Fate Forgotten (33 page)

In spite of the risk, Thor couldn’t stop himself from following as Ryam climbed the stone steps, Eve’s father, the hapless Pierre, beside him. It had taken the Marquis less than an hour to learn all that mattered regarding Eve’s latest family, and with even less effort, he had persuaded Pierre, a minor Baron, to assist him.

“I will not say Aimee has no reason to be jealous. Anessa is indecently beautiful,” Eve’s father was saying. “And I fear this hasty marriage will not help matters. The best Aimee can hope for now is some fool Englishman. Or perhaps an Italian Baron, if her condition is kept quiet.”

“Aimee need not know her sister’s fate,” Ryam said. “She will never see Anessa again.”

“My daughter will not wish to be so isolated, Marquis DeLeon,” Pierre argued.

Ryam stopped at the top of the stairs, his mouth a grim line. “Your daughter will be mine, Lord Gauldry. And I do not mean to risk a second trial of her soul. If that means isolation in the Alps, then so be it, but I do not think she will find the living difficult.” His gaze flicked to Thor. “Assuming my information is not wrong.”

Thor ignored the implications, nodding him onward. “The longer we linger, the more likely there will be complications.”

“My Lords?” A priest had come out to meet them at the arching entrance, bald and befuddled. “I fear it is too late to call upon the inquisitor with testimonies. He has retired for the evening.”

“Lord Gauldry wishes to see his daughter, and as her cousin, I insist upon the right as well,” Ryam said, his tone firm. “Surely you will not refuse her such a small comfort?”

“Her cousin?” the priest repeated, frowning up at him. “I’m afraid I have not had the honor.”

“The Marquis DeLeon,” Pierre supplied. “A connection on my late wife’s side. I tried to reason with him, Father, but he would not hear of waiting after coming so far.”

“Ah.” The priest pursed his lips. “I am indeed honored, Lord DeLeon, but Avignon is a long way from your home, is it not?”

“Not so long a way to come for my betrothed,” Ryam replied smoothly. “Though it seems the Church stands between me and what is mine.”

“Under the circumstances, the Church would of course support your request for a dissolution of your betrothal, my lord.”

“You misunderstand me, Father.” Ryam’s words were clipped, his jaw tight. “I have no intention of leaving Avignon without my bride.”

“Her trial—”

“Is of no concern to me. Lady Gauldry is my intended, and I would have her know she is not without support. I am certain, Father, you are aware of the generosity of such support, when we choose to give it?”

The priest hesitated, his fingers drumming against his robes. “There are many who say the wealth of the DeLeons is exaggerated.”

Thor snorted, turning his face away before the priest saw his disgust. He might have provided gold himself, though without a family name to support it, he doubted the priest would have trusted him. If it were only men, instead of priests, he might have risked the use of more effective methods of persuasion, but fooling with the minds of church men was bound to bring too much notice to his presence. As it was, he dared not do more than make himself overlooked. The Covenant still stood, after all, no matter how few the gods were in number. And God help Eve if Michael believed she worked against the church he had built, against her own father, though she could hardly have known it.

“The Pope himself knows otherwise,” Ryam said, his voice cool. “And so might you, if you would give me what I wish.”

The priest hesitated another moment, then nodded. “This way, Lord DeLeon, Lord Gauldry.”

And Ryam had worried that the Church would not bargain with a Marquis. Thor followed them through the gate and into the courtyard, where the priest took up a torch. “Much of the palace is damaged, from the siege. It will be expensive to repair, and while the city refuses the papal claims to the grounds, the Church cannot see it done. But it is a great shame to see it in such ruin…”

“Perhaps a private patron can see it restored,” Ryam suggested. “And when it is returned to the Church, it will not be in so unforgivable a state.”

“I am certain any man so determined would receive the blessings of Our Lord.” He led them to another doorway, much less ostentatious, with a stairwell descending into darkness. Thor’s eyes narrowed. So they had locked her in some cell where no one might hear her, so afraid of what she might say. Old fools. Were they so insecure in their faith that they feared a girl’s stories?

Perhaps he should not blame them. Michael was hardly a fit guardian for the True God’s people, and Elohim himself was far too weak to make himself known. The silence must have been deafening to those who sought God’s favor, and so gathered power to themselves to fill the emptiness of their souls. Thor shook his head. They would have done better to listen to Eve than to silence her. She might have granted them some sort of grace.

Down the stairwell, the shadows dancing in the torchlight, and at the bottom, a series of cells lined the walls, with only open grating for doors. The priest lifted a square of cloth to his nose, and Thor resisted the urge to fill the dungeon with scorching lightning, if only to burn away the stench of waste and the rot of forgotten corpses.

Eve sat in one of the fetid cells, her knees pulled to her chest and tucked beneath the thin fabric of an unembroidered chemise. Dark hair fell in a thick braid over her shoulder, a tattered ribbon of soft cream traveling through it. It looked as though someone had tried to tear the silk from her tresses, careless of the way her hair had pulled with it, uneven and twisted. She plucked at a frayed edge almost absently, tucking it into place, but it refused to stay.

Thor held himself back, keeping to the gloom where she would not see his face, and shutting his eyes against the burning glow that would give him away. He could not afford to lose his temper. Not now. He forced himself to calm before he allowed himself to look at her again.

“Where is her gown?” Ryam demanded.

