Jo Beverly (18 page)

“Broke in?” The Mallorens were as mad as the Trayces.

“There was something hidden there that Rothgar wanted, and they thought the house was empty.” Portia seemed to think that was explanation enough. “Who saw you?”

“What?”

“You said someone interrupted. Who was it?”

“A man called Brokesby and his sister.”

Portia winced. “Tattling Tess? No wonder Thalia intervened. And her presence would help. Despite their eccentricities, the Trayce ladies are beyond reproach. Even though the story will be ricocheting around England, embellished by Christmas cheer, it will only be amusement. Passion between a betrothed couple is naughty but not ruinous.”

“Even when the engagement is broken?”

“Even then.”

Genova looked down at the impossible tangle of ribbons. “I do worry about my reputation. Lord Ashart said that we should act the lovers for a day or two to seal the story.”

“He’s right. First convince the world the attraction
is real, then show that the bond cannot last. Unlike this one.” She gave up on another knot and snipped some ribbon free.

The flash of sharp blades made Genova shudder. “There’s no cause for a duel between Rothgar and Ashart, is there?”

“Rothgar doesn’t permit duels in the family, and he considers Ashart one of the family.”

“I doubt Ashart agrees.”

“Even so, it would be hard for him to push Rothgar that far.”

Hard, but not impossible. Was that Ashart’s plan—to push Rothgar into a deadly duel? He had made that dangerous remark about Lady Arradale.

“I gather Lord Rothgar is a skilled swordsman.”

“They all are,” Portia said. “Rothgar trained them quite brutally, from what Bryght has said, because he wanted to be sure they couldn’t fall victim to the sort of bully who uses sword skill to murder. Bryght says he’ll do the same with Francis and any other sons we have. Pistols
and
swords.” Her brow wrinkled. “I suppose it will be for the best.”

“It probably is. I’ve seen good men hurt or cowed that way. The whole matter of dueling should be made illegal!”

“I gather it is in a way, but it’s rarely enforced. Men have their own brutal code.” Portia looked at Genova. “That was the kind of man Curry was—the swordsman Rothgar defeated. He’d killed a number of men in duels. According to Bryght, he’d been paid to kill Rothgar that way, and almost succeeded.”

This could be an attempt to glorify, but Genova suspected it was true. She’d find it hard to see Rothgar as a cold-blooded murderer. It didn’t reassure her much, however, to know that he could be a cold-blooded executioner.

How was she to enjoy Christmas in the midst of this?

Portia looked at the tangle of ribbons. “This is carrying frugality too far. I shall take it back to Diana
and say so.” She gathered the mess into her arms, keeping the liberated streamers safe. Genova caught a straggler and wound it on top, suspecting that ribbons had been a pretext to slide her some information and warn her of danger.

Portia headed for the door and Genova opened it for her, unready to mingle with others now. “Will it be all right for me to stay here?”

“Yes, of course! It is magnificent, isn’t it? And I hear the horn, which means arrivals. Best to be out of the way.”

She left Genova with an image of being trodden under a stampede of Malloren feet. That was whimsy, but other problems were not. Behind this jovial Christmas cheer lay altogether too many deaths.

G
 enova started to count. Baby Edith. Lady Augusta. Lady Augusta’s husband and his second wife must have died quite young. More recently—the Earl of Walgrave and a professional duelist called Curry.

Curry sounded like the sort of man someone had to kill, however, and people did commit suicide. What’s more, the earl’s son had married a Malloren and was awaiting the birth of his first child here. There could be no dark secret there.

She shook her head. For some reason, her imagination was running away with her. Ashart and Rothgar were at odds, but not to the extent of murder. It simply wasn’t possible, even for aristocrats. Earl Ferrers had been hanged not many years ago for the murder of his steward.

A duel, though? Only with words.

She put aside her morbid thoughts and considered the ranks of books. What could she do in a library that would be useful? She was no scholar. Her education had been broad but haphazard, mainly drawing on places her family had visited and whatever books came to hand.

