He summoned a smile. “If you are trying to engage my attention, Carita, you have succeeded. Though I should tell you, since we are being fair, that you already had it.”
“You don't believe me?” A small frown pleated the skin between her delicately arched brows. From some distance away there came a low rumble of thunder. A rise in the wind shivered the leaves of the live oak that guarded the cemetery gate.
“Is it likely, do you think?” he asked. “You are lovely and intelligent and I admire you. Still, you are plainly just a woman, no more.”
The wind gusted as if with some elemental annoyance. The rush of it carried the tall silk hat from his head and sent it bowling along the path.
She said, “I promise it's so.”
“Promises aren't necessary; all I require is honesty.” He glanced at his hat but made no attempt to chase it. Standing straight and tall, he watched her while the rising wind whipped his dark hair into ruffled waves and tore at the ends of his white silk cravat.
Thunder grumbled closer. Black clouds boiled upward into the night sky from the southern quadrant. She said, “You don't seem to recognize the truth when you hear it.”
“I recognize that you think you are something apart. But that isn't the same thing, is it?”
Directly above his head, lightning crackled in silver pitchforks, striking earthward to outline the tombs around them in blue fire. Marching toward the cemetery fence, it sparkled along its iron length with a sound like ten thousand angry bees.
“What will it take to convince you?” she said in musical tones, while her cloak lifted like wild wings around her and lightning shimmered in the fathomless deep-sea darkness of her eyes.
“You claim to be the cause of all this?” he said on a reckless laugh. “Then give me rain. No, wait. Give me sleet here where it's seldom seen.”
“If you like,” she said, and smiled with hard purpose.
The sleet pelted down in balls of silver ice so cold they shattered on the ground like crystal. They filled the air until it was white with their mass. Frozen white marbles, the balls pounded his uncovered head and his shoulders, crackled around his feet, mounted in piles against the nearest tombs.
Opposite him, within reach of his arms, Carita stood untouched. The hailing ice parted above her head, rolled harmlessly down the bell of her skirt. She held his gaze, and so clear and purposeful was the look in her eyes that he was forced to steel himself to sustain it.
At the same time, he ignored the stinging, bruising punishment, letting it roll over him. Gathering his strength, he concentrated it while his smile remained affable and admiring.
The balls of ice turned to smaller beads, began to lose their chill. They splattered into slush against the ground. Melting, they became cool raindrops. Warmer they grew, and warmer still. Hissing as they slanted down, they dissolved the ice on the ground, turned the earth to mud.
The rain began to dampen Carita's wide skirts in huge, wet splatters. It puddled in the mud at her feet, dashing it onto her hem until her gown sagged with the weight. The feathers of her hat grew sopping wet and drooped over one eye, while the dye that colored it dissolved to ooze in a silver-gray streak down her face.
Abruptly, the rain stopped. Around them, the air steamed with the change of temperature so they stood in a seething white cloud shot with clear light from the returning moon.
Renfrey watched Carita's face. He waited.
Puzzlement hovered in a frown between her brows. Then some explanation must have occurred to her—some error she had made or fault within herself—for her self-possession returned. Her tone even, she said, “Shall I give you the sun to dry you?”
“A pleasant thought,” he replied. “But we wouldn't want to wake the populace or alarm them, now would we? Do you think you could manage a small fire?”
She nodded, a brief gesture of disdain.
It was a bonfire, licking skyward in hungry orange tongues of flame. The smoke was acrid in the lungs; its pinewood smell pervasive. Crackling, roiling in its red heart a few feet from where they stood, it washed their faces with color and flared brightly in the black pupils of their eyes.
“Very nice,” he said in tones of congratulation as he reached to take her hand and lead her a few steps closer to the flames. “It should dry us both out if anything will.”
She glanced down at her bedraggled gown then met his gaze with a species of shock moving over her features. “I never—” she began, and then stopped.
“You never get wet when you indulge in a temper tantrum of the elements?” he said with sympathy. “What happened this time to your powers as a witch?”
“I told you I'm not a witch!” she snapped as she dashed the dye from her face. Reaching to catch her skirts with both hands, she gave them a furious shake that sent water droplets flying around her in every direction. It effectively dried her gown, returning her miraculously to her former perfection of appearance.
He stood watching a moment before giving a wry shake of his head. “What are you then? Goddess? Grace? Fury? Nymph? Sprite? Fairy? What?”
“Nothing. I'm simply—”
“I know. Daughter of a warlock. A woman it is hazardous to touch, to hold, to desire, to love.” The leap of confusion into her eyes was a potent combination with her unhappiness. Recognizing it, he went on with a shading of regret, “You do realize that it's a challenge no man can resist? I'm afraid it has made a kiss, at least, inevitable.”
Her eyes widened, grew darker. “No,” she said on the edge of panic. “You can't!”
But he could. Taller, stronger, more determined, he swept her into his arms and pressed his mouth to her parted lips.
The force of the contact stunned thought, routed complacency, jolted his heart to a violent rhythm. His blood crashed through his veins like storm surf, while his skin radiated such intense heat his clothing took on the smells of wet and scorched linen, silk and wool. His breath stopped. His brain felt as if it were simmering in the cauldron of his skull. Behind his eyes was the blood-red haze of a desire more compelling than any he had ever dreamed.
