“She was lying wasn’t she?” Merry asked him suddenly.
“Uh, huh.” He nodded. “She was lying.”
“I told her that I had taken advantage of your weakness at the dinner table, but that we hadn’t actually… you know…” she admitted and made an apologetic face.
“Uh, huh.” He nodded again. “And what did she say to that?”
“She was mad.”
“Oh, aye. She's mad alright. She’s insane. What is she planning to do with me now?”
“I don’t know. I really am glad to hear that she was lying. It would have been… well, it would have been awful. I mean what I did and what you did, if you weren’t who I thought you were.”
“What difference would it make?”
“You just don’t understand.” She looked down at the floor.
Was she for real?
“How long have you known her?”
“A long time.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirty-five. How old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Close to a thousand,” she supplied. “Doesn’t that make you feel weird?”
He raised one eyebrow. Perhaps the word reality had not been precise.
“Yeah.” He smiled. “It would.”
“Do you look like your mother or your father?”
“I don’t know.” He actually laughed at the question. He had no recollection of either father or mother and wondered if he had ever known them. She was totally innocent now, back to the Pixie he had made her into in his mind. “And you… who do you look like?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “My mother and father died a long time ago. I’ve seen pictures, but I don’t think I look like either of them. I was an orphan.”
“What?” He frowned. She did not have the appearance of one abandoned. He had thought she had somehow sprung full grown from the head of her father, Zeus. He shook his head. No that was not the right goddess. Who was it that had come from the sea in a seashell? Aphrodite? Venus? Weren’t they the same? But these were pagan gods and he was obliged to kill the enemies of Christ. What was he thinking? He turned up the bottle and stared at her. She was talking again, telling him some story about her childhood, but it did not interest him. He was only interested in the here and now and she was here and it was now. He stood up and set the empty bottle on the desk. Enemies of Christ? She stopped talking and stared at him.
“You would not do that again, would you?” she asked after a few seconds.
“What? Do what again?” He frowned. Something else was clouding his mind. The wine. The wine was making it hard to focus on her voice. She fidgeted with something in her hand. A key. The key. The key to his door. “You have the key and I need the key.”
“No, you do,” she said and frowned at him, missing the meaning of his words. “You have the key.”
“You would give it to me, if I wanted it,” he said and took a step toward her. She did not flinch away from him.
“I would give you whatever you want… as long as you truly want it,” she continued to look at him with a peculiar look in her clear blue eyes. “As long as you love me.”
“Love you?” He stopped. “Why would I love you? What do you know of love, lassie? Ye’re naught but a choild.”
“You tell me,” she shrugged and held up the key.
“I don’t know what love is and I asked you first.” He regained his composure.
He took another step toward her. She took a step back and leaned against the door, holding the key behind her.
“Yes, you do,” she objected.
One more step and he was in front her, holding her hands, looking down at the key. He wrapped one hand over the key in her hand and pulled her close. The key was crushed between them.
“I want the key,” he said into her hair and then kissed her forehead. “Will you give me the key?”
“I told you I would give you anything you want.” He leaned into him and he felt another overwhelming desire to take her down on the floor, right there in front of the door. Why? The key was important and he had it in his hand. “You will have to decide whether to stay or go.”
She kissed his chin and then raised up slightly, kissing his mouth. He closed his eyes and almost forgot about the key. He let go of her hands and ran his hands up her back and then down, slipping the loose dress from her shoulders. The key fell to the floor along with the light summer dress. Did she never wear anything under those gossamer gowns other than a few strings and a bit of fluff? This was much worse than before and he felt a sense of guilt as he pressed her against the door. She wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to the bed instead. The key bounced on the carpet. Surely he could find the key soon enough. In a while… and a bit. His stomach was forgotten again.
They were lying in his bed some time later when the door suddenly opened and the overhead light came on abruptly. Mark threw one arm over the Pixie and shaded his eyes against the glare. He had the distinct impression that this had never happened to him before.
“Show’s over!” Maxie announced as he picked up the key and Merry’s dress from the floor. “Come on, Chevaliere Discretion.” He used her honorary title with just the proper amount of scorn. “I should have known where to find you. Miss Cecile wants you downstairs.”
Merry sat up in the bed with the sheet clutched to her neck, frowning at the ugly man. Mark looked at him in amazement. His hatred for the man inched up another notch. Didn’t anyone ever knock in America?
“Hand over the dress,” Mark Andrew growled as he pushed himself up in the bed wearily. He should never have stopped to dally with this woman again. A little of his strength had returned after the meal, but he had spent it in amorous pursuits. How many men had been killed in just such a sorry state? It was no wonder he was required to sleep fully clothed with his boots on… He cursed himself mentally. She would certainly be the death of him and he felt that he deserved it for being so weak-willed and stupid.
“I don’t think it will fit you, dickweed.” Maxie laughed and held the dress up a little higher to look at it. “Nope. Too little, though I might say the color would go good with your hair.”
