War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  Swallowing, she flicked a stare at d’Argento, then to the women standing further away in the room. Her bosom swelled with her shallow breathing. After a few deep breaths she took slid her hand into his. “Just you,” she said.

  “Of course,” he answered steadily, even though his heart was racing. He’d blocked her, that was why the others had not detected her presence. He’d done it from the best of intentions, but it rebounded on him now.

  Would she ever trust him again? She must, that was all. Somehow he must persuade her, explain to her before he lost her. No, he would not allow that, couldn’t even think of it. He had asked her if she believed in love at first sight because he did. He fell for her the moment he saw her, sensed her presence. Maybe his extra senses gave him an advantage, he didn’t know, but from the moment they met he’d become determined to win her.

  Slowly he drew her out of the alcove, supporting her the best he could when her knees buckled. He must not crowd her, must not threaten to take her over, or she would run, he was sure of it. He might never win her back, then. He meant to introduce her to his world gradually, perhaps starting with mind-to-mind communication. She could understand that, surely. Or she would have if they had become closer.

  “You would not have married her without telling her,” d’Argento said. “Tell me that.”

  “No,” he said. “I would not have done that.” Not because it wasn’t fair to the gods, but it wasn’t fair on her. She should know precisely what she as marrying into and what she might become a part of before she could not step back. He wouldn’t let her step back. He would persuade her, somehow.

  Their feet were the only sounds in the room as he led her to the door and out.

  He feared she might pull away, even run, but she let him take her to a room nearby, a parlour used by his Elizabethan ancestors. A plaster frieze depicting a stag hunt marched around the top half of the walls, mocking him. He was no longer sure who was the hunted.

  She sat slowly on one of the large, old-fashioned sofas upholstered in crimson velvet, like blood dripping from the stately depiction of the gory event above them. Taking exaggerated care, she spread her skirts. She was wearing one of the gowns she’d cleverly made from the garments in the attics, the only things she had accepted from him. Except for last night. In his pocket burned a string of pearls, perfect for her. He’d planned to put them around her pretty throat, right before he kissed it. Now all his plans lay in the dust.

  “I told them,” he said, not knowing where to start.

  “I guessed.”

  He loved that dry sense of humour so many missed, but he dared not smile. She might think he was belittling what must be a profound sense of shock. “May I tell you a story?”

  “If it makes you feel better.” She kept her voice low. Was she afraid it might tremble if she raised it?

  “Very well.” He took a seat on the chair close to her, leaving the path to the door open, should she decide to take it. She must not feel trapped. “Just over thirty years ago, the Duke of Boscobel allowed a group of people to meet in the grounds of his estate. For himself, he had an inordinate number of heavily pregnant women in his house. He’d made a plan, and it was about to come to fruition. In more ways than one. The building on the grounds was the remains of the old house, which he left in a mock ruin to adorn his gardens, but at its centre was a perfectly functional hall.

  “A group of people held a meeting there. Part reunion, part celebration, they came from all over the world for the gathering. Boscobel had mined the hall. At the right time it exploded.”

  Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands tightly together, but said nothing.

  Marcus continued with his story. “The spirits of the people in that hall were scattered to the winds. Very few people escaped the conflagration. They were gods, Ruth. The ancients of old. Except they were not. There is only one God, but through the ages people worshipped false gods, because of their attributes. They called themselves immortals, but they weren’t, not truly. They were less vulnerable than most others, that is all. They’re immune to disease and they live longer than others. So these people died.”

  He went on, since she appeared disinclined to speak. “Their spirits went to God and their attributes, that part of them that made them different, fled to the nearest receptive body—the babies inside the women in the house, for the most part. Boscobel and his acolytes tried to keep control. They wanted all the immortals to obey them. There are more immortals than gods. There are nymphs, and other beings, people with lesser but similar gifts. They gathered together and rescued some, and others escaped by their own efforts. Very few people escaped the explosion.”

  “I read about that. I saw engravings of the explosion.”

  A sigh of relief escaped him. Would she believe him? “It happened. My parents were there that night, and I’m the result. My mother was bearing a baby, and she caught—me.” Restlessly, he drummed his fingers on his knee. He wanted to pace, but he could not display his restlessness. He must remain in control of this situation, otherwise she might run. He did not read her mind, but he didn’t need to. Tension snapped like a whip in this room. “I am Marcus Allingham, third Duke of Lyndhurst. I’m also Mars, god of war. Or what passes for him these days.”

  She said nothing but gazed at him, her eyes alert with speculation. “So what can you do that is out of the ordinary?”

  He should have expected her to ask that. “I’m stronger than the strongest man. I can read minds, to a certain extent. Not to the level d’Argento can, but I can communicate mentally—that is, without speaking. I can sense other presences. I can—”

  “Read my mind.” Her command came abruptly. “What am I thinking?”

  He met her gaze frankly. “I dislike doing it. The practice strikes me as underhanded, and I prefer not to employ the technique. Communicating is all very well, but reading and scanning, other than detecting a mood is something I prefer not to do.”

