Lord of Fire

by Gaelen Foley

  “Lucien, I would really rather not admire the view just now—”

  “Hush. Be still.”

  The rain needled her as it blew across the face of the hill. She knew the wet limestone was surely slick beneath his feet as he stalked out onto the outcropping. Before she could ask what he was doing, he started down a precarious little track that wrapped around the lookout rock. She had not noticed it before. The grade was almost vertical. Her eyes widened and she clung around his neck, for below them was the dropoff into the valley. She glanced over the edge in dizzying fear, able now to see the landing nestled beneath the lookout rock, which was apparently their destination. Shelter, yes, she thought, but dear God, if he slipped, if he made one false move, they would both be dead. Alone, perhaps he could have stopped his fall, but with her in his arms, they would both be lost over the precipice.

  Lucien seemed unconcerned. She held her breath for two or three more hair-raising moments, until he had braced his foot on a rock and eased down onto the landing.

  When he set her down gently on her feet in the safety of the landing, Alice glared up at him, too scared after their brush with death even to scold him.

  “Look,” he said, gesturing to a spot behind her, his silvery eyes shining, his face flecked with mud.

  She turned around and saw that the landing gave way to the drafty mouth of a cave. The lookout rock formed its overhanging roof.

  “It connects with Revell Court by way of the Grotto,” Lucien explained, breathing heavily. “It’s dark as the grave, God knows, but at least it will keep us out of the elements. How’s the shoulder feeling?”

  “Sore.”

  He frowned at her, then ducked into the mouth of the cave and lit a waiting lantern while she stood shivering, soaked through to the skin. He lifted the lantern in one hand and held out his other hand to her.

  “Do you think you can walk, or shall I carry you?”

  “I can walk. My knee doesn’t hurt too badly.”

  “Lean on me if you need me. It’ll be about twenty minutes more.”

  “It’s so dark,” Alice murmured, slipping her arm through his as she peered into the hollow limestone corridor. The dim glow of his lantern barely provided a foot’s visibility ahead.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. As an afterthought, he took off his greatcoat and wrapped it around her.

  “Lucien, you need your coat,” she protested. “You’ll catch your death—”

  “Hush. Your teeth are chattering. Let’s go. Stay close.”

  She obeyed, savoring his body heat that still clung to the heavy woolen coat.

  “Watch your step,” he said, lifting the lantern higher.

  They disappeared into the hole in the earth as though the mountain had swallowed them. They forged on, laboring along through the damp, slimy recesses of the cave. Alice cringed against him when she heard creatures fluttering aloft. She did not need to ask what they were.

  “What is your favorite song?” Lucien asked cheerfully, sensing her uneasiness.

  “Er, I don’t know. Why?”

  “Well, to the best of my knowledge, every young lady of breeding must have at least one good song in her repertoire for showing off her musical talents at dinner parties. I’m sure you’ve been put through that ordeal at some point, Miss Montague.”

  Alice managed a smile. “I assure you, when there is a call for such drawing room entertainments, I flee.”

  “You can’t be worse than me. I’m tone-deaf.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “Very well—I’m lying,” he admitted with a roguish half smile. “Truly, you dislike singing?”

  “I have nothing against singing or music of any kind. All I object to is public humiliation.”

  He laughed, and she smiled at the sound. It bounced off the pressing walls of the cave and rolled down the lightless corridor ahead of them with a jolly echo.

  “Or private humiliation,” she added in chagrin, glancing up at his face, warm gold in the lantern light. “Such as tumbling down the hill like Jack and Jill.”

  He chuckled and put his arm around her shoulders. “There, there, poor dear,” he murmured, giving her a gentle caress. “I’m just thankful you weren’t seriously hurt. Sing me a song to pass the time.”

  “Absolutely not. One humiliation in front of you is quite galling enough. Lucien, how many bats do you think live in this cave? Hundreds?” She swallowed hard as something black and screeching swooped just over their heads. “Thousands?”

