Текст книги "Sinner's Heart"

Автор книги: Zoë Archer

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“I wonder that I ever felt alive,” he said, voice a smoke-tinged rumble. “Until you.”

By slow degrees, he released her. With the fire blazing close, she still missed his heat, and fought the impulse to cling. She did not cling. She was whole and entire without him—yet so much better with him.

She went to the door to summon the other Hellraisers back into the chamber. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Bram had moved away from the fireplace, and now faced the windows, hands braced on the sill. His shoulders rose and fell, as if he still fought to regain his breath.

Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne all drifted into the chamber. Each of them looked expectantly at her.

“The time to act is now,” she said without preamble. “The gate is open, the army of demons assembling.”

“Where?” Whit demanded.

“I know the place but not the name.”

“So long as you can lead us there,” Leo said, “names aren’t important.”

Bram at last turned away from the window, fully in command. “My armory is plentiful. We each equip ourselves—swords, guns, knives. Anything you can use to fight, take it.”

“Will they be enough?” Zora asked.

“No.” Livia gazed at her, and at each mortal in turn. “It’s not the weapons, but those who wield them.”

The city streets stood oddly empty, even for so late an hour. From her experience with Bram’s memories, she knew that no matter the time, London’s streets swarmed with life—exhausted chairmen waiting to take home a reveler, link boys carrying torches, whores, thieves, farmers, drunkards, beggars. That the avenues were nearly pitch black and treacherous with refuse served as no obstacle. At any hour, humanity abounded.

Tonight proved the exception.

Livia rode beside Bram, the head of their caravan of six. Zora and Whit each had their own horses—the Romani woman sat upon her steed as though she had been born in the saddle—and Leo rode with Anne sitting behind him, her arms around his waist. The five horses’ hooves clattered loudly in the stillness, the sound echoing off impassive façades.

A thick miasma clung to the cobblestones, and the sky formed an ash-colored canopy that the moon could not breach. And everywhere was heavy choking silence.

“We’ve not been in London for weeks,” Whit said lowly. “Has it been thus the whole time?”

“This night sees a new malevolence,” Livia answered.

Bram murmured, “Even the criminals are in hiding.”

“There’s a greater evil out tonight,” said Livia.

Whit gave a soft snort. “Used to be that the Hellraisers kept people cowering at home.”

“Now Hell itself is the threat,” Bram replied. He frowned as the broad, black stretch of Hyde Park appeared ahead of them. Beneath the leaden sky, the Serpentine gleamed dully, and appeared as still as the frozen lake of Cocytus. There was no sign of the water demon they had beheld several days prior. The trees stood in mute sentry. What, during daylight hours, was a place of leisure, seemed at that moment a blighted wasteland.

“John’s coming here?” asked Anne.

Livia nodded toward the expanse of parkland. “Not here, but this is where we’ll find more strength for our fight.”

Though it was clear that the others in the company wanted more explanation, they remained silent as they followed.

Livia did not know this place well, yet she understood precisely where she needed to be. She urged her mount faster, heading toward the northeast corner of the park. As she neared, it became clear what drew her.

“Damn and hell,” Leo muttered.

The mist thickened here, swirling and clotting. It glowed with a terrible light. Then gathered—into human shapes. They were hollow-eyed, gaunt, and collected like flies over a corpse. The figures jostled one another, mouths open as if to speak, but no sound emerging.

“Demons?” Anne whispered.

“Our allies,” said Livia. “Perhaps.”

“Must be a thousand of them,” Zora whispered.

“More,” said Livia. “This has been a place of execution for centuries.”

“Oh, God.” Anne gulped. “Their necks.”

All of the apparitions bore dark bruises around their throats. Some had their necks twisted at unnatural angles.

“The fruit of Tyburn Tree,” Bram said, stone-faced.

As Livia and the others neared the throng, the specters turned to face them. The vastness of their numbers formed an icy stone in the pit of Livia’s stomach. She had seen heretics thrown to lions and enslaved gladiators battle unto death, yet never had she witnessed the assembly of the dead, hundreds of years of executions gathered together as ruined testimonial to the demand for blood. All sanctioned under the auspices of the law.

Men, women. Even some children.

“I thought Romans enjoyed their executions,” Livia said.

“Beer, beef, and hangings,” answered Bram. “It’s the English way. The cost of freedom.” The grimness of his expression belied his flippancy.

“The Dark One’s presence rouses them.” Livia eyed the multitude as they drew closer.

