by Liz Carlyle
He had laid aside his spectacles and was now studying it through a silver loupe. “Quite fine work. All done by hand, of course. And gold leaf on the cross, too, not gold paint.” He removed the loupe and straightened up with a pensive expression. “A presentation piece, I think. Or possibly a gift. And the absence of the thistle is telling.”
“But you’ve never heard of him?” asked Anisha for the second time.
Mr. Sutherland gave a sort of wince. “Let me review my genealogical charts, my lady,” he said, rising. “Perhaps I have forgotten a name?”
Grace watched him go with mild interest. A strikingly handsome man, he was graying at the temples and wore a salt-and-pepper beard. Nonetheless, he possessed the carriage of a soldier, a ready laugh, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
It made her think, strangely, of Adrian, of the man he could have been, perhaps, had life not burdened him with great gifts and great responsibilities.
“Anisha,” she said quietly, “tell me again what the Guardians do.”
Anisha looked up from the prayer book. “They guard the Gift, in a universal sense,” she replied. “Anyone possessing the Gift is believed a treasure—and a weapon.”
“A weapon?”
“Throughout history, prophets have been exploited by evil,” Anisha went on, “so the Vateis must be kept safe from those who crave power—especially the women and children. Indeed, no child who possesses the Gift is ever left without a Guardian or his delegate—a blood relation, almost always. That, you see, is where Rance went. His father was a Guardian to a grandchild who is believed to have the Gift, but she is young. Now that his father is gone, the duty passes to Rance.”
Grace wrapped her arms over her chest. “And does one simply volunteer?”
Anisha shook her head. “No, it must fall to you by birth,” she said. “The ancient manuscripts say that a Guardian must be born between the thirteenth and the twentieth of April.”
“Why so specific?”
“Who knows?” Anisha lifted one slender shoulder. “But the dates coincide, interestingly enough, very near the sign of the Ram in both Jyotish and Western astrology.”
“The Ram?”
“The sign of fire and war,” Anisha explained. “In Jyotish astrology, it is called Mesha, and in the west, Aries.”
“Like the constellation,” murmured Grace.
“Just so,” said Anisha. “The Ram possesses great stamina, both mentally and physically—a fine skill to have, I think you will discover.”
“Anisha—!”
“Oh, very well.” Anisha grinned. “But you should also remember that the Ram is capable of bending others to his will. Rams are born leaders, aggressive and clear of thought, but also stubborn and tactless. Does that sound like anyone you know?”
Grace gave a withering laugh.
Anisha smiled her serene, knowing smile, and returned to the bréviaire. While she studied the colorful drawings, Grace got up to roam restlessly about the room. It was long and narrow, rather like a gallery, spanning the width of the building, with a row of deep windows overlooking St. James’s Place. The room boasted a thick Turkish carpet that ran its length and heavy bottle green draperies that swept the polished floors. As with the rest of the St. James Society, no expense had been spared here.
This was but one of four libraries, Anisha had explained, that the Society maintained, and one of two that could be opened to the public. The other two were the small private study that Grace had seen upon her first visit, and the Artifacts Room, which contained rare manuscripts of religious and historical significance, many of them illuminated, and none less than two hundred years old.
They had arrived at the Society shortly after tea and found the library only after having passed by the dining room, the coffee room, the smoking room, and, at the end of one corridor, the ubiquitous card room, with its massive, six-decanter mahogany tantalus open on the sideboard—the Society’s members might have been templar knights after a fashion, but not a one of them was a saint, so far as Grace could see. Indeed, Ruthveyn was about as far from sainthood as a man could get—in any number of ways.
Smiling inwardly at the thought, Grace roamed to the windows and looked down at the quiet street below. There, however, her gaze fell upon someone familiar. Near the small portico across the street, a young man lounged upon the pavement, one hand thrust in the pocket of a dull-colored mackintosh, chatting idly with a fellow who appeared to be manning Quartermaine’s door.
