The Veils of the Budapest Palace (Darke of Night Book 3) (27 page)

I waited. But this wasn’t a moment for the dead; it was for life. He drew me on up the next flight of stairs and along the hall to our own room. The journey had built the tension far beyond the uncomplicated urgency of the dining room. When he closed the bedroom door with a decisive click, my heart threatened to jump into my throat. My mouth was dry with yearning, with sudden, inexplicable shyness that hadn’t been there when I’d offered myself to him on the dining room table.

But still he didn’t seize me. I half expected, half longed to be picked up and thrown on the bed, but instead, he kept my hand in his arm while we walked forward and he set down the candle on the dressing table and lit the lamp. Only then did he lead me to the bedside and turn me towards him.

Every hard thud of my heart seemed to echo around the room as he gazed at me. Slowly, he reached up behind my head and removed the pins from my hair. As it tumbled free about my shoulders, he bent and kissed my mouth once, with more tenderness than passion. And yet, when I rested my palm on his chest, his heart thundered.

“I won’t break,” I whispered.

A smile flickered across his lips. “I know. It’s just...I feel this is our true wedding night.”

I knew what he meant. We’d married on impulse, carried away by passion and possibility. I’d no idea when care was intense enough to be called love. Perhaps the love had always been there between us, the love at first sight of myth and poetry. Now, I only knew that it had deepened into something rare and honest and beautiful, something profound and lasting. The knowledge was sweet. And terrifying.

But I was no shrinking virgin bride. As he began to unhook my gown, I pushed his coat off his shoulders and unbuttoned his waistcoat and his shirt. My gown slid down over my elbows and pooled around my ankles. My stays and my shift followed, and then, with the first hint of impatience he’d betrayed since he’d brought me upstairs, he loosened my drawers and shoved them down over my hips.

I stood before him totally naked in every sense. Zsigmund, his shirt unbuttoned as far as it would go, drank me in, his chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths that echoed in the wind outside as it hurled rain against the bedroom window.

His arms shook as he closed them around me and lifted me onto the bed. The linen was cool at my back, but my whole body burned for him. With deliberation, he pulled his shirt over his head and threw it aside before reaching for his belt.

I half sat, greedily running my hands over the hot skin of his naked chest. I felt all the wonder of having such a husband to make love to me, but also of being loved by such a man. His physical beauty had merged for me now with his brilliant, mercurial, and yet ultimately steadfast nature. He would always fascinate me and frequently surprise me, but I knew I could rely on him utterly to do what was right, albeit by his own judgment and no one else’s.

Naked now, he lowered himself to me, skin to skin, and closed his lips around my nipple. I shut my eyes in bliss, arching into him. Needing him closer, I wrapped my legs around his hips and writhed beneath the hard shaft pressing against me.

He groaned into my breast and shifted position. In one quick movement, he pushed inside me. I gasped, seizing his shoulders, feeling my eyes and mouth widen as the pleasure rushed, gathering into bliss and exploding at his first thrust.

“Oh God,” he whispered desperately, and suddenly all his patient gentling vanished. He rammed into me hard, as if he couldn’t help himself, and pounded me mercilessly, keeping me in the throes of helpless joy while the storm of his passion raged through us both. It broke quickly, as it had to, his groans like an echo of the first thunderclap from the real storm outside.

We lay panting, clutching each other in the afterglow of physical ecstasy. The wind whistled and howled against the windowpane, making the candle flame flicker wildly. Zsigmund smiled against my cheek, lethargically lifting his head only far enough to kiss me, openmouthed and blatantly sensual.

He began to move inside me again. “Too quick,” he murmured apologetically. “I made a rash promise of all night.”

Being well acquainted with his virility, I knew he could be ready for love again almost immediately after spending, and this was clearly one of those occasions. And my own wicked body was more than willing to cooperate, eager for more of the blinding pleasure I’d known only with him.

A flash of lightning shafted through the curtains, illuminating all the concentrated passion in his face, as well as the whiteness of his jagged scar. It made him look like some wicked, tempting devil, which only excited me further.

