by Emily Bryan
“The English knights must have been uncommonly small,” the ambassador complained, adjusting his metal breastplate. “Here is the saber, my dear. I have put on the tip guard so you do not accidentally skewer Sir John.”
Mary lifted the saber and examined the intricately etched blade. The sword was a thing of beauty, well made, the hilt bearing small and colorful gemstones.
“A fine piece of work,” she said. “I will be careful with it.”
“Given to me by the Council of Dukes for my many years of service.” The duke looked proud.
“Not a fighting blade, then?”
“It is meant to wear on formal occasions. But the blade is plenty sharp, so be careful you do not cut yourself.”
Mary continued to study the saber, a bright and deadly beauty. “Were you wearing this on the day you went to Lord Valentin’s?”
“No, as I said, it was ceremonial…” Duke Rudolfo trailed off, reddening. “Ah, I see what you mean. No, I did not draw it against the Imperial Prince when he went to Lady Sophie. It was a dreadful day. I am not happy to think of it.”
“Valentin doesn’t blame you, you know,” Mary said. “Nvengarian politics are so very convoluted and bloody. Or at least they used to be. From what I hear, Prince Damien is trying to stop all that.”
Rudolfo looked uncomfortable. “Indeed.”
“I blame you, though.”
He jerked his head up in surprise, and then he sighed. “What do you want, Mrs. Cameron?”
“Me? I want nothing. It is Valentin who hurts. You have never spoken of it to him, have you?”
Rudolfo shook his head. “There is nothing to say.”
“An apology, if nothing else. Valentin lost everything that day, you know. The sister he loved. His position in your society—though I think he was past caring about that. The Imperial Prince was already a madman, from what I understand, uncontrollable. He acted as predicted. You acted to save your own skin.”
“And that of my wife and daughter.”
“I understand. I might have done the same.” Mary paused. “No, I know I would not have. Dougal would never forgive me if he knew I’d let a young woman be hurt in order to protect him. He’d expect me to sail in and try to save her. You are Nvengarian—I’m certain you had some sort of weapon handy, even if not this one.” She ran her hand along the saber’s polished blade.
Rudolfo’s face darkened. “You cannot know, my dear. Since that day I have lived with such shame. It eats at me inside. You are right—I should have killed the Imperial Prince and faced the consequences. But I feared the retaliation of Grand Duke Alexander against my family as much as I did the Imperial Prince. One never knows what Alexander will do.”
“Your wife seems to think he would have applauded you.”
“Or made an example of me to show the people of Nvengaria that assassination is discouraged. Even if Alexander, too, rejoiced at the death of the Imperial Prince.”
“My brother Egan and his wife both speak highly of Grand Duke Alexander, so I cannot believe he would be quite so awful. He wanted to rid your land of the horrible man as much as you did.”
“And he did, as rumors say. With poison perhaps.”
“And then the crazy old man’s son took the throne,” Mary said. “I’m certain you weren’t pleased about that, either.”
“You English have a saying, eh? That the apple does not fall far from the tree.”
“I am Scottish, and I think the apple fell very far in this case. I’ve not met Damien, but my brother is his best friend, and Egan could not love a man if he were anything remotely like the old Imperial Prince. Egan says Damien is a good man. Valentin believes in him, too.”
The ambassador looked puzzled. “You are wrong about that, my dear. Valentin tried to assassinate Prince Damien. Sneaked into the palace and attacked him with a knife while Damien and his wife sat down to supper. Even now, Valentin awaits a chance to topple him from the throne.”
Duke Rudolfo spoke with certainty. Was he simply pushing his own desires onto Valentin? Or did Rudolfo believe, with his wife, that Valentin was vengeancemad?
“Do you truly think you were the intended target yesterday?” Mary asked. “Not Sir John, as he believes?”
Duke Rudolfo looked surprised. “Of course it was me. Why would someone want to murder your Sir John? He is harmless.”
“Yes, he is, really. Sir John’s wife, my girlhood friend, doted on him.”
“It could only have been me they wanted to shoot,” he said firmly. “I am high in the Council of Dukes, an important man. I imagine all kinds of people wish me dead. Valentin is only one of them.”
