by Lorelei Bell
Saint Germain made a gush of disbelief. Holding up her hand, she went on to explain in every detail about the two men and what they were doing. And then how they had used the Teleport Machine to bring back a man from his world.
“I listened in,” she recounted. “I heard his name. It was Cagliostro.”
This time Saint Germain swore, but gallantly in another tongue.
“Before they left, I also saw Myron join them. He has been hired to capture me, for their ritual.” She paused just long enough to let him do some more creative swearing. “Before they left, they disabled the machine. I didn't know what they had done. Once they left, I went down to try and figure out what they had done. But before I could, Jacques found me. He thought I had unplugged it. He was really angry. He thought I'd found my way down there on my own. But it happened just as I've said.” She watched as he pondered this for a moment. “I'm sorry. I wouldn't blame you if you sent me away, after all this.”
“I will not send you away, dear heart,” he said in that rich deep voice of his. “I realize that you have a curious side to you. It is admirable that you told me about all this, and your trespass—but it was not really that, since you have no control over the Portals that seem to open and transplant you in other areas of the castle.” He strode up to her, stared into her eyes, brushed a length of hair from her face gently. “I am most alarmed by the three men—all of them wizards, of course?”
“Yes.”
“And the fact that Cagliostro is not only still alive, but here, on this world, no less.” He gave a sigh, enough to heave his chest out and then let the air in his lungs go. “And Myron? How is he involved?”
“They are paying him. The one in charge is Phineas, he wants him to capture me. Myron even said that he'd enlisted help. I think that means that woman vampire he was with that night.”
“Ommetress Chillingworth?”
“Yes, her.” She shivered, remembering.
Saint Germain pulled her into his arms. His sudden nearness threw her into near delirium. “I would not let him, or any of these other scoundrels darken your path, if I can ever help it.” His voice was like dark honey, deep, and forbiddingly sweet. Before she could pull away, his lips captured hers in the barest touch, almost chaste.
His lips had barely parted from hers, and were a mere breath away when she whispered, “How will you accomplish this. You are busy day and night. How can you hope to even go up against three wizards, and two vampires?”
“I have lived many, many life times. Do not underestimate my powers,” he told her. And then he kissed her fully and deeply. When the kiss ended, his arms were wrapped around her, holding her securely against himself. Powerless to fight off the curious warmth that had begun in her lower regions, she let her head drop against his shoulder and sighed.
He made a low sound of pleasure deep in his throat. Both hands caressing her face, he brought it up to look deeply into her eyes. “Zofia,” he whispered. “I know it must seem too soon, but I cannot hold back my desires for you. I ache for you, and I feel that you also ache for me. If I am wrong, send me away. Now.”
She thought she should have a pang of guilt, something to hold her back from allowing this. Dorian's words to her tonight had toppled any hope she'd had of getting back with him. It was over. At least he'd let her know this. She was divorced and free, just as he'd said. The pain Dorian had put her through—not just in the past few days, but when she thought about how she believed he'd been dead for five years without his ever having tried to get word to her—had culminated in putting her heart through torture. This was it, it had been his last chance. He didn't want her back. Maybe this was best.
The man before did want her. Badly. Maybe it was because she reminded him of his long lost love of centuries before. It didn't matter. She wanted to be in someone's arms tonight. She wanted to be wanted again. She knew Saint Germain was not wooing her for his own greedy reasons—which was, she suspected, Stephen's reasons for making overtures toward her—but because he felt something special toward her.
At the moment, she didn't really give a flying lizard why Saint Germain wanted to woo her, just as long as he did. She lifted her face, availing her lips to him. She wouldn't play coy with him. This wasn't a game, and she wasn't seventeen. They were both adults and they knew what they wanted.
