Forbidden Lovers Boxed Set

by Jennifer Blake

  She had to think. She had to stop dreaming and be logical. She was in a crypt, for heaven’s sake.

  Suddenly from the corner of her eye she saw an arc of cold light. The air began to hum, as if from a fallen power line. She heard what might have been angry voices echoing down a tunnel. Metal clanged against metal.

  His arms locked around her. “They come,” he whispered. “Make no noise. They must not know you wear the rose. It would mean gravest danger for you.” His voice tightened. “Do you understand this?”

  All Maddie could do was shake her head blindly.

  “Know this. They walk through time in search of all like you. For six centuries now each one they have found has died, slowly and terribly. Do you understand? They would tear you from me—and from time itself. You must stay silent,” he whispered.

  “I—I understand.”

  His breath eased out in relief. “Then do not fear. Without being called, they cannot pass me or my sword.”

  But fear gripped Maddie’s chest as the light flashed again. Why was she falling for his delusional story? She was smart and tough and none of this crazy talk about rose marks and danger could frighten her into—

  There was no time to prepare. The air seemed to pull back in an icy wave, tearing the breath from her throat. Energy snapped and sizzled in the narrow space, thick with anger and the frenzy of violence.

  And then Maddie saw them.

  6

  His name was Lyon of Greyhaven and he held his sword well, clasped by one scarred hand. The Rose was behind him, where she must always stand in his protection.

  His code was implacable. The Walkers must never pass beyond him. It was law. More important still, it was honor, honor through the blood of his kind for generations, back to the mist before Arthur and the Romans. Back to foreign shores and some said back to the time of the Master himself.

  Lyon did not interest himself in history. Duty was all that mattered to him.

  And his duty lay clear before him now, burning in the silver air, blinding in the hatred of those who waited at the far side of the portal.

  They must not find her. Others had failed to guard their Rose. Lyon would not fall among them.

  The air grew brighter, burning, taking on the shape of an oval.

  The portal opened.

  Mail and cold metal quivered and shook from angry steps. “There!” A voice boomed, muffled as if cast through a tunnel or deep water. The boundary grew thin. Lyon felt the outlines of time and matter stretch and shift.

  He did not answer. He did not move. The force of his will was unbending. His left hand, not his sword hand, stretched out behind him to wrap protectively around the woman’s shoulder. He would guard her with his life—nay, with his eternal soul as well. It was the vow of his kind. And that vow had only been broken once.

  When the memory stirred anger, he shook it aside, focused on the danger nearby. Inside the burning air a dark face took form and then the outline of broad shoulders. Armor and a sword that seemed to cry shrilly with the blood of its victims.

  Even then Lyon did not move.

  “Always you. Always one leap before us.” The voice was a hiss, fierce with malevolence. “The wretched Lyon is found. If you are here, can a Rose be far behind?” Through the portal, the face turned, and Lyon felt the force of those inhuman eyes. “Search the darkness behind him. Look well for the Rose.”

  Lyon did not move. He knew she could not be seen behind him, not with his energy raised to conceal her.

  “What, no curses thrown in my face? It was not so at Culloden, when the Scots fell around us like maggots. One of yours fell too. I remember how he pleaded for you to end his torment before we could feast on him. Do you remember his cries, Guardian of Greyhaven?”

  The crusader gave no answer. That day and its pain were best forgotten.

  “No answer? Nor was it so at Acre in the Holy Lands. Your kind begged to be killed while the Sultan’s advance guard did our work with slow brutality. And of course, we had taught them well. Their weapons were improved as only we could. And how quickly they learned.” Hard laughter spilled through the shining air. “The sands ran red with blood, Crusader. Do you remember? The game continues, does it not?”

  Even then Lyon did not answer. His voice would give a source of attack, and Lyon would give this foul enemy no hold for his evil to pass. Without that hold, the portal could not be crossed. Time held firm, true to the old Laws.

