All the same, she paused for an instant outside the door to the salon. From within came the chuckling of bawdy jokes, a lascivious undertone to the notes of the string quartet playing in the corner. She clutched her hands together, wishing for the veiling of a gauze fichu to cover her bosom. She wanted nothing to do with this sort of a life, filled with parties and meaningless dinners and too much drink.
The trouble was, she seemed to have little calling for a religious life, either. She had only an eccentric need for solitude, a wish to spend her days with plants and in study of poetry and music. Had she been born male—
But she had not, and for all her resentment of Juliette’s pushing, Madeline knew the estate needed a new source of cash. For the gardens, for the house that was her legacy, Madeline could marry as Juliette wished. Touching the armoring weight of emeralds at her breast, she took a breath and pushed open the door.
A little ripple of halted, then hastily resumed, conversation flew around the room. For a moment, Madeline paused, allowing them to admire her as she’d been instructed, then cast her gaze around.
There were a number of dazzling, beautiful women in the room, women Madeline had met in London with her stepmother. They stood in little groups with men in embroidered and brocaded coats and satin breeches in colors of her spring garden—new leaf green and lilac and sky blue—and red-heeled shoes.
Madeline greeted them graciously. She answered their polite inquiries, smiled and allowed kisses to be brushed over her cheek. The men bent over her hand, letting their eyes linger over the body that had been so thin when she left two years before. They commented upon how well she’d grown up.
None were the marquess. Trying to contain a frown, Madeline looked for her stepmother. As if Juliette could read her mind, she heard her name called out, sweetly, "Madeline!"
She turned, bracing herself as well as she might for the sight of her husband-to-be. Instead, she saw Juliette standing with the two men from the race this afternoon. The one from the phaeton was pale and very thin, quite perfectly elegant in his presentation. The way he hung close to Juliette, Madeline thought he must be Juliette’s current lover.
Thinking of the strange longing the other man had aroused in her, Madeline folded her hands before she allowed herself to look at him, and took a breath to steel herself against his heady aura of freedom. She looked up—and found his gaze boldly upon her. A jolt of—something—passed through her stomach, hard and bright, then gone.
He still scorned wig or powder, and his hair seemed as violently alive in the candlelight as it had in the gold dappling of sunshine this afternoon. It was caught back from his face again in a queue neatly tied with a black ribbon, and rippled halfway down his back, thick and wavy and glossy.
Now she could see the details of the handsome face: high cheekbones touched with a flush of color, an aggressive and hawkish nose, a mobile and sensual mouth. It was his eyes that gave him an exotic cast— very dark blue and slightly tilted. Like a large cat. And like a cat, the smile he gave her was both predatory and elegant.
Madeline had long been acquainted with the habits of rakes. At fourteen, this sort of insolent and knowing smile had turned her knees to mush. At twenty, she was beyond melting under the gaze of any man— even one who was, she had to admit, quite compelling.
Still, she did not blush or hastily look away, but affected boredom as she approached the knot of them.
"Madeline, my dear, these are friends of mine from London," Juliette said. "This is Jonathan Child, viscount of Lanham."
The pale man bent over Madeline’s hand. "A pleasure."
"My lord."
"And this," Juliette continued, indicating the other man, "is Lucien Harrow, Lord Esher, heir to the earl of Monthart, and quite the worst rake in the history of England." This last was said with a hint of suppressed laughter. "Beware of him, sweet."
Madeline glanced at Juliette, surprised to hear such bold warning. The countess had already fixed her gaze rather brilliantly upon Lord Esher, who took Madeline’s hand with a startlingly strong grip. He stepped close, so close that the crown of that thick, living hair brushed the tops of her breasts when he bent over her hand.
She stepped back. He lifted his head, affecting a quizzical expression that could not entirely hide the glitter of amusement in his eyes. "Do not be alarmed, Lady Madeline. She jests."