He kissed her lightly at first, fingers of one hand holding her chin in place as though she might try and evade his lips. Eyes closed, she slid both hands up his chest, felt his warmth, felt his chest expand and contract as he breathed steadily. He deepened the kiss. Zofia kissed back, winding her arms around his neck, getting into it. This was good. This was more than good. It was so much more than good. It was terrific, in fact.
As if a mutual understanding had been reached, he lifted her into powerful arms and carried her to the bed. Their lips parted only long enough for him to draw himself on top of her. The bed sank with the weight of their bodies. Zofia reacted to him as though she had known him for many years. In fact, it were as though they had left off right here at some point, and were just getting back to it. It was odd, but at the same time, it felt so right. Unable to hold back her desire to touch his chest—his skin—she thrust her hands inside his shirt and fount it parted almost too easily, like a curtain. She pushed it off his shoulders, revealing a robust chest, and lots of black chest hair.
Bringing his head up he said, “Let me worship you,” he whispered, his voice harsh, ragged with his desire.
“I'd like that,” she whispered back.
Tapered fingers worked at unfastening her robe, and then loosened the tie on her nightgown, sliding it back off her shoulders. His lips traveled reverently across her neck and shoulders, igniting fires she had reserved for someone else who would never be with her like this again. Her night dress slipped further off, exposing more of her breast to his seeking lips.
He stopped suddenly and stared at the left side of her chest as though horrified.
“What has happened to you?” he asked as though she were sporting a fresh wound.
She knew what he saw there. The scar ran from he collarbone, down one breast and made an arc toward the center of her chest. The only other man who had seen this, other than Dorian, had been Richard, the Ugwump cop whom she had dated for a while. She'd had to invent a story, then and there. The truth, as horrible as it was, was much easier, and to this mortal man, it was acceptable.
“That is the mark from a very evil sorcerer, when I was ten,” she informed. “It's where Vesselvod Blood wounded me with a charmed snake-headed whip.”
“Mon Dieu!” he said, voice going deep and raspy. “This is what a sorcerer did to you?”
She nodded. She really didn't want to go into the story here. She wanted to forget everything and have him make love to her.
“Had I been there, my dear heart, I would have ripped out his heart with my bare hands!” he said this with the same raspy voice, looking as though he could have done so. “I will kill him the first chance I get.”
“No need. He's dead.”
He stared down at her for a few heartbeats. “By who's hand?”
“Actually, a unicorn did him in. But I was there. I watched it gore him. He's very dead.”
He made a humming sound. It seemed to vibrate through him and into her. “I promise you that no such horrors shall befall you, not as long as you are in my company, or in my castle.”
She hushed him, grasped his face and pulled him back to her lips. She didn't want to delve into the past. She wanted him to continue what he was doing. There was a good possibility she could have a nice, mellow-mood inducing orgasm tonight—hopefully many.
Chapter 31
The warm body next to her stirred. Zofia felt a smile stretch her lips before she opened her eyes.
“Are you awake?” The question was whispered.
“Yes,” she said. Stifling a giggle, she rolled over to face him. Warm arms wrapped around her. His kiss landed on the tip of her nose, and she g
iggled.
“I have never slept all night in one bed in at least two hundred years,” Saint Germain sighed ecstatically, one arm bent pillowing his head as he looked into her face.
“Oh, really?” Zofia queried, propping her head up with a hand to aim a playful look at him. “Just how many beds do you visit in one night?”
His dark, smiling eyes darted to engage hers. “You, madam, have a mean streak.” With a quickness, he grabbed her by the arms, and pulled her to him, inducing shrill screams from her, until he settled her on top of himself and she was looking down at him, a curtain of her hair surrounding their faces. Straddling him, she was aware what her nearness was doing to him. For that matter, it was doing a great deal to her feminine apatite as well.
Zofia gazed down into his handsome face, and giggled, remembering their love-making. Saint Germain was a surprisingly large package for such a compact guy.
“Pray tell me what devilish things are in that mind of yours?”
“Me?” she gushed. “How many times must we do it until you're satisfied? You're like a marathon man!”