  “Do it.”

  She needed proof. He would not go too deeply.

  He sank into her mind, seeping in like water into silk, watching for her reaction. Her eyes opened wider, but she said nothing. Her thoughts were there, spread out for him. “You don’t believe me, but I expected that. I didn’t need to read your mind to know that. You think I might be deranged. I’m not. Sometimes I wish I were. You love me. I love you too.” He wouldn’t let her protest, but continued, “You’ve written to your parents, but you’re waiting for the wedding date, and then you’ll ask me to frank the letter for you. You have fresh concerns about the children, the boys upstairs, because you’re concerned about my sanity.”

  “You surmised all that,” she said. “It proves nothing.”

  He didn’t tell her that when he’d skimmed the part about her loving him he’d wanted to linger.

  He tried again. “Your parents treated you like an unpaid servant, so you thought you might as well earn your living doing what they were not paying you to do.” He loved that. She had moved to make her own future, instead of sitting back and letting it happen to her. “You told me that, did you not?” He held up his hands. “Then watch my lips.” He turned to mental speech and said what he longed to straight into her mind.

  I meant it when I said I love you. I fell in love with you the moment we met and I will not change. Whatever you do, you must do. Know I will support you and care for you.

  Her fingers flew to her mouth, as if she was testing it for speaking without her knowledge. At the same time, she responded to him. I cannot love you. I don’t know what you are or why you believe these things.

  See?

  Leaping to her feet, she walked to the window, her skirts swaying with her jerky movements. Then she turned back to him, her eyes wide. “Do you know everything I’m thinking?”

  “I told you, no. I don’t usually do it, and I put a shield around you to stop others doing so.”
He shook his head. “If I had not, they would have detected your presence in the library.”

  She spun around so fast she needed to put her hands on her skirts to stop them continuing the motion and turning out of place. “Then you should have left it. I still don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine anything so—so unimaginable.”

  She didn’t like it. She hated that he could read her. He did not want her to fear him. “I’m sorry. It’s a natural talent.”

  “Can I stop it happening?”

  He would block anyone else reading her, but he could not bear to do that himself. But in all conscience he would tell her how she could accomplish it. “Imagine a door. Make it as real as you can. Then close and lock it.” He would not tell her that the defense could be forced by someone close to her, or someone with the power to do so. But at least, if they did, she would know. It would hurt.

  Her mouth a grim line, she nodded. “I will practice.”

  She appeared more at ease after that, the lines of tension around her eyes dissipating.

  “Do you mean to say all the aristocracy of this country are secretly ancient gods?”

  He loved her bright intelligence. Suppressing his smile, he answered her. “Not all. The ones that did inherit the attributes of the gods are still the children of their fathers and mothers, not some kind of changeling. Some of the spirits escaped and they are still free and lost to us.”

  “It’s preposterous.” She sounded less certain than she had a moment ago. He was winning her round. “Marcus, I cannot possibly rationalise all this immediately. Give me a day or two to come to terms with what you’ve told me. Please?”

  “Of course.” He got to his feet and held out his hand to her.

  She crossed the room to him but did not take it. “Thank you.” She spoke to him as if he was her employer again, not his love and his bride-to-be. He’d set matters in train to give her the estate he’d promised. If she wanted to delay the wedding, at least she would not starve.

  “Whatever you decide, sweetheart, I will care for you and make sure you possess the means to do whatever you wish. You are deeply precious to me. Never doubt that.”

  “I won’t.” But as she told him, she did not meet his eyes.

  “When I walk barefooted,” he told her, “I sometimes leave fire in my wake.”

  * * * * *

  Ruth hardly knew how she summoned the presence of mind to allow him to escort her to her chamber and retain her dignity. Once there, she flung herself on the bed, now neatly made with fresh sheets, and gave way to the floods of tears she had not allowed herself earlier.

  She had to get away. She must––and then she needed to secure a future for the boys, well away from this madness. For their sakes and for hers, she needed to find somewhere safe. Somewhere secluded, maybe a small out-of-the-way town, perhaps abroad.

  Her reasoning stopped there. Anxiety for the twins filled her mind, pushed panic through her veins until getting away was the only truth she knew.

  She needed to act fast. It was real. For sure and certain. That last remark about the footprints of fire tipped the balance, and disbelief tipped over into recognition. Little things like the way he seemed to understand her without her saying a word, and how he could find her wherever she was in this maze of a house. She had not noticed before, but it added up to the one big truth.

  It was getting on for dinnertime. While the servants were busy attending to the company in the dining room, she’d have the chance to get away. At night, hall boys were stationed at all the doors, and the windows were fastened tightly. Footmen patrolled the corridors on the hour, since the scare with the drapes in Marcus’s room. Now, with the doors open and the kitchens and servants either eating or serving in the drawing and dining rooms, she could find her way out. She would not stay, no, not even to leave a note. He would know why she left. She could not stay here. She would not be a part of this insanity.

  Should she take the boys now?