“You said they’re our allies,” said Whit. “They can fight alongside us. Even our numbers.”

“Poor fools—they’ve no flesh. They can touch nothing, move nothing—as it was with me. But they aren’t without power.”

“The hell are you doing?” Bram demanded when she dismounted.

She leveled him a glance over the neck of her horse. “Attempting to level the odds.”

By the time she had turned around to face the throng of chalk-faced specters, Bram stood beside her. “Whatever you mean to try,” he growled, “you aren’t doing it alone.”

She drew yet more strength, knowing he was with her, and stepped closer to the horde of ghosts. Four reached out—three men and one woman—their hands open and searching. Bram tensed, poised to strike back, but Livia held him back. The spirits’ hands all moved through Livia’s body, just as insubstantial as she had once been. They opened their mouths to speak, yet no sound emerged.

“I know your frustration,” she said. Indeed, a restive energy moved through the crowd, its discontent and anger palpable. “No mercy shown to you. Your lives stolen. And to what end? To satisfy a feeble sense of justice? To deter others from repeating your folly? Those were the platitudes mouthed at you, but we all know they meant nothing.”

As she spoke, her words carrying across the field and through the mob of ghosts, they grew more restless and agitated.

Behind her, Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne made sounds of concern, and their horses snorted in anxiety, tugging on their bridles and hooves pawing at the ground.

“Riling them is injudicious,” Bram muttered.

“We need them angry,” she answered under her breath.

At the least, he didn’t ask her why. He said, louder, “I’ve seen a hanging. ’Tis a holiday for the crowd. They don’t care if justice is being served. They don’t concern themselves with right or wrong, or the law. All they want is a good death. No blubbering. No begging for mercy. The people of London wouldn’t know mercy if it had its hands wrapped around their necks.”

The assembled specters grew yet more uneasy, their images flickering, expressions shifting from bafflement to anger.

Livia pressed, “How many of you died for a theft no greater than a loaf of bread? Or on the basis of hearsay or circumstance? Who amongst you were killed because it was easier for the law to end your lives than admit it was wrong?”

As she talked, and the horde of ghosts became more roused, the air above them began to shimmer. It crackled with hot red energy, bright and sharp. The rage of the dead taking shape.

“In life, you were denied vengeance,” she continued. “Those who wronged you, who profited or enjoyed your death—they never faced retribution. Their wickedness lived on. But this night,” she said, staring into a thousand faces, a thousand abbreviated lives, “we can take back what was stolen.”

She pointed toward the south. “A great evil masses. The greatest evil known. Thisis the wickedness in men’s hearts that robbed you of life. Thisis what denied you compassion, for the enemy I and my friends face tonight is the source of that darkness. And so I ask of you, will you aid in our fight?”

Though the crowd could not speak, the red light sizzling above the mob turned volatile, its glare blinding. She had her answer.

“Leo,” she threw over her shoulder. “Make haste. To my side, and take the leather bindings from my saddlebag.”

In a moment, Leo handed her the strips of leather as he stood on her other side. She cradled the material in her cupped hands. “I need you,” she said to Bram.

“Whatever you require.”

Quickly, she outlined her plan. Both Leo and Bram raised their eyebrows as she described what she intended to do, but neither argued. This was her realm, and she ruled it well. When she was certain that the two men knew their parts, she began to chant in the tongue of Egypt—her words shaping a spell of gathering. She envisioned it as a net, vast and inescapable, ancient language fashioning the web she cast out over the ghosts’ fury.

It taxed her, the creation of the spell, as she struggled to subdue the enraged energy. Twice, the red force threw off the net, but on the third attempt, she covered it with her sorcery.

At once, the energy fought back, trying to break free.

“Now,” she said through gritted teeth.

Bram stepped forward and took the straps from her hands. Muttering words in the long-dead tongue, he wrapped the straps around one edge of the net. He pulled hard on the straps, drawing the net toward him. As he hauled the energy nearer, he dug his feet into the ground and his body strained. The glare of red light covered him, casting a long shadow behind him so he appeared as a god of creation. Yet she kept her attention fixed on maintaining the net, continually repairing tears, re-knotting it when the strain threatened to rip it open.

By slow, painful degrees, she and Bram brought the energy closer, closer. And then, at last, with a groan, she pulled all of that seething force into the leather bindings held in Bram’s hands. The straps glowed with power.