  “But another will call to you. Mayhap, her voice will be sweeter to your ears than mine.”

  Lyon stiffened. He knew the voice to come. The sweetness of its foul betrayal had haunted him down the ages. Lovely, that voice, with grace to equal the beauty of her body.

  And black as ash her heart.

  “My dearest love. My sweetest heart.” The voice was a lush whisper, ripe with passion. Any mortal man who heard that voice would fall, stagger to his knees, ready to give the heart from his chest and even his soul. Others called her Siren. Morgaine le Faye. The temptress.

  Lyon knew her only as Betrayer.

  And he stood firm. He closed his mind and did not answer.

  “You do not remember the sea, pounding on the cliffs outside our home in Gwynedd? You do not remember the child that sprang from your loins?”

  Lyon’s jaw hardened. He could not listen. The pain of the memories would break him otherwise.

  “The boy was your perfect likeness, my love. And he held all of your goodness.”

  Dead, Lyon thought. Gone for long centuries. There was no reason that the words should strike him as if it had been yesterday and the loss of his son should drip like fresh blood.

  “The blame weighs on your shoulders, husband. All you had to do was come to me. Was it such a great thing to ask? And did it equal the loss of your only son?”

  Lyon held back an angry answer. She had no mother’s heart. No heart at all. She only used the worst weapon she had.

  The death of innocence was her goal—the same goal of those on the other side of the gate.

  His hands twisted on his heavy sword. There would be no accusation and no explaining. He could not give them passage through the gate.

  He shuddered, drawn against his will by the force of that voice, once so loved. Once there had been happiness instead of duty and eternal searching.

  Dimly Lyon felt the slender shape behind him move and press against his back. Small fingers slid through his left hand, twined hard with his. The force of her will shocked him. For one so small, her power bloomed huge. As always, life surprised him with its magic. Now she guarded him.

  Lyon focused on the grip of those small fingers locked around his free hand, fighting the low whispered words of false love carried from the far side of the gate. As Morgaine’s sorcery called him to cross back to her, the air seemed to hiss and scream with the forces thrown into this world. He heard the neigh of war horses and the clang of armor. He could taste the past as it fell around his shoulders like a cloak of death. And yet…if he returned, he could sleep. All his grave responsibilities would be forgotten. Rest, after so many centuries of watching and searching and guarding….

  The small fingers jerked under his. Nails drove into his palm. The quick burst of pain caught him back from the dangerous edge of persuasion that he had not even seen.

  Too close, Lyon thought grimly. Morgaine’s power grew apace. And the Rose—this strange, young/old creature—had caught him in time.

  The furious cry that leaped through the portal was evil itself, evil thwarted, unbearably ugly as it must always be when its beautiful masks are put aside.

  So much for the love Morgaine pretended, Lyon thought grimly. Now there was no more hiding.

  Curses rained down, then stopped abruptly. “But hold. I sense someone with you. One of…light. I can almost taste the beating of her heart. How sweet it will feel beneath my teeth,” the gentle, awful voice hissed.

  “Pull back,” a man’s voice ordered. “We cannot stay. If we are caught when
the portal closes, we will all be crushed in its force.”

  “No, wait. She is there. I can feel her. She carries the energy of a Rose.” Morgaine’s voice was shrill with excitement.

  “Next time. We are losing the gate already.”

  The air seemed to keen with frustrated hunger. Then the shimmering slowly faded and the air stilled, falling back into shadow.

  Lyon released a slow breath. His sword was tight in his right hand, but he staggered a little, then braced his left shoulder against the cold stone.

  The woman behind him leaned close and gave a shaky laugh. “Now that was interesting. That’s some evil ex-girlfriend you’ve got, pal. And I’m not sure I understood even half of what she said.”

  “Just as well.” Lyon closed his eyes. In the aftermath of the gate closing, he was cold, mortally cold. It stunned him to realize what this meeting had cost him.

