by Liz Carlyle
His gaze fixed in the distance, Lazonby rolled his shoulders restlessly. “I don’t know,” he said. “It has begun to feel . . . personal.”
Bessett hesitated a heartbeat. “And I’ve begun to wonder if you aren’t taunting him—and enjoying it.”
“Bloody nonsense!” Lazonby’s eyes flashed. “What has Ruthveyn said to you?”
It was an odd question. But over the last several months, the Chronicle’s reporter—and his apparent mission to dog the new Earl of Lazonby to his grave—had become an irritant to all of them. There was no denying, however, that Rance’s checkered past left him vulnerable to gossip and suspicion.
“Now that you mention it, I have lately sensed a strain between you and Ruthveyn,” said Bessett.
Lazonby was quiet for a moment. “Sometime past, I inadvertently gave offense to his sister,” he acknowledged. “I should rather not say more.”
Bessett’s gaze drifted over the swelling crowd. “So Lady Anisha’s ardor for you has cooled, has it?” he finally said.
Lazonby cut an incredulous look at him. “Why am I the last to hear of the lady’s so-called ardor?” he snapped. “As I told your brother when he warned me off, Nish is not my type. I adore her, yes. We flirt a little, yes. But she—why, she is almost like a sister to me.”
Bessett snorted. “By God, she’s not like a sister to me.”
“Then you pay court to her,” snapped Lazonby.
“I bloody well might, then,” said Bessett.
And indeed, it was not a bad idea. He had been turning the notion over and over in his mind for some time now.
Lady Anisha Stafford was a breathtakingly beautiful widow whose unruly children were in dire need of a father. And if a man had to confine himself to bedding one woman for the rest of his days, then one could hardly do better than Nish.
But more important than the lady’s beauty and character was the fact that he need never explain himself to her. Need never be judged. She understood the thin, carefully crafted façade he maintained, that tenuous wall he had built between his conscious mind and the darkness beyond.
Perhaps that was the key to his restlessness. The thing that seemed out of order in his life. Perhaps it was just the yearning for something . . . more.
“I will, then,” Bessett muttered. “If you indeed lay no claim to the lady?”
Without so much as looking at him, Lazonby waved his hand as if in invitation.
A little awkwardly, Bessett cleared his throat. “Are you at all anxious about the new acolyte?”
Lord Lazonby’s head jerked around, an odd smile curling one corner of his mouth. “Why should I be?”
“You’ve seemed . . . different the last two days.” Bessett set his head slightly to one side, and studied his old friend. “Distracted.”
Lazonby threw back his head and laughed softly. “You cannot read me, Geoff,” he answered, “so stop trying. Besides, this is a solemn occasion—or so our Preost keeps telling me.”
“I find it odd that until now, you’d never agreed to sponsor an acolyte,” Bessett mused. “You seemed not to take this part of the Fraternitas with any seriousness. Are you afraid the new recruit might forget his vows? Or trip over his own two feet?”
Lazonby crooked one eyebrow. “If the fellow falls arse over teakettle at Sutherland’s hems, it’s nothing to me,” he said evenly. “After all, he was groomed by old Vittorio, and Sutherland’s the one who made me do this.”
“It was your turn, Rance,” said Bessett.
“Aye, and now I’ve taken it.” Lazonby’s hands slid from the stone balustrade as he straightened. “And what Vittorio and I hath wrought, old chap, let no man put asunder. Remember that, won’t you?”
Just then, a gong sounded, the low reverberations echoing off the vaulted walls. With a roguish wink, Lazonby threw up his hood. “Ah, the witching hour is upon us,” he said. “Curtains up!”
Still, Bessett hesitated. “Damn it, Rance, what have you done?” he asked, seizing his old friend’s arm. “Do you dislike the lad? Or distrust him?”
“There you go again, trying to read my mind.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t read minds.”
“No?” Lazonby turned and started down the stairs, the hem of his brown wool robe dragging over the steps as Bessett followed. “But to answer your question, Geoff, aye, I like the acolyte very well indeed,” he continued over his shoulder, “but I’m not at all sure the rest of you will.”