“Give her the damned dress, sir,” Mark set his jaw and raised his voice just a bit. He was hardly in any position to make demands, but he didn’t really care. If he was going to die here, it might as well be now.
Maxie raised the barrel of the shotgun and draped the dress across the barrel sight.
“Miss Cecile is waiting for you, sister.” He grinned at Merry. “Come and get it.”
Merry started out of the bed and Mark caught her arm. “Stay where you are. I’ll get it,” he told her without taking his eyes off the man with the gun. When Maxie made no further move, Mark let out a sigh and climbed out of the bed to retrieve the dress under Maxie’s appraising gaze. It didn’t seem to matter to him which of them came after it. He appreciated one just as much as the other.
Mark tossed the dress to Merry and she pulled it over her head quickly, before slipping from the bed to find her shoes. Mark Andrew stood facing the sneering man, dressed only in his intense hatred. Maxie did not flinch as Mark looked at him with deadly intent in his eyes. Merry passed behind him and he caught her arm again, pulling her back in front of him. He then kissed her long and hard while Maxie stood his ground in the open door. “I’m going to kill him for you,” Mark whispered in her ear and let her go. “Before I leave, I’m going to kill him for you.”
She looked into his eyes briefly and then backed away. Maxie snatched at her arm and flung her toward the door.
Merry disappeared through the door behind the big man and he heard her footsteps hurrying away down the hall. Maxie did not follow her immediately, but remained where he was as if he would say or do more.
“If you would care to lay your weapon aside, we could take care of this business, here and now,” Mark told h
im evenly. He’d never fought anyone without the benefit of some bit of clothing or armor, but if it had been good enough for the Highlanders, it was good enough for him. All he needed was a bit of blue face-paint.
Maxie seemed to consider the possibility seriously for several seconds before he found his voice again. “I would like nothing better than to wrestle with you, my friend, but I’ll have to take a raincheck on it right now.” He winked at Mark and quickly backed out the door, closing and locking it.
Mark stood frozen in the middle of the room. He was definitely going to have to kill the man. His promise to the Pixie he would keep. There was no doubt in his mind now. He placed one hand on his forehead and the other on his hip. Highlanders? Blue paint? Armor? He had to be some kind of history buff. He looked down at himself and then dropped his head. Buff, indeed. If things went well, he would regain his strength in the night and make good his escape in the morning, after killing Maxie, of course. He crawled back under the covers and was soon fast asleep.
(((((((((((((
Sometime just before dawn, a sudden summer storm broke against the house, shaking the foundations with intense lightening strikes all around the grounds. The roof groaned and the wind beat the rain against the windows. Mark Andrew awoke with a start from another nightmare about war and horses and dust and blood. He pressed his hand against his forehead and then sat up suddenly as he became aware of the fact that he was not alone.
This just could not go on! He was now afraid for Merry. The Pixie was living in a very dangerous situation and he didn’t even think she realized it. She was slowly, but surely working her way into his mind so that his every thought started and ended with her. If she continued to creep into his room, sooner or later, she was going to find herself in serious trouble. And, furthermore, regardless of his inability to remember details, he was positive that he should not be carrying on this licentious relationship with a virtual stranger. It was against everything he felt was right. He was making a big mistake and compounding it by allowing it to continue. Valentino was insane. He knew, or thought he knew what she had in mind for him, but he also felt that she might be capable of killing Merry as well. He had seen the insanity in her eyes when she had spoken to him about Merry. She was extremely jealous of the Pixie and jealousy, especially in women, was a very deadly thing. The best he could make out about the peculiar relationship they seemed to share was that Merry had somehow gained permission to seduce him and sleep with him, but it made no sense. It was almost as if Valentino had imprisoned him here as a gift for Merry in addition to extracting ancient secrets from him. Insanity. He could understand Valentino’s motivation as far as the immortality thing went. That would be an acceptable, if not logical, reason to hold him. But there was more to it than that. He seemed to be serving a two-fold purpose here and both were beyond his comprehension.
When he swung his feet to the floor, a hand gripped his shoulder. The storm had knocked out the electricity.
“Where are you going?” she whispered. Her voice was slightly hoarse. She’d been crying again and drinking as well. He could smell it on her breath. Depression complicated by the consumption of alcohol. A dangerous and often deadly combination.
“I had a nightmare.” He lay back beside her. “What are you doing here?”
“How could I stay away?”
She pressed her lips to his ear and reached under the quilt to find what she was looking for and he sighed audibly before lying down again and allowing her to slip under the cover with him. He would have to take the key this time and leave her.
The lights were out. And no emergency generator had kicked in. Maxie’s cameras would be out. Perfect.
“Where is everyone now?” He caught her hand and turned to face her.
“Sleeping,” she kissed him almost viciously and ended with a bite on his lower lip.
“Ow!” He wiped his lip and tasted blood. “What was that for?”
“I thought you liked it rough,” She laughed softly and pressed herself against him under the cover. He allowed her to push him over on his back again.
