The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume

by Chad T. Douglas

  “Shall I get ready?” Molly asked Tom once they arrived in their room.

  “I’ll be waiting outside for you,” he replied with a smile.

  Molly changed quickly, inserting a silk carnation into her hair that had come with the dress. She spun around, watching the dress flowing about her in a magnificent array of red and white. The skirt was in tiers, white over red over white over red. White, puffy sleeves left her shoulders bare, and a tight red bodice showed off her tiny waist. Molly looked like a sweet treat, perhaps a little strawberry and cream torte. Sofia had made an excellent choice. Molly quickly headed outside to meet the captain, taking one final look at herself in a mirror before doing so.

  Tom took Molly’s hand, and they ventured out into the streets. Throughout the city there were large group dances, plenty of food, and seemingly more and more decorations as they walked. Overhead were small, independent celebrations on balconies of the multiple-story homes and inns.

  Turning her head this way and that, Molly gazed in wonder. “This is incredible. I’ve never seen such a celebration.”

  “I’ve been only once or twice before, and never has it been so large and noisy,” said Tom. The crowd began to shift, and most of the people moved into doorways and up into the higher balconies of the buildings. “Follow me, quickly,” Tom instructed, leading Molly into a nearby building and following a group of people to a second-floor balcony. “They should be beginning soon.” He kept an eye on the streets below.

  Following Tom’s gaze, Molly was unsure of what to expect. A small tremor in the ground reached the balcony, steadily growing to a rumble. Swiftly it escalated to a quake. A smile spread across Tom’s face. The crowds began to shout and raise their glasses and hurl hats into the air. Tom shouted in unison with the crowd at the first sight of the rush of white shirts and red sashes in the street below.

  “Olé!”

  Dozens of young men sprinted quickly and swiftly past the doorways below, hopping over carts and tripping over themselves and others. The quaking grew intense, and the vibration rattled a glass of tequila off a table and onto the balcony floor. Just as the men in the streets rounded the corner, a stampeding mass of horns and hooves appeared around the other. Shaking their large heads irritably, the bulls overturned carts and straggling sprinters alike in an aggressive rampage. Upon seeing the animals, Molly jumped in surprise. The crowd shouted and rained ribbons and paper confetti down on the street below. Those brave enough to stand in the streets ducked into doorways and cheered from the sidelines. One unfortunate gentleman met one of the animals headfirst and landed upside down in some fruit baskets. While others were watching that event, Tom spied something else.

  “Uh-oh.” Tom muttered, hopping over the balcony and landing hard on the stone walk below. As he attempted to get to a cornered individual trying to ward off the beasts behind a stack of crates, another herd charged around the bend.

  “Thomas!” Molly screeched. “Get back here!”

  The trapped stranger squeezed himself up against the side of the building, making himself as small a target as possible. Tom leapt up quickly, running across the back of one bull and vaulting over another, landing in front of the man and spinning about to meet the next bull head on.

  “Oh, why bother,” Molly resigned, flipping her wrist and rolling her doll eyes.

  A familiar gold tint flashed in Tom’s eye just as he caught the pair of horns in his hands. The weight of the animal traveled through Tom’s arms and down his legs, cracking the street beneath his heels. The bull’s legs gave out, and its back arched skyward. Pivoting one foot and raising his arms in synchronization, Tom tossed the charging bull overhead and into the crates, smashing them and creating quite a mess. There was an instant, enormous “Olé!” from the bewildered crowd. The man behind Tom stared in disbelief and laughed nervously. Tom, of course, was absorbing the crowd’s cheers, too busy to acknowledge the man’s timid gracias before running away. A fuming Molly glared at Tom from the balcony.

  “Is this your idea of peacocking?” she shouted at him from the balcony.

  Tom reappeared on the balcony moments later, with a large glass of tequila in hand. “Exciting,” he said, taking a drink.