The only coolness, the only anchor for his sanity, was the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. The only thing that stopped him from seeking deeper nectar, searching for deeper quenching, was a crashing pain across the toe of his boot.
He wrenched backward with the chill tinkle of breaking porcelain in his ears. The vase Carita had been holding lay in pieces at his feet. She had dropped it, perhaps, or possibly she had thrown it down with purpose. Either way, it was effective. The throbbing pain brought the self-control he so desperately needed.
Bending in haste, he reached for the shards of porcelain. His cape slid forward, covering his hands for fleeting seconds before he threw the heavy cloth back out of the way.
Straightening, he summoned his most profound bow as he presented the vase, whole once more, to the lady. “Forgive my clumsiness,” he said softly, “but at least some things are not easily demolished.” He waited expectantly for her response to his double apology, double meaning.
“But I thought—” Veiling her gaze with her lashes, she took the unblemished porcelain, turning it in her hands as if searching for cracks. He saw the tremor in her fingers, saw the way she stilled it by pressing against the vase's sides until her fingertips were the same glassy white.
She lifted her gaze, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Yes?” Renfrey said when she made no sound.
Her lips clamped shut and she closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Never mind,” she said. “I don't know why I'm lingering here, can't imagine what possessed me to bandy words with you. There is no purpose in it, can never be any.”
Swinging from him in a silken whirl of skirts, she moved swiftly off through the tombs. He watched with appreciation. She might leave him, but she would never escape him, not now.
His smile was rueful, but he erased any trace of amusement from his voice before h
e called after her, “Running away?”
“It's far better,” she said over her shoulder, “than becoming an unintentional murderess.”
Swift, mocking, he pressed his offensive. “What would it take to make it intentional?”
She halted, turned slowly. “You want to die?”
“There are worse ways than from an excess of love.” The words were low and carrying. He meant them.
“No doubt,” she answered, her gaze stark. “But what of the one left to live with the guilt and sorrow?” Putting her head down, she swung once more and moved quickly to the gate. She slipped through it and started down the street.
Renfrey followed her with his gaze while he breathed slowly in and out against the pain inside him. It was her pain, readily assumed, deeply felt, in the instant when she had allowed him to see it. He had that gift, at least.
He had also seen days and nights set apart. He knew, because he had assimilated her desolation. He saw her future with no one and nothing to love because human beings were too fragile, too mortal.
She faced it with such courage, was so unwilling to inflict the consequences of her wayward passions on someone else. She made him ashamed. She made him ache somewhere deep inside where nothing and no one had ever touched.
He wanted her as he had never wanted anything in all the long, eventful days of his life. Regardless of the consequences. Or possibly because of them.
And yet, he was not without his own loneliness, or his own expectations. He required something more than merely to become the answer to another person's need.
Love, freely given, was essential. He needed to be wanted for himself alone, not for what he could withstand or perhaps give, especially not for who and what he was by an accident of birth.
Obtaining what he needed might be something more of a challenge than stealing a kiss. Giving what she required could tax his strength to the limit.
She was magnificent. It had been underhanded to provoke her to such a display of temper, still he would not have missed it. There had been a practical purpose; he had wanted to see what forces she could rally against him, what methods she would descend to using in order to prove a point or gain a victory.
Magnificent, but a lady even then. Yes, it would be a challenge, but one worth winning.
He glanced at the fire. It flared high and hot, but he gave a single negligent nod and it settled into sizzling black ash. He shot the cuffs of his shirt, settled his cape, and returned his clothing to dry perfection again. Retrieving his hat without effort, he swung immediately in the direction Carita had taken. His footsteps were silent, but they were sure.
Overhead, the moon sailed at treetop level, following them. There were no streetlamps here; the only illumination was faint glimmers from houses closed up behind shutters, fences and gates. The leaves of the oaks overhanging the uneven wooden sidewalk spoke in sibilant undertones while crickets and peeper frogs sang from damp garden corners and amid tangles of waning fall flowers. Somewhere a dog barked and was shouted into abeyance.
Ahead of Renfrey, Carita moved with the agitated rustling of skirts that came from haste. Sometimes she glanced back, or else broke into a run for a few steps as if she knew she was being pursued. She was paying little attention to where she put her feet, none to what lay ahead of her.
Until she stopped with a sudden, bell-like sway of skirts. Renfrey saw the two men at the same time, and broke into a run.
Carita was not frightened so much as startled. She was usually more aware of her surroundings; it was a sign of the dazed condition of her mind that she had not noticed the thugs bearing down on her.
They were out of place, those two, bullies who had wandered away from the wharves along the river, or else from around Gallatin Street or the Irish Channel. She could smell the liquor on their breaths, see the glaze of drunkenness and lust in their eyes. There was also the avid gloating of the hunter in their faces; they thought she was defenseless, at their mercy.
“Well, now, look what we got here,” the bigger of the two growled as he swaggered closer. “Nice a bit of tail as I ever seen. Think you can hold her, Jack, whiles I tears me off a piece?”
