War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 (25 page)

She showed nothing, but when she reached her room she indulged in a few tears. So used to having people either ignore her or laugh at her, she foolishly imagined she’d left that particular humiliation behind. It appeared she had not.

* * * * *

Marcus was so clever, choosing a chapel for the wedding, although the terms of the special licence he’d acquired did not demand that. They could have married in Marcus’s drawing room or the club, but he discerned her essentially traditional nature and arranged it.

Dressed in her best, her
new
best, Brussels lace foaming over her forearms, the softest of silk sheathing her body, Ruth took d’Argento’s arm and stepped down from the carriage. They were marrying in one of the fashionable new chapels not far from Marcus’s London residence, so they could repair there after the service.

Although they had little time to arrange the ceremony, the church looked beautiful when they stepped inside. D’Argento must have denuded the gardens of the club to festoon so many roses around the cool, relatively dark interior.

She touched one. “Ouch!” Pulling her hand away, she sighed to see the bead of red blood drawn by the hidden thorn, and sucked it. Better that than stain her beautiful new lace.

She blinked to accustom her eyes to the light and only then saw Lightfoot, the club’s majordomo, standing inside the entrance. “He’s not here, my lord,” he said to d’Argento.

“Then get him. He chose this place because it’s near his residence. Get to his house and rouse him!”

D’Argento gave her an apologetic smile. “He is probably still dreaming of you.”

She was not concerned, but quietly took a seat at the back of the church. She trusted Marcus to do everything he’d promised. Nothing could go wrong now.

Ten minutes later, Lightfoot raced back into the church, interrupting the quiet conversation. “He’s gone. His door is wide open and there is the sign of struggle, but he isn’t there!”

Ruth picked up her skirts and ran, but this time she ran towards him.

She knew where Marcus lived, although she had not yet passed through the front door. “Let it be a surprise,” he’d told her, and smiling, she’d agreed.

Despite being the only mortal on this mad chase through two streets and a fashionable square, she reached the house first. The butler stood in the hall, not the one from the Abbey, his bald pate startling in its starkness. His wig lay on the floor, disregarded. “One man, ma’am,” he said.

D’Argento raced into the hall and came to a skidding halt by the supine body of a footman. Bending, he tested the man’s breath by placing his fingers close to his mouth, then lifted the footman’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. “He’s dead.” He straightened. “One man, you said?”

All his fashionable languor had gone, replaced by an incisive, silver-eyed individual Ruth did not know.

“Yes, my lord,” the man said.

Upstairs, a woman’s voice called, “Has he gone?”

“Up here, Mrs. Brindlehurst!” the butler called.

The housekeeper from the Abbey appeared from belowstairs, followed by several flustered servants. “We could do nothing, my lord, R—ma’am.”

Ruth swallowed and tried not to look at the footman. Several more wedding guests entered the hall, led by Lady Damaris and Nerine. Ruth expected derision from the younger lady. She could not have cared less.

“He burst through the front door,” the butler said. “When poor Freeman here challenged him, he knocked him aside. His strength—” He gulped. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“A giant?” Lady Damaris snapped.

“Yes, ma’am. At least a foot taller than his grace, and the duke is a large man. The brute went upstairs, hardly touching the treads. His grace naturally came out of his room to see what the commotion was about and the man was on him. Huge, he was. His grace had no chance.”

“I thought he was stronger—” Ruth began.

D’Argento put a warning hand over hers. “What happened next?”

“He wound threads around him. Like silver ropes, they were, or fine chains, but his grace couldn’t break free so they must be stronger than they looked.”

“They are,” Lady Damaris said. She stepped forward into the sudden silence. “It’s Barnabas. Our brother.”

* * * * *

Closeted in a small parlour on the ground floor of Marcus’s London house, d’Argento turned to Lady Damaris. “Explain,” he said tersely. He closed the room to everyone except Ruth, the two ladies Damaris and Nerine, Lightfoot and Ruth. Others remained outside, waiting to see if they could help.

Lady Nerine had her arm linked through her sister’s, her face white, her body trembling as if with an ague. “I told him Mars was marrying someone else. A mortal. He went mad, but I stayed until he calmed. I did everything you said, Damaris, made sure he drank his potion.”

“Why did you not tell me he was here?” Lady Damaris pulled away, facing her sister. “Who brought him here?”

