To Desire a Devil (38 page)

Emeline glanced up at Beatrice. “What are they?”

Beatrice shook her head. “Look inside one.”

Emeline chose the blue and opened it. And then she gasped. “Oh. Oh, my goodness. I’d almost forgotten.”

She looked from Melisande to Helen to Beatrice. “How…?”

Tante Cristelle leaned forward. “What is this?”

“It’s the fairy-tale book that my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me when we were children. Forgive me.” Emeline dabbed
at her eyes with her fingertips. “I gave the original book to Melisande to translate.”

“And I did,” Melisande said in her steady voice. “And when I was done, I gave the translation to Helen to transcribe. She
has such an elegant hand.”

Helen blushed. “Thank you.”

“She gave me back the sheets of papers—she’d made four copies—but for a long while I did not know what to do with them,” Melisande
said. “When Beatrice married Reynaud, I gave them to her to bind into a book. But I had no idea she’d made four books.”

Beatrice smiled. “Each of us worked on it, so I thought each of us should have a book of the fairy tales as a memento.”

“Thank you,” Emeline said softly. “Thank you, Melisande and Helen, and you as well, Beatrice. This is a wonderful gift.” She
cradled the blue book against her breast and glanced at the gentlemen. “For so long, all I had were memories of Reynaud, and
this book was one of the best. Now I have him back again. I’m so grateful.”

Beatrice had to dab at her own eyes. Reynaud was back, and she was grateful as well.

The door to the sitting room opened at that moment, revealing the magnificent form of the butler. “Dinner is served, my lord.”

“Ah. Good,” Reynaud said. He strode to where Tante Cristelle sat and bowed to her. “I know ’tisn’t the done thing for a gentleman
to escort his wife to dinner, but we are still newly wed. Might I have dispensation this once?”

That old lady glared at him with steely pale blue eyes, but then they softened. “Tch. Silly boy. But it is Christmas Day,
after all, so I forgive you.” She waved her hand at him. “Take your wife. All of you, take your wives. And you”—she crooked
a finger at an alarmed Uncle Reggie—“you may escort me!”

Reynaud offered his arm to Beatrice as their guests assembled to be led in to dinner. She placed her fingers on his sleeve,
and he tilted his head toward hers. “Have I wished you a Merry Christmas yet, madam?”

“You have,” she said. “Several times. But I don’t grow weary of hearing it.”

“And I’m afraid I’ll never grow weary of saying it.” His obsidian eyes danced. “Now or in the future. So let me say it once
again, the first of many more: Merry Christmas, my love. Merry Christmas, my darling Beatrice.”

And he kissed her.

At the Goblin King’s awful words, Longsword fell to his knees before him. He drew his magical sword and laid it on the ground
at the Goblin King’s feet and said, “I will give you my sword, though it means my own death, if you will only let my wife
go.”

The Goblin King stared, so shocked his orange eyes nearly popped from his head. “You would forfeit your life for this woman?”

“Gladly,” was Longsword’s simple answer.

The Goblin King turned to Princess Serenity. “And you, you have decided to sacrifice yourself for all eternity for this man?”

“I have already said so,” the princess replied.

“ARGH!” the Goblin King cried in frustration, tearing at his green hair. “Then this is True Love—a terrible thing!—for I can
have no truck with so powerful a force as True Love.” He bent to pick up the sword but hissed as the mere touch of the metal
burned his evil flesh. “Bah! Even the sword is tainted by love! This is a most dissatisfactory turn of events!”

And the Goblin King, provoked beyond endurance, vanished back into the crack in the earth from whence he came.

Princess Serenity came and sank to her knees before her husband, who still knelt in the dust.

She took his hands and said, “I do not understand. You hated the Goblin Kingdom; you told me so. Why, then, did you seek to
prevent my sacrifice?”

Longsword raised his wife’s hands to his lips and kissed them one at a time. “Life without you would be worse than an eternity
in the Goblin Kingdom.”

“Then you do love me?” she whispered.

“With all my heart,” he replied.

Princess Serenity shivered and glanced at the spot where the Goblin King had stood. “Do you think he’ll return for us?”

Longsword smiled. “Did you not hear, my sweet? We have a magic so powerful it can defeat the Goblin King himself. It is our
love for each other.”

And he kissed her.

Don’t miss the beginning of Elizabeth Hoyt’s stunning new series!