“I think you should talk to Valentin, Your Grace. Make it right between you.”
The ambassador smiled. He was a handsome man when he wasn’t trying to be duplicitous. “I will try. However, I will insist that I not meet him alone and that I am allowed to stand well beyond reach of his sword.”
“I can arrange that. Thank you for lending me your saber, Your Grace. Now I am to go practice my part with Sir John. Your wife says he needs to die more convincingly.”
Duke Rudolfo held out his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Cameron.”
He sounded relieved. Mary nodded as he bowed over her hand, but she couldn’t go without a parting shot. “See that you do it.”
Mary left his rooms and returned to her own chamber to re-pin a drape that had fallen from her right shoulder. As she turned from the mirror to snatch up the saber she’d laid on her bed, she glimpsed Sir John walking through the snowy park to the summerhouse at the edge of the garden, near the wood.
“What is he doing?” She was supposed to meet Sir John in the ballroom.
As Mary peered down at him, a woman in white, draped like Mary except for a fold of sheet over her head, emerged from the house and hurried after him. A chance beam of the setting sun caught on the sheathed saber the woman carried, one very similar to the one Mary now held.
Mary straightened in shock. Clutching the sword, she hurried to her door and turned the handle. The door refused to budge. Mary shook it, but it was solidly locked.
She was trapped, while outside, Sir John Lincolnbury trotted happily into the summerhouse, followed, he thought, by Mary as Athena, to practice his death scene.
Chapter Eight
Valentin knew Mary was in danger even before he heard her muffled cries. He discarded the velvet robe that was his magician’s costume and fled the ballroom where servants scrambled to render it a makeshift theatre.
He realized as he took the stairs two at a time that no one else had sensed what he had. But the logosh in him screamed at him to find her, protect her. When Valentin reached the upper floor, he heard the unmistakable sounds of Mary pounding on her bedchamber door and shouting for help.
He put his hands on the door, his fingers becoming lo-gosh claws before he could stop them. “Mary,” he called.
“Valentin, they’ve locked me in. Sir John…”
Valentin let his hands finish becoming demon. Ugly claws extended from his mottled skin, but his logosh strength was far greater than his human’s.
“Stand away,” he told Mary. Then he ripped the door from its hinges.
Mary rushed out, swathed like an Athenian goddess, the ambassador’s saber in her hand. Valentin reached for her, but Mary jerked away, flinging the folds of her drap-eries to the floor as she ran.
Valentin caught up to her on the stairs. “What happened? Who did this?”
“She’s going to kill him!” Mary dashed the rest of the way down the stairs, racing through the drawing room and out one of the unlocked French doors.
The afternoon had clouded over, and a light snow fell from the darkening sky. Mary ran across the park, bare-armed and bare-headed, wearing only dancing slippers. Valentin ran with her, no longer asking questions. He knew with certainty what was about to happen.
As they approached the summerhouse at the end of the garden, Valentin smelled fear overlaid with rage and triu
mph. And blood.
He growled. Valentin tossed off his coat, the logosh claws tearing away the rest of his clothes. His vision went dark as the beast in him broke through, changing his shape, bone and muscle.
In moments, Valentin stood on four legs, the world now black and white. His sense of smell revealed in multiple hues and layers what had been hidden to his human eyes. Mary gazed down at him, wide-eyed, but she didn’t fear him. She held up the bare blade, her fingers working something from the saber’s tip. She was a warrior, preparing to fight, and he loved her.
Valentin broke down the door of the summerhouse. He dodged back as a bullet screamed toward him, then burst all the way inside. Mary came on his heels.
Sir John was slumped on a bench, looking terrified. Duke Rudolfo stood nearby, pistol in hand, acrid smoke hanging in the cold air. His wife, Duchess Mina, held Valentin’s ceremonial sword in her hands. She’d draped herself in a costume like Mary’s, and she’d pricked Sir John’s neck with the point of the saber. The smell of blood lifted Valentin’s lips from his long teeth.