Leo stepped forward. As he took the strips of leather, he hissed softly. He quickly wrapped the straps around his hands, binding them as a pugilist would wrap his hands in preparation for a fight. Clearly, he had ample experience doing precisely that. He flexed his hands experimentally, testing the straps to ensure their give. Bright red energy gleamed up from the leather, spreading up his arms.

He strode toward a nearby tree, then threw a punch right into the tree’s thick trunk. A splintering, shattering sound cracked through the silence. The tree shuddered and fell, its branches snapping, its roots torn up from the ground.

Leo stared down at his wrapped hands. When he glanced up at Livia and Bram, he wore a brutal smile.

“Fitting,” he said. “These spirits of Tyburn, they’re mypeople. We’re of the same low birth, the same status. And now the strength of their righteous anger is mine.”

“Nothing for me?” muttered Bram.

She slanted him a look. “You’ve power of your own. None needs to be borrowed.”

“Having more is always better.”

Turning back to the assembled ghosts, Livia said, “Be at peace now. Your fight is now ours.”

The spirits uttered soundless thanks. A moment later, they faded back into mist. The stillness that followed felt absolute, a thousand grasping hands had let go of their clinging hold, and the welcome oblivion that ensued.

Leo strode back toward the others, with a cautious Anne meeting him halfway. She lightly touched his wrapped hands, then stared at Livia.

“I think there is nothing you cannot do,” she breathed in wonder.

“You’re right,” Bram answered. He gazed at Livia with heat and pride.

Her heart expanded, growing to fill the vast, shadowed park, yet she dared not voice the truth—she could not guarantee them a victory. That lay beyond the compass of her power. All she could do was arm herself and her allies, and hope it would be enough.

Chapter 16

Bram had led columns of troops through the forests of the New World. They had marched through ancient, unexplored woods, surrounded on all sides by cool arboreal shadow and unseen enemies. Crimson coats had made for bright targets in those green places, and the convoy of hundreds of men made an irresistible lure to their foes. Yet he and his fellow soldiers marched on in a show of force, unbowed by an enemy that conducted war in a most un-English fashion.

He and his brother soldiers had been proud, confident. They fought for king and country. Even when hungry, wet and exhausted, they marched on, knowing with the certainty of children that they—with their training and numbers—would prevail.

Bram now rode at the head of an army consisting of six. He had no idea the size of the enemy’s forces. He did not know how they conducted battle. He understood only that he must fight, and command his troops. He had to believe they would conquer their foe. No other alternative.

He did know that they would be badly outnumbered. Six against a horde of demons. And John, the possessor of tremendous power, and the Devil, himself. There couldn’t be greater adversaries.

Yet Bram wasn’t helpless, nor alone. Anne and Zora had impressive magic, Whit and Leo both wielded powerful weapons. Bram felt the quick energy of magic within himself. He felt the purpose and determination of his own heart.

Nothing, however, had the strength of Livia.

He glanced over his shoulder to see her riding just behind him, her shoulders back, eyes ahead. A warrior queen. The magical energy within him caught the resonance of hers, and hummed with life, as though hearing the call of its own mate.

Every muscle tightened in readiness. He wanted this battle. Needed it. Staggering odds be damned. It must happen.

The unnatural silence continued as Bram led everyone south. Every street stood empty, windows shuttered. London retreated into itself, sensing somehow the battle to come.

Following Livia’s instruction, he rode over Westminster Bridge. As he did, he felt himself breach a film of sinister power that sizzled across his skin. More heat danced across his chest, his arm, his abdomen. All the places where the Devil’s mark writhed over his flesh. As if anticipating the flames of Hell that would greet him after death, and eager to burn the meat from his bones.

He felt, too, the pitch in his stomach. The enemy was just ahead—so his soldiering sense declared, and it had never guided him astray.

The bridge came and went, and they rode to the very edge of a wide, dark field ringed with trees. He knew this place, as did the other Hellraisers. They brought their horses to a stop and looked out over the empty expanse.

“St. George’s Fields,” Bram murmured.

“Where everything began,” Livia said.

“Not the underground temple?” asked Whit.

Bram shook his head. “The breach between us—it was here it first happened. Here the Hellraisers took up arms against each other, and the Devil’s snare broke us apart.”

An ugly night. Whit had been the first of the Hellraisers to see the Devil’s gifts for what they truly were. They had brawled here, in this liminal place at the edge of London, raised swords and fists. Bram had been deep in his sins’ thrall. He’d wanted pleasure at any cost—even the loss of his closest friend. That night, in this place, they had become enemies.

