door, she lobbed the pot straight at Zander's head. It bounced off his head with a thud, and he groaned, crashing into the wall.
"Why, you stupid bitch!” he yelled as he set her chair on fire.
"Don't touch her,” Lucien ordered with a deadly growl, taking Zander to the ground with a tackle.
Chemise's heart lodged in her throat as she watched the men roll across the floor, fighting for supremacy. Lightning and thunder flashed in the room. She had to stop this craziness before Lucien was killed.
She began to chant the spell again, “Zander, Genie from Below, go back from whence you came. Set your captive free."
Zander let out a howl of pain, his body turning transparent. In a whoosh, he was sucked into the lamp.
Chemise gazed at Lucien, praying he was all right, terrified she might lose him. He picked himself off the floor with a wince.
"You saved me again. It's getting to be a habit with you."
"Do you mind?” she teased, relaxing when he smiled.
"Not a bit,” he assured her, pulling her into his arms.
She nestled against him, feeling the rightness of his embrace. Were the fates smiling down at them? “Where do we go from here?"
"How about back to bed?” he suggested.
"Now that I like,” she responded, and she began to kiss him passionately. She broke the kiss to gaze up at him. She had so many questions that needed answering. Like, would he stay with her? Was he still a genie? His lamp or her apartment? Frankly, she didn't care as long as it had a bed. “Does that mean I get to keep you?” she asked, her body melting into his as his cock throbbed against her.
"I don't know,” he teased, one of his hands cupping her breast, his fingertips fanning the nipple to attention. “That wasn't one of your three wishes."
"Hah,” Chemise said. “Those don't count. I didn't know you were real at the time."
"And now?” he asked, studying her reaction.
"You're very real.” She moaned when his hand slipped down to possessively cup her mound and pressed closer to him. “I don't care if we have to find another bottle to live in. I'm keeping you."
"And you wouldn't miss this place or your shop?” he asked, wrapping an arm around her waist.
He was a bit worried about her decision. The realization warmed her heart even as it firmed her resolve. “Not a bit. I've found an antiquity that interests me a lot more than anything in the museum."
"Nice to know I'm appreciated,” he said with a grin. “And you'd go back to my time with me?"
"In a heartbeat,” Chemise agreed, wrapping her arms around his neck as he played with her.
"We could be bi-coastal. Time jump so you could study your favorite time period up close and personal."
"Lucien, lover, the only thing I want to get up close and personal with is you,” she said, melting against him as her sex quivered. The sultry look in Lucien's eyes told her he'd found his home and it was with her, wherever they chose to go. “Now about those three wishes..."
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SPANISH LULLABY
by
Emma Wildes
My Dearest Son,
I am so gratified to hear news of the end of this terrible conflict and the final triumph of our valiant soldiers. Everyone at Chedwick Hall cannot wait for your return. A celebration is the order
of the day, as I am sure you agree. I expect you have not had much gaiety in Spain these four years. Praise to God you can return to us.
From the Duchess of Chedwick to her son, the Marquess de Santorino, upon hearing of Napoleon Bonaparte's defeat at the Battle of Waterloo
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Chapter 1
Chedwick Hall, Berkshire
1815
The house looked the same. Ivy-covered walls, the elegant stone façade imposing against the sweeping lawn of the park, the trees holding impossibly green summer leaves, the long drive well-maintained as he rode along.
He kept his horse at a slow walk in a deliberate attempt to put off the inevitable.
Odd. He wasn't a coward in battle. Of course, it depended on the enemy.
Carlos Verde guided his mount toward the stables, wanting to see to the stallion himself. They had come through four years of hell together and if anyone deserved to be cared for well, it was Cortez. The poor animal had been wounded more than once—actually they both seemed to have a knack for being in the line of fire. Even now Carlos slid from the saddle and stifled a wince. His arm was usable, but far from healed. A stable boy ran forward to take the reins but Carlos said pleasantly, “I'll tend to him."
"Yes, my lord.” The lad was young, but not too young apparently to remember him. He stammered, “Wel-welcome home."
Home. That point was debatable. After all, he was half-Spanish and had significant holdings in his native land, not to mention a rich family history. Perhaps he had fought in the British Army, but he'd done so just as much for Spain as England. However, the rolling downs of Berkshire were where he was raised. “Thank you. Perhaps instead of tending my horse you could go up to the house to tell my mother of my arrival."
"Of course, sir.” The young man turned in the direction of the sprawling mansion. He hesitated a moment, swung around and then blurted out, “If you don't me saying so, my lord, bloody good show! We taught that strutting Corsican a thing or two now, didn't we?"
It had been bloody certainly, and nothing good about it except the grueling campaign had finally delivered a victory. But explaining that to a sixteen-year-old stable hand was probably futile, and besides, he'd ridden all the way from London and was tired as hell. Carlos murmured, “I suppose one can look at it that way. Please tell the duchess I will be up directly."
"I will, sir.” The boy hurried off.
He hadn't asked. Oh yes, he'd wanted to inquire in as detached a manner possible if Lady Juliet was in current residence. The last he knew she was in Bath with his step-aunt, her mother, but the post was notoriously slow and that information was months old. In her last communication, his mother hadn't mentioned her at all.
But the letter before that, well, he didn't particularly want to think about it. He'd gotten drunk the night after he read it, truly foxed perhaps for the first time in all four of those hellish years, and woken sick and ashamed and angry and a dozen other things the next day.
Of course the young lady in question was engaged. Certainly. Why not? She was beyond the age for it, actually, and not only beautiful and charming, but well-dowered. He hadn't seen her in four long years but somehow he doubted she'd grown less attractive and certainly the society bulletins in the letters he received indicated a dazzling success with the haute ton.
