Soul of Fire (53 page)

“But that means you’ve got his eye, haven’t you? The eye of the dragon? The scrying device?”

“Oh,” Sofie said, blushing a little, because she had gone through his luggage several times, in search of a hint, a clue to his location.

“Use the eye, Sofie. Find out where he is.”

“But the eye isn’t mine.”

“Nonsense. Those get traded and passed on from generation to generation. Besides, it is his eye and he loves you. I’m sure it will obey you.”

“Oh,” Sofie said, unwilling to admit that the words, like the rain after the drought, fell upon her parched heart and revived her.

She got the device. In Aimee’s darkened little parlor, she unwrapped it. It looked like an eye and yet not, and she stared into its green depths, transfixed, trying to see Peter.

And suddenly she heard the sound of wings, from the balcony outside the parlor.

DRAGON SEEKING MAIDEN

Peter landed on the balcony, only slightly worried the
dragon might have been seen. But the cottage where he’d glimpsed—from a distance—someone who looked like the woman who’d healed Sofie was on the outskirts of the cantonment, facing the parade grounds—which were, right then, deserted under heavy rain. Gold Coats were nowhere to be seen. In fact, the rumor Peter had heard said that after suffering heavy losses in the new rebellion, they’d been sent back to England. All of them.

On the balcony, Peter changed back to himself, and dressed, very quickly, in the clothes he’d been carrying in his claw, and which were, therefore, completely soaked from the rain.

When he’d finished dressing, he glanced up, and found the woman who’d healed Sofie standing by the door, facing him. She looked amused and she was smiling, and this gave him hope that Sofie was well.

“Where is Miss Warington?” he asked. And with worry, “And is she well?”

And he heard Sofie Warington’s voice say, “Milord St. Maur!” and she stood by the balcony door, staring at him.

“Well, well, we’ll be gone,” the blond woman said. And though Peter had no idea who
we
was, he had not the slightest curiosity.

“If you’ll come into the parlor,” the woman said, and led them into a semi-dark room with two sofas and several of the collapsible tables used in this climate. Sofie was pale, Peter thought. And her dress looked like the one she’d worn on the travel . . . and as if it had been imperfectly darned.

But to him she looked better than a duchess in satin and brocade. He was overcome. He stared at her like a man might stare at food when he is starving. Under his breath he said,
“Baggage.”
His voice came out tender and catching.

She didn’t seem offended. “Rogue,” she said.

Then she more or less pulled him, and more or less was pulled by him, onto one of the nearby sofas. Peter realized, to his shock, that they were alone.

He wanted to tell her it wouldn’t work and that she was making the worst mistake of her life. He had not counted on the way she looked, however, which made his breath catch in his throat. He had not counted on the way she smelled, like forest primeval or fecund land. He had not counted on the silken feeling of her hair against his fingers, or the way his mouth craved the taste of her skin.

In the cool darkness, he kissed her face all over, and held her close, and felt her heart beating against his. His lips met hers, and they feasted on each other’s mouths, their tongues meeting, their embrace growing tighter. She’d had her hair atop her head, in a becoming coiffure he supposed she’d seen in London. His seeking fingers undid it, and reveled in her hair’s satiny feel.

“I came,” he said, pulling back a little, “to say good-bye. To tell you you’d be happier without me.”

She fixed him with a stern look from her steady blue eyes. “You can’t leave at all,” she said. And before he could protest, added, “You can’t. And don’t say foolish things. I know you think you’re under a curse and that staying with me will destroy my life, but I beg you to believe me, it won’t destroy it nearly as much as if you leave. I love you, Peter Farewell, Earl of St. Maur. And if you leave me . . .” The stern eyes became implacable. “If you leave me, I shall follow. I will follow you while I have feet, St. Maur. And when my feet are worn through, I shall follow you on my knees.”

“No,” he said, in faint protest.

“Yes,” she said. “These weeks without you have been like death, and I would rather be alive. Do you think that others haven’t had the problem you do? You’re not a child now. You can control yourself. And I’ll be there to help you.”

“But . . . if we have children . . .”

“They might be like you,” she said. “And they might not. Likely they won’t. It’s not that common, is it? People inherit it from very distant ancestors, usually. But if they are like you, we won’t be so foolish as to send them wandering the world. You’ll teach them how to control themselves instead of expelling them from your sight.”

“Yes,” he said, half-convinced. He’d never thought of it that way. Surely were people must be able to hide their nature and lead normal lives. Otherwise they would never have children. And he’d never have been born.

He was so taken by the idea, he was quite unable to resist it when she pressed herself close to him. And he let his lips do what they had for such a time longed to do, gently kiss their way down her velvety throat, to the place where it receded in a hollow and the lace of the collar came up to hide it.

BRIDE’S PRICE

Outside the parlor, Aimee looked at Lalita, her eyes
dancing with secret mirth. “You did say they were engaged, did you not? So there can be nothing wrong with their being alone.”

“Nothing at all. I’d swear to it,” Lalita said, as she shamelessly listened to the voices within the parlor.

But at that moment the voices subsided into silence, and there was a long time of silence, from which a single word emerged. “Baggage!”

Then the silence resumed, punctuated now and then by odd sighs and exclamations that weren’t words.

A louder sigh broke the silence, and Miss Warington’s voice said, “Why, Lord St . . . Peter! I thought you didn’t eat people.”

“For you, my dear, I will make an exception.”

Lalita felt her color rise. “This is likely to take some time.”

“Is this how it’s normally done?” came Miss Warington’s voice.

“I don’t know. I never . . . You see, I was afraid I would change and incinerate my lover.”

“Oh, milord, you’re not
that
hot.”

A gurgle of laughter from St. Maur. “Shut up, baggage. I’m trying to romance you.”

Lalita rolled her eyes. If St. Maur was besotted enough to laugh at such jokes, she would stay away until they’d come down to Earth.

She reached to her waistband and brought out a pouch. She had bespelled it so that only Sofie could open it. To Aimee, she said, “For them. When they emerge.”

“Er . . .” Aimee said.

“My uncle says it is by rights theirs. For what they did to save the ruby.”

“The jewel that stopped the fight?” Aimee asked.

“The very same.”

“Then I hope that pouch is full of jewels, too, and precious stones. Because they saved my husband and all our friends.”

Lalita considered for a moment. But the jewels were charmed. No one else could even open the pouch. Only Sofie and St. Maur. And besides, she felt no duplicity from Aimee.

Smiling, she admitted, “That is exactly what it is full of.”

OVER EUROPE

We are married. Sofie thought, as she leaned close to
the dragon’s back and sank her hands into its neck ruffle, which felt, startlingly, as Peter’s loose curls at the nape of his neck did, when she pushed her fingers into them while he was in human form.
We are truly married.