Текст книги "Sinner's Heart"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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“Livia?”
She blinked, then glanced down to see Bram propped up on his elbow, frowning with concern. There was no fire. The villa had been replaced by the warehouse. She wore no tunic, but stood naked beside the couch, her hands upraised as though on the verge of casting a spell.
“Livia?” Bram reached for her.
Anger and tension continued to blaze through her. She stepped out of his reach, mistrustful of herself. Riled as she was, she might accidentally hit him with a killing curse. “He came to me. The Devil.”
Bram was immediately out of bed, sword in hand, glaring into the darkness.
“He wasn’t here,” Livia said.
“You said he came to you.”
“We were in my villa. In Londinium.”
Lowering his sword, Bram said, “A dream. Nothing real.”
She shook her head. “Dreams are real. They exist in the boundary realm of the Ambitus. Through a dream, I gave Leo’s wife her magic. Upon waking, the power was truly hers. The Dark One visited me, Bram. He . . . tempted me.”
Bram sheathed his sword, yet kept it close. “Tempted you, how?”
“Power without limitation. The world’s magic would belong to me. Anything I desired could be mine.” Anger blistered her—she hated the Dark One for tempting her, his threats, and reminding her of her own fallibility.
“You wanted that once,” he said, “but no longer.”
“I was enticed.” The confession burned, though she would not look away from Bram’s incisive gaze. “It seems I am not as reformed as I’d believed.”
“Who of us is wholly good or wholly sinful?” He stared out as ashen dawn light sifted into the warehouse, transforming darkness into shades of gray. “Greed, rage—I feel them, still. And damn anyone who stands in my way.”
In the smoke-colored light, he was hard angles and brutal purpose, the same man with whom she’d created fathomless pleasure, and yet starkly different.
“Yet you won’t yield to that need,” she said, and she did not miss the caution in her words.
“Every moment’s a fight. For you, it’s the same.” He turned his gaze to hers. “The struggle won’t stop. So it will ever be. That bastard Devil offers you everything your wicked heart desires. Small surprise you’re tempted. It’s the way of villains like us.” He stepped close and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “We’ll keep each other on the path of virtue—dull as that might be. Us on our very best behavior is still more exciting than a pair of straying saints.”
“He made threats, as well.” Her hands curled, as if she clutched the Dark One’s throat in her hands.
Bram tensed. “Threatened you?”
“Both of us.” Her heart pounded as she thought of all the torments Bram would suffer after death. “They weren’t baseless. He’s still in possession of your soul.” They each knew what this meant, the eternal agony that awaited Bram.
He was silent for a long while. Finally, he said, “To hell with him.” His eyes were blue diamonds. “He must be pissing himself with fear if he’s cajoling and threatening you. It’s an old tactical maneuver. Undermine the enemy. Let them do the work for you. The battle is won before it’s ever fought. If we weren’t dangerous, he wouldn’t bother. But he is. Meaning, he’s frightened.”
“He tried to frighten me, too.”
“It didn’t work. Look at you.” His gaze moved over her, admiring. “Naked as the morning but ready to fight.”
“He threatened you,” she said.
Bram stared at her for a moment, then lowered his head and put his lips to hers with a kiss so sweet her heart shattered.
He broke away, frowning, his head tilted as if to catch a faint sound. She heard it, too, a scrabbling—the sound of claws belonging to large animals. And the sound was growing closer.
Without speaking, she and Bram threw on their clothing. As they did so, the scratching reverberated up the walls. Something climbed up the sides of the warehouse. The ceiling shook from the weight of heavy bodies, and the scratching of claws.
“He found us,” Livia said, grim. “Through my dream, the Dark One found us.”
Bram already held his sword. He grabbed her hand, and together they ran for the small side door.
The warehouse shuddered. With a crash and shower of splintered wood, the ceiling broke apart. Massive black-furred bodies fell from above, landing in front of Bram and Livia.
Rats. Three gigantic rats, each the size of ponies. Their eyes glowed yellow, and they hissed at Livia and Bram, revealing fangs and tongues of flame. Both their claws and metallic tails gouged trenches in the stone floor.
The creatures blocked the only way out.
As Bram raised his sword, Livia reached for her magic—an Etruscan fire spell—yet when she grasped at the power, it guttered and died like a candle caught in a gust. She strained for her power, again and again, trying different spells. Every time, her magic dwindled to nothing. She was still too weakened from her journey back from the dead.
Leaving her without any means to fight these Hell-sent beasts.