After descending to the main chamber, Bessett and Lazonby took their places in the rear with the remaining Guardians. The ceremony commenced at once, all of them responding a little mechanically to Sutherland’s liturgy. The traditional prayers were said, then the chalice of wine was passed, but Geoff sipped from it with half a mind.
The truth was, though he might accuse Rance of not taking such ceremonial matters seriously, Geoff, too, often skimmed over the finer points of rite and ritual. They were both far more concerned with the practicalities of how to resurrect and restructure an organization that, just a few short years earlier, had lain scattered over war-torn Europe in tragic—and potentially dangerous—disarray.
The initiation ceremony was always performed in Latin, the language of the last formal Fraternitas manuscripts still in existence. Over the centuries, many of the Brotherhood’s records had been destroyed—often out of self-preservation—particularly during the Middle Ages, when the Gift had nearly died out, and during the Inquisition, when many of the Vateis had been put to the rack.
Though the Vateis were neither, being burned as a heretic or drowned as a witch was not an uncommon fate for those whom history had so grievously misunderstood. And out of such cruelty and ignorance, the Guardians had sprung, in order to protect the weaker among them.
Now they were to welcome another into the fold. By tradition, the young man now hidden behind the Great Altar would be a blood relation to one of the Vateis, and born in the sign of fire and war. He might possess the Gift himself, to one degree or another. But he would have been indoctrinated from his youth by one of the Fraternitas—most likely one of the Advocati—or a trusted family member.
Geoff’s grandmother was one such example. Although forbidden membership as a female, she had been a trusted agent of the Fraternitas in Scotland, where the sect had always held strong. She had also possessed a powerful Gift—one that Geoff dearly wished he could give back to her.
He was returned abruptly to the present when Mr. Sutherland ended his invocation and descended from the stone pulpit. A deep hush fell over the room, as it always did on those rare occasions when any new member was brought into the Fraternitas—and the induction of a Guardian was the rarest of the rare.
Going to the altar behind him, Sutherland lifted the brass key that dangled from a gold chain at his waist, and unlocked an ancient, iron-hinged box. Easing back the lid, he gingerly lifted out a tattered book, already laid open, and marked with a long, bloodred ribbon.
The Liber Veritas—the Book of Truths—was the Fraternitas’s rarest volume. The ancient tome set forth all the rites still known to the Brotherhood, and had been in use in one form or another since the rise of Rome.
With his right hand raised in the eternal sign of blessing, and his left cradling the open book, the Preost read a few short words, calling upon the supplicant to offer up his life to the cause, and asking God to protect him in his work.
Then he dropped his hand, and gave the sign.
Inset between two thick columns, the Great Altar began to shudder and grind, the sound like that of a millstone at work. Slowly at first, and then with surprising rapidity, the altar spun halfway around.
The first thing Geoff realized was that, oddly, the acolyte was not naked.
Although the fellow was bound just as he should have been—at his wrists and his eyes—he wore not his altogether, but a sleeveless linen tunic that hung just below his knees.
And the second thing Geoff realized was that the acolyte wasn’t e
ven a he.
Someone in the audience gasped.
It wasn’t Geoff. He couldn’t breathe.
Sutherland, too, was frozen before the altar. Eyes wide, he clutched the Liber Veritas to his chest as if he meant to throttle the life from it. His mouth opened and closed silently, then he uttered an odd, gurgling sound—like the last of the dishwater chasing down a kitchen drain.
Propelled by the sound, Ruthveyn shouldered swiftly through the crowd. He extracted the book, then turned to face them all.
“Just whose idea of a joke is this?” he demanded, shaking the book above his head. “By God, let the wretch step forward!”
And the third thing Geoff realized was that the acolyte might nearly as well have been naked, for the shift or shirt or whatever it was left little to the imagination. Nonetheless, the girl stood upon the altar straight and proud, despite the ropes that bound her wrists awkwardly before her. She was tall, with high, small breasts that were rising and falling a little too rapidly, a wild mane of inky curls that hung to her waist, and long, slender legs that looked surprisingly strong.