“I see no one.” Leo scanned the field. The moon broke through the clouds, glazing the plain with pale, cold light. Not a single soul waited for them. Not John, nor the Devil. No armies of demons. An empty expanse, an ordinary field at the southern edge of London.

“They’re coming,” Bram answered. Tension knotted along his shoulders and in his gut, as it always did before a battle. Presaging what was in store.

“This is where Bram’s soul led us.” Livia studied the field like a general.

Zora said, “Perhaps we ought to—”

The ground shook, the air filled with a sound like rock being torn apart, and bestial screams. It rattled in Bram’s bones. The horse beneath him danced and shied, its eyes rolled back in fear. He fought to keep his mount under control, pulling tight on the reins. His focus wasn’t on the animal, however.

At the furthest edge of the field, the ground cleaved open. It shuddered and splintered as if a massive pair of hands ripped the earth asunder. A visible darkness poured forth from the fracture, bleeding outward, seeping poison into the night. Talons and clawed hands appeared at the edge of the widening crevice. They clutched at the dirt, dragging themselves up.

“Exalted gods.” Livia’s curse barely rose above the din.

Bram joined her in swearing. No other words came to him.

Demons clambered out of the torn earth, each one more vile and terrible than the last. They swarmed like pestilence, creatures wrought in the depths of nightmares. Some were formed in human shape, massive in size, with blister-red skin and claws the length of a man’s forearm. Others slid upon the ground, serpent-like, dragging themselves forward on stunted arms as their gaping fanged mouths gulped at the air. Winged creatures spilled out like flies from a rotting carcass, and though they had huge bodies and wings like beetles, they had men’s distorted faces.

Bram lost count of variety of demons that crawled and flew from the depths of Hell. He never suspected such an abundance, and the tension within him ratcheted higher as the foulest beasts he’d ever seen gathered at the edge of St. George’s Fields.

Some of the demons carried weapons—jagged blades that devoured light, ancient-looking pikes and short swords seemingly made from sharpened dragon teeth.

The creatures were massing at the other end of the field, shrieking in rage, seething with readiness to fight, yet held back as though waiting for something. More creatures were crawling up from the rift.

A thunderclap shook the plain once more, and there was John, mounted atop a beast that appeared half horse, half lizard. Its eyes of flame nearly matched the madness burning in John’s gaze. Even from the other side of the field, Bram saw the deranged fury blazing in his erstwhile friend. Moonlight gleamed over the flames writhing across John’s skin and on the blade of the sword he carried.

The demons that had managed to free themselves from the rift milled in disordered groups. John positioned himself in front of them, patrolling the line and chanting loudly. Summoning more creatures up from Hell.

His words broke off when he saw Bram and the other Hellraisers. A brief look of confusion crossed his face. He hadn’t been expecting them.

He schooled his features quickly. From the back of his cloven-hoofed mount, he stared at the Hellraisers and laughed. “Once I thought the Hellraisers invincible,” he shouted across the field. “Now I see them for what they truly are: a pathetic collection of reprobates. And their women,” he added with a sneer. “How did I ever count myself as one of your number?”

“Because we took pity on you,” Bram called back.

A snarl twisted John’s face. “I’m gathering Hell’s might behind me. A handful of dissolute libertines and their sluts cannot keep me from my fate.”

“Nor shall we.” Livia looked scornful. “Your destiny is to burn in the flames of the Underworld for eternity. I’m eager to escort you to your fate.”

Snarling, John flung out a hand. A bolt of black fire leapt from his palm. It shot across the field. Bram and Livia pulled their horses sharply to the side, narrowly missing the bolt. It tore into the ground, scorching the grass and flinging rocks.

Bringing his horse back under control, Bram allowed himself the fullness of his rage. It filled him with a cold, deliberate purpose. He dismounted and handed the reins to Livia, who watched him cautiously.

He drew his sword. A trusted weapon. It had saved his life more times than he could recall, had tasted the blood of his enemies and hungered for more. The feel of it in his hand was natural, right.

“I’ve need of your strength,” he said to Livia.

“It is yours. Always.”

He turned to face John and his growing demon army. Despite every soldierly instinct telling him not to, he closed his eyes. Yet he could not allow any distractions. Within himself, he felt the sharp edge of his magic. He drew on it, drew on the anger and darkness and demand for combat. Livia’s magic surged in him, as well, hot and bright as an unforgiving sun, and he welcomed her ruthless power.