“The inquisitor ordered her stripped, that she might better understand her place before God.” The priest crossed himself, pale patch of fabric flapping in his hand, and Thor caught the scent of lavender. He could not stand the stench himself for more than a moment unaided, and he had still left her this way? Any other woman would have risked death so exposed, between the vermin and the cold, damp quarters.

“Father?” Eve rose, coming to the grate. She smiled, seemingly undisturbed by her circumstances. But of course she would not have been bothered by rats, and why should she fear for herself, knowing even death would only bring new life? Not that the inquisitor held her life in his hands. “I did not think they would allow you to come!”

Pierre covered his daughter’s hand, wrapped around the iron bars. “My dearest.”

“Unlock the door,” Ryam said. “And pass me that torch.”

Eve frowned, her gaze shifting from her father to Ryam. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me see your eyes,” Ryam said gently, holding the torch so the light fell brightly across her features. Eve’s eyes widened, and she pressed her lips together, lifting her face. Her eyes glinted green, like emeralds in the firelight. Ryam blew out a breath, his whole demeanor softening once he’d looked his fill. As if Thor could ever mistake her, but Ryam was not the kind of man to trust what he did not see, touch, smell with his own senses. “My Lady. Forgive me for not coming sooner.”

“The Marquis will take you away from here,” her father said, stepping back to let the priest fumble with the lock. “Once you reach the safety of his estate, you’ll be married.”

“Truly, Father, you need not have gone to these lengths. I told you before, you need not fear for me. I am safe, always, in God’s Grace.”

“As the wife of a Marquis you will be well cared for, your future secure. No one will know you, there. What rumors have flown so far did not carry your name with them.”

“Father—”

The priest pulled the door open, and Ryam stepped forward, offering his hand. “You would live, my Lady, whatever trials you faced, but you would not be safe. We both know that.”

Her eyebrows crashed together, her head tilting, just so. “Do we?”

“It would be a shame to have such beauty marred by the scars of flame. Truly, you must possess the splendor of Eve herself.”

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. “I can hardly accept such a compliment.”

“Go with him, Anessa. For my sake, if not your own. Do not make me watch you burn.”

Eve placed her hand in Ryam’s, cautious but steady. She lifted her chin, giving no ground even in surrender. Thor ached to feel her hand in his, to stand by her in Ryam’s place. He forced his hands into fists at his sides, keeping himself still. Revealing himself now would only cause her greater grief.

“And what is the name of my husband,” she asked, “or am I to call you only Marquis, forevermore?”

Ryam smiled. “I think you will guess it on your own, before long.”

“All the same,” she said coolly.

“Ryam DeLeon, my Lady.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve come to bring you home.”

Chapter Thirty-two: Present

Lars pulled away and Eve stumbled back against the window before he caught her with a steadying arm. She raised her hand to her mouth, to her lips, and stared at him. He kissed like Thorgrim. No. Not like Thorgrim. It was Thorgrim’s kiss. How was that even possible?

“Forgive me,” he mumbled. “You’re married. I had no right.”

She felt sick and giddy, and sick for feeling giddy. She was married. To Garrit. She loved Garrit. She didn’t know what to say. The absurdity of what had just happened, of what she had just felt, was too complicated for words. How did one demand to know why they kissed like their forefather, dead three thousand years? And why had it felt as though she’d come home, suddenly and completely? She was married! Garrit was her family, her everything.

His expression had grown more serious by the minute as he watched her. “Are you all right?”

“How did you—what did you—?” She was at a loss as to how to finish the sentence and gave up. “I don’t understand.”

“You seemed so upset.” But it was as though after he said it, he realized how inadequate it was. “The things you were thinking. I just couldn’t let you go on—” He shook his head. “I didn’t want that to be how you remembered him—us. Me.”

“Oh.” She wrapped her arms around her body, feeling more naked than she ever had before. That he had heard those things. Witnessed those memories. They were things she had never told anyone. Never shared with anyone. “Oh.”

“Forgive me,” he said again. But she wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. If it was the kiss, or the inadvertent eavesdropping. “I should go.”

“Wait.” He turned back to her, but he looked as though he wasn’t sure if he should have. “That kiss. You. How is it possible?”

He shook his head, opening the door. But then he shut it and turned back again, gripping the door knob as though it were his anchor. The only thing that kept him from crossing the room to her, the only thing that kept him from kissing her again. “I just need to know.”

She waited, leaning back against the window frame, her own fingers curled around the wood, holding her in place, even as she stared at his hand, and then at his mouth, his lips, his face, wondering how they had done what they’d done. And she wanted to kiss him again, just to see if it would be the same. If it would be Thorgrim kissing her back.

“If you had to choose, Eve. If you could be with one of them for eternity. Would it be these men? Your DeLeon husbands? Reu, or Ryam, or Garrit?”

Garrit. She was married to Garrit, now, not Thorgrim. She couldn’t kiss Lars again. Not even for Thorgrim. What had he asked? Eve. He’d called her Eve. Could she answer that question without it sounding like a betrayal? She pressed her lips together, and looked into his eyes. She could see the need in them. Naked and anguished. She owed him the truth. Whoever he was. Because it was all they could ever share, no matter how much she wanted more.

“No,” she whispered. She hoped that she could be forgiven for this. For saying it. For confessing it while she was married to another man. It seemed disloyal even to think it.

He nodded, and she thought she saw some kind of relief in his face. As if he had dreaded her answer, somehow. “Thank you.”

And then he left her, standing there, and she sagged against the windowsill and forced herself not to cry.