Bound in Moonlight (28 page)

“I was reared, as were all my ancestors, to dedicate my life
dibu e debu
—to the gods and goddesses. They must always come first. They are my reason for being.”

Looking back down, I said, “Who does the choosing? Of the wives?”

“As with any arranged marriage, it's usually the parents. If the parents are deceased, that duty falls to the
gardien's administrateur
. He—or she—is generally quite well traveled, with connections all over the world, whereas we
gardiens
tend to stick close to home.”

I stood up, folding the damp towel just to have something to do with my hands. “So, um, my father's been looking for a wife for you?”

He stood, too. “For some time, but gifted women tend to be difficult to spot. Perhaps my next
administrateur
will have better luck.”

No wonder he'd said he was relieved when I confirmed that I would not be succeeding my father as
administrateur
. My chest felt as if someone were sitting on it. I drew in a deep breath and said, with forced bonhomie, “God, Adrien, your life is positively medieval. I couldn't hack it. Makes me glad we never can, you know . . . ‘launch into something serious.'”

“Liar,” he said softly.

I met his gaze.

He said, “I can see your aura, remember?”

“It's not fair,” I said, a little hoarsely. “I can't see yours.”

“That's probably a good thing.”

“Be careful driving to the airport,” my father said as Adrien loaded my little carry-on into the trunk of the Renault. Glancing up at the blushy peach sky, he said, “Night falls quickly here. It's the mountains. They swallow up the sun.”

“I'm an excellent driver, night or day,” I told him. “You worry too much.”

“He's right,” Adrien said. “You're not used to driving on mountain roads, and in the dark—”

“I'll be fine, you guys. Jeez.” I looked at my watch. “I've got to get going. I'm supposed to be halfway there by now.”

“Go, then,” my father said. “You don't want to miss your plane.”

“Bye, Dad.” We did our continental kiss-kiss thing. It may have been my imagination, but I think he held on to my shoulders a little longer than usual, and maybe a little more firmly.

“Adrien.” I extended my hand. He shook it. It was excruciatingly civilized.

“Don't wait another nineteen years to visit us again,” he said.

“I won't.”

He opened the car door for me. I got in, blew my dad a kiss, and pulled away.

He'd been right about the sun setting quickly. As I was driving down the long stretch of gravel road leading out of the valley, the sky turned violet, then an ethereal blue tinged on the horizon with just the faintest indigo stain.

I looked in my rearview mirror. The castle, which had always appeared so dark and forbidding to me, seemed to take on a bronzish glow against that otherworldly sky. A single figure stood on the drawbridge, gazing in my direction: Adrien.

I watched him watch me drive away until I rounded a curve in the road and the château disappeared from view.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Louisa Burton, a lifelong devotee of Victorian erotica, mythology, and history, lives in upstate New York. Visit her website
www.louisaburton.com
.

ALSO BY LOUISA BURTON

House of Dark Delights

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Bound in Moonlight

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Scintillating and erotic novel from
Louisa Burton

Whispers
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Flesh

Coming Fall 2008

One

OCTOBER
1829

Y
ou want him,” Elic murmured into Lili's ear in the French that had long ago replaced the languages of their birth.

Lili, lounging next to him on a damask and gilt chaise in
le Salon Ambre,
lifted her after-dinner brandy to her lips with a silky smile that was answer enough. “Shh . . . He'll hear.”

Elic glanced across the candlelit room at the object of their attention, a dark, gravely handsome young Englishman with large, watchful eyes. At the moment, he was rhapsodizing in his native tongue about the “rich volcanic soil” of la Vallée de la Grotte Cachée while Archer listened raptly and Inigo, ever the peacock in a green and gold brocade waistcoat, his mop of springy black curls riotously unbound, stifled a yawn.

When their visitor paused to take a breath, Elic said, in English, “Do you speak French, Beckett?”

He blinked at Elic, took a puff of his cigar, and said, “I confess, I never studied it in school.”

“How very curious,” Lili said in that velvety, exotically accented voice that still, after all these years, sent a hot shiver of desire humming along Elic's veins. “I thought all gently bred Englishmen knew French—not that I've any objection to conversing in English. It is quite as beautiful a language, in its own way.”

“You're fucking him with your eyes,” Elic told Lili in French.

“Can you blame me?” she replied, still smiling at their guest.

“Can't quite see the appeal.” It was a lie. Of a goodly height, David Beckett had a lean but stalwart physique set off to damnable advantage by a well-cut black tailcoat. And there was a certain stillness about him, a quiet intensity, that imparted an aura of mystery.

“Such lies are beneath you,” Lili murmured to Elic. “And your jealousy is absurd, my love, considering how many bedmates we've shared over the years.” Before Elic could respond to that, she apologized to Beckett, in English, for having conducted that exchange in a language he couldn't understand.

The young man met Lili's eyes for an electric moment, then lowered his gaze to his brandy, which he swirled in a way that was meant to look thoughtful—though to Elic, it bespoke a deep discomfiture. He actually appeared to be blushing, though it was difficult to tell in the golden, wavering candlelight.