  Instead of answering, he began to sing softly to her. His voice was low and as rich as a warm mug of chocolate. It was the sweetest song she had ever heard, with a wistful melody and lyrics about a troubadour-knight returning from the Crusades to his ladylove. She listened, enchanted, soon forgetting all about the darkness and bats, the bone-chilling cold, and even her throbbing shoulder. He sang the last verse and came to the end, the tender strains echoing down the tunnel in a whisper.

  Alice gazed at him by the light of the lantern. After a moment, he stole a sideward glance at her full of an almost boyish uncertainty, but when he read the adoring look in her smile, his eyes danced.

  She clasped his hand between hers. “Sing me another.”

  “I would, my dear, but we’re here.”

  She tore her gaze from his handsome face to the darkness ahead. As he raised the lantern, she saw that their way was barred by a large wooden door, fitted snugly into the rock. Lucien freed his hand gently from her grasp and walked over to it. He reached up into a small natural chink in the cave wall, feeling around until he produced a key. He unlocked the door and let her inside.

  A prickle of realization ran down her spine as it occurred to her abruptly that this tunnel was a possible escape route from Revell Court, should she choose to use it. When the weather cleared, perhaps tomorrow, she could sneak away while Lucien was practicing his swordsmanship in his studio with his men. Her heart pounded at the thought, which suddenly seemed traitorous. She knew she could make her way down to the Grotto from the house. From there, she could unlock the door to the tunnel, just as he had, and flee out into the world beyond. She could get help in the hamlet where Mr. Whitby’s cottage lay and surely find someone who would take her to the nearest stagecoach inn, which, in turn, would convey her home to Glenwood Park and to Harry.

  Sobered by the idea, she glanced furtively over her shoulder as they walked down the remainder of the tunnel toward the Grotto. Then she looked rather guiltily at him. He was studying her with a shrewd and penetrating gaze. She realized he had seen her glance back at the door. Looking into her eyes, he seemed to read her thoughts of possible escape, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, but he said not a word.

  As they stepped out into the Grotto, the memory of her erotic dream about Lucien blazed at once in her mind in all its lush, wanton detail. Blushing fiercely, Alice avoided meeting his gaze. He gave her a look of subtle reproach, then walked ahead of her, carrying the lamp toward the great carving of the dragon.

  Surely he had known going into the tunnel that she would conceive of it as a possible escape route, she thought. But then she realized he had taken that risk in favor of sheltering her from the elements. With the sweet spell of his song still sliding through her veins, Alice looked around at the Grotto. Shafts of pearl-gray daylight penetrated the soaring space from small chinks in the high, rocky dome, through which the rain also leaked in thread-thin cascades. The shafts of light played upon the swirling, mist-like steam over the hot springs. The rhythmic trickle of the rain dripping in echoed softly through the vast cavern, a serene and lulling music. Though she had seen the Grotto before, it all looked, or rather felt, totally different to her.

  It was as though, having stepped out of the subterranean tunnel, she had come out into a new world, seemingly the same, but entirely new—or perhaps she was seeing it through new eyes. This was not a den of evil, but a cave of sacred mysteries, she thought, her gaze traveling over the whimsical
carving of the dragon and the tall Corinthian pillars.

  She looked at Lucien, who had just finished lighting all the tapers in a tall, metal candle stand. He carried the flaming candelabra over and placed it by the bubbling hot springs.

  “What are you doing?” Alice asked cautiously.

  “Ahem, how shall I say this tactfully?” Turning to her, he pulled off his ruined leather gloves with a look of thought. “My dear Miss Montague, your teeth are chattering. You have been shivering for the past half hour, you hurt your shoulder, and you’re covered in mud. You, my dear, are going in the water.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced at the great pool in the center of the Grotto, then back at him. “That water?”

  “The same.”