Chuckling he grasped her sides, making her scream again and suddenly their positions where reversed. “I think this question I should ask of you,” he said accusingly, and nuzzled her neck making her scream again. His laughter joined her shrieks. Bringing his head up, he said, “You must forgive me, but I have been chaste for at least ten years. I'm only trying to make up for lost time.”
“And I'm only one woman, how do you propose to make up for so long of having gone without in just a few nights?”
“I think we will do our utmost best,” he said, and laughed as he rolled her back on top, the sheets twisting in their legs, as he slapped her smartly on her bottom.
She shrieked, and they they wrestled again until he was once again on top, kissing her until they both parted, breathless.
“My love, a night with you is like a thousand-and-one nights of ecstasy. To merely kiss you transports me to another world. I—”
Zofia put her fingers to his lips. “Save it for a Hallmark card. I have to pee.”
He laughed, and let her up. She threw on her robe and tottered into the bathroom.
While Zofia took care of things in the bathroom, she wondered where this was all going to lead. All of a sudden this situation was feeling just like the one she'd found herself in on First World, while dating Richard. But, she reminded herself they were not on First World, and he knew that sorceresses existed. But her admission to being a sorceress might cause a rift between them. But, then again, Jacques knew all about her. If she didn't reveal what she was, not telling him might backfire on her even worse.
Making up her mind, she exited the bath and rejoined Saint Germain who was stooped before the fire, barefoot and shirtless. His physique was different from any other man she had known. While he was not exactly muscular, neither was he pudgy. He was more or less a fireplug. He seemed to be in good condition—especially for an Ugwump who'd seen a few hundred years.
“Fire was nearly out. You really should have a talk with those servants of yours,” he joked as he strode back across the room and picked up his shirt from the floor where it had landed from Zofia's strip search the night before.
“I'll do that,” she retorted sprightly as she sat at her dressing table. Upon seeing her reflection, and the wildness of her hair, she had to gape at herself. He made love to that? Yeesh. They had made love for what seemed like two shadowpasses. He was amazingly gentle, deliberate, and unhurried. Agonizingly so. When she had reached orgasm—multiple times—he had held back before he had reached his. They had lain in bed for a while longer, after that, talking about little things—the little nothings that lovers babble about in the afterglow—what her favorite flower was, what her favorite color was, that sort of thing. She couldn't help but compare him to Dorian. Saint Germain was an exquisite lover, while Dorian had always been somewhat selfish in bed.
“My lady is hungry? What shall I fetch for you?” he asked as he padded to a corner of the room and pulled on a gold cord with a thick gold tassel at the end.
“I don't know if I should,” she said, watching him. “You didn't give me my anti-morning sickness potion.”
He frowned. “No, since I was not here in time to make it for you.”
“I don't feel so bad right now,” she said. “Maybe just have him bring coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“And perhaps some of those nice pastries.”
“Madam has a weakness for the pastries,” he said, smiling.
“It seems to be the only thing that Percival doesn't mind bringing to me early in the morning, and that I don't up-chuck.”
“You are eating for two, now. I think Jacques can manage a nice soufflé,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Or would you up-chuck that?”
She laughed at the way he'd used that word so easily.
“Jacques?” Zofia gave him a curious look from where she stood at the armoire, trying to select something to wear for the day. Her everyday chemise needed laundering. In fact, she didn't see it anywhere. Where had she put it? “I thought you didn't have anyone to cook for you.” She considered the green dress. It wouldn't be too overly dressy, she thought, but pulled it out to gaze at it.
“It is true that I have said I retain no cook, as I do not need one. But, Jacques is an excellent cook, he prepares meals for himself and Percival when he has time.”
“So that night at the inn—”
“I merely wished to have a more neutral place to dine. I didn't wish to overwhelm you. Jacques agreed to be our chef that night. He in fact was once a chef, before—eh—he became a wolfman.”
