by Darci Hannah
“I know the story,” I whispered, my heart beating as if it would escape my chest.
He looked at me, his eyes sharpening with keen interest. “How do you know it?”
“Madame Seraphina, my governess, used to tell me of it when I was a child. It was my favorite story,” I added as tears began to well up in my eyes.
“Seraphina was your mother’s lady, was she not?” I nodded, and his bushy brows lowered in speculation. “That is a very odd story indeed to tell a child. How much of it do you know?”
“It’s just a story,” I breathed, and felt the hot tears begin to roll down my cheeks.
“But what if it’s not, Isabeau?” His voice was gentle; there was no ill intent behind his grave eyes, and yet somehow his words struck deeply and painfully. “What if,” he continued, “there is some truth to all of this? Your father never returned from England because he went searching for answers. Could it be that the answers he was searching for were in front of him the whole time? What do you know of the fall of angels, Isabeau? What do you know of the Nephilim?”
“I don’t believe in any of them. I don’t believe that such things exist.”
“But you do,” he said softly. “Of course you do. You nearly passed out when you held this scroll in your hands. Why? Tell me, child. What did you see? What on earth did you see?”
There was no point in lying. Sir Oliver had been placed in my father’s confidence for a reason, and the least I could do was respect that. I wiped the tears from my eyes and replied, “I smelled her. I saw her. I heard my father calling her name.”
“Who? Who is the woman you see?”
I paused; my breathing was unsteady, and then I answered, “My mother.” I watched as he silently digested this, looking at me very oddly. It prompted me to ask: “Why did I see her? What does it mean, Sir Oliver?”
“I don’t know, child. Heaven help me, I don’t know. But I do know one thing, my dear: you never met your mother.”
That was when chaos entered, bold and unrepentant, shattering the still air of the library with a cacophony to rival the Last Trump. The shock of Sir Oliver’s conversation, still ringing in my ears, running circles in my mind, faded as the clamor from the courtyard below pulled us to the window. I feared the worst. I feared Kilwylie had tracked us to Rosslyn. My heart sank as I saw the dark riders filling the yard below, marveling at how they had gotten through the notorious gates. Gabriel came bounding into the library then, his face flushed and alight with the press of urgent news.
“Mother of God!” he cried, looking at me. “You’ll never believe it. The king has arrived!”
No shock could have been greater or met with more excitement. Rosslyn Castle burst to life as the news traveled to the servants’ quarters, rousing everyone—from kitchen lad to chambermaid—any and all who had entertained thoughts of retiring for the night. The king had come, and with him, guarding him, was a retinue of twenty-three of the most disreputable scoundrels ever to be seen with a man of noble blood. Gabriel and I followed on the heels of Sir Oliver as he headed to the hall, calling out orders as he went.
We arrived as James entered from the courtyard, coming first into the hall at the head of his rough men, and with Marion on his arm. It was a wonder anyone had recognized him for the king. Both Marion and James were dressed commonly and covered from head to toe with mud. They must have been exhausted, for their arrival, like ours, appeared to be one of great haste, and yet raw excitement, like fine mist, emanated from their every movement. At this first sight of them, relief and joy swept through me, and I left Gabriel’s side running to greet them. Marion saw me first; her face was a mirror of my own. She let go of James and met me, arms out and tears streaming.
“I’ve been so frightened for you,” I said, holding her tightly. “I’ve prayed for your safety. Was Julius very horrible to you?”
“Positively abominable,” she whispered softly, and for once I believed she meant it. “You were correct. He’s a cold, soulless creature. He’s twisted, and perverse, and has no love for anything or anybody.”
“I’m so sorry.” I held her, comforting her as best I could because I knew her heart had been broken. Her illusion of Julius had finally been shattered, and from all appearances, my brother hadn’t been gentle. Marion had championed him when I had maligned his character, and now, because of Gabriel, our roles had been reversed. Julius was twisted and perverse—life had made him that way. But he did know love, just not the kind of love Marion would ever understand. “I’m so sorry he hurt you. Was he very cruel to James?”