Please turn this page for a preview of the first book in the Maiden Lane series,

Wicked Intentions

A
VAILABLE IN
S
UMMER
2010

Once upon a time, in a land forgotten now, there lived a mighty king, feared by all and loved by none. His name was King Lockedheart….

—from
King Lockedheart

L
ONDON

F
EBRUARY
1742

A woman abroad in St. Giles near midnight was either very foolish or very desperate. Or, as in her own case, Temperance Dews
reflected wryly, she was a combination of both.

“’Tis said the Ghost of St. Giles haunts on nights like this,” Nell Jones, Temperance’s maidservant, said chattily as she
skirted a noxious puddle in the narrow alley.

Temperance glanced dubiously at her. Nell had spent three years in a traveling company of actors and sometimes she had a tendency
toward melodrama.

“There’s no ghost haunting St. Giles,” Temperance replied firmly. The cold winter night was frightening enough without the
addition of specters.

“’Course there is.” Nell hoisted the sleeping babe in her arms higher. “’E wears a mask and cloak, but ’tis said ’e’s disfigured.”

“And how would anyone know that if he’s masked?” Temperance asked.

They were coming to a turn in the alley and she thought she saw light up ahead. She held her lantern high and gripped the
ancient pistol in her other hand a little tighter. The weapon was heavy enough to make her arm ache. She could’ve brought
a sack to carry it in, but that would’ve defeated its purpose as a deterrent. Though loaded, the pistol held but one shot
and to tell the truth, she was somewhat hazy on the actual operation of the weapon.

Still, the pistol looked dangerous and Temperance was grateful for that. The night was black, the wind moaned eerily, bringing
the smell of excrement and rotting offal, and the sounds of St. Giles rose about them—voices raised in argument, cries and
laughter, and now and again the odd chilling scream. St. Giles was enough to send the most intrepid woman running for her
life.

And that was without Nell’s conversation.

“’Orribly disfigured,” Nell continued, ignoring Temperance’s logic. “’Tis said ’is lips and eyelids are clean cut off, so
that ’e seems to be grinning at you with ’is great yellow teeth as he comes to pull the guts from your belly.”

Temperance wrinkled her nose. “Nell!”

“That’s what they say,” Nell said virtuously. “Guts ’em and flays the ’ide from their bodies, ’e does. ’Course with the lasses
’e ’as some fun first.”

“Well, I don’t believe in spirits in any case.” Temperance took a breath as they turned the corner into a small, wretched
courtyard. Two figures stood at the opposite end, but they scuttled away at their approach. Temperance let out her breath.
“Lord, I hate being abroad at night.”

Nell patted the infant’s back. “Only a half mile more. Then we can put this wee one to bed and send for the wet nurse in the
morning.”

Temperance bit her lip as they ducked into another alley. “Do you think she’ll live until morning?”

But Nell, usually quite free with her opinions, was silent. Temperance peered ahead and hurried her step. The baby looked
to be only weeks old and had not yet made a sound since they’d recovered her from the arms of her dead mother. In Temperance’s
experience a thriving infant was quite loud. Terrible to think that she and Nell might’ve made this dangerous outing for nought.

But then what choice had there been, really? When she’d received word at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children
that a baby was in need of her help it’d still been light. She’d known from bitter experience that if they’d waited ’til morn
to retrieve the child, it would either have expired in the night from lack of care or would’ve already been sold for a beggar’s
prop. She shuddered. The children bought by beggars were often made more pitiful to elicit sympathy from passersby. An eye
might be put out or a limb broken or twisted. No, she’d really had no choice. The baby couldn’t wait until morning.

Still, she’d be very happy when they made it back to the home.

They were in a narrow passage now, the tall houses on either side leaning inward ominously. Nell was forced to walk behind
or risk brushing the sides of the buildings. A scrawny cat snaked by and then there was a shout very near.

Temperance’s steps faltered.

“Someone’s up ahead,” Nell whispered hoarsely.

They could hear scuffling and then a sudden high scream.

Temperance swallowed. The alley had no side passages. They could either retreat or continue—and to retreat meant another twenty
minutes added to their journey.

That decided her. The night was chilly and the cold wasn’t good for the babe.

“Stay close to me,” she whispered to Nell.

“Like a flea on a dog,” Nell muttered.

Temperance squared her shoulders and held the pistol firmly in front of her. Winter, her brother, had said that one need only
point it and shoot. That couldn’t be too difficult. The light from the lantern spilled before them as she entered another
crooked courtyard. Here she froze for just a second, her light illuminating the scene before them like a pantomime on a stage.