His voice was as rich as the breath of a cello, and it was oddly alluring to have him so close, to see from a few inches the depth of those eyes, to smell the dusky fragrance of his skin. He held her hand and her gaze for a beat longer than was proper, a tiny smile playing at the edges of his sensual mouth.
Madeline frowned, yanking her hand away. "Do not attempt such flirtations with me, Lord Esher. I’m afraid I find men of your ilk transparent and boring."
He tucked his hands behind his back, allowing her to put distance between them. But his grin was crooked and set alive a dimple in the cheek. "Are we?"
"Yes."
"Madeline, how rude of you!" Juliette said, amused.
Madeline, knowing her stepmother applauded her silently, said, "No ruder than men who think of women as little toys."
Lord Esher laughed. "What a wise daughter you’ve raised, Countess," he said. His gaze never strayed from Madeline’s face, and she found the steadfast perusal unsettling.
"Stepdaughter," Juliette said, and spatted him with her fan.
"Oh?"
Juliette lifted her chin. "I am not near of an age to have a grown daughter! Her mother died in childbed. ’Twas tragic."
"Ah. I remember the story now. You wed the earl soon after, though, did you not?"
The countess pouted, very prettily. "Yes. But I was a mere child."
Madeline looked toward the long windows showing the setting sun framed by damask drapes, amused in spite of herself. Juliette, who was the daughter of a dressmaker, did not like being teased about her humble beginnings. Lord Esher evidently knew it. Madeline glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Boldly, he admired Madeline’s figure, making no pretense of doing anything else. The nearly violent blue of his eyes touched her shoulders and breasts and waist with approval.
Juliette caught the examination. "I did train the girl, so you needn’t work your charms—she’s immune to the wiles of seduction."
"Is she now?"
"Quite," Madeline said.
Mockingly, he dipped his head. "Then all I may do is bow."
Madeline inclined her head in return, just as mockingly, a smile on her lips for the first time. If he did not exert himself too much—and why would he— she’d grow used to his extraordinary appeal very quickly. It was only the suddenness of his appearance that made her feel so unsettled. She’d had crushes on far more magnetic rakes than this.
A stirring at the front of the salon caught her attention. Madeline turned, hoping it would be the marquess. A man came through the door, nodding distractedly at the guests.
Madeline stared for a long moment. He was not the piggish creature she’d feared, nor was he at all handsome. Too plump, too soft. His clothes were a bit askew, as if he’d hurried or been careless, and his forehead already showed two half-moons of skin where his hair was falling out.
Behind her, Madeline felt the presence of Lord Esher. His voice fell in her ear. "I hope you won’t mind one single compliment, earnestly extended." The warmth of his breath brushed her earlobe.
She looked over her shoulder.
The smile faded from his face, leaving a sober and intense expression. "You are the most exquisitely fey and beautiful creature I’ve ever seen."
The tiny hairs on her neck raised. Abruptly, she flicked her fan. "If that’s sincere, I’m the queen of England."
His crooked smile returned, and he straightened as Juliette moved close to Madeline, nudging her. "Psst. There is your husband, child. At the door."
Madeline stared at the marquess, knowing her life hung in this moment. As she waited, the marquess caug
ht sight of her, and the round, unremarkable face was transformed by a smile of deep and singular sweetness. He gave her a small, courtly bow.
Her heart pinched.
"Our troubles are over, my sweet," Juliette murmured, urging Madeline forward. "Go to him."
For an instant longer, Madeline hung back. All her dreams of romance, of love, were swept away. She might one day grow fond of this round little man, but she would never love him.
As if to point out the contrast, the heated, moist breath of Lord Esher brushed her shoulder, a whisper of a caress as dangerous as a serpent’s tongue. "One would think the marquess a perfect man for a woman who so dislikes men of my ilk."
A tiny shudder rippled over her arms. "Yes," she said with more certainty than she felt, and moved forward. She smiled at the marquess as graciously as she was able, feeling a cool brush of air replace the breath of Lord Esher against her neck.
She did not allow herself to look back.