“Sometimes, maybe…” he admitted, but this was not one of them. “It depends on what you mean by it.”
She got up on her hands and knees in the bed and crawled over him. He was tired. He really wished she would go away. He wanted nothing to do with her anymore. He wanted to rest and recuperate, but there was at least one thing still interested beyond all reason and his own body betrayed his mind… again. Her actions were drunk and reckless and, apparently, it was not in his nature to take advantage of drunken women. He tried to pull her back where she belonged beside him. Just sleep it off. She leaned over him and licked his ear before biting his earlobe much too hard.
“Dammit!” he cursed and pushed her back. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Would you?” She laughed and climbed on top of him, sitting back on his legs. She leaned over him and he could feel her smooth skin on his exposed stomach as she kissed his chest and then slid her tongue all the way down his belly. While part of him was revolted by her, another part seemed quite pleased and surprised by her attentions. The pleasure was short-lived when she bit him again on the very part that was on her side.
“Stop it,” he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back up on his chest. “You’re drunk. You’d best go now.” She was making him angry. He kissed her roughly and pulled her hair when she tried to bite him again. He knew she could taste the blood in his mouth from his lip. Perhaps it was blood she wanted. Perhaps she was as bloodthirsty as her companion, Valentino, when she was drinking. Alcohol did strange things to people. He could not imagine the Pixie drinking anything other than a glass of tonic water. She didn’t seem to be the type. In fact, he could not imagine her drunk at all. But then she didn’t look like a wanton slut either, though she certainly filled that bill quite readily. An abomination! He made an abrupt effort to put his insistently interested, but injured part where it wanted to be and missed. She laughed and sat up again. She pushed down on his shoulders and he took her by the waist, trying again and she moved away. This topsy-turvy situation that she seemed to prefer was not his cup of tea. He missed the mark painfully the third time and winced. She giggled.
“That’s not funny,” he told her as she continued to giggle. The thunder crashed around the house and the rain drummed on the windows and the roof. The storm put him in mind of his home in Scotland. Where exactly was his home in Scotland? He couldn’t remember, but it seemed to him that it rained there… a lot. She leaned sideways and reached out for the bedside table almost crushing the rest of his desire from him in the process.
“Dammit!” he muttered and grabbed for the sheet as she slid off of him clumsily.
He heard the clink of a bottle and then blinked as an almost blinding flash of lightning illuminated the room. The strike was so close the thunder was almost instantaneous. The effect lent credence to the idea that God highly disapproved of what he was doing. He got only a fleeting glimpse of her in the light before it was gone, leaving white spots in front of his vision like the unexpected flash of a camera. She turned up the wine bottle and drank heavily from it in the brief moment he was able to see her. Only the line of her throat as she swallowed the bottle had been visible in black and white like a cheap French silkscreen print. She returned the bottle to the table awkwardly in the pitch darkness and then pressed her lips against his, filling his mouth with the sweet liquid, surprising him yet again. He almost choked before managing to swallow the unexpected and unolicitied drink. She pushed herself backwards and went down on him again with very cold lips and tongue, almost taking his breath away and it was his turn to get away from her. He sat up sputtering again, pushing her away.
“Dammit!” he repeated the only word he could think of. The anger returned suddenly and he grabbed her shoulders, slamming her on her back, pinning her beneath his weight. “Is it trouble you want or are you just trying to provoke me? What do you want? You want to fight?”
“I thought you would never ask,” she smacked her lips and tried to bite his chin. He thought she must be very drunk and felt almost guilty as he moved back into the proper position in which he felt was most efficient manner to finish what she had started. He closed his eyes and she wrapped her legs around his waist like a common whore. But unlike a prostitute she meant only to play with him and kept the objective just out of range, laughing and giggling.
“I don’t think you have what it takes to take what I have,” she jeered at him.
Her flippant attitude outraged him. No woman had ever treated him in such a manner. Paid or unpaid. Willing or unwilling. He got up on his knees and pushed her legs down before grabbing her hands. He shoved them under the small of her back and lifted her up, poised to make the final strike. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.
“You would rape an innocent maid, sir?” she asked and giggled. It suddenly occurred to him that he had heard these words before and then the voice of a man overpowered everything else. The words were spoken as if in a prayer by someone with a very deep voice, familiar, yet strange to him ‘O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.’ It almost caused him to throw her from the bed… almost, but he had gone too far to stop because of a ghostly voice in his own head.
So this was her fantasy? To be raped? But that was ridiculous. What in the world was she doing? No, no, she was drunk. There was no doubt, but it was far too late to think about it.
“Ye’re nae innocent maid, lassie,” he told her surprising even himself with the sudden appearance of a noticeable Scottish brogue. She laughed and tried once more to squirm from under him. He pulled her back and found the mark with no trouble. To his immense, but brief amazement, entry was difficult, almost painful. She continued her struggle against him with little success, protesting that he was hurting her as if everything that had just passed between them had never happened.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 13