The monsters attacked.
Chapter 14
Bram lunged the same time that one of the giant rats leapt forward. He aimed for the creature’s heart, but it dodged his strike, and his sword plunged into the creature’s shoulder. It squealed in rage and pain. He pulled out his blade and jumped aside, narrowly missing its whipping tail.
A second rat attacked, fangs first. He vaulted backward before it could tear a chunk out of his leg.
Glancing over at Livia, he saw her backing slowly away from the third beast, as the rat growled in its advance. Though she held her hands up, no glow of magic encircled them. She’d always been quick to summon her power.
“Use your magic,” he shouted.
“I cannot,” she yelled back. “I am still not strong enough.”
“Damn it,” he growled. She had no way of defending herself. Not even a mortal weapon.
He sprinted toward Livia, determined to protect her. But the two other monstrous rats blocked him. Both creatures attacked, keeping him from coming to her aid. He leapt and dodged, striking the beasts wherever he could. The damned things took far more damage than any normal animal might, their black fur glistening with patches of blood drawn by his blade.
One dragged a claw across his thigh, and pain followed in a burning line. He hardly noticed. He had to kill these things and get to Livia, safeguard her.
Peach silk flashed in the corner of his eye.
“Don’t run!” he shouted. Running meant turning one’s back, inviting attack. But she didn’t listen. She ran straight toward the couch.
As he held back two rats, he saw her tearing off the blanket. She put the couch between herself and the creature stalking her, twisting the blanket into a rope as she did so. The beast clambered up onto the couch, its lips curled in a snarl, the fur on its back raised up in spikes.
It would tear her apart.
To his shock, she didn’t run. Instead, she allowed the rat to attack, and shoved the twisted blanket into its mouth. The beast choked on the fabric. Its flaming tongue set the blanket alight. Fire spread quickly along the clot. The creature couldn’t drop the blanket in time before flames jumped onto its fur. In seconds the monster was engulfed. It careened around the interior of the warehouse, shrieking, then collapsed in a heap of charred fur.
As one of the rats made another feint at Bram, he slammed his foot down on its muzzle, pinning its head to the floor. He stabbed the beast directly behind its left shoulder, skewering its heart. It shuddered then stilled, blood spreading across the ground.
The second rat lunged, and Bram kicked it so the thing flew back. It collided with the desk. He darted forward and attacked, thrusting his blade between the creature’s ribs. He pushed hard, until the sword’s tip hit the wood of the desk. The beast squealed, thrashing and scraping at the air with its claws. He wouldn’t relent. Not until it went motionless, and the glow of its eyes dimmed, bereft of life.
He pulled his blade free and turned back to help Livia.
She stood beside the couch, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. The rat still had the blanket twisted around its neck, but it splayed upon the couch. Dead.
He strode to her. “No magic, no weapons, and still you find a way.”
“I’ve never cared for being powerless.” She straightened and glanced at the trio of dead monsters. “The Dark One will send more.”
“Then we make sure he doesn’t find us.” He ran a hand along her shoulder, down her arm, a quick confirmation that she was sound.
“Where can we go? It must be someplace John doesn’t know of.”
He gathered up their few belongings. “There’s never a shortage of hiding places in London.”
Bram and Livia rode his horse beside the river, past ships at anchor and smaller boats tied to piers. The river embankment was heavily shadowed, and the figures picking their way along the muddy shore seemed distant, lost recollections. Fog crept up from the water, heavy and dank. A girl passed by, selling oyster pies, and Bram purchased two, which Livia and Bram bolted as they walked. A few hoarse and muttering watermen lingered nearby, stamping their feet and complaining of the lack of business, but otherwise there was only tense suspension.
They moved away from the river, into an old and crumbling part of town.
“Here,” he said, nodding toward a tavern. A sign swinging from its shingle announced, BEDS BY THE HOUR OR FOR THE NIGHT.
She eyed the tavern dubiously, and well she might. The two-story structure looked as though it had been built in the time of Henry VIII, and no repairs or maintenance had been done since the reign of Elizabeth. What windows weren’t broken were coated in grime.
Yet Livia seemed to understand that this was the kind of place John would never look, and, as such, was far safer than one of the more elegant inns. So, after Bram paid a boy to tend to his horse, she followed him inside.
Half a dozen men cradled tankards as they sat in chairs and settles, and suspicion glinted in their eyes when Bram and Livia entered. More than suspicion shone in their gazes when they looked at Livia. Bram stepped so that he stood in front of her, blocking her from their leers.