It was the newspaper reporter, Jack Coldwater. And turning the corner from St. James’s Street was Rance. She would have recognized his confident, loose-limbed gait anywhere. Her hand went to the window as if to warn him, but it was an impotent gesture. The glass shimmered coldly between them, and already the hound and the hunted had espied one another.
Coldwater sauntered into the middle of St. James’s Place, his ever-present folio shoved under one arm. Grace watched as they exchanged words. The reporter’s stance was cocky, his chin up. Rance held himself loosely, unconcerned, then threw back his head and laughed. Coldwater returned with something, and in a flash, Rance had him by the arm and was dragging him toward the steps. Coldwater hadn’t a chance.
“Anisha,” she said sharply, “where is your brother? Is he here?”
Anisha’s eyes widened. “Why, I believe he may be,” she said almost teasingly. “Have you some sudden urge to see him?”
“I—yes, actually, I do,” said Grace.
“Out the door, and take the left-hand corridor all the way to the end,” said Anisha. “His private sitting room will be the last door on your right. If he’s not there, stop a servant and ask that he be found.”
Scarcely considering the consequences, Grace hurried from the room. She could have told Anisha, but she wasn’t sure precisely what, if anything, lay between Anisha and Rance. And what could Anisha do, anyway? No, this business wanted Adrian.
The passageway was empty. At the last door, Grace pecked lightly with the back of her knuckles, a tiny part of her hoping he was not in.
“Come!” he barked.
Grace cracked the door to see a small, comfortably furnished gentleman’s sitting room that included a leather sofa and a desk. Adrian stood at the window, his back to the door, a glass of red wine held lightly by the stem. He wore, strangely, a flowing robe of coarse brown wool, the hood thrown back. Clearly, he had expected a servant.
“I beg your pardon,” she said awkwardly.
He turned at once, his black eyes sharp as shattered ice. “Grace.” The word was low and a little raw. “Grace, what in God’s name—?”
“I had to see you.”
She shut the door, and came farther into the room. To the left, she could see a set of double doors that were closed, and she knew unerringly they were the doors to his bedchamber.
Adrian set his wine aside, the hem of the robe dragging the carpet as he did so. “Grace, why have you come down here?”
“I came with Anisha,” she said. “To use the library. But never mind that. Adrian, I saw that young man—the one who’s been hounding Rance?”
“Coldwater.” Adrian’s eyes flashed again as he closed the distance between them.
“Yes, he was lying in wait across the street,” Grace said. “I was looking down from the library windows and saw Rance haul him up the steps. After that, I could not see, but I think he dragged him inside.”
“Rance can deal with Coldwater,” said Adrian, his gaze running down her length.
Grace felt as if she suddenly stood too near a blazing hearth. “B-But mightn’t he simply throttle the lad?” she managed. “Rance can ill afford more trouble with the law—or the newspapers.”
Adrian stepped a little nearer. “He knows how to handle a jumped-up jackanapes like Coldwater,” he said tightly. “Trust me.”
The air in the room seemed suddenly close. Adrian clearly disapproved of her being here. His eyes were grim with a strange mix of temper and thwarted lust—the latter an o
dd relief to Grace. She had come to help Rance, but he was fast becoming the furthest thing from her mind.
“I…yes, you are right, I daresay,” she murmured, stepping back a pace. “W-What is that you’re wearing?”
He looked down at the open garment as if just now remembering it. “A ceremonial robe,” he answered. “To be worn in the chapel.”
“You actually have a chapel?” she said, strolling toward the window.
“In the cellars,” he said behind her, the words clipped.
Grace feigned nonchalance, but she could hear the pounding of her own heart in her chest. She was oddly reluctant to leave, and yet half-afraid to stay. He seemed more tightly drawn than ever, like the barely held blade of a guillotine just waiting to slice someone’s head off.
But eventually, they had to get beyond this impasse, this thing that had driven him from the house—and from her bed.
She spun around to find him nearing. “And this chapel—what do you do there?” she asked, her voice artificially light. “Still no sacrificing of virgins, I hope?”
