Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2)

by Barbara Devlin

  “Well I would very much like to know how he received the initial notice from the Sire.” With hands on hips, Athelyna assessed the offerings and glanced at Isolde. “I believe we are missing the ale and the wine.”

  “And the bryndons, which I should fetch.” With a huff, Isolde snapped her fingers. “I overlooked the napkins, as well as thy sambocade.”

  Still talking, the ladies rushed into the hall.

  “Ah, my Isolde cooked her specialty.” Arucard inhaled a deep breath and sighed. Then he leveled his stare on Demetrius. “She makes the best blancmange in the kingdom.”

  “Indeed.” Demetrius squared his shoulders. “And Athel’s brewets are the most delicious in the world.”

  “What dost thou think of my tunic?” Arucard stretched upright in his chair. “It is my wife’s handiwork.”

  “It is adequate, I suppose.” Demetrius sniffed. “Of course, my Lily sews all my garments.”

  “Didst thou see Isolde’s garden space?” Leaning forward, Arucard rested his elbows atop the table. “We harvested twice as much food for winter.”

  “Athel put back more, such that the undercroft overflows with her bounty.” He mirrored Arucard’s stance. “And she composes an herbarium, that others might benefit from her curative skills, which art renowned.”

  “Isolde manages Chichester Castle.” Arucard narrowed his stare. “In fact, I have naught to do but spend my waking hours in weapons practice.”

  “Winchester is bigger, and Athel is the finest chatelaine in the land.” Ah, it was a sad thing to serve an old friend a portion of humility, but Demetrius resolved to laud his bride, as she had accomplished a singular feat without equal, to which even Arucard could not lay claim on behalf of Isolde. Savoring the thrill of victory, Demetrius lowered his chin. “And she gave me a son.”

  Silence weighed heavy in the solar, as Arucard bared his teeth and flexed his fists, just as the women returned.

  Isolde glanced at Arucard, then Demetrius, and back to Arucard. “Not again.”

  “What is it?” Athel inquired, with an expression of confusion. But soon she sobered. “Oh, no. My lord husband, thou wilt cease thy competition, this instant, as Isolde is not my rival, and Arucard is not thine.”

  “That goes double for ye, Arucard.” With a thud, Isolde yielded the pitcher of ale. “But if thou dost insist on continuing thy disagreeable games, thou canst sleep in the garrison this eventide.”

  Now that brought a grin to Demetrius’s lips.

  “And thou mayest join him,” Athel said to Demetrius, which blackened his mood, until she slid to his lap. “Which is a shame, given my visit to the physic this afternoon.” She pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear, “After a thorough examination, he gave his expert opinion. At last, I am healed and may resume my marital duties. How sad I will be, to sleep alone in our bed. But if thou art polite, I would suckle thy longsword when we retire and make love to ye all night, as a reward.”

  “May I refill thy tankard, brother?” As he reached for the ewer, he discovered Isolde in a similar position, with Arucard, and the flush of his skin suggested his lady employed the same tactic. When Arucard shook his head and rolled his eyes, Demetrius laughed. “Verily it is good to be a husband, is it not?”

  “Thou dost know the impressive forces we faced, as Templars, yet none could contend with the imposing coercion of a beloved wife.” Arucard raised his flagon, in toast. “To our women.”

  “Am I interrupting?” At that moment, Aristide, the man of the hour, appeared in the entry.

  “Not at all, as thou art our special guest.” Arucard waved a welcome. “Take thy seat.”

  “I hope ye art hungry.” Isolde loaded a trencher with various savory foods, intended to ease the shock of impending nuptials, and Demetrius reminisced of the day he learned he was to wed.

  “Lady Isolde, in light of thy invitation, I opted to forgo the noon meal, thus I could eat the arse of a dead horse.” Athel grimaced, as Aristide plucked a huge chunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth.

  To wit Isolde gazed at Athel and said, “We will have to work on his manners.”

  “Indeed.” Athel nodded. “As that comment just diminished my appetite.”