“What do you want?” a haggard woman in an apron asked.
“A room for the night.” Bram coarsened his accent. An aristocrat in Whitechapel would only attract unwanted attention. “Got to have a lock on the door.”
One of the patrons stood and swaggered over. Gin seemed to ooze from his pores. A knife with a worn handle was tucked into the waistband of his breeches. Puffing out his chest, he sneered, “Don’t talk like a nob, but you dress like one, an’ got a sword like them fancy gents, too. Maybe you is a nob, and you got a nice fat purse with you.”
Bram met his gaze without blinking. “Try taking it. You’ll wind up as dead as the toff I stole this gear from.” His grip tightened on the pommel of his sword.
The gin-soaked man blanched. He scuttled back to his seat and paid particular attention to the bottom of his tankard.
“No trouble,” the tavern keeper said sharply.
“Don’t want trouble,” Bram answered. “Just a room.”
The woman led him and Livia up the rickety stairs, then unlocked a room at the end of a hallway. He peered inside. The room held minimal furnishings, and the walls were bowed with age, but the bed appeared clean, at least. He held out his hand, until the tavern keeper relented and gave him the key.
She stepped out into the hallway. “Food’s extra.”
“We won’t be eating.” He shut the door in her face, then locked it. Turning back, he faced Livia, who stood in the middle of the room wearing a wry expression.
“From an abandoned house to a dockside warehouse to a dilapidated inn,” she murmured. “No woman has ever been so overindulged.”
“I’d take you to a goddamn palace if I could.” He glowered at the warped floorboards.
She crossed to him and cupped a hand to his cheek. “There are no palaces for fugitives.”
He leaned into her touch. Even in this shabby place, his need for her roused easily. But he could not give in to that need when peril loomed close on every side.
By force of will, he turned away. “We’ll abide here. The other Hellraisers are making their way back to London, and you need to regain your strength.”
She scowled. “Curse this helplessness . . .”
“Not so helpless. You did manage to kill a giant demonic rat.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “One creature is nothing. We’ll face far more than that in the coming battle.”
The small window looked out onto the street, but hardly anyone was out. “In the Colonies, we had scouts keeping watch on the French. They’d warn us in advance of hostile action. What I wouldn’t give for those Rangers now.”
“Spiders use their webs much the same,” she said, thoughtful.
He turned and leaned against the wall. “As we’ve neither Rangers nor giant spiders, we’re at a disadvantage.”
“Perhaps not.” She studied her hands. “I can spin a web of magic, cast it over the city. Should John or the Dark One disturb the web, I’ll know.”
He moved to her and took her hands in his, palms upward. “You were unable to use magic against the creatures in the warehouse.”
Bands of angry color stained her cheeks. He realized too late that she didn’t like being reminded of her perceived shortcomings. “Summoning the Hellraisers taxed my power.” Her words turned husky. “But I know of a way to replenish my strength.”
His breath caught as she grasped his hands and walked backward toward the bed.
“Ancient and powerful, this magic,” she continued, her eyes growing heavy-lidded. “The first acts of creation were the joining of male and female.”
“Tempting,” he rasped. “So bloody tempting. But we’ll be vulnerable.”
She shook her head. “It makes us stronger.”
Brutal hunger gripped him, knowing now what it could be like between them. “Then let us be strong.” He kissed her with a need as fierce as madness.
Light threw bands of watery sun through gaps in the walls upon the floor as Livia and Bram made love. The need they had for each other couldn’t be sated, and the day’s tension sharpened their desire rather than dulled it. Her power responded to his nearness, drawing strength from him, from the passion they created. Together, they were unleashed, fearless.
They each possessed a wealth of experience, and neither could begrudge the other’s past profligacy when it meant hour upon hour of pleasure, of strength.
Livia felt herself borne upon waves of sensation, every part of her learning every part of Bram. Were she not half so worldly, she might have blushed at their activity. Yet she was no girl, but a woman grown, and felt no shame when she beheld the red markings she left on Bram’s back, his buttocks, the indentation of her teeth upon his neck.
He marked her, too. In every way. On and within her. They took turns having each other, and sometimes it was a battle to see who would win. He was indefatigable, bold, sly, inventive. And he devoured her demonstrations of power. He stretched out across the bed and she used him as she pleased while he rasped rough words of encouragement.