She pulled back, a brave and exquisite haughtiness overtaking her trembling lips. “Oh, I’m not hurt. I’m relieved. And to my knowledge, Julius never talked with James. He communicated through Dante, one of his barmy wee idiots.” She turned and pointed to the Venetian who had just crossed the threshold. Like Gabriel, he was a man who stood out in a room, a man who demanded the eye, and I watched as his handsome dark face scanned the hall, looking for his target. His raven head stilled, his gaze sharpened, and then his eyes settled on the refulgent head of Gabriel.
Marion was still talking. “Then they took his signet ring and locked us both in some underground room where no one would ever find us. And they left us there …” She paused, noting that my attention had wandered. I was looking at Gabriel, at his reaction at having spied Julius’s friend. Dante was the poor man he’d told me about, the one who had shared Julius’s horror. He was the man Julius had saved. Unconsciously, my throat had tightened at the sight of him, and I filled with a tenderness I never thought I could feel for such a man. This feeling was carried over to Gabriel, and as my eyes held the man I loved, my heart began pounding away, fearful of the emotions this first meeting must bring.
“Isabeau?” Marion had been watching me intently. She then saw the man who held my full attention. “Oh?” she said, her inflection rising and falling on a wave of curiosity. “Truly, I’ve no idea what’s happening, or how it is you are here, but I do know one thing, my dear friend. I know that look.”
I drew my gaze back to Marion, back to the dark eyes shining with uncommon brightness. Her lips curled into a libidinous smile. “My, he is spectacular. And possibly, nearly good enough for you. Wherever have you been hiding him?” I blushed. Her smile grew bolder, and she held me in her all-knowing gaze. Only Marion Boyd could know what I felt.
“He is Gabriel St. Clair,” I replied softly, smiling as the name rolled off my lips. “He is the man I’m going to marry. I shall tell you all about it later, I promise. So much has happened since we’ve been parted. But for now it will suffice to say that the only reason I’m here at all is because of him.”
Sir Oliver had engulfed James in a flurry of obsequious welcome and was fawning over the young man like a nursemaid. James, raised with the grace of a king and taught to be charmingly polite, received the attention with aplomb. Yet that didn’t stop him from casting toward me a look that silently pleaded for rescue. “Go to your Gabriel,” Marion ordered, frowning at my anxiousness. “I hardly think a man like that needs protection; then again, that dark-eyed heathen of your brother’s has a way of getting under the skin. Sir Oliver!” she called out, waving. With a sly grin, and a look in her eye that evoked images of a spry cat toying with a sluggish mouse newly emerged from the grain shed, she left me.
Dante, approaching Gabriel from the other side, preceded me by a few paces. Having sighted his target, he did not allow his focus to waver … until, out of the corner of his eye, he spied me. His crisp stride faltered, his piercing black eyes looked away, and then he stopped altogether, standing a man’s length from Gabriel.
Silence fell as all eyes held the two men in the center of the room. Each took in the measure of the other: prideful black challenging serene blue. There was the space of a dozen heartbeats, and then the stalemate broke with two wide, genuine grins.
“Dante, my dear child of mischief, come here,” Gabriel demanded in his deep, rich baritone. In two strides Da
nte had been gathered in a bearlike embrace. “Lord help me,” Gabriel said, stepping back to look at his old friend. “I never thought I’d utter these words, but I’ve missed you. Peace, I have learned, is as elusive as it is highly overrated. I see you’re still a prodigy of nuisance making and thrive on harrying the souls of men.”
“It’s a hard drink to give up, my friend. And you, Brother Gabriel, you look well, and happy, and … I think the word might be … glowing?” The smile that illuminated Dante’s handsome face was gently mocking, but only gently, because when it fell on me it changed into a radiant twinkle of accusation. The look was hauntingly reminiscent of Julius. “Peace is a noble pursuit, brother,” he said, bringing his eyes back to his friend, “but I believe it will escape you yet. My advice: embrace what is placed in the path before you. I would. There is much joy to be found in mischief.”
“Indeed. I’ve been soundly convinced of it,” said the Hospitaller, and took my hand, pulling me beside him. “Now, tell me, how are you here with the king? I figured you were protecting him—”
“He was,” said James, stepping forward. “How did you know? I only just learned of it myself, today.” I saw a curious look pass between James and his captor. “And you, Sir Gabriel, I see you have protected something very dear to me as well.” James looked to me then, and beheld me with the tenderness of a friend. “Thank you. And welcome home. Now, gentlemen, would someone mind telling me what is going on?”