  Was each contact with the Walkers growing harder?

  “Hey, wake up.” A small hand bumped him in the shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep on me now. I want some answers, buddy. Starting with that part about ripping out the heart.”

  It stunned Lyon to realize that she had no fear. Curiosity, yes. Irritation most certainly. But no shred of fear.

  A true Rose, Lyon thought in wonder. He had found her without ever planning it. Yes, life worked with unfathomable magic and wonders. He had walked through days and centuries, and life’s turnings continued to surprise him. He tried to shake off his exhaustion, bracing one powerful hand to hold himself against the cold stone.

  And to Lyon’s surprise and wonder, the female leaned beside him. Her legs locked and one small hand slid under his elbow to support him while her breath played against his neck.

  She laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m a little shaken up too. We’ll both take a minute to regroup here. You don’t see something like that every day. And I gotta say, I’m glad for it.”

  Her touch gave him strength and new energy, as did her laughter. He frowned at her strange words however. So much had changed in this time, clothing and customs and language together. And their strange forms of transportation tasked all his comfort.

  Yet Lyon knew well that he had to expect change. He had seen it before in every transit he had made. Shaking his head, he stood up slowly.

  And so it was. He had found her. His Rose. His to protect after so many centuries of watching and waiting.

  He would not fail her.

  He felt her fingers, pale and slender, close around his arm. “You still seem a little shaky on your feet. Is there somewhere you could go? Someone I should contact?”

  Lyon had to bite back a laugh. She wanted to find help for him? How long had it been since anyone had offered him assistance or support, Lyon thought.

  “I am recovered. And I need no help, though the concern does you honor. You will be safe for one turning of the day and night. Twenty-four hours is your freedom. They cannot return before that.”

  “They? I was going to ask you about that next. Who in the heck were those guys?”

  There was too much to explain, and Lyon could see she was at the edge of her understanding. To say more tonight would only confuse her.

  Now at least they had twenty-four hours to prepare.

  “My order keeps an abode across the square. If you walk with me, I can begin to explain. Once we are there, we will be safe from all intruders.”

  He heard her make a sound of low frustration. In the pale green light he had cast, the Crusader saw her frown uncertainly. Then she slid one arm around his waist. “Fine. Show me the way to this abode of yours. I’m not planning to spend the night in a grave, thank you very much. You can use that green light trick again to illumine the way up those stairs I fell down.”

  The light had gone out. Lyon cast the stones again and together they climbed up the damp, ancient steps. She walked beside him through the shadows, up to ground level at the opening of the crypt. There Lyon moved before her, sword clasped securely as he scanned the darkness in the event that someone had been left to watch.

  The night was silent. No one followed.

  Across the square, he saw the welcoming lights of the manse which had been in his brotherhood for centuries. An antiquities society, so the discreet gold sign on the door read. But Lyon knew it was far more than this.

  He glanced up at the moon, thin and cold. Rain before morning. He could see the faint icy circle that boded foul weather. The last time he had seen such a moon had been in the Holy Lands, in the days before Acre fell, when the moon had glowed just so, a portent of evil to come.

  For a moment, Lyon’s vision blurred. So many memories. The screams of the dying. The pleas of women and children, desperate to reach the ships in the harbor.

  He had saved all he could. But the dead had been far too many.

  The moon seemed to glow silver, cold and mocking.

  Time and memories held him in their grip as his physical body fought against the shock of his time transit. Each leap grew harder for him.

  He looked down at the moonlight playing over his sword. Cold light on colder steel. How many had this sword dispatched from life? And how many more would he cut down before he finally knew peace?

  Somewhere in the darkness a bird cried shrilly. Pale fingers of fog twisted over the rows of ornate gravestones. The weather suited his mood, Lyon thought grimly.

  What had the girl said about fog? What had been her urgent warning? One more question to ask of her.

  He heard a rustle of fabric and felt wind on his face.