With each touch, each moan of pleasure and shivered response, she felt her magic strengthen, as though feeding kindling to a fire. She’d previously used sex to create power—yet she’d never had a lover like Bram before. Not merely his experience, but the bond they shared. His caresses held more import than merely the sensation of flesh to flesh.
They took and gave with equal measure, her magic growing more potent. It fair glowed around her like a corona. He saw this, and it seemed to stimulate him further, his gaze and hands and mouth devouring her.
The web of magic spun out from her with each touch and release. She felt herself at the center of an invisible yet gleaming net, attuned to everything.
“I can feel it,” he murmured against her damp skin. “The web. How it grows. You’ve done it.”
“ Wehave,” she answered, “but it isn’t strong enough.” Then she took him in her mouth, and he stopped speaking.
Later, she pressed a hand to his chest, holding him back when he moved to cover her with his body once more. “Power is a delicate thing. Too much, and we risk collapse.”
“But what a spectacular collapse,” he said, lying back with one arm flung above his head. He stroked her bared flesh with his other hand, and she had to smile at the self-satisfaction on his face. Here was a man who had not only ravished her, but who had been ravished in return.
She allowed herself a momentary fantasy—that she and Bram could spend their days and nights in just this way, discovering new and favored ways to give each other pleasure, that they had no concerns save for sleeping and occasionally eating, that this shabby room served as the demarcation of their world and nothing else existed beyond it. Not the Dark One. Not John. Not the looming war.
Yet, as she and Bram entwined, drowsing and sated, it came upon her suddenly, and she sat up, gasping.
“What is it?” Bram was instantly alert, all traces of languid satisfaction gone.
Her brow lowered. “I can feel him. The web shudders.”
“The Devil.”
“John.” She closed her eyes, homing in on his presence. “He’s using a transporting spell. The beginning and ending of the passage are marked. I feel him working to bore through.”
Bram was already standing. “You can take us to where he’ll transport himself.”
She nodded. Though the remaining Hellraisers had not yet returned, if John was using new, dangerous magic, something had changed, the balance tipping. “If I were to attempt the same spell, John could find usas well.”
“Horseback it is.”
As she and Bram struggled into their clothing, she took in the details of their room, from the streaked windows to the single chair in the corner. This was no dream palace of silk and gold, built for loving. And yet she would clutch these memories close.
They hurried downstairs. None of the patrons remained, and the woman who kept the tavern scurried out.
“You said you’d take the room for the whole night,” she complained.
Bram said nothing, only tossed her a coin. The woman’s mouth clapped shut and her eyes widened when she beheld the coin’s denomination.
Outside, they mounted Bram’s horse, with Livia sitting behind Bram, her arms wrapped around him. She concentrated on the strain in the web. “Head west.”
Bram kicked his horse into a canter, and they pushed deeper into the city as night fell. Livia was not sorry to leave behind the tavern and ramshackle buildings.
As she and Bram wove through the city, some of the windows they passed were illuminated, candles and lamps lit as early darkness descended and people attempted to conduct their lives with a semblance of normalcy. Others remained dim, shapes and shadows moving within. A bitter wind scoured the streets.
She guided Bram through sense, feeling the pull of John’s magic on the web she’d spun. Until they stopped outside a large home.
“This is Walcote’s place.” Bram dismounted and helped Livia down.
“A dangerous man, this Walcote?”
“A Parliamentarian. One of Maxwell’s set.”
They hurried up the steps. Before Bram could pound his fist on the door, it opened, revealing a servant.
“My lord, madam,” he said with a bow. “Alas, my master is not at home to visitors.”
Bram shouldered past the servant. “He’ll see us. Where is he? Is he by himself?”
The servant opened his mouth to object, but a single glance from Bram stopped his protestations. “My master attends to matters of business in the Green Drawing Room. Alone.”
No relief there. John could easily appear without the servant knowing.
“Take us to him,” Livia said.
Without another word, the servant led her and Bram down a corridor, and paused outside a tall, carved door. The servant paused to tap on the door, but Bram had already opened it and strode inside.
A man of middle age sat at a table, sifting through stacks of paper. He stood, frowning, when Bram and Livia entered the chamber.
John was nowhere to be seen.
“I wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone,” Walcote snapped at the servant. He glared at his visitors. “What is this about?”
“Your life is in jeopardy,” Livia said.
Walcote approached. “In the name of God? Who threatens me?”
“John Godfrey.” Bram paced through the chamber, studying the corners, peering behind curtains. He was a commanding presence in the room, radiating purpose.