It was Dante, surrounded by a throng of Julius’s men, who levelly declared: “We are all here, as Fate has planned, to save the soul of Julius Blythe.”
That was when all the details came pouring out, and all our various journeys somehow coalesced to shed light on the plight of one very clever man. Julius had come to Scotland to finally clear his name. He had been falsely accused; everyone present was now in agreement on that. He had chosen to resurface on the day I took possession of Blythe Hall. He knew, somehow, that George Douglas would come for me and stake his own claim. And he had gambled everything—his life, his freedom—on the arrival of one man: Gabriel St. Clair. He believed Gabriel had the evidence needed to clear him of all charges. That’s why he had surrendered to Lord Hume when he saw Gabriel on the battlements of Blythe Hall. He had ordered the king to be safely brought back to Edinburgh. And then he had been shot in the back by George Douglas.
We then learned how, at the hour of dawn, Lord Kilwylie, let into Hume Castle, had made his way to the dungeons to finish what he had started, unbeknownst to Lord Hume until it was too late. The details of the attack were very hard for me to hear. But I needed to hear them. I needed to understand and feel the urgency of his call. Julius knew Gabriel would take me to Rosslyn, his home. He had made this our rallying point. And now we were all here, his men, the king, and Gabriel. We were all convinced of his innocence, and touched by his forethought; and now he lay in a bed nearly forty miles away, dying.
And he had asked for me.
“We need to leave now!” I said, fear and helplessness tearing me apart from the inside. I cried out in frustration and started for the door.
Marion, learning many of the details about Julius for the first time, was beside me, holding me back, attempting to make me see reason. “We’ve all just arrived, dear. These men need rest. And you? Look at you! You’ll not survive the trip. For heaven’s sake, think of Julius!”
“I am thinking of Julius!” I cried. “I’ve been horrible to him! I tried to kill him! Dear God, if he dies before I can apologize …” I gave a little helpless scream and looked to Gabriel for support.
“I was leaving at first light with Sir Oliver’s men,” he said, holding me in his serene and understanding gaze. “You know you have command of life over me, Isabeau; I would ride now if you ask it—but love, be reasonable. You’ve been dragged across this country for two days now. Marion’s right. Could we not wait a few hours, my heart?”
“I’ll go!” said James, much to the chagrin of everyone there.
“God no!” It was Dante, spinning on his former prisoner with respectful violence. “Bloody hell you will! I’ve risked my hide to get you this far. You’re not going back. Scotland, I’m told, needs a king. And if it doesn’t have one, Julius Blythe will eat my liver. You and Mistress Boyd are staying here, with Sir Oliver. I’ll hear no argument. You’re going back to Edinburgh, sire, because if Julius survives his ordeal, he’ll be brought to trial. And he’ll need you then.” The king, naturally, chafed at this, but everyone else, especially Marion, was in full agreement.
“You all need rest!” piped Sir Oliver, acting the parent to all us unruly children. “If the lad’s held on this long, he’ll hold for another day or two. I forbid anyone to leave until first light! You need fresh horses. You need food, and for God’s sake, you’ll need clear heads if you’re to face Lord Hume and that devil Kilwylie. Go to sleep, all of you, and I’ll see to the rest. Now, before you get to your beds, my dears, let us all bend a knee and say a wee prayer for the soul of Julius Blythe.”