“I did.” She faltered. “That is, I asked his guard to bring him. Barnabas always understood. I wanted my big brother to comfort me. I did not know he would do this.”

“Barnabas?” d’Argento said, his voice pure ice.

Lady Damaris shot him a harassed glance. “He was born first, so he is technically the heir, but he grew so large our parents feared for him. He has wild attacks of rage.”

“Why did you not tell us before?” Ruth demanded.

“We keep him quiet in the castle. He is calm, then. In recent years he showed definite progress. His reasoning is not—all there. Oh, he is not insane, but there seem to be parts of his intellect missing. He cannot use his rationality, for instance, or reason like the rest of us do. He takes wild passions into him and wrings everything he can out of them. Few people know of his existence. We have another brother, and he is the heir, according to the world. We merely reversed their birth dates. He is abroad, on a mission…” She shot d’Argento a glare.

D’Argento merely shrugged. “He volunteered. I thought he wanted to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the castle.” Not the Grand Tour then, but something for the immortals.

“You’re not wrong,” Lady Damaris said. “We all wish to do that.”

“Indeed,” Lady Nerine said. “It’s true. Why do you think I was so anxious to marry Marcus?”

“He left you in charge,” d’Argento said to Lady Damaris.

“Yes. He is my
brother
!” she cried, in an excess of passion. “Do you not understand? He is not dangerous, merely—different. People used to faint when they saw him and that put him in a state that took us days to coax him out of. So we kept him out of the way and cared for. In the castle he is good, but here—he would be out of his depth.”

“He’s an immortal,” d’Argento said heavily.

Of course he was, or he would not be able to capture Marcus. “Where would he take Marcus?” Ruth twined her fingers together, then closed her eyes. The thread, that silver thread binding them was pulled taut, but it held. It pulsed with life. How long would it continue to do so? “He’s alive.”

“You can find him,” d’Argento said. He caught Ruth’s hands. “
Think
, Ruth. Try to follow that link. I will do the same. He might have blocked your senses, but I may still be able to reach him. Will you help me?”

“How?”

“Join your senses to mine.”

So now she must trust another Olympian? She had no choice. His abilities far outweighed hers. She nodded, closing her eyes once more.

D’Argento’s voice seemed to come from far away. No, it was not his voice. She’d know those deep, rich tones anywhere. Just one word repeated three times.

Ruth! Ruth! Ruth!

Each time it grew louder, and then it was gone, cut off as if someone clapped a hand over his mouth.

“Water,” d’Argento said softly. “He’s near water.”

Ruth snapped her eyes open. “Does Barnabas have any propensities for water?”

“He likes it,” Lady Damaris said. “We live next to the sea, and he spends hours watching the tide go in and out.”

Ruth gripped d’Argento’s hands. “The Thames! It has tides.”

“Yes. But the Thames is a wide and long river.”

“He cannot have gone far. He must still be in London. Concentrate, dear sir. What can you see?”

D’Argento was the god of communication. Surely he must see something?

The comte closed his eyes again. “A smell. That’s the stink of the river. No, the City in summer.” He wrinkled his nose. “They are passing through—we’re close.”

Marcus’s voice echoed in her head, a potent reminder of the man she loved. Then, in a flash, a picture formed in her head, cut off almost as soon as she saw it. She didn’t know where it was, but it was a place, somewhere close to the river. She recognised one of the buildings. “They’re at the Tower,” she said. “The Tower of London.”

Lady Damaris moaned. “Oh no. He can move exceedingly fast when he chooses. It will take us an hour or more to get there.”

D’Argento snapped his eyes open. The silver depths gleamed with purpose. “He is not the only person who can move fast. Take hold of my hands, Ruth and Damaris. Hold tight and close your eyes if you are subject to nausea. Do not let go.”

“I will come too!”

Before anyone could protest, Lady Nerine grasped her sister’s hand and linked her other with Ruth’s.

Without being bidden, Lightfoot went to the window and slid open the sash. A gust of wind swirled in, circled them and then left.

They left with it. How the four of them got through the space Ruth did not know, but she saw the dark void of the steps leading down to the kitchen area below them, and then—nothing.

It was as if leaves swirled around them, greens and silvers blinding her as they spun faster in their own private whirlwind. The breeze came out of nowhere and snatched them up as if they weighed nothing. Colours and light dazzled her, forcing her to close her eyes.