“We use it for rites and initiations,” he said, his face hardening. “Prayer, if we wish.”
“But the Reverend Mr. Sutherland was not there,” Grace pointed out. “He was with us—Anisha and me. And the coffee room was full of people.”
“I was alone,” he gritted. “I spend a lot of time alone. Grace, why did you come here? In here, I mean. Is this really about Lazonby?”
She swallowed hard. “It was,” she managed. “But now…I’m not sure. I suppose I would like to know where you’ve been these last few days.”
“In and out,” he said quietly. His dark, crystalline gaze moved over her face, then down her throat, spreading heat as it traveled. “Last night I came here. I thought it best.”
“Why, Adrian?” Grace lifted her chin. “Are you done with me?”
A bitter smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “You know why,” he said, his hand coming up to toy with a strand of her hair. “Because I cannot stay away from you. Because I’ll never be done with you, Grace—not until we’ve at least a continent between us.”
“Then why stay away?” she said a little angrily. “This is nonsense, Adrian. Why waste what little—”
Her back struck the wall before Grace could draw breath. He hitched her up against it, trapping her with his weight. He kissed her almost savagely, his mouth coming down over hers in a way that was raw and visceral. His tongue thrust deep, and Grace could feel a sudden craving for him burning through her like a red-hot shaft.
She gave as good as she got, tangling her tongue with his until Adrian groaned into her mouth. Heat and frustration rolled off his skin in waves, and she drew in his scent as if she were drowning for the want of it. Heedless of who might enter, she kissed him back, twining one arm round his neck as if to draw him fully against her.
With one broad, warm hand cupping her derriere, Adrian lifted her firmly against the ridge of his arousal, urging her hard against him. Lust came alive inside Grace, catching her breath and sending her blood rushing from her brain to places aching and needy.
Madness. It was madness.
And yet she let one hand skate beneath the rough wool robe and round the waist of his trousers. When that did not yield, she eased her fingers between them, caressing the weight of him where it strained against the taut fabric of his trousers.
Dear God, she had missed him. Already he was like an addiction. She drew away to plead with him mindlessly, but his mouth skimmed over her temple, his breath hot, his lips feverish.
“I’ll never be done with you, Grace,” he whispered. “Never. You will have to leave me. I only hope you’ll have sense enough—”
She kissed him hard, stopping the words.
A long, heated moment later, his mouth again left hers, this time wordlessly, his lips caressing their way down the length of her throat as one hand unfastened a button at the back of her dress. In moments, the front of her gown sagged free. A little roughly, he dragged down her chemise until her breasts were bare where they thrust above the boning of her corset.
Lightly, he circled one nipple with his tongue until it hardened with need, and Grace stabbed her fingers into his hair on a breathless gasp.
“Your bedchamber,” she choked. “Please. We’ll be quick.”
Her opposite hand slid back to the close of his trousers, caressing the hard, heavy length of him, but when her fingers went to his buttons, he stilled her hand.
“No,” he rasped. “Not that.”
Then his mouth was on her again, sucking and laving her areola until Grace’s brain turned to mush. Until she would have done anything he said with scarcely a thought. Until, amidst all the surging heat and rushing blood, she felt cool air breeze up her leg and realized his hand was fisting up her skirts.
Then he knelt, the voluminous robe pooling round their feet, and untied her drawers. When his tongue touched her intimately, the mush in her brain turned to something hot and throbbing. Absent Adrian’s wide shoulders, the room swam before her like a dream. Dimly, she realized she stood opposite the door through which she’d entered. Had he locked it?
But her fingers were entwined with Adrian’s hair, and his tongue—his wicked, wicked tongue—was doing something so wanton and so decadent, Grace could scarce catch her breath.
“The door,” she gasped softly. “Is it…?”
“Naughty girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing her thigh. “Don’t come tempt me if you aren’t willing to pay the price.”
“The price?” she rasped. “No, I—”
But his tongue stroked deep, Grace lost all coherent thought, and forgot what it was she was so determined not to do. She came apart on a keening sound, splintering into shards of pure, white light as pleasure rolled over her, wave after wave.