  “But Lucien—”

  “Expediency, Alice. I will not argue this. These mineral waters have all the same healing properties as those at Bath. Now, doff those wet clothes before you catch your death—and see that you clean those cuts well. I will leave you in privacy to go fetch you some soap, towels, and dry clothes. I presume you brought an extra gown? The maid should know what you’ll need from among your personal effects.” He turned and began striding away with a look of resolve.

  “But, Lucien.”

  When he paused and looked back at her, she could not miss the haunted look of longing in his silvery eyes. “What?” he asked impatiently.

  She noticed that he, too, was shivering. “I’m not sure I should,” she said in dismay.

  “Be sensible, Alice. It’s your choice.” With that, he left her alone.

  She bit her lip and glanced at the pool, battling with herself. The hot springs did look luxuriously inviting, with a white, filmy steam swirling over them. The alternative was a tepid hip bath when she returned to her bedchamber, she supposed, but that would not get the mud out of her hair. She looked down at herself with a grimace. She was bedraggled, bruised, and freezing. Mud caked her gown and boots. It might take the servants half an hour to heat the water and fill the tub and, by then, she probably would have the ague.

  Taking off her gloves, she walked over warily to the carved stone steps that led down into the pool. She looked behind her into the dimness of the empty Grotto, as though her mother or her strict former governess might be looking on to chastise her for even considering it. Glancing at the tiled mosaics on the floor, Alice crouched down and splashed her fingertips in the pool in an exploratory testing of the waters. Relief and pleasure shot up her arm at the invigorating heat of the springs.

  Well, I don’t want to get sick, she reasoned. With a determined look, she undressed with furtive speed, lest Lucien should return and see more than he ought. She slipped out of his heavy black greatcoat and her fur-trimmed pelisse, then unbuttoned the bodice of her grimy carriage gown with trembling hands. Extricating her arms from her clinging, wet sleeves, she peeled her dress down over her hips and stepped out of it, rid herself of the single petticoat she had worn under it for warmth, then pulled off her much-abused kid half boots.

  She examined the bloody bruise on her knee, gingerly removing her garters and stockings; then, clad only in her sleeveless white chemise, she dipped a toe in the water. Ah, it was glorious, she thought, giddy with creaturely comfort. Too beguiled to hesitate longer, she walked down the steps into the hot, bubbling water, slowly immersing herself in the pool’s luxurious comfort. The reflection of the flames from the nearby candelabra danced over the water around the steps, but she was still wary of the darkness beyond the candles’ glow.

  When she came to the bottom step, the water was about four feet deep. Her shoulder and knee were instantly soothed; her entire body felt pampered, weightless, caressed. She relaxed into it. After a moment of adjusting to the vigorous heat and the sensation of bathing in the natural cauldron, she pinched her nose and ducked under the water, rinsing the mud and cold rain out of her hair.

  Braver as the moments passed, she ducked beneath the surface and glided underwater. The soaring sensation of swimming in the Grotto pool was like flying. It awakened her as she burst up to the surface again to the realization that she felt breathlessly free. Aye, freer than she had ever been in her entire life. Quite without meaning to, she had flown the cage in which she had dwelled for so many years. She found her footing in the pool once more and stood in water up to her waist, musing on the realization as she made a long, reddish-gold rope out of her waist-length hair and patiently squeezed the water out of it.

  It was then, in the shadows at the foot of the stairs carved into the limestone, that she saw the silver, wolflike eyes glowing in the darkness. A man-shaped silhouette materialized amid the shadows and emerged slowly. It was Lucien. He had been watching her, but she felt no fear at the realization. Alice held very still and stared back at him as he walked toward her with slow, prowling strides.

  His white-hot stare burned into her as it traveled over her body and fixed on her breasts. She glanced down and gave a low gasp to see that her filmy muslin chemise had become quite transparent. It clung to her skin, showing him every line of her body and the dusky-rose circles of her nipples. Her pulse racing, she lifted her chin again, wide-eyed, and met his starved gaze—but checked the impulse to cover herself.