  “I beg thy pardon?” Aristide paused mid-chew. “What dost thou reference, in regard to my manners? What use have I for polite habits when I reside amid the garrison?”

  For the second time that eventide, an uncomfortable silence invested the solar.

  Athel stared at Demetrius, and he glanced at Arucard, who peered at Isolde. Without a word, Arucard produced a letter, which he passed to Aristide.

  Several minutes ticked by, as Aristide just scrutinized the parchment. At last, he broke the seal, unfolded the missive, and read the contents.

  In his mind, Demetrius recalled his moment in that seat and the sheer terror that rocked him, when he discovered his bride had been selected, and the wedding date had been set. Little did he know how much that singular decision would alter his destiny, for the betterment of everyone involved, but especially him. Bereft of hope, he had lost his way, physically and spiritually, but Athelyna grounded him and gave him something in which to believe. She led him back to the warrior, to the lover, to the principled servant—to the honorable man.

  Emotions welled in his throat, and he pressed his lips to her ear. “While the broach declared I am thy one true knight, thou didst save me. Thou art my wife. Thou art my strength. Thou art my rescuer. Thou art my heroine, as thou hast restored my faith, and I love ye.”

  To wit she leaned against him and replied, in a low tone, “Just wait till I get ye in our room.”

  Ah, the promise of so many delightful nights and morrows.

  “So I am to marry in a fortnight.” Aristide broke the disquietude and sighed. “And we shall celebrate Christmastide at court, in London.”

  “It would seem His Majesty commands it.” Demetrius pushed a tankard in Aristide’s direction.

  “All right.” As expected, Aristide downed the ale and then emitted a booming belch, as Demetrius braced for a riotous uproar and outright refusal to yield. Instead, Aristide draped a napkin across his lap. “Now may we eat?”

  EXCERPT

  TO CATCH A FALLEN SPY

  The Descendants

  London

  September, 1815

  Secrets lurked in the shadows, beckoning as a welcomed friend for the undaunted. Unfettered by social conventions, the spotlight of which forced many a lord or a lady to conform to the expectations of others, the blackness functioned as a form of liberty, wherein revelers conducted their covert games without threat of discovery or retribution. It was in those dark spaces Lady Elaine Horatia Prescott found comfort and strength.

  As the youngest member of a large, extended family comprised of spirited ladies with bold personalities and equally intrepid men, the famed Nautionnier Knights of the Brethren of the Coast, daring sea captains descended of the Templars, the warriors of the Crusades, she often hugged the background, taking pride in her ability to hide in plain sight. Searching for some sense of herself, something not influenced by the rich history of her ancestors or her colorful relations, she fought to construct her own identity on her terms.

  What she had not expected was to find love.

  With great care, she moved swift and sure as she approached her target, skulking amid the outskirts of the crowd that filled the Hawthorne’s ballroom, during the height of the Little Season. As she neared, he shifted, and she paused just shy of touching him and held her breath.

  In one fail swoop, he pivoted, slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her into a corner, and bent to whisper in her ear. “Lady Elaine, you are the only person capable of sneaking up on me, and I am not sure I appreciate your skill.” Sir Ross Logan, the enigmatic head of the Counterintelligence Corps, brushed the crest of her flesh with his lips, she suspected not by accident, and her knees buckled. “Why do you not dance? Why do you not take your place among the ton, with the ot
her debutantes? Do you not wish to snare a husband, marry, and have children?”

  “On the contrary, I want all those things with someone of my choosing.” She cupped his cheek, and he retreated, much to her chagrin. “But I am here because you are here.”

  “Elaine, you must stop this nonsense.” Now he withdrew and attempted to push her aside, but she resisted, even as her heart plummeted. And despite his complaints, he would not hazard courting attention, so she held her ground. “I am not the man for you.”

  “How do you know that?” It was not the first time he rejected her, and she surmised it would not be the last. “Why will you not give us a chance at happiness?”

  “Because I have nothing to give you but misery and regret.” As usual, Ross offered the same excuse.

  “I disagree.” As usual, she would not be deterred. “And I will not yield my cause, no matter your protestations.”