She must have slid down the wall, boneless and shattered, for she came back to find herself cradled in Adrian’s embrace, his shoulder propped against the wainscoting, his breath rough with need.
“Mon Dieu!” she murmured. “That was just…oh. I haven’t the words.” Her fingers went to the top button of his trousers, but there was little will in the gesture.
“No,” he said, gently lifting her hand away. Then he kissed her cheek and whispered her name like a prayer.
After a long moment, she inhaled raggedly. “I won’t do it, you know,” she managed.
“Won’t do what, my Grace?”
“Should someone burst through that door this minute, Adrian, I still would not marry you,” she said quietly. “That’s what you meant, wasn’t it? But I’ve no more wish to be wed for that reason than for the other—for that child we are not having.”
But Adrian’s lips were hovering warmly over her temple, and his fingers were stroking through her silky-wet folds again. “For this, then, love?” he murmured as she shuddered in his embrace. “Would you do it for this?”
“No.” She said the word as firmly as a wanton, thoroughly disheveled woman possibly could—especially one whose bodice was half-down, and whose skirts were rucked up to her hips. “No. Not even for that.”
“A wise woman,” he murmured, tucking his head against her. “You would soon regret it. Besides, why marry the bull when you can get the…what is that English saying? About getting milk for free?”
But Grace was looking at him, appalled. “It’s marry the cow, Adrian,” she corrected. “And how dare you, anyway? This isn’t about my not wanting you.”
“There is a part of me,” he said quietly, “that would be happy to hear it was.”
“I think you’re a liar.” Grace managed to sit up from his embrace. “In any case, this is about your living in dread of what you might see or know,” she said, yanking down her hems almost violently. “Right now you are intrigued by me because you cannot read me. If you could, I daresay you’d not be half so charmed.”
“Grace, that is not—”
“And while you’re being charmed,” she barged on, “you’r
e waiting for the other shoe to drop. If we were wed, you would wake up every day wondering if that was going to be the day the dreadful window flew up between our minds and made us one in that way we could never wish for. Can you deny it?” She looked at him in hollow triumph.
But Adrian clearly did not mean to gainsay her. Wordlessly, he began to restore her clothing to order
She watched him for a long while, her heart half-breaking. “I will wed you, Adrian,” she finally whispered, “if ever you beg me to. When you say you love me and cannot live without me, and when you tell me that we can face down together whatever hardships the future brings. If ever that day comes, yes, I will marry you, and account myself the most fortunate of women. But I will never wed you because we have thrown up our hands and left it to bad luck. Fate may be inevitable, Adrian, but it will not be my master. It will not.”
Without another word, he urged her round and began to do up her buttons, pausing between each to set his lips to the back of her neck.
And just like that, the longing began to spiral up again. Grace closed her eyes, drew a steadying breath, then shook out her skirts and rose, angry with herself, and with him. Yet she knew on her next breath that should he come to her bed that night, she would welcome him, knew that she would surrender easily to the temptation of that lush mouth. Those dark, glittering eyes and clever hands. Not to mention his—
Ruthlessly, Grace severed that thought and spun around to see Adrian heading toward the double doors. Moments later he returned from the bedroom in shirtsleeves, his cuffs rolled up to reveal his sculpted forearms, the robe gone. He held her gaze watchfully as he rolled the cuffs back down but said nothing.
It seemed such an oddly intimate thing, to be alone with a less-than-fully-dressed gentleman in his sitting room—which was bizarre considering the state of dishabille she’d just been in.
“I still think,” she said stubbornly, “you should go find Rance. I have an uneasy feeling.”
Engaged in fastening one cuff, Adrian looked up at her from beneath a shock of thick black hair, his eyes heavy-lidded and seductive. “And I still think,” he said softly, “that I should show you back to the library and the shelter of my sister’s side, where we can both pretend I didn’t just finish satisfying you in a way that would raise eyebrows from here to Hampstead Heath had anyone caught us.”