Five minutes, maybe more passed before she felt hard earth beneath her feet. “You can open your eyes,” d’Argento said, perfectly steady. Still gripping his hand, Ruth did as he bade her. They were standing on a slope leading down to a small pier, where the Thames lapped, its soupy wash, opaque and sickly grey-green. Above them loomed the massive bulk of the Tower, flint and stone walls attesting to its purpose as defence, palace and prison. Yes, it did stink. Above them gulls swooped and cried.

Ruth swallowed, controlling her wayward stomach. A godlike ability to move them through space did not seem so strange, given the events that had overtaken her recently.

“Now to find them,” d’Argento said grimly.

Lady Damaris shook her head and then gazed at the comte. “How do we do that?”

“We listen, and we look. Human senses are as important as our immortal ones. Can you sense him, Ruth?”

“Yes.” The silver thread was stronger, but irregular, as if someone had taken a pair of scissors to it and chopped chunks out of it, so although it held, some parts were thinner than others.

“Barnabas is here,” Lady Nerine said.

“Marcus is chained.” D’Argento moved, his gait steady, pacing to the shore. “He’s near here, I’m sure of it.” Bending, he looked under the pier, but only a small rowing boat bobbed there. “There are several piers in the vicinity of the Tower. Fisherfolk use it. There’s even a small beach a little way up.”

The heat of the day made the air above the water swim and shimmer. Dragonflies zipped over the surface. Ruth stared at it, concentrating on that thread. Which way? She dared not pull it because it was so thin in places it might snap. Then what? Would he be lost to her forever?

No! That would not happen. Ever. He lived in her heart now. That organ throbbed, as if responding to her fervent assertion. Despairing, she let her vision relax, sweeping the area around them and across the river.

Then she saw it. A spark of red, like a flame, extinguished quickly. “There he is!” She knew what it was. Footprints of fire, sparkling in the sunlight, as clear as day now she saw them. “He must have removed his shoes. When he touches the ground…”

A short distance from the first glowing mark, they found the second. Then a third, but they were fading fast. Ruth picked up her skirts, heedless of modesty, and ran. Her new shoes pinched and she longed for her old, comfortable pair, the barely healed cuts from her journey through the forest opening up and blood seeping out to squelch uncomfortably when she ran. She carried on, rounding a bend and coming to a sudden halt.

“Barnabas!” shrieked Lady Damaris. “Put him down!”

Chapter Eighteen

Dizzy from having the giant’s hand wrapped around his throat, Marcus could still gasp in fear when he saw Ruth. He meant the trail for d’Argento. What had the bastard been thinking, bringing her here to face this madman? That was what
he
wanted. Barnabas, was it?

Marcus’s feet dangled in midair, but he tried not to choke or kick. That would only make matters worse. He could not die from disease, and he could heal from serious injury, but he doubted he could recover from having his head snapped off.

The hell of it was, his strength seemed to be gone. The initial attack had taken him by surprise, and by then the giant wrapped him in what felt like fine chain. Except when he tried to break away all he did was cut himself, to the bone. Struggling only made the injuries worse. The man must be an immortal, because the ichor that poured from his wounds did not affect the attacker in the least.

Pain wracked him, radiating from the places the chain touched his bare skin and the slices already cut into it, but despite the lack of life-sustaining ichor, Marcus refused to give in, refused to slip away into unconsciousness.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the thread, ragged and cut, but there. It would break and then he would die. She might die too. The link was so new Marcus did not know how it worked, whether they were linked in mortality or heart-to-heart. He prayed, sent her a message, though he didn’t know if she got it.
Don’t die. Don’t let him take you.

A woman screamed something, and the giant turned his head, intensifying his hold on Marcus as if afraid to lose him. Vaguely, Marcus recognised the voice. Lady Damaris. “Drop it, Barnabas!”

Realisation dawned. Barnabas was the brother to Lady Damaris. If he did not escape this giant soon, Marcus would die. Just when he had discovered so much to live for.

Death had tempted him at certain times in his life. When he discovered his mother’s true nature, for instance, or when he had lost Virginie. Why did it happen now, when he had so much to live for?