  Molly walked over to one of the tables, grabbing an untouched tequila before it, too fell and joined the other glass on the floor. She stared at it momentarily before raising it to her lips and taking a large gulp. “Oof! Bless me!” She stretched her neck and smacked her lips. “I don’t know if I care for…whatever this is.”

  Tom watched her expression after downing the drink and stifled a snort. What a woman! he thought, laughing to himself. Molly’s eyes narrowed. She grinned, but wouldn’t look at him.

  The last of the bulls were herded along manually to the large ring at the end of the enclosed course, and the bullfights began. In the distance, a large crowd cheered.

  “Better hurry and get back out there. You haven’t managed to get yourself killed yet,” Molly said.

  “Yes, and while I’m tending to that matter you may want to have yourself a few more tequilas. You’re not entirely drunk out of your wits yet.”

  Molly growled and chased him from the room.

  Leaping down the stairs three at a time, Tom whipped out a pistol and blew a hole in the inn roof. “Olé! Ha, Ha!”

  Molly hastily downed the rest of her tequila and went in search of another one. The drink was powerful, and growing on her. She grabbed the first one she came across, which was in the hand of an unsuspecting stranger. Walking outside and standing by the door, she watched confetti continue to rain down from the buildings and onto the dusty streets. Tom was almost out of sight, walking briskly uphill back toward the inn, spinning the pistol around one finger. The heat of the day or the tequila, or both, worked sorcery on Molly’s eyes. She grabbed hold of anything and anyone she had to in order to stay on her feet. Tom’s figure danced back and forth and schmoozed with the crowd. His voice echoed in her head. “Coming, Miss? Miss? … mizz … mizz bizzup?”

  Molly next woke to see Tom snoozing in a chair across from her in their inn bedroom. A new bottle of tequila had conveniently been placed on the table next to her bed, along with an empty glass, a small red ribbon tied around it, and the cork pinned to the table with a throwing knife. A scrap of paper under the cork read, “Buenos noches!”

  Molly glanced at the inviting bottle of tequila and then to the window. It was almost dark, the sun just setting. She looked at the note and then at the captain, suddenly remembering her irritation toward him. Glancing at the dagger with a smirk, she debated whether or not to test if he really was as invincible as he seemed. She quickly decided against it and, instead, poured herself a glass without hesitation. The effects of the previous drinks had not yet vacated her brain or legs. Incredibly, she did not have a headache.

  Tom, abusing his talents again, decided he’d catch her off guard, whispering a sly “Good evening” in her ear just as she contemplated reaching for the glass. Molly jumped, letting out a yelp. He picked up the bottle and filled the glass, offering it to her with a smile.

  “Thank you,” she said curtly, taking the glass from him and placing a hand on her thumping heart.

  “Sofia is very good at selecting dresses, don’t you agree?” He pointed at her dress. “Red and white. Just as beautiful as I expected.”

  Molly turned away, moving toward the window and looking out to the street. The scene was entirely different—dark, hushed and romantic.

  Stepping halfway out onto the balcony, Tom opened the curtains and doors to allow some music and cool air to drift in. “Pamplona. My kind of people.”

  Molly looked down into the street where people danced in a blur of color to cheerful music, their shouts and laughter filling the air. Tom simply closed his eyes, still smiling, face to the breeze. Molly sipped her tequila one grimace at a time.

  “The first time I came to Pamplona, my father brought me,” said Tom.

  Molly turned to Tom with interest.<
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  “Five or so years after we lost Harlan and my mother. He told me he had promised my mother he would take her to see the bullfights one day. But only he and I were there. I remember he put one hand on my shoulder and pointed down into the ring at the matador swinging his cape and dodging the bull. He told me to take note of the matador and his courage. He told me somewhere in the crowd was a woman he had in mind. With every rush of the bull the man knew he risked never seeing that woman again, and she—watching from the crowd—knew he intended to leave that ring alive. For her. My father, after the accident, made a point of that every so often. ‘When you find her, don’t lose sight of the bull just yet,’ he would say. ‘You will be a man someday, and you will fight for two lives—yours and hers—but always … always for hers, first.’ His words never took hold of me, never made much sense, until much later in my life. I realized one day recently that I am now standing before the bull, fighting for two.”