There were lives to avenge. Lives to save—especially Livia’s. The task fell to him. He could not falter, nor fail.

The magic within him rose up. He did not know incantations and spells as Livia did. Instinct alone led him. He opened his eyes. Blue energy crackled around him, the sky overhead suddenly filling with jagged streaks of lightning.

A sharp, loud snap. Lightning struck his sword. Its current traveled through the metal, through his veins, filling him with power. He embraced it, pulling it deep, illuminating the darkest corners of his fury.

Livia was there, beside him. “Your eyes . . .”

He studied his reflection in the blade of his sword. Though the blade itself seethed with energy, he could see that his eyes themselves blazed with light, pure blue. Like a demon he looked. Like a demon he felt.

He felt his mouth curl into a savage grin. Livia’s answering smile was equally wicked.

Oh, they were a fine pair.

Bram raised his sword once more. With John watching from the other side of the field, Bram stuck the tip of his blade into the dirt, as though stabbing an adversary. Lightning crackled up from his sword. He dragged the weapon through the soil, trailing electricity. Shimmering blue light radiated up from the gouge in the earth.

“Here and no farther,” he shouted to John. “You will never cross this line.”

The demons screamed and John scowled.

A grinning figure suddenly appeared, twenty feet from where Bram had drawn a line in the earth. Rage choked Bram’s throat when he saw that the Devil wore a parody of a general’s uniform, the fabric black instead of scarlet, adorned all over with silver braid and the marks of his rank.

An insult.

Bram barely held himself back from striding to Mr. Holliday and thrusting his blade into the bastard’s chest. Of a certain the Devil would strike him down before he could so much as cut off one of his silver buttons.

“These displays are enthralling.” The Devil eyed the shimmering demarcation, a mocking smile on his lips. He turned his gaze to Livia, making Bram tense, and then looked beyond her at Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne. “A superior fighting force you’ve assembled here. Shall we negotiate the terms of surrender?”

“I won’t accept your surrender.” Bram kept his feet planted firmly, his sword in hand. “Only your destruction.”

Mr. Holliday chuckled. “Never lose your sense of idealism, Bram. It will make your torment that much greater.” He raised his hand, and Bram’s heart contracted. In the Devil’s hand was Bram’s soul, gleaming far more brightly than ever before.

Bram thought he’d grown inured to seeing it, his soul. It could no longer move him, or so he believed. Yet to see it again, see its radiance and promise, made him ache with loss. He glanced over at Livia. He hadn’t known what he was missing. Now he did.

Under her breath, Livia cursed in her own tongue.

“I am so used to entrusting these things to my subordinates,” the Devil murmured, conversational. “It never occurred to me how delightful it is to keep them close. Perhaps I shall revise my policy. Besides, there is nowhere safer than in my grasp.” His face twisted into a grotesque sneer, illuminated by the glow from Bram’s soul. “This shall always be mine. You will fight, you will die. And still this will belong to me. The consequences of which you are fully aware.”

“I’ve felt Hell’s fire at my back,” Bram said.

“You will feel it everywhere.” The Devil tapped the center of his chest. “Most especially here—knowing that you fought and died for nothing.”

Bram said, “Not nothing.”

The Devil swore. His smooth countenance distorted with anger and confusion as the soul he held slipped from his fingers. He snatched at it, trying to steal it back, yet it kept sliding from his grasp. As Bram stared, his soul drifted toward him, breaching the distance. Mr. Holliday flung nets of shadowed energy, but no sooner had the net closed around Bram’s soul than it glided free again. It floated resolutely toward him.

“How are you doing this?” Bram demanded of Livia.

Eyes wide, she shook her head. “This is not my work. I believe . . . it is entirely you.”

“I haven’t enough magic—”

“No magic. You. Your fight is for me, for your friends, and untold thousands. But not for yourself.” She gazed with wonder as Bram’s soul neared. “He cannot hold you, not when you have become . . . complete.”

Bram stood, stunned. For so long, he’d felt a part of himself missing, an empty expanse inside. Searching for that emptiness now, he discovered it gone, filled as he was with purpose, with Livia.

Not a perfect man, not by a considerable amount, but striving.

Hissing, the Devil made a last desperate lunge for Bram’s soul. The shining object moved faster. Eluding his grasp, it shot forward. Straight into Bram’s chest.