The giant bellowed, words discernible in the noise. “Nerine said I could do this. Said she wanted him. I was only bringing him to her. She likes the sea, so she’ll come.” He gestured to the Thames, forcing another slice from Marcus’s abused flesh. “She wants a pet, and he said no. So I brought him.”

The words were carefully enunciated, but lacked emphasis in the right places. He sounded like a person with limited intellect. Perhaps he was. Whatever he was, he was also an immortal. A dangerous immortal, not least because of his limitations. Should Marcus pretend to be unconscious, or should he speak? He couldn’t do nothing, especially with his love standing before him, her hands clapped to her mouth in horror.

“Let me go, Barnabas.”

With a roar, the monster turned to his captive. In one deft movement, he looped the end of the chain around Marcus’s throat. The sharp edges dug into his skin, and warmth trickled down to his chest.

Well, that worked.

Blood edged Ruth’s hand where she’d bitten down and Marcus winced for her. He had sworn not to cause her any more pain and here he was, breaking his promise again. Despite having repeatedly tried to use the powers of his mind, at least for communication, Marcus forced another effort, but it was as useless as before. The chain must possess powers he could not combat. All he had left was his human strength, and all he could do was watch the woman he loved suffer.

D’Argento glanced up, but Marcus could not see what he saw. To turn his head would mean death.

Then d’Argento spoke aloud. “We have one course left. This could kill you, Marcus. Will you take the risk?”

“Yes.”

D’Argento nodded and glanced up to where Lady Nerine stood on the pier. Grabbing Ruth, he swung her against his chest and slapped his hands over his ears.

A scream arose, so high and shrill that it sawed through his head. Loud noises tended to revolve, but this one didn’t—it took the shortest way through.

Then it abruptly stopped. He plummeted to earth, unable to save himself. He was dead. It was over.

* * * * *

Ruth broke away from d’Argento, her ears ringing with the terrible noise Nerine emitted. She raced to Marcus, dragging away the thin, dull-grey chains that bound him. One cut her, so she wrapped her hand in her skirts and continued to drag them off him. As she tugged, they shattered into separate links, scattering around them and sinking into the loose sandy soil. The first to go was the one around his neck, the one that terrified her most. Her skirts were stained with his blood, and smears covered her hands from the cuts on his neck.

He was breathing. His chest heaved with the effort. Blood poured from his wounds.

He opened his eyes, and his grey eyes, usually dark, now silver, his pupils bare pinpoints, gazed into hers. “I love you,” he said, his voice cracked. More blood leaked from his throat.

“Oh, don’t speak! I know you do, I love you too, but rest, be still.”

He glanced down to where their hands were clasped. With a convulsive shove, he tried to loose her hand. “Ichor!”

“My grazes have healed.” She glanced at her hand, where she’d bitten it and where the thorn from the rose had pricked it, then at him, and shrugged. “What’s a little blood?”

“It’s ichor, not blood. It will poison you.”

Barnabas stood, head lowered, rigidly inactive, and then, like a great tree in the forest, he fell forward, on to his face. Instinctively Ruth flung her body over Marcus’s, but Barnabas toppled over, crashing to the ground a scarce foot from where they lay.

While the vibrations were still rumbling, d’Argento raced over, cursing in several different languages, spitting the words out. “I’m lifting you both, taking you back,” he said, and suited actions to his words.

Ruth welcomed the awful whirling, all her thoughts fixed on Marcus. Now he was free of his bonds, she could link his mind with his. He was barely conscious, but alive. They landed on the bed in her room at the Pantheon.

Ruth scrambled off Marcus and nearly fell to the floor, but she had his hand in hers, and she refused to let go. Her hoop sprang up, probably exposing everything, but she cared nothing for that, merely pushing it as clear as she could. She could not remove it with one hand, but she moved it to the back, so she could stay close to Marcus.

He was still watching her.
Don’t worry.

How can I not?
Answering him mind-to-mind appeared natural, not something she needed to think about.
Lie still, my love. Rest.

I can’t hear.

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

I’m deaf.

She looked up to where d’Argento, now stripped of his coat, was leaning over him. “He says he’s deaf.”

“I feared as much. I never realised what kind of immortal Nerine was. Now I do.”

“What?”

“She’s a siren. They can lure men with beautiful singing, or they can kill them with a scream.” He glanced at her. “We have more to worry about. That thorn from this morning—it could kill you. It meant you absorbed a few drops of ichor. Very soon you will feel cold, and then we will see.”