From the moment David Beckett had been introduced to Lili upon his arrival that afternoon at Château de la Grotte Cachée, he had seemed gripped by a sort of uneasy entrancement. It was hardly an unusual reaction among male visitors to the château. Ilutu-Lili, with her lustrous black hair, slumberous eyes, and easy sensuality, had a bewitching effect on men. She had certainly bewitched Elic; for eighty years he had been caught in her spell. Tonight, with her hair secured by a diamond-crusted comb in a knot of loops and tumbling curls, her shoulders bared by the wide, sloping neckline of her gown—a confection of garnet chine silk with billowy puff sleeves and a handspan waist—she looked the very image of the goddess she truly was.

“What language
did
you study?” Elic asked Beckett.

“I've taken classes in Latin, Greek, Italian, and Hebrew, though of those tongues, the only one in which I am truly fluent is Italian.”

“Quite the well-schooled gardener,” Elic said.

The taunt earned him a look of surprised amusement from Inigo, and scowls from Archer and Lili. Beckett's gaze lit on Lili before returning to Elic, whom he studied for a long, pensive moment.

“I say, Elic.” Shifting his lantern jaw uneasily, Archer said, “I would, er, hardly call our guest a gardener, given the scope of his expertise and the rather ambitious nature of his work.” Bartholomew Archer had just the year before succeeded his father as
administrateur
to Théophile Morel, Seigneur des Ombres, the elderly lord of Grotte Cachée. Nearly as tall as Elic, and thin as lath, the timorous Brit had yet to grow comfortable in his role as steward of Grotte Cachée; Elic wondered if he ever would. “I should think Mr. Beckett would be more correctly termed, er . . . a horticulturist.”

Beckett said, “I infer no shame in the title of gardener. Humphrey Repton, who gave me my initial instruction in this field, styled himself a ‘landscape gardener.' I am content to be called the same.”

“Humphrey Repton trained you?” Archer said. “I'm impressed.”

“Never heard of him,” said Inigo, who, having a remarkable facility with languages, spoke English with no trace at all of an accent. Of Greek extraction, he traveled all over the known world before being recruited in 14
a.d.
to pose for the salacious bathhouse statues at Grotte Cachée; he'd made his home there ever since.

Archer said, “Repton was famous for designing, or redesigning, the grounds of some of the finest estates in Britain. How came you to apprentice with him, Beckett?”

“I would hardly call it an apprenticeship,” Beckett replied.“I was twelve years old at the time. My father had engaged him to devise a plan for improving the park and gardens at the country house he'd just purchased, which had been neglected for decades. This was in the late summer of 1816, two years before Mr. Repton went to his maker. He'd been injured in a carriage accident, so he needed a wheelchair to get around, and I used to push it for him while he sketched panoramic vistas. His aim was to create a natural but picturesque landscape, and he had impeccable instincts. He turned twelve-hundred dreary, overgrown acres into a veritable paradise. Whole areas were excavated and transformed, hundreds of trees were cut and planted, terraces were built, flower gardens installed.”

Archer said, “I've seen Repton's work at Blaise Castle—extraordinary.”

“How did he manage such rigorous work, being in a wheelchair?” Inigo asked.

“Oh, he didn't actually execute his designs,” Beckett replied.“He was more of an advisor, coming up with the plans and leaving it to his clients to arrange for the actual work.”

“Mr. Beckett works in much the same manner,” Archer told the assembled company. “During his stay with us, he will inspect the grounds surrounding the castle, devise a scheme for improving them, and leave us a book of notes, plans, and pictures.”

“It is a method I've borrowed from Mr. Repton,” Beckett said. “For each client, he created what he called a ‘Red Book,' because it was bound in red leather. The book would contain descriptions of what should be done, including detailed illustrations in watercolor depicting the grounds as they then existed, with vellum overlays showing how that particular area would look if his suggestions were implemented. When he discovered my aptitude for drawing and painting, he allowed me to help him with that end of things, and I found it fascinating. For years after that, I read everything I could get my hands on that had to do with botany, floriculture, architecture. . . . And I painted landscapes, as Mr. Repton had advised, to help develop my sense of natural aesthetics.”

“You studied these things at university, I suppose?” Lili asked him.

He averted his gaze from her and took his time rolling the ash off the tip of his cigar. “I confess I did not. It had always been assumed that I would read theology.”

Elic hated the way Lili gazed at Beckett, her eyes glinting darkly, her color high. He didn't blame her for her hungers; she could no more ignore them than he could ignore his own. But when the object of that hunger held her in such utter thrall, when there was little doubt just how desperately she ached to possess him, it incited in Elic a primal, almost human covetousness. There was no restraining her when her lust for an exceptionally desirable male—a
gabru
in her extinct Akkadian tongue—ran this hot, no way to keep her from stealing into his bedchamber during the night and ravishing him as he lay immobilized by one of her ancient Babylonian spells. Were Elic capable of making love to Lili—really making love, not just bringing her off by hand, or with his mouth—he might have some chance of keeping her for himself. As it was, the most he could hope for was to be there on occasion when she took her human prey, to caress her and kiss her and whisper his love into her ear as she writhed for hours atop her groaning, shuddering, lust-maddened
gabru
.