Walcote laughed. “Godfrey? He’s no threat. The past ugliness of assassins and schemes is over. As of today, John Godfrey has been ousted from Parliament.”
Livia’s heart stuttered, and Bram swore under his breath.
Walcote glanced back and forth between them, clearly anticipating a more enthusiastic response to his intelligence. “We’ve nothing to fear from him now.”
“You bloody idiot,” Bram growled. “Now you’ve everythingto fear.”
Livia neared Bram and spoke lowly. “He won’t be held back anymore. Not by the rules of your government or society.” John was free, the chain around his neck loosed.
“You need to flee this place,” Bram said to Walcote.
“The man is a pariah,” Walcote protested. “He has no friends, no allies.”
“He has a very powerful ally,” said Livia
Walcote smirked. “Not in London, he doesn’t. Do I know you, madam?”
“London is not the final word in power,” Bram said darkly.
“John Godfrey can do nothing,” responded Walcote. “He is stripped of authority. He—”
“Is here,” said a muffled voice from the doorway.
Everyone turned to see a lanky figure standing at the entrance to the chamber. Only through his voice did Livia recognize John, for he wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled down, and a scarf obscured the lower half of his face. Leather gloves covered his hands. Save for a narrow band around his eyes, his skin was entirely concealed.
The servant who had let Livia and the others into the house now slumped at John’s feet, unconscious. Blood seeped from a wound on the servant’s head. Though John carried no mortal weapon, Livia saw the energy crackling around him in a dark nimbus, the lingering traces of having used magic to hurt the footman. She murmured a shielding incantation, yet left off the final words—keeping her own magic ready for whatever should happen next.
“Godfrey,” Walcote exclaimed. “What in God’s name?”
“Not God’s name.” John stepped over the prostrate servant, his gaze locked on Bram.
The two men faced each other, both alert, wary. Bram was tense as an arrow, confronting his erstwhile friend. He drew his sword.
The lines of battle were drawn, Bram on one side, John standing on the other.
“This is how friendship is rewarded?” John spat. “With basest treachery?”
“You know nothing of friendship,” Bram said. “Nothing of loyalty or honor.”
The scarf around John’s mouth could not stifle his harsh laugh. “Abraham Stirling, Baron Rothwell speaking of honor. Next, I’ll hear a woman talk of learning.” His gaze turned to Livia, and she tensed. “And here is the Roman slut who challenges me.”
She held Bram back with a warning glare, though he plainly wanted to ram his fist in John’s face.
“Who will defeat you,” she answered.
“No longer a ghost, madam? That makes it all the easier to destroy you. I shall delight in that. Never killed a woman before.”
This time, Livia could not restrain Bram. He feinted with his sword, and John dodged the blow. But as John reacted, Bram’s other fist collided with John’s jaw. John staggered back. As he did, his hat tumbled off, and his scarf slipped, revealing his face.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, whilst Bram cursed and Walcote gasped.
The markings of flame covered John’s face. Across his cheeks and forehead, surrounding his eyes. He was entirely enveloped in the Dark One’s mark, with only his burning eyes left clear.
Sneering, John tugged off his gloves and threw them onto the ground. The markings covered him there, as well, the backs of his hands, his palms. Every inch of exposed skin proclaimed him to be the Devil’s possession. If ever there’d been a shred of humanity left in him, it was gone now. With such fertile ground as his covetous ambition, the markings had spread quickly.
“Oh, John,” Bram said, mournful. “You poor bastard.”
Yet John only laughed again. “I’ll remember your pity, when your throat is beneath my heel.”
“What does all this mean?” Walcote cried.
“It means,” said John with an icy smile, “that you are nothing but a buzzing fly. One I will easily swat.” He lifted his marked hands.
Both Livia and Bram acted instantly. Bram stepped in front of Walcote, taking up a defensive position with his upraised sword. Livia spoke the final words of her shielding spell. Power rose like a current of light as she wielded the defensive magic at the same moment John hurled a bolt of dark power at the stunned Walcote.
John’s spell bounced off the defense Livia had flung up, then slammed into a wall. It punched a hole into the plaster. A killing blow, had it struck its intended target.
Walcote fell to his knees, furiously praying.
Livia would concern herself with this mortal later. She readied another incantation as Bram advanced toward John.
“This is but a skirmish.” John took several steps backward glancing cautiously between Livia and Bram. He muttered the beginnings of an incantation under his breath, then spoke aloud. “The final battle is on the horizon. Nothing will endure. Not you, nor your Roman whore, nor all the traitorous Hellraisers will survive.”