“What?”

D’Argento bit his lip, then nodded tersely. “The contact will do one of two things. Either it will make you an immortal, or it will kill you. You will start the change soon.”

She appreciated that he told her the truth. “Is there anything you can do?”

“Not if the process has begun.”

She shook her head. “In that case it isn’t me you need to care for.”

“It’s both of you. I must do what I can to help you both.”

Whether she was listening too hard to him or he invoked the response, she shivered. Despite the bright, sunny day, a chill ran through her, under her skin, down to the bone.

“Lie down. I’m a healer, a physician. I’ll do everything I can, but the process is out of my hands.”

Marcus turned his head and looked at her. A tear trickled out of the corner of his eye.
What did he say?

I need to lie here and help you.

He looked further into her mind. She could not stop it. Closing his eyes, he shook his head.
You have to live.

D’Argento rolled his sleeves up and got to work. He stripped Marcus by the simple expedient of producing a knife from his breeches’ pocket and slicing off his wedding finery. Most of it was in ribbons from those cutting cords. One question came to mind. “Why did he not get rid of the chains? They were no finer than necklaces.”

“They were made to capture immortals,” d’Argento said briefly. “Do you want the truth?”

“Always.”

“I can cure Marcus, but what happens to you is entirely in the lap of the gods.” He tugged the last rags from Marcus’s body. He lay there, powerfully naked, the small cuts bleeding profusely. None spurted, though.

“I thought ichor was clear?” She had read about it in her lonely hours spent in her room and in the library of Marcus’s house, never realising she would have a practical demonstration one day.

“We’re taught early in life to make it appear red. It’s an illusion, but it’s one almost inborn in most of us.” D’Argento touched a wound, a particularly deep one. “I will begin the healing process on the deepest cuts. The others will take care of themselves.” He glanced up at Marcus, who was still awake, still paying attention to Ruth and nobody else. “After I’ve done that, I think we’ll have time. I sent a message as we came in.”

A knock came on the door and at d’Argento’s brief “Come!” Lightfoot entered with another man in tow. The vicar who was to have married them. He carried his prayer book. Time for last rites, she assumed, probably for both of them.

“Do you still want to marry?” d’Argento said, out loud and into their minds.

The answer came any way they knew. “Yes!” Both together, a mutual decision made at the same time.

D’Argento glanced at the priest. “Go around to the other side of the bed. I’m busy here.” Glancing down, he threw the bedcover over Marcus’s lower parts, sparing the cleric’s blushes.

Ruth scrambled off the bed, reached under her skirts and dragged the bow of the drawstring from her hoops undone. When they fell to the floor, she stepped over them and climbed back to Marcus. All without taking her gaze from his. He watched her, and damn him, he was smiling.

“I will not marry you with everything on display,” she said, tucking the swathes of skirts around her legs.

The vicar tutted as he walked around the bed to the head. “I take it this is
in extremis
?”

“Somewhat,” d’Argento said. He did not hide what he was doing, which was nothing like what a mortal physician would do. He was placing his hands over the cuts, waiting, and then moving on. When he moved his hands away the cut was healing, the blood staunched.

We are together, my love,
Marcus said,
but I want this legal. D’Argento will fight for you.

You will fight for us both.
Ruth would hear of nothing else. All the banked-down ferocity from the years of sitting disregarded and ignored welled up and burst forth.
You will not give in, Marcus, do you hear me?
She couldn’t feel her feet any more. Her limbs had gone so cold she was convulsively shivering, and pains shot around her body, as if someone had stuck icicles into her.

“Dearly beloved…” the vicar began.

Since he could not hear, Ruth told Marcus when to respond, put the words into his mind and watched him repeat them. He gazed at her the whole time he was speaking them, his voice rumbling through her, only the odd stumble revealing his new deafness. Even though they were both in pain, this was the high point of her life, the most joyful moment she’d ever experienced.

“With my body I thee worship,” he said, slowly and carefully, and she knew he meant every word. So did she, when she repeated it back to him.

They signed the book, d’Argento and Lightfoot witnessed the ceremony, and then they were done. She had d’Argento’s signet ring on her finger, she’d received nothing but a quick peck on the lips because by the time the cleric was done, she was shivering all over.

Until she burned.

By then she was married.