“Hol' her,” Jack said with an owlish leer, “ 'en have her, too.”
Carita had been walking alongside a wrought iron fence with palings formed like ornamental arrows. She glanced at them with speculation. The barking dog heard minutes ago also sprang to mind; if summoned, it might be a deterrent.
Then she heard the soft thud of running feet. There was a flash of movement and Renfrey appeared at her side. Hard fingers fastened on her arm, dragging her behind him.
“No!” she said sharply. She fought his grasp for an instant, but it was strong and would take too long to break. Subsiding, she stood in strained readiness.
“Here now,” the leader of the two thugs said with a crude oath. “We'uns seen her first!”
“She's mine,” Renfrey said with quiet precision. “Move on while you can.”
Carita gave Renfrey a swift glance. At the same time, she saw the leader of the thugs grope at his waist. Light flashed silver along a blade.
The burly man gave a coarse laugh. “Your'n is she? We'll just be seeing about that.”
“Yeah,” the other man echoed. Half drunk, it took a moment before he fumbled another long knife into view.
They were crude but vicious weapons, honed to a razor's edge and measuring more than fifteen inches from welded hilt to tapered tip. The two men held them with ease shaded by eagerness, as if they had used them before against flesh and bone and enjoyed the feel of it.
“What you think of this, my fine buck?” the first man growled, lifting his lips in a hard grin marked by missing teeth. He swept his weapon from side to side, feinting with quick, hard jabs.
“Not a great deal, actually.” Renfrey's reply was without heat. Hard on it came the slicing hiss of a drawn sword. It was followed by the hollow clatter as he discarded the useless portion of what had been his sword cane.
Moonlight tested the limber blade in his hand for sharpness with a silver glimmer, winking at the tip. Eying it, the leader let out an oath. “You got yourself a fine frog-sticker there, friend, but we still be two to one.”
“My favorite odds.” Renfrey released Carita, gave her a small thrust farther behind him. The swordsman position he assumed was easy, classic.
“We'll see about that. Now, Jack!” Hard on the yell, the first thug plunged into an attack.
Carita gave the men only a small portion of her attention. Staring at the iron fence, she issued a mental order.
Arrows of iron strained, snapped with the dry showering of paint and rust. They broke free, hurling themselves with hard purpose on a direct and driving course toward the pair of thugs.
The thin and narrow blade in Renfrey's hand flashed with the moon's cool silver light. It struck twice, faster than the eye could follow, a meteor's explosion of fire in its trailing tail. The thugs howled as the knives flew from their hands to clank away into the darkness.
Before the two could draw breath, the fence palings with their blunt arrow heads took them in belly and chest, thigh and groin. The two were flung back while the heavy bars of iron clanked and clattered around them. Hoarse screams tore from their throats as they wallowed on the ground, clutching their bruises.
Renfrey advanced a step. Carita moved at his side.
The thugs heaved away from them, clawing, scrambling to their feet. Staring wild-eyed back over their shoulders, they plunged away across the street and down an alley.
Renfrey lowered his sword point until it touched the broken stone of the walk. His voice musing, he said, “Just think of the tales those two will tell.”
“Sotted ramblings,” Carita answered shortly as she knelt in a settling island of skirts to retrieve his cane cover before rising and handing it to him. “Who will listen?”
He put out his hand to take the cover. Clasping it, he paused. His gaze sharpened, and he transferred his
grip to her fingers. “You're trembling.”
“My usual reaction to brutality, pay no mind,” she said in brittle tones. Dragging her hand away, she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
“You were afraid for me,” he corrected her with amazement in his voice.
“I was enraged that you would risk so much.” She stopped while appalled consideration rose in her eyes. “But that's the same thing, isn't it? Never mind. I am not yours. And now it's over.”
She backed away from him for several steps before she spun around and began to walk again. Her skirts and her hair reflected moonlight with pearl-like sheens that danced away, ghost-like, into the dimness. They had not quite vanished when Renfrey sheathed his sword with a sharp click.
“Oh, no,” he said in grim resolution as he began to follow her once more. “It's just begun.”
3
It was not far from the cemetery to her aunt's house. Carita walked the remaining distance with swift steps. Renfrey was behind her; she knew it with certainty. She was as attuned to his presence now as to her own conscience.
She opened the gate before the plain, narrow, two-storied house, then paused. She had meant to go inside without looking back. Somehow, she could not bring herself to do it.
She would just say good-bye. It was such a small thing; surely there could be no harm in it. It was perhaps natural to feel the urge for a final gesture, an end to all the things that might have been.
Or perhaps it was merely an excuse; she couldn’t say. She didn't understand herself tonight. Her powers inherited from her father had never failed her before. The fault must lie within herself; she had been unable to maintain her concentration back in the cemetery because she had been unclear in her mind as to what she wanted to accomplish. She had not, in fact, wanted to send Renfrey away. Still didn't.
She closed her eyes, resting her head against the tall, arched top of the gate. Why did it have to be so hard? Why?
Forbidden Lovers Boxed Set Page 34