There could be a history of the Malloren family here. Most great families commissioned such a thing, and any extra information might help her navigate these tricky waters.

After some searching, she found the history section. It seemed to be arranged in chronological order, but when she read the spines of the most recent books
they looked like dry analyses of legislation and foreign affairs.

What else would be useful to know?

Loki. She would definitely like to know more about Loki.

She’d seen books on mythology and returned there, but they all seemed to be about Greek and Roman legends, many in Greek or Latin. She spoke a little Greek but couldn’t read it, and modern Italian was not Latin. Neither would help with the legends of northern Europe.

Feeling a dunce, she turned to leave the library but paused by one of the books invitingly open on the tables. It was a great Bible, open appropriately to Saint Luke’s account of the Christmas story, to the Magnificat.

She read through, coming to the lines

My! Was Dr. Egan responsible for turning the pages to ones appropriate for the day? Would he be dismissed for choosing these?

She moved to the next table, which displayed a quite small book. At the top of the open pages it read,
A History of the Malloren Family.

She started at having her search so easily solved, but then realized the book would be on display during a family gathering. And of course it would tell nothing unpleasant about them.

She expected something a little more exciting than what she read on the open pages, however. They told of a crusading ancestor, and apart from that one fact, nothing interesting had happened to William de Malloren.
He’d died at age seventy in his bed, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren around him.

What was Dr. Egan’s message there? That great houses were built with plain bricks?

She moved on to the last book, anticipating some other subtle commentary on the great, then stared at it as if it were a striking snake. The top of the page carried one word.

Loki.

She looked around as if someone might be watching, but she was still alone. She partly closed the book to read the spine.
Tales of the Norse Gods.
Feeling as if another message was being fed to her, she began to read.

Loki was described as beautiful, fickle, clever, and malicious. He deliberately created problems for the other gods, then showed his superiority by solving them. Among the problems were his three children—a wolf, a serpent, and Hel, or death.

Was Ashart’s wolf cloak deliberate? Why in heaven’s name would he link himself to a mythical character as unpleasant as this?

The story on the page was about destructive Fenris, the wolf, whom the gods eventually tricked into letting himself be bound with a magical rope called Gleipnir. The mighty wolf was suspicious, however, and wouldn’t submit until one of the gods put his hand in its mouth. So Tyr, god of battle, did so. The wolf was bound, but it bit off Tyr’s hand.

She saw the message in that. Those who sought to defeat evil must be willing to sacrifice, perhaps everything. Hadn’t Lord Rothgar said something similar yesterday—to Ashart?

She turned the page, seeking more about Loki, but arms snared her from behind. “I gather I’m to chop down trees for you, my love.”

Something—a step, perhaps, or even a smell—had given Genova a second’s warning, so she managed to conceal the sudden rush of energy within her.

She turned, and Loki allowed it, though he didn’t
draw back. They were so close that every breath brushed body against body, igniting desire despite everything she knew about him.

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to appear unmoved.

He pressed a tiny bit closer. “As Rothgar said, he keeps to the old traditions, so we are to go like laborers to harvest evergreens and the Yule log. Or rather, the men labor and the ladies applaud.”

She shifted slightly away, but this pressed her hips closer. Heat rose in her. “It’s always a pleasure to watch men sweat.”

His eyes sparkled, suggesting another meaning entirely.

“Have you arranged for another gossip to interrupt, my lord?” she said desperately, praying for something to brace her willpower.

“No, why?”

“Then why play at
amor
? Let me go.”

She pressed forward but he didn’t move. She raised her hands between them. “What do you want, Ashart?”

He lowered his head to breathe against her neck. “To sweat?”

Every nerve jumped. “On a library table?”

Too late, she knew he would find that no impediment—and neither did she. She’d never even imagined such a thing but now she did. She saw it, felt it, wanted it. Sharp aches rippled up her thighs.