Dimly Valentin reasoned that the ambassador had fired his shot, which meant that his pistol was empty. Not a threat. But the duchess was still armed and could run Sir John through at any second. Valentin leapt at her, snarling in animal rage.
The ambassador threw himself between Valentin and his wife. Valentin fell onto him, Duke Rudolfo’s fear filling his nostrils.
This was the coward who’d stepped aside when Sophie had been attacked, a man who’d sacrificed Sophie’s virtue and sanity to save his own hide. Valentin hated him. In human form, Valentin could reason that he understood Rudolfo’s actions, but the logosh didn’t care. This man had let harm come to Valentin’s beloved sister, harm that had led to her death.
Valentin wanted to kill. He needed to kill.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Duchess Mina raise her saber. The blade came at him, but was met with a clang by Mary’s. Mary shouted something. He saw a sword flash through the air, then clatter onto the ground. Then the duchess was on the bench next to Sir John. Mary’s dark eyes filled with fury, her sword pointed at Mina’s chest.
Under Valentin, the ambassador cried out. Valentin’s claws had raked through his clothes to his skin. More blood. Hot, salty, wet.
Rudolfo fought, but he was no match for Valentin’s strength. Savage. Kill.
“Valentin!”
Mary’s voice broke through the pounding in Valen-tin’s head. She was afraid, deathly afraid, but she stood straight, her sword unmoving.
“Let him go,” Mary said. “Please.”
Why? The ambassador was a traitor, a murderer. So was his wife. They should both die.
“ Please, Valentin.” Mary’s voice went soft. “Do not.”
The wolf growled in fury, Valentin’s need to kill strong. He hadn’t forgiven. He wanted blood for blood. It was the way of his people. The cold English did not understand this.
Mary would remind him that she was Scottish. She knew about blood feuds, and yet she was begging Valentin to have mercy.
Mercy. Had Duke Rudolfo shown mercy to Sophie? No, he’d stepped aside and left her to her fate. Rudolfo was as guilty of her rape as the Imperial Prince was.
Valentin smelled the guilt now in the ambassador’s blood. Guilt, shame, sorrow, fear. Did he deserve mercy?
“Valentin,” Mary said again.
He heard the tears in her voice. She wanted Valentin to be who she thought he was—a good man, a protector. Mary wanted the man who’d braved a long journey to lead her sister-in-law Zarabeth to safety, the man who’d had compassion enough to forgive Prince Damien for what Damien’s father had done.
Mary loved Valentin. She believed in him.
Valentin forced the wolf to leave him. His brain clouded as his limbs stretched and straightened. After what seemed a long time, he found himself panting, on hands and knees, on top of the terrified Rudolfo. Ru-dolfo’s chest was a bloody mess, his face pale with terror.
Valentin climbed painfully to his feet. He was naked, his body covered in sweat and blood, but Mary’s eyes shone with relief. Sir John looked on, bewildered; the duchess, furious.
“Get up, Rudolfo,” Duchess Mina snapped. “Kill him. You must.”
The ambassador shook his head and covered his face with his hands. “No. No more death, my dear. Please.”
“Coward! Fool!”
Duchess Mina struggled to her feet, but Mary pushed her back down with the tip of the saber.
“Stay there, if you please,” Mary said coldly. “Consider yourself under arrest. Sir John, go back to the house and have someone send for the magistrate. Hurry, please.”
Sir John gulped, but under Mary’s glare, he got to his feet and rushed out.
“We are diplomats,” the duchess hissed. “We do not answer to your magistrate.”
“Fine. Then you will be asked to leave the country. You assaulted Sir John and hired people to shoot him. That is highly illegal in England, I must tell you.”
“We will fight you.”
“No.” Rudolfo sat up, his hand to his bandaged shoulder. “We will return to Nvengaria. We must confess and throw ourselves on the mercy of the Grand Duke.”
Duchess Mina shrieked in fury. “I will never grovel to Alexander.”
“It would be better if you groveled to Prince Damien,” Valentin said. “He might actually listen to you.”