Radiance suffused him, a warmth unlike anything he’d experienced. Not merely a physical warmth, but a sense of rightness, a unification. The manifold facets of himself aligned. A thousand emotions beset him—sorrow, joy, relief, rage—as though the barrier holding them at bay shattered. He saw the face of his father, his brother, fallen soldiers, Edmund.

It was too much. He could not withstand the onslaught. He could bear a hundred wounds and not falter, but this . . . this threatened to raze him to ashes.

A hand, slim and steady, clasped his. He knew her touch by deepest instinct. It shored him, strengthened him. She would not let him fall.

Bram shuddered once, and then came back into himself. Beside him, her hand in his, stood Livia. Pride shone in her eyes, and a gleam of tears he knew she would deny.

“All your own doing,” she whispered.

“Useless distraction,” the Devil spat. He tugged on his coat, righting his appearance. “It signifies nothing. There’s one outcome to this battle. My army will cross that line”—he pointed to the boundary in the dirt—“and transform London into my kingdom on earth. The streets will run with blood. It will be a banquet of suffering.”

“The Devil has no gift of prophecy,” Bram answered.

“There are no certainties.”

John snarled. “I’ll enjoy grinding your bones to powder– thatis certain.”

“Six against over a hundred.” Mr. Holliday tutted. “If your friend Whit still gambled, I’d stake everything on us. The odds don’t favor you.”

Livia released Bram’s hand as she stepped forward. “Even probability can be altered.”

“It does not matter,” John cried. “None of this matters.” He wheeled his mount around and resumed his chanting. More demons clambered up from the rift to join the assembled others.

After a final sneering glance, the Devil snapped his fingers and vanished. He would be back—of that, Bram was certain.

Bram now turned to Livia.

She nodded toward the Hellraisers. “Your troops await your orders.”

Livia had seen Bram as a soldier and off icer—in his memories. Now, she saw him assume that role once more. The mantle of authority settled easily across his wide shoulders. He swung back up into the saddle, fluid, and brought his skittish horse around so that he faced the Hellraisers.

His expression was steely, betraying nothing.

“Leo, you’ll take the slithering demons, the things that crawl. Anne, use your command of air to beat back the winged creatures. Throw them to the ground and Leo can finish them.” He turned to Whit and Zora. “The demons with hooves and those that walk on two feet, they’re your responsibility. Cut them down.”

Livia could not tear her gaze from him as he gestured with his sword. It was clear he expected obedience, assured in his judgment. His friends nodded, accepting his directives without question.

Thisis what Bram was always meant to do. If he held any trepidation, any uncertainty, he did not reveal it. The sharp angles of his face held confidence, and his long, muscled body seemed coiled to strike.

All the while, the enemy across the field snarled in readiness. John shouted orders to the demons.

Every part of Livia tensed. All of this had come to pass because of her greed for power. Now the war to end everything awaited.

Never before had she been in actual battle, moments away from plunging headlong into full combat. She had come to the aid of Leo and Anne as they fought a band of attacking demons, but this—over a hundred hellspawn beasts waiting to bring down the wrath of the Dark One, creatures growling and rattling their weapons, eager for blood—this was an unknown realm.

One that might well see her and Bram dead, and the world horribly transformed.

She watched him now, a man not only at the height of his physical strength but also the strength of his heart, his will. He had changed utterly from the dissipated rogue she once knew, yet the core of him, shadowed and edged, that remained constant.

And she loved him for it.

The thought struck her like a blade of fire.

A fine time for revelations.

She gave an inward, mocking smile. Yet she fooled no one, least of all herself.

All her years, all the knowledge she possessed, the cynical wisdom that sheltered her, all of it fell away. Watching Bram now prepare his army of six, she felt herself engulfed in emotion. He had won her, in every way.

She could not speak of this. Not now. So she kept the knowledge of her love close, a hoarded, feared treasure, as dangerous as it was valuable.

“What of you and Livia?” Whit asked.

“We head the charge.” His gaze held hers, and her heart stuttered. “I need you at my side.”

“The only place I want,” she answered.

He brought his horse alongside hers so the flanks nearly touched. With a single, direct movement, he leaned close, cupping the back of her head. Then kissed her. A greedy, demanding kiss, his mouth hot, his need like flame. She gave as she received, just as eager, just as ravenous. This kiss might have to last the rest of her life, however short that might be, and into eternity.

For all her vows to keep her newly discovered love to herself, he must have felt it in her kiss, for he pulled back enough to stare into her eyes.