Surprisingly?
Everything about this was surprisingly . . . something. Not to mention erotic, what with all the ropes and blindfolds and yes, those legs . . .
The room was abuzz now. Ruthveyn had found a knife somewhere, and was slicing through the ropes at her wrists. Beside him, Geoff could hear Rance softly chuckling.
In that instant, the girl twisted a little away from Ruthveyn, causing the thin shirt to slither over her hip most suggestively. Blood suddenly surging, Geoff shot Rance a burn-in-hell look, then hastened onto the dais, stripped off his robe, and furled it gently around her.
The girl did not so much as flinch at his touch.
Then, rather more carefully, Ruthveyn cut away the blindfold, which was traditionally worn until the vote to admit the acolyte was taken.
The girl blinked a pair of dark, wide-set eyes, looked out over the crowd, and surprised everyone by speaking in a clear, strong voice.
“I humbly ask for admission to the Brotherhood,” she announced in precise, flawless Latin. “I have earned this right with my Devotion, with my Strength, and with my Blood. And on my honor, I pledge that by my Word and by my Sword, I will defend the Gift, my Faith, my Brotherhood, and all its Dependents, until the last breath of life—”
“No, no, no, no!” Ruthveyn waved an obviating hand. “My dear child, I do not know who has put you up such pranks, but—”
“I did.” Rance’s voice, too, was surprisingly strong. “I sponsor this woman for initiation to the Old and Most Noble Order, the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis. Aren’t those the sponsor’s magic words?”
“You what?” Geoff found himself saying. “Mother of God, man, have you lost your mind?”
“Indeed, Rance.” Sutherland had finally found his voice. “You’ve made a joke of an honored and holy ritual. You have gone beyond the pale.”
“Here, here!” grumbled someone in the crowd of brown robes.
Geoff stepped in front of the girl to shield her, but she pushed him away with surprising strength, and stepped down onto the dais.
“Why is it beyond the pale, my lords?” she demanded, her accent unmistakably upper-class. “For ten long years I have trained. I have done all that was asked of me, and more, though I never asked for any of this. But because I was asked—nay, told that it was my duty—I have given up much of my youth, and I have sacrificed, merely to meet the tasks which were set before me. And now you would deny me my right of Brotherhood?”
Ruthveyn’s dark face twisted. “And that, you see, is our very problem,” he replied. “This is a Brotherhood, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Miss de Rohan,” she snapped. “Anaïs de Rohan.”
“Miss de Rohan.” Ruthveyn lost a little of his color. “Well. As I was saying, this is a brotherhood. Not a sisterhood. Not one, big happy family.” Then he whirled about on the dais. “Rance, you ought to be horsewhipped. For God’s sake, call Safiyah to take this poor girl away, and find her some proper clothes.”
Miss de Rohan.
Now why was that name familiar?
No matter. It was obviously dawning on Ruthveyn, as it was dawning on Geoff, that this was no ordinary female. Certainly she was an unwed female, which made matters rather more precarious for all of them. Moreover, she both spoke and carried herself with the air of an aristocrat—a somewhat angry and inconvenienced aristocrat. And yet she stood there before a score of men, very nearly naked, and icily composed.
Old Vittorio had taught her something, that was for sure.
Rance, however, had begun to argue.
“Where, gentlemen, is it written that a woman cannot belong?” he was shouting. “Giovanni Vittorio, one of our most trusted Advocati, saw fit to take this girl under his wing and train her in our ways.”
“Nonsense,” Geoff snapped. “Vittorio was ill. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Would you entrust your life to her hands, Rance? Would you? Because that is what you are asking every one of the Vateis to do.”
“You forget I have reviewed Vittorio’s documentation, and spoken to the chit at length,” Rance countered. “Is that not the duty of the sponsor? To ensure that the acolyte is qualified? For I can assure you, she is in many ways far more qualified than I.”
“That,” said Geoff tightly, “I don’t doubt for an instant.”
“I resent your arrogance, old chap,” said Rance.
“I resent it, too,” said the girl coolly. “I am qualified. And you, sir, are an ass.”