Impossible!

She pushed again, turning her head away from his teasing lips, but that exposed her throat and he bit it. Lightly, but she felt his teeth, thought of wolves, and swayed back, suddenly boneless with desire.

He lifted her to the table. Her heart gave a great thump of warning, but she didn’t stop him, couldn’t stop herself, not even when he pressed between her thighs, her two thick petticoats seeming no protection at all.

The rippling aches were piercing her there, demanding
satisfaction. She heard herself moan, but she only deepened the kiss, driven by a frantic hunger she knew was insane.

She felt his strong hand on her naked thigh, spreading it wider, was aware of his other strong arm supporting her swaying body. She rolled her head back, opening her mouth to gasp in air, and her eyes in search of sanity—and saw the stern disapproving faces of the sages on high.

A different kind of jolt shot through her. What was she
doing
?

She pushed at his shoulders, trying to close her legs. “No! For pity’s sake, anyone could come in here!”

Their eyes locked and the expression in his froze her passion. He was flushed, dazed, dark eyes darker still, but beneath he was watchful. Was this what a rake was like? Clever, calculating, doing and saying all the right things to get what he wanted?

“No,” she said again, chills shaking her. “Release me, my lord.”

After a moment he eased back, rearranging her skirts and then flowing into a bow with a skill no honest man would possess. She shivered as she slid off the table, refusing to fuss with her clothes. “We agreed we wouldn’t do this.”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Then you should! Anyone could have discovered us. If not a guest, sooner or later a servant must come to build up the fire. Why risk having to marry me, my lord, when it must be the last thing you wish?”

She heard her voice rise to a shout, and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Hardly the last,” he said, infuriatingly unmoved. “I’d certainly marry you rather than hang. And isn’t a
should
as good as a
must
?”

She tried to push past him. “This is not a game!”

He blocked her way, gripping her arms. “Are you claiming not to have wanted that? Saying you don’t want more even now?”

Lying would demean her. Eyes fixed on the door,
she said, “No. But I won’t be trapped by this, Ashart. You’d make the devil of a husband.”

Did he flinch, or was it just anger?

“I’m sure you’re right.” He let her go, then took a guinea out of his pocket and held it out.

It was their bargain. There was no reason to feel outrage, but it took every scrap of will not to slap it away, or slap him. Instead, Genova took the coin and slipped it into her pocket. “On Charlie’s behalf, I thank you, my lord.”

“It will buy him a sucket or two.” Then he held out his hand in formal style. “Come, Miss Smith. I believe I heard the dinner gong.”

Had she been as deaf to the world as that? She wanted to sweep out and ignore him. She wanted to run to her room and hide. Neither would serve in the long run. Better by far to convince him that he had no deep effect on her.

She put her hand in his, blocking the power of his touch, and let him lead her from the room.

A
 shart led Genova Smith downstairs, gathering control or he’d be in no state to deal with Rothgar.

He’d woken early in the grand bedchamber that had been found for him despite his unexpected arrival, and he’d suddenly needed to escape. He’d found the stables and his horse, and ridden fast around the frostily beautiful estate.

Every elegant curve of land, every classical delight, felt like a taunt.
See what I can afford
, they said,
and you cannot.

Devil take his grandmother for pouring money into ways to attack the Mallorens. No, devil take him for allowing it. For the past five years, at least, he could have been in command of his own affairs. He hadn’t insisted on that, or resisted her urging to be more and more glorious at court.

Diamond buttons, for Zeus’s sake.

He slowed Zampira and surveyed his cousin’s domain. It was impressive and elegant, but Ash didn’t particularly desire its like. What he desired was hearty fields and tenants, and a house without crumbling plaster in damp corners.

He’d spent his life blaming the Mallorens for any problems, but most of his current ones were not their fault. He knew Fitz had brought about some of the change. His friend’s casual observations had shaken Ash’s world until the realization had seeped in that a life of attack and retaliation was not what he wanted.