“Theology, eh?” she said.“You would be the second or third son, then, Mr. Beckett? Destined for the ministry?”

“The, er, priesthood, actually.”

“Ah—my apologies,” she said. “One tends to think of all Englishmen as Anglican. A thoughtless presumption.”

“Not at all.”He still wouldn't look directly at her.

“You seem to have managed to forge your own way despite parental expectations,” Inigo observed. “Are they miffed that you didn't join the Church?”

Choosing his words with seeming care, Beckett said, “They are content with the path I've chosen.”

“So, Beckett,” Elic said. “I can't help but wonder what your connection to the archbishop might be.”

The young man stilled in the act of lifting his snifter to his mouth, his gaze darting toward Elic and then away. Frowning into his brandy, he took so long to compose his thoughts that Archer answered for him.

“As I understand it,” the
administrateur
began, “Archbishop Bélanger retained Mr. Beckett's services on the advice of friends in England, so the connection would be professional rather than . . . shall we say, convivial.” It was at a formal dinner recently hosted by Monseigneur Bélanger for the local personages of note that Archer, who'd attended in Seigneur des Ombres's stead, had made the acquaintance of David Beckett. Intrigued by the young Englishman's proposal for enhancing the archbishop's property, and nostalgic for the lush and artless gardens of his homeland, Archer had convinced
le seigneur
to invite Beckett to Grotte Cachée.

“When I spoke of a connection to the archbishop,” Elic said, “I meant the Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry the Second. It occurred to me that there might be a relation between Thomas Becket and our Catholic gardener of the same name.”

“I'm afraid I can claim no such illustrious association,” Beckett said.

“How long will we have the pleasure of your company, Mr. Beckett?” Lili asked with a smile that made Elic's teeth throb.

“I . . . well, I suppose that remains to be seen,” he replied. “Tomorrow afternoon, I shall conduct a thorough tour of the grounds, and that will give me a rough idea of the areas that might benefit from a more picturesque approach. It could take a week or a month to prepare a book of plans for
le seigneur
. It all depends on the extent of the renovations.”

“I can't imagine there's very much at Grotte Cachée that wants improvement,” Elic said. “You'll find little to keep you here, I think.”

Lili, clearly vexed by his tone, moved away from him in a subtle but stingingly eloquent gesture. She and Inigo shared a look. Such petty sniping was out of character for Elic.

Archer said, “It might help to have a bit of guidance on your tour, Mr. Beckett. I've other obligations tomorrow afternoon, but I could show you 'round in the morning.”

Shaking his head, Beckett said, “I must go to Clermont-Ferrand in the morning in order to mail a letter.”

“Give it to me now, and I'll have someone mail it tomorrow,” Archer said.

“It . . . it isn't written yet,” Beckett said. “I'll write it tonight, and . . . I've other business in town, in any event, things I must buy—more vellum, another sketchbook . . .”

“Very well,” Archer said. “I must caution you, though, should you care to explore our cave, as many guests do, not to venture in too far—no more than a quarter mile or so, where the lamps are. Past that, it becomes . . . rather forbidding, I'm afraid.”

“I shall bear that in mind, Mr. Archer. And now, if you will all forgive me,” Beckett said as he rose to his feet and bowed in Lili's direction, “I regret that the hour has come when I must retire to my chamber. The letter of which I spoke will be a lengthy one, and all I really want is a good night's sleep.”

“May you get your wish, Mr. Beckett,” said Lili, her gaze following him as he crossed to the door. “Pleasant dreams.”

12 October, 1829

Grotte Cachée, Auvergne, France

My Lord Archbishop,

This dispatch will serve, I trust, as an account of the progress thus far of my clandestine inquiries on behalf of your Grace and of our superiors in Rome and here in France. You will be gratified, I think, to know that I am presently ensconced in a guest chamber of Château de la Grotte Cachée, having successfully drawn upon the horticultural expertise I acquired before entering seminary to adopt the guise of a landscape gardener.

My preliminary investigation into claims of demoniacal activity in and around this château transpired much as we had planned. This fortnight past I enjoyed the hospitality of Archbishop Bélanger at his own remarkably beautiful château in the region of Auvergne, where his secretary made me privy to allegations dating back nearly four centuries of strange happenings in and around Grotte Cachée. Notable among these were reputed acts of extraordinary wickedness and lechery committed there by certain individuals identified on occasion as demons or possibly those possessed by demons. Such accusations have generally been regarded as heated imaginings, and therefore rarely committed to writing save for the most cursory of notations. As a consequence, there exist but three pieces of written evidence detailed enough to be of use for our purposes, which in the interest of discretion I was enjoined from copying. These I shall summarize for you frankly and without expurgation, as you have directed, with the caveat that such writings, by their very nature, must needs describe carnal encounters of the most impure stripe.