“I will never speak to that misery of a prince,” the duchess said. “The offspring of the horror who destroyed Nvengaria. The Imperial Prince’s line must cease. It is the only way Nvengaria will be strong.”
“Oh, I see.” Mary managed to sound calm. “You consider yourself a patriot. Who will rule your country then, your Council of Dukes? I believe Alexander is the head of that, but you do not much like him, either, do you?”
“Alexander has finished his usefulness. Another Grand Duke must take his place and lead Nvengarian to greatness.”
“Let me guess: your husband Rudolfo?”
“A mad idea.” Rudolfo sighed. “ It is over, Mina. Please see that.”
“Fool,” the duchess said again, and then she went off into a string of Nvengarian. She called her husband, Valentin, Prince Damien, Alexander, and Mary all manner of things, and Valentin was glad Mary couldn’t understand the filth pouring from her mouth.
Valentin’s Nvengarian bodyguards burst into the summerhouse, flanked by curious English footmen, eager for a fight. Valentin gave abrupt orders to the body-guards, who saluted him and moved to take the ambassador and his wife.
Mary finally lowered the sword and stepped away from the duchess. She admonished the man who bound the duchess’s hands not to be cruel, then walked past Valentin out into the frigid winter afternoon.
Valentin went after her, but Mary would not stop and wait for him. Still holding the ambassador’s saber, she walked with a quick stride to the lighted house, ignoring the servants who boiled down the garden path.
Mary ducked back through the French door from which they’d exited. In the drawing room the Yule log still burned high on the hearth, bathing the chamber in rosy warmth. Mary dropped the saber on a sofa and kept walking.
Julia rushed in from the hall. “Mary, what happened? They will not let me—” She broke off with a squeak when she spotted Valentin standing just inside the French door, still naked.
Mary snapped out of her daze. She clapped a hand over Julia’s eyes, turned her around, and gave her a shove back into the hall. “Go tend to your father, Julia. He was hurt. He will need you.”
“Yes, Aunt Mary.” She rushed away.
“Mary.”
Mary turned back, body rigid. “Not yet, Valentin. Please. I need to be alone.”
Valentin folded his arms over his bare chest. “Thank you for saving me.”
Mary nodded once, her eyes a misery. As she started to turn away, a new voice filled the outer hall, a light baritone with a Scottish lilt.
“Is that you, Mum? Good Lor
d, what’s all the fracas?”
Joy lit Mary’s face. She rushed from the room, and Valentin followed in time to see her fling her arms around a young man who’d entered through the front door.
“Dougal,” Mary cried. “Oh, my dear, I am so very happy to see you.”
Hugging her son was the best thing in the world. Mary kissed Dougal’s cheek and hugged him again.
“ Everything all right, Mum? I’ve never seen ye so chuffed to see me before.”
Mary pressed his face between her hands. She felt the rough of shaved whiskers—good heavens, when had he become such a man? “Nonsense, darling, I am always glad to see you. Goodness, I think you’ve grown another inch this term.”
“Did ye know that there’s a man with no clothes on peering out of th’ drawing room? Good lord, is it Baron Valentin?”
Mary couldn’t even blush. “It is.”
“The pair of ye could be more discreet.” Dougal laughed. “What would Uncle Egan say?”
“Valentin and I are going to be married,” Mary said.
“Are ye now?” Dougal sounded much like his Uncle Egan as he looked from Mary to Valentin. “Ye could nae wait for the wedding night?”
Mary’s face heated. “Do not be so silly. This is not…” The feeble words, what it seems, stuck in her throat. “Turn your back so the poor man can get upstairs. We shall talk in the library.”
Dougal shrugged good-naturedly and turned away. Mary gave Valentin another smile, her heart pounding in both fear and joy, before she hurried after Dougal, and Valentin was lost to sight.
It was not until late in the night that Mary finally had time to pack her things, alone in her chamber. She would leave on the morrow with Sir John, Julia, and Dougal, making for London.
Duke Rudolfo and his wife had been taken to the magistrate’s house for the night, under guard of the Nvengarians and men from the local regiment. They’d begin their journey back to Nvengaria tomorrow. What they’d face, Mary did not want to imagine.