  As she turned her head away from Tom, Molly realized her heart was playing her ribs like a piano. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, so she filled it with more tequila. She covered her mouth, choked on the last sip. Her head spun and she felt as if the world bounced with every beat of her heart.

  Leaning against the rail and watching the festivities, Tom laughed. “One bull or ten thousand bulls … let them come! Ha! After all, I have a thousand lives to give, don’t I?”

  Molly looked at his face, studied it. His words were sincere and sweet. In the breeze the silk carnation suddenly jumped from her hair, floating down into the crowd below. Her gaze followed it, her hair flying gently in the cool air.

  “Oh, no! Like an angel cast out of Heaven...” Tom’s eyes followed the bloom as it floated away, then shifted his weight and looked at Molly, still quietly lamenting her carnation. He silently questioned whether the tequila had a hold on him, or if her hair was really moving the way it appeared—light and quick, shining in the scarce light of dusk like thick ribbons of liquid cocoa. The dress moved in the same fashion, strawberry red and creamy white tiers of soft cotton darting away from her feet and snapping back again. Tom realized she was dancing.

  As Molly floated about, the music slowed. She held out her delicate arms and wiggled her hips and tossed her hair.

  Mesmerized, Tom traced her contours with his eyes and tried to imagine the smooth legs beneath her skirt. Thick, toned and glossy, they peeked at him every now and then when she twirled and her dress flew up from the floor. Her light blouse inflated with the rush of air she created, complimenting the softness and curvature of her shoulders and chest. She closed her eyes. Tom reached out and caught one of her little hands in his.

  Molly stopped abruptly at his touch, sleepily making eyes and touching his chest. Molly’s hand tightened around his, and she moved close, resting her face in his neck. Gently she directed his other hand to her waist. Tom followed her lead as she began to dance again.

  “Your father … he was a good man, wasn’t he?” she asked quietly.

  “A nobler man than I am fated to be. He loved his wife and both his sons. And he died, as far as I know, without a breath of regret.”

  “And you believe you’re not capable of being like him?” She looked up at him. “Mr. Crowe, you have saved my life on more than one occasion. I was a stranger. You could’ve left me in Bermuda, or London, but instead you heard the wishes of a young, lost soul and made a hobby of trying to grant them. “If that does not make you noble, I do not know what does.”

  “I wish I could’ve done so with more grace, and the only danger I shield you from is that which I also lead you toward. I wish I didn’t have to protect you from myself. But I will do so yet. You are the very thing that keeps my monster in check or makes heroic use of it, Miss Bishop. For that I am grateful.”

  “How can you…how can you give…hic! Give me so much credit? All I’m capable of is cooking and, per…perhaps reading star charts. Why do you trouble yourself with me?” She slurred and pouted and clutched at his open shirt dreamily and wantonly.

  “Because I’ve found a reason to face the bull besides saving my own life.” Tom fidgeted anxiously as her fingertips crept over his collar like thieving rabbits into a vegetable patch. “Until recently I’ve been chasing my brother into Hell, with my enemies biting at my heels all the way. You appeared like a dove through a hail of brimstone and turned my gaze toward a ray of sun.”

  Molly pinched her bottom lip in her teeth.

  “I … I apologize, I…” Tom couldn’t finish his thought. Stuttering and fidgeting, he frantically ran a hand through his hair.

  Molly felt something rise within her—a new feeling, something she couldn’t explain. The tequila weakened her. Without a second thought, she brought a hand up to touch his face.

  Tom flinched. He wanted to touch her but didn’t know just how. Her eyes softened, getting lost in his features. Thomas breathed slowly and heavily. The touch of her hand drained all the strength from his neck and shoulders.

  Tom’s bravery returned, and he raised both hands to cup and beckon her face closer. Molly closed her eyes. Her red lips brushed his. Following her heart’s feverish decree, Molly finished the path, gently pressing her lips against his. Tom allowed his hands to find and rest on her neck. His arms felt as heavy as waterlogged Persian rugs and his heart filled with goose down.