Thunder crashed outside as he coaxed me to deeper movements, pushing and grinding inside me, bending one of my knees upward to help him find the particular place that drove me to wildness. And yet he was sparing, teasing, rationing me so that I wouldn’t reach that climax too quickly. But I’d learned to play that game too. I squirmed beneath him, squeezing and sliding away until it became a sensual battle.

Lightning flashed again over his muscled, undulating back and my scrabbling, pleading hands. We rocked and writhed together towards the slow but inevitable victory, the sweetness of the battle all-consuming.

“Caroline!”

Barbara’s voice at that moment confused me. For Zsigmund knelt with my thighs over his, easing in and out of my body while his fingertips glided teasingly around the little pleasure bud he could always find.

By his shoulder hovered the semitransparent figure of Ilona’s ghost. My whole body and mind alight with the bliss of loving, it struck me only vaguely that a mother shouldn’t see her son in this position, before my vision blurred. Or at least Ilona’s face did, and when I blinked, it was Barbara’s eyes that gazed back at me, almost solid.

“Oh God, not now,” I whispered.

“Yes, now,” Zsigmund growled, pressing his thumb over me and pushing hard inside me, right over the sweetest of spots. “Right now.”

I couldn’t help it. I fell into ecstasy. With a deep groan, Zsigmund fell on me, emptying inside me.

“Caroline, stop it!” Barbara said harshly. “This is no time for—”

“I’m married,” I interrupted her, gasping. “Go away!”

Zsigmund’s panting breath broke into a laugh. “I know we’re married. I was there. Do you really want me to go away
now
?”

I clung to him. “No, no, not you. Barbara.”

“Stop talking!” Barbara commanded. “Don’t you understand you’re in danger? He’s outside, and the storm is right above you! You have to get—”

A flash of lightning blinded me, followed almost immediately by a loud crack, a crash of breaking glass, and a strange buzzing sound in my ears. And suddenly, the whole room was alight with flames from the window.

Zsigmund’s reactions were quick. He bolted out of the bed, dragging me with him before he dropped my hand and grabbed the washing jug.

“There’s no time!” Barbara yelled from Ilona’s body, which was whisking about the air as though blown by the wind gusting through the broken window. “He’s outside, and he hasn’t finished. Run!”

I threw myself forward, grabbing Zsigmund’s free hand. “It’s Gabor. Run, now!”

My strength was no match for his. I knew I couldn’t pull him if he resisted. He didn’t. He dropped the jug. I heard it break, but by then we were running hand in hand for the bedchamber door. Zsigmund swiped our robes from the door hook—I thanked God for Duclos’s tidiness—just as another bolt of forked lightning struck clean through the window onto the bed.

Zsigmund slammed the door on the exploding fire and threw my robe around me. As one, we ran for the stairs, the wispy figure of Ilona flying along beside us. Her face changed all the time between her own and Barbara’s.

“János!” Zsigmund yelled upward. “Everyone outside, now!” He pulled me on. “He and the other servants are probably still in the kitchen,” he added. “You go and rouse István and Gizella, but don’t wait for them. I’ll get my grandfather and make sure the servants are out. I’ll meet you outside. But stay away from Gabor.”

In bare feet, we split at the top of the stairs, he running down for his grandfather’s room, I heading on towards Gizella and István’s rooms.

I pounded on their door. “Gizella! István! Fire. Wake up! Gizella!”

The door wrenched open. It was István in his shirtsleeves. “What the devil—”

“Fire,” I exclaimed. “The house is struck, and fire is raging upstairs. We have to get out immediately. Is Gizella there?”

“I’ll bring her,” István promised and vanished back inside.

“Don’t wait for anything,” I pleaded, and ran back towards the stairs. Even the air felt hot. Smoke was billowing now, almost hiding the top of the staircase. I choked as I ran through it and down the stairs. I’d no idea how often the house had been struck or in how many different places.

To my relief, Zsigmund strode through the thinner smoke on the first-floor landing, his grandfather quite still in his arms.

“They’re coming!” I shouted, and we ran down towards the ground floor. I could hear Gizella twittering behind me and István’s gruffer voice. In the hallway, before the front door, Zsigmund set his grandfather on his feet, pushing him towards István while he opened the door and peered out. He grabbed something from the drawer of the table and shoved it into my hand. My fingers closed around cold metal.