  “Neither will I.” To convey his position, he folded his arms, but he could never fool her. “Go back to your world of perfume and petticoats, as I have work to do, and I require no partner.”

  “As you wish.” Of course, she knew well the routine and her part to play in their typical drama. So she marched into the fray, unabashed and poised in her determination. A potential solution tripped before her, and she extended assistance, as would any woman of character. “Sir Kleinfeld, are you all right?”

  “Oh, my lady.” With a toothy grin, he brushed off his lapels and bowed. “Did I step on you?”

  “No.” Elaine giggled, because he was well known for such behavior. “How are you enjoying the party?”

  “Not very much, I am sorry to admit.” Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. “The elder Miss Hogart refuses to grant me the honor of the Allemande.”

  “Perhaps she will change her mind, when she spies you in a graceful performance of the waltz, with me.” In a valiant appeal to his pride, she curtseyed. “What say you, Sir Kleinfeld?”

  “Lady Elaine, you are the soul of charity.” When she rested her palm in the crook of his elbow, he covered her hand with his. “You know, if my affections were not firmly planted in Miss Hogart’s garden, I should court you.”

  “You flatter me, sir.” To her credit, she mustered the courage to brave the rotation with one of the clumsiest, but good-natured, members of her set.

  And so she ventured into the breach, imperiling her feet in her quest to win Sir Ross. After the third trouncing of her toes, she swallowed a grunt of pain and prayed her savior would not linger, else she might suffer broken bones. Just how long would her beau wait? As if on cue, her rescuer presented himself as she predicted.

  “May I intrude?” Ross tapped Archibald on the shoulder. “As I believe Miss Hogart seeks an audience.”

  “Capital.” Without so much as a backward glance, Sir Kleinfeld gave her into Ross’s care, and that suited Elaine just fine.

  “I know what you are doing.” Ross took her in his arms, twined her fingers with his, and they whirled in the soft light of the cut-glass chandeliers.

  “I beg your pardon?” She lifted her chin and avoided his stare.

  “Do not dissemble with me, Lady Elaine.” The tone of his voice declared she had scored a direct hit, and she reveled in her small victory. Near the side wall, he pulled her closer. “How dare you deliberately put yourself in jeopardy to bait me, as that buffoon could have seriously injured you.”

  “But you are not the man for me, so you would never answer a supposed summons.” Let him counter that. “Or did you lie?”

  “You lured me into the open, without thought of my mission or the risk to my safety, just to meet your selfish aims.” Now that hurt. “I ought to spank you.”

  “Name the date and time, and I shall accommodate you.” Swallowing her trepidation, she looked him in the eye, and he cast the hint of a grin. “I challenge you, sir.” She licked her lips. “Resist me.”

  “What in bloody hell are you two about?” Lance Prescott, sixth Marquess of Raynesford, her cousin and guardian, cleared his throat, and it was then she realized the music had stopped. “Do you intend to garner the notice of everyone present, as you have damn well succeeded?”

  A rush of whispers signaled society’s interest in the exchange, and she gulped, given she detested the spotlight and the gossip often associated with the glare of unscrupulous contemplation.

  “Lance, you are not helping.” Cara, Lance’s wife and one of Elaine’s lifelong friends and confidants, elbowed her husband. “Sir Ross, it is wonderful to see you, as always. Given your service to my family, might I persuade you to favor me with a minuet?”

  As she was Lance’s marchioness, Cara’s quick response, in full view of the ton, would gratify the scandalmongers. Her estimable position afforded her power, privilege, and respect, and no one would gainsay her. That she wielded her influence to save Elaine was humbling.

  “It would be my pleasure.” Ross tugged at his cravat and led Cara to the dance floor.

  And Lance steered Elaine toward the Brethren. There, surrounded by their chums, he scowled. “Are you out of your mind? Sir Ross is not a viable candidate for the daughter of a marquess.”