  He turned around swiftly.

  And saw that she was gone.

  7

  Maddie thought about the night’s weird episode all the way back through the darkness of the London streets. Twice she had gone still, hiding flat on the ground or against a wall when she sensed someone following her. Once she saw him cast down the odd green stones and murmur words in a foreign language. She had been lucky to find a spot out of reach in time. Some instinct, coming from a deep corner of her brain she had never sensed before, whispered for her to lie flat; that the earth would shield and protect her from all awareness. Still moving on a wave of fear and adrenalin, Maddie had not questioned the instinct.

  All she knew was that those things were not from her world and they weren’t her problem. If the big man had a fight on his hands, too bad for him. She had enough of her own worries to take on anyone else’s. Her only objective was to get safely back to the hotel and work on a clever explanation for Teague. He was going to be furious of course, but she wasn’t going to apologize. She was entitled to a little time on her own. Thanks to her harsh parole terms she hadn’t left her corner of Washington, DC for five years. A chance to wander and soak up the sights of a foreign country? No way was she going to miss it.

  She shrugged off a memory of the man’s rugged face. So what if it haunted her? He was probably a mental case. Maybe a vet returning from Afghanistan. She had heard that the strain was vicious on those coming back from this last war. Strain could make people think and do very weird things.

  A man needed a shrink not a—what had he called it? A rose?

  Maddie shook her head and sprinted across the evening streets, careful to listen for footsteps behind her.

  None came.

  She shoved her hands into her pockets. Whatever. So much for his whacko story, she decided. The man was probably high on drugs.

  It took her fifteen minutes to find her way back to the hotel. She didn’t have a map or a cell phone with GPS, but Maddie had always been blessed with an excellent sense of direction. She returned the way she had left, using the small staff door in the rear of the hotel. Easier to avoid attention that way.

  At least there were no police cars or uniformed officers in evidence, she thought wryly.

  On her floor, she slipped in her keycard and opened her door quietly. Maybe she could manage this without a confrontation with Teague. Maybe she’d simply tell him that she had dropped the monitor on her backpack down
the sink.

  “I hope you had a pleasant evening.” The voice was low and tight with anger. Maddie couldn’t see him in the darkness, but the sound came from the chair near the window.

  So much for sneaking by him.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Never been to London. I’ve never been outside of DC for the last few years either. I decided I was entitled to a little walkabout.”

  “You decided that, did you?” The room lights came on in a fury, blinding her. Teague was near the window, his laptop cradled under one arm and his cell phone in the other. He looked—furious was the word that came to mind first. Worried too, Maddie realized. “In five more minutes I was going to call the London police. That would have meant you were going back to Washington in restraints, headed for jail. Again.” Fury snapped in his voice. “So I hope your junket was worth it.”

  Maddie swallowed hard. Restraints? Well, she had known he was serious. No one ever seemed to trust her. Did they really think she was valuable enough to monitor and scrutinize all the time?

  But she kept her face blank as she poured a glass of water from the pitcher near the bathroom door. “As a matter of fact, I did. This is a great city. Lots of history here, by the way. Isn’t that why I’m supposed to be here? You have some arcane history puzzle for me to solve?” She finished her glass and sat down, tossing her backpack on the floor beside her. “I just went out to start my research. So sue me, Teague.”

  He strode across the room and put his laptop on a small, ornate mahogany table. “Let’s get this straight, Maddie. I can do a helluva lot more than sue you right now. In fact, I’m violating quite a few of my security oaths if I don’t.”

  “So? Why aren’t you?”

  It wasn’t simply bravado. Maddie really did want to know why he hesitated to turn her in. It wasn’t because of trust or affection, that much was for damn sure.

  “I could lie to you right now, but I won’t.” His eyes were hard as polished mahogany—and just as hard to probe. “And I’ll tell you the truth. It’s because I feel guilty about what happened to you. And also because I need you. The government needs you.”