  “Do you want to know something?” she whispered.

  “Hm?”

  “It’s you. The whole time I thought I was looking for a purpose. It’s been you. I want to stay with you, Thomas.”

  “As long as fate deems me fit to deserve you,” he replied. An odd assortment of feelings boxed Tom’s thoughts around. Perhaps...no, this feeling was entirely the tequila welling up in his brain. The walls and balcony turned around him like satellite, while Molly, his little bright star, remained in place. The room felt circular and bowed like a coach’s undercarriage springs.

  As for Molly, she felt absolutely weightless. As she looked into his eyes, she felt a rising warmth, like hot bathwater, spilling over her heart and pleasingly rolling down her arms and legs. She looked fondly into Tom’s eyes, “Will you stay with…” Her eyes shut and her lips hung open as she fell straight asleep in his arms.

  Thomas carefully lifted her off her feet and pulled back the covers of her bed, never waking her. Lying her down, he draped the covers over her. He shut and locked the balcony doors and closed the thick curtains. After feeding the fire the last of the wood from the hearth, he corked the tequila. He removed his gun belt and tossed it over a chair, then swiveled around several times like a puppet, realizing he’d left himself nowhere to sleep and gawking drunkenly at nothing. Arms crossed, he paced around the room, occasionally running a hand through his hair and rubbing his dry eyes. Not having any better ideas, he returned to Molly’s bedside, set himself on the floor and rested his head against the mattress next to her arm. When the room stopped spinning, he knocked out cold.

  Molly slept easily, then rose to open the balcony doors. It was unusually dark outside, and much too cold for a Spanish summer. Was she dreaming?

  She shivered slightly. A pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, and she relaxed. She smiled, guessing who it was before he spoke.

  “Good evening, Captain.” As she turned, she gasped, her eyes widening in horror. She had guessed wrong. The arms belonged to someone else. Someone she hadn’t seen since her life in Barbados.

  Molly awoke with a start, her eyes fluttering open. Tom lay asleep on the floor, his face covered by the sheet she had thrown aside. Standing, Molly moved the sheet, draped her blanket over Tom and placed a pillow by his head. She walked over to the balcony and peered through the curtains outside. Still low in the sky, the sun afforded just enough comfortable morning light to touch the tops of the city, capping them with a golden hue.

  A pair of arms slowly wrapped around her waist. Molly’s arms developed goosebumps. The nightmare she’d had was still fresh in her mind. Tom’s voice whispere
d, “Good morning,” into her neck.

  She relaxed. “Good morning. I hope you slept well, despite your choice of bedding. I did not intend for you to sleep on the floor.”

  “It’s alright. There was nowhere else.”

  Yes there was, thought Molly.

  “Our carriage arrives in an hour. If anyone arrives looking for me—not Benito Garcia, you understand, but me—then we’ll have reason to leave much sooner.” He laughed.

  “Let us hope that won’t be an issue.”

  “If that is the case, which I have considered, then you may want this …” Tom retrieved a case and presented it to her. “I found it yesterday after the festival. It’s rather beautifully made, but don’t let that lead you to underestimate it.”

  The box contained a Spanish-made pistol. The metal of the barrel had been shaped to appear to have ivy snaking around it. The hammer was shaped to look like a rose bud; the trigger, a smooth leaf. Tom smiled proudly. “I already gave it a name. La Flor.”

  “This is beautiful! You found this?” Molly looked up at him skeptically.

  “Deadly accurate too,” he added, ignoring her question. “I put it through a few trials. And, it’s easily hidden.” He gave her a small, leather holster, not meant for wearing around the waist. He started forward, and then paused.

  Molly cocked her head in question.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he murmured with a blush. “Right, then.” With the holster in his hand, Tom knelt down and raised her dress to the thigh. “Right or left?”

  Molly blushed. “Uh … er … right. The right one.” She cleared her throat in embarrassment.