Bram struck. Yet before his sword pierced John’s chest, John vanished in a pall of acrid smoke.
In the stillness that followed, punctuated only by Walcote’s fevered prayer, Livia and Bram stared at each other.
“What devilry?” Walcote exclaimed, ashen-faced.
Sheathing his sword, Bram said, “The greatest devilry. Now get you far from here. Gather your family, your weapons, and go as quickly as you can to your country estate. Do not leave there until I give you explicit permission to do so.”
“Tell me what is happening,” Walcote pleaded. “I cannot understand any of this.”
“It is all very simple,” answered Livia. “Bram and I must stop hell on earth.”
Since turning renegade, Bram had abandoned the luxury that had been his birthright. He’d slept in a crumbling, abandoned house and an empty warehouse, and spent half the day in a decrepit Whitechapel inn. He had eaten the coarse, filling food of the lower orders. His meticulously tailored Parisian clothing had been swapped for his father’s musty castoffs. He’d had neither rest nor comfort. In truth, these past days he had lived more as he’d once done in the Colonies, a hardscrabble existence that pared away superfluity.
It felt more true than anything he had experienced since returning home, years ago.
As he and Livia briskly mounted the steps to his sprawling home, he felt a curious remove, as though stepping into someone else’s life.
The doors opened in welcome, spilling light out onto the street. Dalby, his steward, stood waiting at the top of the stairs, his polite disinterest barely disguising his curiosity. After several nights’ absence, the master had returned.
“Dalby,” said Bram, his arm around Livia’s waist as he guided her into the echoing foyer.
“A bath, my lord?”
“Two baths. And a hot meal for myself and Mrs. Corva. She’ll need fresh clothing, too.”
“None of the modistes will be open at this hour,” Dalby said.
“Then buy a gown from a neighbor. The key to my coffer is in a secret compartment beneath the second drawer in my desk. Lively, now.”
The steward bowed and hurried away—showing only a trace of surprise that his indolent master now spoke like an officer commanding one of his troops.
There would be talk, of course. How could there not? The master of the house had returned, looking like a brigand, talking like a soldier, with a strange woman in a secondhand gown on his arm. Whenever Bram had brought women home, they had been the polished jewels plucked from theater boxes, artfully beguiling, full of laughter.
Livia’s face was solemn as a graveside angel, her mien irreproachably regal despite her shabby clothing. Left alone with Bram in the foyer of his home, she gazed at everything—from the polished floor to the crystals hanging from sconces—assessing and astute.
“A new perspective,” she murmured. “Seeing your home through mortal eyes.”
“It seemed smaller to me when I came back from the Colonies.”
She gave him a distracted nod, her gaze still in motion.
Restlessness gnawed at him. He wanted to run training drills, review strategies. Yet he knew they both needed refortification before the coming battle.
He offered her his arm. “Let us go up.”
It startled him, how the light pressure of her fingers on his arm could make his heart beat faster. He ought to be sated, ought to be inured to her touch—especially after the hours they had spent making love this very day. Yet it was as if those hours had never happened. He still burned for her, craved her.
They ascended the stairs together in silence. Here again was a new experience. He’d never brought a woman home with the intent to have her stay.
His home boasted several bedrooms, all of them ready to receive guests. Instead, he led her into his private chambers. An industrious, fast-moving servant had already lit the fire to dispel the chill.
She sank down into a wing-backed chair drawn beside the fire, her gaze lingering on the flames. Though he knew she was weary, she did not lean back or slump in the chair. Her back remained straight, her hands folded elegantly in her lap.
He wanted to stare at her, to see her bathed in the fire’s glow as she sat in his bedchamber. Trace the noble line of her profile, her unmistakably Roman features, and read the thoughts behind her dark eyes.
Instead, he pulled out fresh garments from the clothes press. Everywhere he moved, he saw the familiar furnishings with an outsider’s gaze. For all the sumptuousness of this room—the bed’s silk canopy, the warm smell of beeswax candles, the rosewood writing desk—it was cold.
Or it had been. Turning back to Livia, he revised his opinion. She warmed it by her presence alone.
“You’d prefer the field of battle.” She continued to stare at the fire.
“It’s looming,” he answered. “Yet we wait here for baths and roast partridge.”
“We’re filthy and hungry.”
“And idle. I cannot like it.” He paced to the windows and stared out at the night. The stars burned like ice.