“Shoot him if you have to,” he said grimly. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

My throat closed with fear, but I knew I’d never dissuade him, and I had a different job to do. Gingerly, I took hold of the gun and led the way down the path towards the gate.

But I saw no sign of Gabor, either by the railings or in the square. I hoped he’d fled, far, far away, and kept running, because Zsigmund would kill him now.

I hid the pistol in my robe pocket and gazed up at the scudding sky. The filthy clouds were rushing past the moon as if they knew they had no real business being where they were. There was no sign now of lightning, no echo of even distant thunder. The rain had turned off like a tap. Only the wind still blew.

People ran towards us from all over the square, urging us into the central garden, away from the burning building. Some brought us cloaks and blankets and boots, and a kindly housekeeper from the other side of the square invited us to go with her to her master’s house.

“I can’t until I know Zsigmund’s safe,” I said, “but maybe, you should take the count and—”

As if hearing his title roused him suddenly to the reality of the situation, the old count jerked his head up.

“My work!” he cried. “My manuscript!” And with an unsuspected sprightliness, he suddenly bolted across the road to the gates. I lunged after him, but István and Gizella caught me between them.

“I’ll fetch him,” István said grimly. “You wait here.”

Staring in horror, I knew the count would never get into the house now. The whole building, including the front door, seemed to glow and shimmer.

But I underestimated the old man. He ran straight through the front door without pause. Almost immediately, something exploded inside the house, and a surge of flame pushed István back.

Another neighbour dragged him back out the gate.

“The fire engine is coming,” the housekeeper assured us.

“Zsigmund,” I whispered. To lose him now would be impossible, a grief I couldn’t bear. Tears ran unheeded down my cheeks.

“Oh, Caroline, don’t,” Gizella pleaded. “He’ll be fine. He’s a cat with nine lives...”

“Caroline!”

I gasped, spinning towards the speaker. It looked like Zsigmund, in bare feet and heavy velvet robe, running from the corner of the square. Behind him streamed János and his wife, Duclos, and Katalin.

I had no time even to thank God. I ran to meet my husband, the blanket I’d been given flying out behind me like a kite.

“Part of the house has collapsed outward, blocking the area steps,” Zsigmund panted, throwing his arms around me convulsively. “We had to go around the back way and through the lanes.” He stilled. “Where’s the old gentleman? Where’s Gabor?”

“Gabor’s gone. The count went after his manuscript, and we couldn’t stop him. István tried...”

“Dear God,” Zsigmund whispered. His face was white in the flaring fire light, his eyes anguished. Inevitably, he pulled away from me, darting across the road to the house.

I ran after him, shouting his name. But at the gate, he suddenly pulled up short, and I ran into him. A man, two men seemed to leap through the flames into the path. One of them was on fire, and in his arms he carried old Count Andrassy.

Zsigmund and I staggered back. I snatched the borrowed blanket from my back, and Zsigmund threw it around the burning man as they fell to the ground, beating the flames from his back and his hair. It was Gabor.

His eyes were open, staring up at Zsigmund who, once the flames were squashed, stared back with more bafflement than anger. I could smell burned clothes and singed flesh among the rest. I wanted to be sick, yet knew I wouldn’t be. Not yet.

“Why did you go back for him?” Zsigmund demanded.

A smile flickered over the magician’s face. “I love him,” he said simply. “I never meant to hurt him. Just you.” And the light died from his eyes.

I’d seen death before. But never had the precise moment been so obvious.

I dragged my gaze away from the man who’d burned our home, to find Zsigmund stroking his grandfather’s hair.

“You’ll be fine,” he said with only the faintest tremor in his voice. “You’re tough as old boots.”

The old man’s hands clutched a satchel to him like a beloved child. “I will. I will.” He broke into a paroxysm of coughing—he must have inhaled massive amounts of smoke. One hand reached up like a claw, grasping Zsigmund’s robe. “But if I’m not... If I die, who will finish my book?”

Zsigmund took his hand. “I will,” he promised.

J
ust over a month later, two country housemaids and I stood back to admire the new curtains we’d just hung in the back sitting room of a very different Andrassy house. Huge and sprawling, it sat on a hill overlooking a vast tract of rolling land, the somewhat neglected estate of Orosháza.