  “Why not?” Ire surfaced and fortified her defenses, as she would brook no slur upon her swain. “He is a decorated knight of His Majesty and holds a rank of prominence in our government, in much the same fashion as Admiral Douglas or Sir Collingwood, and you have no objections to them. Given you married Cara and found her worthy of your title, are you a hypocrite? In light of Sir Ross’s military record, he is highly regarded in the ton, and that makes him a perfect suitor, in my estimation.”

  “You cannot be serious.” With his mouth agape, Lance appeared stunned by the revelation she had just imparted, however indiscriminately. “I forbid it.”

  “You are not my father, you hold no sway over me, and I will have a man of my choosing.” Conscious of the regard displayed by her relations, she paused to gather her wits. “Lance, this is not how I planned to broach the topic, but there it is, and I cannot deny the truth. If he will accept me, I will have Sir Ross, and nothing you do will alter my path.”

  “My young and naïve cousin, do not bet on it.” As Lance reached for her, she turned and ran, ignoring his calls.

  Bobbing and weaving through the sea of partygoers, she scurried down the hall and pushed through the terrace doors. The cool night air penetrated the heavy folds of her powder blue gown, and she hugged herself. Strolling the garden trail, she located the maze from memory, despite the thick clouds shrouding the moonlight. Little by little, Elaine surrendered to the encroaching tears and despair.

  Did no one trust her to determine her own life?

  Ever since her parents died, when she was but a child, everyone tried to shield her from the harsh reality of the world. And for the better portion of her life, she cooperated with her family, because it was far easier to obey their directives and let them dictate her actions than to take responsibility for herself and set her own course. Well she had other plans, which included a husband and children. She was done bowing to the commands of others, and it was past due for her to spread her winds and fly.

  An intense dialogue posited a fortuitous distraction, and she wiped her cheeks and inched further into the complex network of thorny hedgerows. She veered left, right, and left again, as the argument grew heated. At last, she came upon a miniature courtyard, where two men hurled accusations at each other, and she stood mesmerized by their row.

  “You betrayed our family.”

  “My family?” The unknown antagonist snickered. “When have you ever counted me as such?”

  “What an embarrassment. I should have drowned you at birth.”

  “Then your son would have had no one to do his dirty work.”

  “That is the sum of your usefulness.” The foe grasped the lapels of his rival. “You are a worthless bastard.”

  “Not so anymore.” The confident opponent broke free. “And suddenly, I am the talk of London.
Given my statements to the authorities, I am a hero, and your legitimate issue will swing atop the gallows.”

  “I think not, as without you, the prosecutor has nothing.”

  Without warning, the clouds parted, bathing the contentious scene in a pale silver brilliance, just as the silhouetted figure pulled a knife from his coat pocket and repeatedly stabbed his enemy in the gut, and the victim dropped to the ground.

  Shocked by the brutal act of violence, Elaine stifled a gasp of horror, as she would not betray her presence. But when the villain suddenly glanced in her direction, she discovered the identity of the blackguard. It became readily apparent the moonlight illuminated her, too, as he moved toward her, and she clutched fistfuls of her skirt and sprinted from the tiny enclosure.

  For a few minutes, she darted down various avenues, as terror drove her into a state of confusion, and she lost her orientation amid the dense foliage. With her pulse pounding in her ears, she dashed along the wrong path and located naught but a dead end. Pounding footfalls brought her up short, and her pursuer continued the chase but bolted past her hideaway. So she raced in the opposite tack but could not locate the exit.

  A fervent contest ensued, as she labored to evade her would-be attacker, while he tried to run her aground, and she uttered a silent prayer for guidance and redemption. To her inexpressible vexation, she stumbled upon another impasse, just as telltale treads heralded the danger that advanced.

  With a hand at her throat, and dangling on the precipice of unconsciousness, she backed into a corner, anxiety simmering in her veins as a caged animal. Myriad images played her personal history, and she rued the missed opportunities that marked her unremarkable biography. In preparation to scream, that she might raise the alarm and save herself, she inhaled.

  “Elaine, are you there?” Sir Ross inquired.

  Emitting a sob of relief, she flung herself at him and burrowed her face in his chest, but words failed her. As he held her, he rocked in a gentle rhythm, and she clung to him.