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A
WINTER
BALLAD
(Excerpt)
by
Barbara Samuel
Prologue
Thick rain, cold and bitter, poured from a dark winter sky. Four men rode through the dankness, heads down in miserable silence.
A fifth man was flung over the body of a mule. Blood stained his hair. Rain wet the battered face. As this new woe penetrated, he groaned softly, but the others did not pause.
Steadily, though it was Sext, the day darkened. Jean-Luc de Ventoux, till late a farmer's fourth son and not yet seventeen summers, cast a wary look at the sky. An evil portent, that blackening sky—a dire warning to halt their evil.
But he growled the words to himself, fearful of raising the ire of the others again. They had laughed at his misgivings when they found the knight alone in the still of a cold evening, feeding carrots to a mule. Jean-Luc had quelled his nerves and joined in the ambush with vigor. It was Jean-Luc, he thought proudly, who'd delivered the silent powerful blow to the head that laid the knight low.
But even as the knight had fallen, a beast roared out of the woods, yellow eyes unholy as it leapt upon them with fierce, low growls, madly tearing at their clothes, so violent it took several long moments for anyone to react. One of the kidnappers suffered a long rent to his leg, and they lost another to a torn throat before Claude, their leader, kicked the beast squarely in the chest. It made a high-pitched yelp of pain as it flew, and landed in the grass of the meadow. There it lay, unmoving, tongue lolling.
By then, the marauders feared discovery by the soldiers camped not far distant, and bundled the body of the knight to the mule to make their escape. Claude wore the knight's sword hanging from his belt.
Now the sky darkened, more and more, ominously. Jean-Luc heard a snapping in the woods and peered nervously into the trees, unable to quell a finger of dread. He saw nothing.
The rain ceased, but still the sky did not lighten. Jean-Luc glanced uneasily toward the knight. There had been two men willing to pay richly for this man—one to have him dead, another to be borne back to France in secret. He was at the heart of some plot. Jean-Luc wondered what it might be.
All at once, the world was plunged into a darkness as dense as full evening. Jean-Luc cried out in fear, and could no longer hold his tongue. "'Tis an evil portent!" he cried. "Please… let's leave the knight before we are damned."
An uneasy murmur of half-agreement met his words, but Claude turned fiercely, holding to the stallion they'd stolen from the knight as it reared and whinnied nervously. "Fools! 'Twill be your heads—and your purses—that will suffer if you succumb to this foolish superstition."
Jean-Luc swallowed. "But—"
"Enough!"
The knot of horses lifted their heads restively as the stallion snorted and danced almost out of control. As if in reaction, from the woods came a high, mournful howl.
The sound traveled around the knot of men and horses. At first there was only the one howl, joined by another, then another and another, until they were surrounded with the eerie noise, echoing and bouncing, circling them. The stallion snorted, eyes wild.
In terror, Jean-Luc looked back to the knight, and it seemed the golden hair glowed with some inner light. Ropes about his wrists had made a chafed mark. And with a certain horror, Jean-Luc saw that only the mule was calm as the other animals danced and skittered in response to the stallion's fear.
A great bolt of lightning cracked through the darkness and struck a tree nearby with a booming explosion. The stallion reared and screamed in wild terror, then bolted through the forest in a frenzy. The other horses followed.
Jean-Luc clung to his mount as the creature crashed without grace through thick trees. He kept his head low to the horse's neck, his fingers woven through the mane. Around them was the wild pounding of the horses through dense forest and the wolves baying—surely the sound of hell, Jean-Luc thought in terror. It began to rain again, hard. Lightning flashed in the evil daytime darkness, and thunder boomed with a rocking violence.
Jean-Luc's horse suddenly reared. He clung mightily, hearing a shout and a sudden, quick cry of pain amid the cacophony. Through the rain, Jean-Luc saw Claude had been thrown from the stallion, who bolted away through the trees. Furious, Claude jumped to his feet, brushing his clothes and cursing as he pointed after the beast, sending one of his men after it.