Golden hair, like silk under his fingers, soft lips parted beneath his, the warm feel of her breath against his cheek in a heated sigh...
It didn't matter that he still loved her. That he'd always loved her as long as he could remember. She was going to belong to someone else.
With the ease of long habit, Carlos put up the saddle, quickly brushed down his mount, measuring out oats without even thinking about it. Just as he finished the task, he heard the thud of hooves, the rider coming at a reckless pace into the stable yard.
Somehow, he knew.
That easily, that fast. Like the same kind of sixth sense that kept him alive through battles like Badajoz and Salamanca. He stiffened, not sure if it wasn't better this way. Over and done with as soon as possible had merit. Like pulling a crusted bandage from a half-healed wound.
Maybe it would be fine. Perhaps all the dread was for nothing.
Somehow he doubted it.
A laugh rang out, light, musical and entirely female. Squaring his shoulders, he strolled out into the stable yard with a slight, practiced smile on his face.
* * * *
She almost fell off her horse in an undignified heap.
The materialization should not have struck her so forcefully. After all, she'd known Carlos Verde was back in England, known he would come to Chedwick soon. It was just this day, this hour, this moment ... she wasn't ready.
Not, Lady Juliet Stather thought in consternation as she reined in her mount, that she would ever probably be really prepared. Rather like having the devil rise from the ground, she pondered darkly as she took a deep steadying—and hopefully inaudible—breath. A handsome one, albeit, but definitely as untrustworthy as sin.
Carlos Verde, Marquess de Santorino, wore his signature mocking expression; a faint curve to those well-shaped lips, a slight rise to his arched ebony brows, just the correct wicked glimmer in his dark, seductive eyes. Raven hair was worn just a shade long as was the fashion and it gleamed blue-black in the afternoon sunshine. He drawled in a smooth tenor without the slightest hint of an accent, “Good afternoon. I wondered how long it would take for our paths to cross. I am sure, of course, you are delighted to welcome me back with open arms, Juliet. I accept in advance your felicitations on my safe return."
Somehow she found her voice after that first earth-shattering moment when she realized he was really there, controlling her restless horse with one hand. “I see the French are as inept as ever with their marksmanship."
Something flickered in his dark eyes.
Touché.
"Since I knew how deeply you would mourn my passing, you can be assured I stayed to the back of the lines to spare you pain.” He was dressed in elegant riding clothes, the usual epitome of style, the tailored jacket spanning wide shoulders, fitted breeches and polished boots obviously new. His mother had said he'd stopped over in London and one would never guess he'd spent the past years in a British uniform.
Except, she could not help but notice he was thinner. Still tall, still muscular, but the classic bone structure of his face was highlighted by his leanness and faint lines by his mouth made him look older than she remembered. He was, as always, devastatingly attractive, nothing would change that, but ... different.
"Ever the gallant, as usual.” Juliet gave him a deliberately false, saccharine smile. “You needn't have bothered to go to such lengths for me."
"For a beautiful lady, nothing is too much trouble, even trying my best to not get shot.” To her dismay he stepped forward and grasped her waist, lifting her easily from the saddle.
The touch of his hands ... dear God, she felt the reaction swirl through her at even the commonplace gesture of politesse as he set her down on the ground. She quickly took a step back—bumped into her horse naturally since it was right behind her—and felt like a fool.
Carlos, damn him, was amused at her discomfort. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he stared down at her. “You have grown up, I see, Senorita. From lovely girl to stunning woman."
She barely noticed when one of the lads discreetly took the reins of her mare. Carlos rarely spoke Spanish but when he did there was a slight husky note to his voice made most women weak-kneed by all accounts. She was not one of them. “It's been four years,” she said in a voice that held credible detachment to her relief. “I am sure everyone has changed some. Perhaps you have even grown up yourself after getting to play solider, Carlos. For Aunt Mary's sake I am glad you survived. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going up to the house to change for tea."
"I'll walk with you."
"Excuse me if I decline."
He fell into step next to her a
nyway. Her step-cousin always had an infuriating knack for doing as he pleased. The fact his legs were much longer than hers precluded walking faster unless she broke into an childish run and she refused to do that so she simply gritted her teeth. He slanted her a look and his mouth twitched again. “I'm going that way myself,” he explained without apology.
"As usual, my wishes do not count. Perhaps you haven't changed after all, my lord."
"Perhaps. I see I was optimistic to hope you'd forgotten the way we parted, Juliet."
Surely not even someone as arrogant as her handsome cousin was that presumptuous. “No,” she said shortly, studiously looking ahead and not at him. “But it really does not matter. I do not care about your presence here one way or another."
"Total indifference? I see."
"Exactly.” She reached for the gate into the gardens but he politely circumvented her and opened it instead, waiting for her to precede him. He was very tan, she realized, his graceful fingers bronzed as he held the latch.
"You never answered my letters.” He spoke in the same conversational tone he'd used ever since he stepped out of the barn.
"I never read them.” Juliet brushed past him and started up the path to the back of the house. Blooming flowers rose in fragrant banks on either side, the air warm with just the slightest hint of a breeze. Normally she would enjoy the lovely afternoon—she had, in fact, on her ride—but now she just wanted to get in the house as soon as possible.
To her surprise Carlos did not follow her but simply stood there, still holding the gate, motionless.
* * * *
It should have been one of the happiest evenings of her life. Unfortunately, despite her son's safe return and her joy over that miraculous fact, Mary Deburgh, the sixth Duchess of Chedwick, instead had a dismal feeling. The tension during the sumptuous meal celebrating Carlos’ safe return was just the beginning.
She'd predicted this all along, not that her husband would ever admit she was right.
As much as she disliked doing it, this evening alone told her she would have to meddle.
A Torrid Celebration! Page 16