  No, she could not. She had barely enough money for herself, for quarter day was not yet come, and she had no means of support, other than the small amount she had brought with her.

  Her heart was breaking. The thought of the precious twins, Peter and Andrew, left in his care worried her beyond bearing, but she could do nothing about that now. She would first establish herself somewhere, somehow, and then return for them.

  Someone tapped at the door and Ruth nearly choked on the terror that rose to her throat. Instead of calling out, she went to the door herself, relieved beyond measure to discover a servant with a tray standing there. She let the maid in and waited until she had the meal set up elegantly on a table. Then as calmly as she could, Ruth told the woman not to disturb her again that night.

  “You may collect the tray in the morning,” she said. “I have a headache, and I want to be left alone to recover. I may go out to take some air,” she added. “Apart from that, I will stay here tonight. Pray tell his grace so.” If anyone saw her, they might think she was walking outside, not escaping. She prayed her message would keep Marcus away for long enough.

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and left.

  Ruth glanced at the contents of the tray, but apart from two bread rolls there was nothing she could take with her. Lamb in sauce and a sticky tart would not travel well. She wrapped the rolls in a clean handkerchief and shoved them in her valise.

  The one thing her mind clung on to was the need to get away. To leave.

  However much she told herself to calm down, lest anyone see her and guess something was amiss, she could not stop the tears pouring down her face. She dressed in one of her warm gowns, trying to look nondescript and respectable, to pass unnoticed as much as she could. Her usual bent posture returned almost of its own accord, the better to appear shorter than she was.

  She found her old cloak, grabbed her old straw hat and valise, and crept out of the room.

  Nobody lurked in the corridor. If they had she would have given them all the money she was taking, which was not a great deal. Her mind spun with what he’d told her, refused to hold on to anything for long. The moment she thought she had a truth, it left her. Small incidents revolved around her head. She couldn’t think straight. Only the one notion remained—to get away.

  Every movement she made, the quiet click when she closed her bedroom door and the slide of her feet on the polished wood of the corridor, made her pause and listen.

  Luck was with her as she slipped down the stairs and out of one of the side doors. She was not done, though. If she did not take care, someone would see her from the windows of the house. She took the side of the house least used, the one opposite to the side that held the summer dining room.

  If she managed to reach the copse on the horizon unseen, then she could get away. She would use the trees to conceal her escape. From her walks with the twins she knew the copse led to a larger wooded area. From there she could get to the great wall that separated the estate from the wall. Surely there must be a small gate there? Some way of leaving without passing by the lodges either side of the main gates?

  Her valise weighed her down, but she dared not leave it behind. She needed to appear respectable, otherwise how could she get work when she reached London? For that was where she determined to go. Either that or Edinburgh or some other large city. To lose herself and regain some control over her life. Maybe he would forget her, or realise she was no threat to him and leave her alone.

  Her mind worked almost independently of the wildness that reared up in her every so often. The knowledge he could find her, could trace her, added terror to her flight. He had said that, had he not? Would he send his friends after her, would he come for her himself? She didn’t know how to block such a terrifying prospect, except to not think about it, not think about him. Panic raced through her blood, giving her strength she did not know she possessed. Despite her ankle length skirt, mud clogged her h
em. Only then did she realise she had not changed her shoes. Too late now. She tramped on, head down, back bent to disguise her height.

  Would he check on her? If he did, he would find her in hours. Her mind whirled, and she could no longer steady herself and think or reason. The exercise was beyond her. If she thought about him she might attract his attention.

  A surge of relief met her when she reached the trees. She paused to lean against a dark trunk and get her breath. Daylight was softening, but night would not fall for some time yet. She must take care she was not seen.

  Threading her way carefully through the thick woods that fringed the estate, she kept the moon on her left. That way she would keep going in the same direction. The moon was yet but a sliver, otherwise she would have suspected the company in the house guilty of moon madness. She’d read stories where people went mad when the moon was at its fullest.

  Gods? What were they thinking? They were something different and wrong. She had no idea where to go for help or for safety, but she would try. She must try, for the sake of the potential child she carried. For her own sake. For the sake of Peter and Andrew, who had nobody else to turn to. She would return for them, if it was humanly possible, but during the short time she had spent here, the boys had worked their way into her heart, and she was breaking.

  Leaving the man she still loved and the two boys who were her greatest responsibility might kill her, but she must do it. Her obsession with escape drew her, forced her into action.

  When she reached the outer wall to the estate, she followed it, tracing the stones with her hand as the evening crept on and the night grew darker. Rough stones grazed her hand, drawing blood. It was old, could have been built with stones from the abbey that once stood on the site. Creatures scuttled around her, and once, something small ran across her feet, eliciting a small scream of shock. Her mind stilled in that instant, but then it started up again, going around and around until she thought she was the one going mad.

  Not possible. Tears streamed down her face. Once or twice she paused and tried to control the convulsive sobbing that came to her in jagged, painful jerks, but eventually she gave up and continued on her way. How could her life change so drastically in the space of a day?