“Ah, yes. I see,” she said, staring at him, realizing that the Knight's Code Book wasn't wrong about a man being more relaxed after sex, willing to share more about his personal business than before. She decided on the green dress, instead, and draped it over the bed. She riffled around in a drawer for a clean camisole. Meanwhile Percival came to the door. Saint Germain answered, opening the door just a few inches, speaking to him that way, meanwhile giving Zofia some privacy in her state of undress. Saint Germain shut the door. “I've ordered you breakfast, my dear. Hurry up and dress.”
“Franz?” she said, as she pulled the camisole over her head. Her voice was muffled, and so she repeated herself once her head was clear of the material.
“Yes, my dear heart?” He was seated upon the divan, dressing the rest of the way, one foot about to receive a stocking, which was rolled up in his hands.
“I was struck by all that stuff down in your Teleport Room. What is all of that stuff? Where did it all come from?” She was putting off telling him what she needed to, she knew, but she couldn't help it. She just didn't know how to tell him she was a sorceress.
“What stuff are we speaking of?” He gazed up at her.
“There's lots of things there. Huge pieces of machinery, gadgetry, and things I have no idea what they do or what they once did. And a whole town is down there, as though transported there from some other world.”
“Ah, yes. That,” he said. “It was all there well before I took over the castle and all its contents. In fact it was there before King Vlad—and he had lived here for five hundred years.”
“You mean it was just there?”
“Yes. As was all the gadgetry—as you so aptly put it—it was old, and didn't work, until I tinkered with it and got the electricity reconnected to the generators, after I got them in working condition, of course. All of it was already there, the town—everything—just as if those who lived there just walked away.”
“You mean it's just as if they disappeared?”
“Yes. All their belongings all there, in the shops, in the homes. I've even found an apple pie still in the oven, rather burnt, but still was there.”
“My wizards!”
“No one I've spoke to seems to know how it got there or where these people came from or where they went to.”
“How strange.”
“A mystery. But something tells me that they may have been drawn to a portal, and possibly were swallowed up by it, never to return.”
“How utterly perplexing.” She drew her brush through her hair again and decided she couldn't prime the pump any more than she had, so dove in. “Franz?”
“Yes, my love?”
“You will no doubt speak to Jacques today?”
“Of course.”
She faced him. “You must press upon him the danger we all are in, now. He needs to know that there are dangerous men in the castle. I tried to tell him about them when he caught me yesterday, but he didn't believe me. It's as though he has come to think of me as an enemy, and I'm not.”
“No. Never!” he said, brushing her comment aside as though it were an outrageous thing. “Jacques is a very loyal friend. He merely becomes upset when things become a little—how shall I say—out of kilter.”
“How long has he been here with you?”
“Five years.” Fingers ran over his straight locks to pull it all back off his face. The ribbon to tie it was in his hand as he stood gazing across the room at her. He was now dressed as much as he had been when he'd entered her room last night. “Since you already know that he is a wolfman, I will tell you the story of how we met.”
Brush in hand, she remained seated at her dressing table. Saint Germain settled upon the bed, across from her and crossed a leg over a knee.
“I'm listening. Go on.”
“It was a three-full-moon night, five years ago,” he began, hands folded before him, one ankle propped over a knee. “Randal was bringing me home from a little trip. The moon's light was so bright, the whole countryside was visible as if it were day.”
Zofia nodded, setting the brush down, and giving him her full attention.
“I remember finding this aspect—the three moons—of your world utterly fascinating. But I digress.
“It was late spring, turning warm, and the night was filled with many creatures, and I knew that it was dangerous for us to be out, but it could not be helped. When Randal pulled the horses up, I thought here would be trouble. And there was. I could hear the racket of what sounded like wild dogs, or wolves fighting. The sound of such creatures viciously fighting one another is enough to make even the bravest man's blood turn to ice. Even when armed to the teeth.