Geoff spun round to face her. She had made no effort whatsoever to pull together the robe he had hurled about her shoulders, a fact that made him inexplicably angry. He let his eyes trail hotly down her, and felt something besides anger curling in the pit of his belly.
“If you are truly Vittorio’s acolyte,” he said tightly, “then you’ll be marked.”
She jerked up her chin, anger flashing in her black eyes. “Oh, I am,” she said, her hand seizing the hem of the shift. “Do you wish to see the proof?”
“Good God, Bessett,” said Rance on a groan. “She’s marked. I made sure.”
Bessett spun in the other direction. “You made sure?” he echoed incredulously. “Do you mind telling—no, never mind.” He turned again, and seized the girl by the upper arm. “You, come with me.”
“Where are you taking her?” Belkadi, one of the Advocati, had materialized at his elbow.
“To Safiyah,” Geoff answered, his voice pitched low. “For I can see, even if Rance cannot, that an unmarried female of good family cannot stand half naked in the middle of what is believed to be little more than a gentlemen’s club.”
“Oh, thank you!” said the girl bitterly. “Ten years of my life tossed into the rubbish heap over a point of etiquette!”
Geoff did not reply but instead hauled her up the steps and through the wine cellar, into the laboratory passageway. Another flight took them to the ground floor, and eventually to the relative privacy of the servants’ stairs, the girl snapping at him the whole way.
Except that she was not a girl.
No, not by a far shot.
And what she had just done—dear Lord, it was courting ruin. Did it simply not matter to her?
“You are bruising my arm, you lout,” she informed him. “What are you so afraid of? After all, I am just a mere woman.”
“I am afraid for you, you little fool,” he whispered. “Be still, before you’re seen by someone whose silence we can’t so easily command.”
She bucked up at that, jerking to a stubborn halt on the landing. “I am not ashamed of what I am,” she said, clutching his robe shut with one hand. “I have worked hard to learn my craft.”
“You, madam, do not have ‘a craft,’ ” he said coldly. “For God’s sake, consider others if not yourself. What would your father think if he knew where you were just now?”
At that, a faint flush chased up her cheeks. “He might not approve, to be honest.�
��
“Might not?” Against his will, Geoff’s gaze swept hotly down her length again. “He might not approve? Of his daughter running around half naked in a London club?”
Her hard, black eyes narrowed. “It isn’t like that,” she said. “I simply haven’t told him everything. Not yet.”
Geoff hesitated, incredulous. “You mean you’ve told him something?”
Her blush deepened, but her tone did not soften. “Oh, for pity’s sake, I’ve been staying in Tuscany with Vittorio for months at a time,” she retorted. “What do you think I told him? That I was off to finishing school in Geneva? Do I look finished to you?”
No, she did not.
She looked like something . . . wild and totally unfinished.
Like something a man might never be finished with—though she was not precisely pretty. But she was intriguing and earthy and full of a vivacity he couldn’t quite grasp. And whatever she was, she looked like no woman he’d ever known before—and he’d known quite a few.
Her father’s wrath, however, was none of his concern. Oddly angry with himself, he turned as if to set off again, yanking her toward the next staircase. But he caught her unaware. One foot tangling in the hem of his long wool robe, she tipped precariously forward.
“Oh!” she cried, her empty hand flailing for the stair rail.
Instinctively, Geoff caught her, his arm lashing round her slender waist, hitching her hard against his chest.
Suddenly, time and place spun away. It was as if no one breathed—a mere instant of warmth and scent and pure, artless sensuality that seemed to stop logic dead in its tracks. And when he looked down into those eyes—eyes the color of warm chocolate, fringed with thick, inky lashes—he felt something deep inside him start to twist and bend, like metal warming to the fire of some otherworldly forge.
Her bottom lip was full, like a slice of ripe peach, and for an instant, it trembled almost temptingly.
Then the girl saved him from whatever folly he might have been contemplating. “Oof,” she grunted, pushing a little away. “If you mean to kill me, Bessett, just pitch me over the banister and be done with it.”