Chapter 22
DEATH OF AN ANGEL
UNDER A RICH INDIGO SKY, WHERE THE LAST GLITTERING stars were fading slowly into warmer shades of blue, the banner of St. Clair fluttered like a sprung sail at the head of sixty men—and one resolute woman. It was the first of May. The air, heavy with the smell of verdant life, was cool and damp, and it came at our faces borne on a steady, cavorting wind determined to hinder us. But nothing would stop me from reaching Hume Castle, neither chafing air nor my thoroughly protesting body. A body was simply a body, I kept telling myself, and my will was stronger. Of course, to say I was saddle-sore from the onset would have been an understatement, yet it was nothing a little ingenious padding couldn’t fix. It also didn’t hurt that Gabriel and the men recently under Julius’s command—the very men who had stormed my home, stolen my silver, and taken my sheep—had seen to it that I rode on a cloud of kindness and gentle encouragement. Like the thick down pillow beneath my seat, their words cushioned each jarring step and made the long ride bearable. All along the dusty roads and over the windswept trails of the high moors, I was slowly introduced to these odd men, and they, in turn, were compelled to tell me an anecdote about the brother who had been a total stranger to me these four years. They kept the stories light and entertaining. They spoke of silly things, like high-stakes card games nearly lost and then miraculously won, or times when Julius had gotten them into such bad trouble that the only way out was a midnight dash across the rooftops of some exotic city. They told me of the strange countries they’d visited, and some fabulous tales of the sea. The word pirate was never spoken aloud, but I did get the feeling they had made quite a lot of money off the mistakes of other people—and, in turn, had lost nearly as much in foolish ways. They sometimes fought other people’s wars for money. They even, at times, engaged in honest trade. Their lives under Julius had been anything but idle, and I understood their need to talk about him, just as I knew I needed to listen, for to these men Julius was more than a brother. He was loved, and revered, and something quite special.
Gabriel had been beside me the whole time listening, amazed, bewildered, smiling in a knowing way at the other men’s memories. And then, slowly, cautiously, like a wild horse coming to the fence, Dante came beside us, Dante of the penetrating black eyes and haunting white smile. He had kept to the rear all morning, riding alone, a captive of his own private thoughts. He was a special case, vastly different from the rest of the men, and the very opposite of Gabriel. In fact, one would have been hard-pressed to find two men more at odds in looks, demeanor, and nature than Gabriel and Dante. Aside from the obvious contrast of fair, Scandinavian brawn versus the dark, lithe Mediterranean athleticism, Gabriel was open and honest, and possessed a soul that yearned for the highest ideals of humanity. Dante was guarded and enigmatic, and appeared perfectly content to wallow in libidinous living and vice. Julius belonged to both these men; he was the bridge that connected them. I understood the appeal of Gabriel very well. He
had been a childhood friend, and my own heart had been his even before we met. I loved Gabriel; he was a good, dependable, honest man.
But Dante? Dante and Julius had been bound by something terrible and desperate. Gabriel knew what it was; he had hinted of it to me, but he was not comfortable with the details. I didn’t need them. I saw beneath the disarming mask; I saw the subtle vulnerability buried deep within the proud black eyes. Gabriel had once loved Julius, but he didn’t need him. Dante needed him. Like a drug too long abused, he needed him. And I knew, out of all the men riding to Hume, only two souls felt the pain created by the growing emptiness that burned deep within the heart.
“Dante,” said Gabriel in a familiar way. There was a wan smile on his lips that softened the concern in his eyes. “Forgive me for asking, but when was the last time you slept?”
This elicited a small, sardonic curl of the lips. “Do you know? I almost missed your concern. He is like a mother hen this one,” he added, looking at me. “He will not rest until all his chicks are safely home, tucked in their downy nests, with warm milk in their bellies.”
“I like order,” Gabriel was quick to reply. “And you look like you could use a little warm milk just now.”
“I could use a lot of things just now, my friend, but warm milk is not one of them.” The look he gave Gabriel was full of suggestion. “However, if it eases your mind, I will sleep once I know Julius is safe. You may tuck me in if you like.”
“Me too,” I added, then clarified, “I mean, I’ll sleep once I know my brother is safe.” This drew the gaze of both men—Gabriel’s gentle blue concern and Dante’s dark, twinkling eye. But for the few words flung in the courtyard at Blythe Hall, I hadn’t spoken directly to this man. We had kept apart, purposely avoiding each other but for looks and casual innuendoes. It occurred to me that he likely knew as much about me as I knew of him—events, but no specific details. I was, after all, Julius’s sister; I shared his childhood. Dante had shared his exile. Julius had come to Scotland to reconcile the two, which left the door wide open to us for speculation and caution. Ignoring his smug delight in Gabriel’s fallen status—for that’s what his brow was insinuating—I began, “I know we haven’t exactly gotten off on the right foot—I mean, what man comes home and robs his own family? But he always was a difficult brother. It doesn’t mean I don’t love him though.”