  Holding his stare, she let go of the coil of her hair, letting it fall softly down her back. The stark longing that hardened his angular face was tempered by such knightly reverence in his eyes that she felt no urge to shrink from him, no fear. She held perfectly still and let him look, for in that magical moment of soul-deep recognition, she realized she had never met another man like Lucien Knight, and, more importantly, never would again.

  As he stared at her in hushed wonder, it was as though the world stopped. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, a virginal water nymph, her tender skin flushed and glistening, the long tendrils of her strawberry-blond hair twining around her arms and slender waist, her thin muslin chemise wafting around her elegant hips like the white, delicate flowers of the lily pads she had studied so carefully in the garden. He could barely breathe for sheer worship. Yet fear surged through him in the next instant at the risk he had taken for the sake of protecting her from the storm. She knew now about the tunnel; she knew how to get away. The thought of her fleeing filled him with despair.

  Forcing himself to lower his gaze, he walked slowly to the edge of the water, his expression concentrated, his every movement careful as he set down the armload of towels and clothes he had brought for her. His heart was slamming in his chest. He felt suddenly confused, unsure of what the hell he was doing. Crouching down on one knee beside the pool, he mutely offered her the bar of flower-scented soap.

  She swam over with leisurely strokes, halting before him. She stood, clear, pure water streaming down her body, her eyes shining, Chartres-blue. He quivered at the warmth and moisture of her touch as she took the soap from his hand.

  He wanted to ask her if her shoulder was feeling better, but he could not force out a single word. He tried to think of something charming to say to compliment her astonishing loveliness, but mere words were too cheap for the awe that he felt. His reaction shook him deeply; he no longer knew who was doing the luring and who was being lured.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Slowly, sensually, she sank back into the pool with a little smile of feminine invitation. Nearly panting with desire, he watched her glide the soap up her bare, sweet arm. He longed to drink the healing waters of the spring from her lips, her skin. To lick it from the core of her womanhood. “Lucien, you’re shivering.”

  His chest heaving, he looked at her in ravenous hunger and knew, in this moment, that he could have her.

  He could do it easily. Join her in the water and slowly seduce her, overwhelm her senses with pleasure. Take her innocence and, thus, keep her here with him forever. But he thrust the option away from him in revulsion, quite to his own shock. Not that way. Not for her. Not here in the Grotto—not for her first time. She was not ready. To be sure, he could bring her pleasure the likes
of which she had never known, but she would regret it as soon as the moment’s fleeting bliss had passed. She would despise him. Worse, he would despise himself. As badly as he craved her, he did not want to win by trickery. It would only end in his making her as jaded as he was. If ever he was going to prove to himself that his honor still existed, though he was a snake of a spy, it had to start here, now, with Alice. His only hope of saving his soul was to put aside all his powers of seduction and manipulation and to reach out from the deepest, truest—and most vulnerable—part of himself. Perhaps then he might be worthy of her trust. He knew he did not deserve it in his present state. The ghastly moment of her fall had illumined like a blinding bolt of lightning the fact that, contrary to his earlier whim, this was no game—this was a beautiful, honorable young woman’s life he was toying with. He was responsible for what became of her.

  “Are you coming in?” she asked prettily, splashing a warm plume of water at him with her toe as she floated on her back.

  His eyes blazed at the sight of her pale, nubile body, veiled only by water and wet, paper-thin muslin. With a great effort, he forced his answer. “No.”

  She smiled, her lashes starred with droplets of water. “But you’re just as cold and muddy as I was. Aren’t your muscles sore from all that swordplay and boxing?”

  “I will wait until you’re through,” he ground out.

  “Why?”

  Straightening up from his crouched position, he just stared at her until her innocent smile faded and she went still, understanding dawning in her blue eyes. A scarlet blush rushed into her cheeks. She looked away, recovering her maiden modesty all in an instant.

  He closed his eyes and prayed for strength as she dove under the water and swam away from him to finish bathing in the candlelight by the carved stone steps.