In the confusion, Jean-Luc saw his chance. Nickering gently at his mount to calm the beast, he steered the gelding from the pack and retraced their steps as well as he was able. The mule had not followed the wild bolt through the forest, but Jean-Luc found him calmly standing under the sheltering arms of an ancient rowan tree, as if to protect its rider.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jean-Luc dismounted, and with a grunt, pulled the dead weight of the knight from the beast. The man slumped on the ground, rolling to one side with a stuporous moan. He did not wake.
Jean-Luc took his knife from his belt and crouched to cut the ropes binding the knight's wrists and ankles. As the ropes fell free, a shout from the others reached him. "Jean-Luc!"
He jumped to his feet—and at that moment, the sky lightened abruptly. Stunned, he looked toward the brightness, letting the rain wet his face before he fell to one knee and genuflected.
"Jean-Luc!"
Taking the rope around the mule's neck, Jean-Luc mounted his horse and led the mule away. As he rode toward the others, an extraordinary calm filled him. Purses and heads were nothing in comparison to an immortal soul.
It was that thought that lent him courage to lead the men in circles, far from the sheltering branches of the rowan tree, when they went back in search of the knight.
Defeated, weary, and not a little frightened by the afternoon's events, the men at last headed home toward Provence, leaving the body of the knight where it lay.
Chapter One
The body sprawled beneath the bare branches of a rowan tree. In the thick fog that laced through the trees and clung to the cold winter earth, it was invisible until Anya's black gelding shied and whinnied softly.
Geoffrey, Anya's page, made a frightened noise. "Is he dead, my lady?"
"I cannot tell." Anya dismounted and tossed back her hood. Warily, she crept forward, listening cautiously to the deep silence of the forest. There seemed to be no one else about. The horses stood quietly.
Anya eased closer, noting the quality of the knight's mail and the good condition of his hauberk. Any helm he might have worn was gone, and his head had suffered the loss. Blood, thickened by cold or time, clotted his hair.
Kneeling beside him, she examined him for signs of life, her hands clutched close in her lap. Tangled long hair the color of ripe wheat covered his face, and below the heavy leather on his chest, she could see no movement.
"Is he dead?" Geoffrey whispered loudly from his mount.
Anya lifted her shou
lders, for it was impossible to know. Bracing herself for the eerie feel of dead flesh, she reached out to touch his hand. It was cold and marred with chilblains, but not dead-flesh cold. Nor stiff, either. Heartened, she reached forward to brush the hair from his face.
He moaned and shifted a little. Anya started and jumped back a pace, shooting an alarmed glance toward Geoffrey.
"See if he is armed before he awakens!" the boy urged.
"Why must I do all?" she protested. "You are to serve me, child!"
"But you are the older, my lady."
The knight moved no more, and Anya bent to check his sleeves for daggers. No belt or scabbard hung around his waist, though a shiny place on his hauberk showed where it would go.
The small shift of the knight had put him flat on his back, and now she could see his face. Blonds were often pallid and delicate. This wounded knight was neither. His flesh was tanned, the sharp cheekbones a touch sun- or wind-burned. A high brow and the straight clean lines of nose and jaw bespoke intelligence. His mouth, in his stupor, seemed peculiarly vulnerable.
She knelt again, no longer afraid, and probed his body for signs of injury. There were bruises along one side of his face, and the bloody cut on his head. One shoulder seemed cocked at an odd angle, but it was impossible to see what sort of injury made it so beneath the mail. When she pressed along his sides, he made no sound of pain. With both hands, she checked for breaks in his limbs. None.
"Come, Geoffrey. Help me get him on my horse."
The page stared at her.
"You'll not be much of a knight if a near-dead man frightens you so."
"What if he is a demon come from hell in the Great Darkness?"
Anya sighed. Two days before, the world had been plunged into an eerie, engulfing darkness at midday. Geoffrey had suffered nightmares both nights since. "He is only a man, child. One who will die if we leave him here."
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