War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 (21 page)

The door slammed open, and Marcus’s voice boomed across the space. “What are you doing here?”

Lady Nerine gave a small scream, and Lady Damaris hushed her. “There, my dear. Do you see what an escape you had?”

“No, I do not!” Lady Nerine sounded tearful. “He is mine. I want him. He is mine, you said so!” She burst into a storm of weeping, the sound muffled. Her sister must be holding her. Or someone else, perhaps, although even now Ruth could not imagine the perfectly turned-out Lord d’Argento letting anyone cry all over his impeccable waistcoat. She did not need to see him to know he was wearing one.

“We came here because it was quiet. How did we know you would all follow? I wanted to talk to my sister in peace.” Lady Damaris’s voice throbbed with emotion. “Can you not see how affected she is? Have a heart, sir.”

“I thwarted Nerine’s ambition, not her heart,” Marcus commented. His voice sounded wry. “She doesn’t love me. Not like—”

“Your governess,” Lady Nerine sneered, still tearful. “You just want someone to control. She’s mild as milk. You’ll have no trouble with her. Nerine is too spirited for you.”

Ruth bit the back of her hand to stop herself crying out. She possessed spirit, if not the kind Lady Nerine seemed to want. Terror rippled through her when she thought of the danger Marcus could be in from these madmen.

“Speak of her with respect. I mean to marry her.”

“A mortal?” Lady Damaris said, sneering. “You cannot marry one of those. For God’s sake, you’re Mars!”

Ruth sucked in a breath, waiting for his response. It came quickly. “I own a mortal side too. I am Marcus as well as Mars. That side of me hears her and wants her. I plan to convert her.”

“What if she isn’t suitable?” d’Argento rapped out.

Ruth’s head spun. Was Marcus humouring them? Was that it? Blinking hard, she stared out of the window, more to control her fluttering heart than to see anything. The sun had gone and rain pattered on the roses. She watched it dully, counting the drops.

“Then I will renounce what I am. I will live and die with her as a mortal. I never relished the immortal part of me, in any case. Why should I? It was given to me, I had no say in it.”

“Your mother lay alongside mine in that hellish nursery,” Lady Damaris said. “I had no more choice than you, but I embrace the chance to change affairs for the good.”

“We change nothing,” d’Argento snapped. “We fight to keep events as they are. Or do you not believe in free will, free choice?”

Oh God, what was going on? Why did they not leave?

“Wait.” Warmth swept through her head, as it sometimes did when Marcus was by.

The curtain was ripped back. Marcus stood in front of the alcove, staring at her, pale-faced.

Chapter Fourteen

“What did you do to her?” d’Argento demanded.

Marcus felt her pain. Once he’d opened his mind and sensed her presence, he came straight to her. It could be too late. “I blocked her mind,” he told his colleague. “I wanted our happiness to be ours alone, and I knew she disliked sharing. She’s a private person. It was all she had at one point in her life.”

“So a god is brought down by love,” Lady Nerine said. “He gives in to his mortal.”

“Be quiet!” When Marcus reached for Ruth, she shrank back. His heart ached. “What did you hear?” Frantically he wondered if he could turn this into something else. Maybe they were planning amateur dramatics. Perhaps they could get away with a story like that.

He rejected the notion immediately. He wanted to marry her, convert her in time. A story like that would destroy any hope. They promised not to lie to each other. True, it was in the context of a game, but the game served its purpose. She had come to trust him. She would not trust him now.

Stepping back to give her some space, he held out his hand. “Come with me. Let me talk to you.”

Ruth stared up at him, eyes wide. She’d been crying. Teeth marks marred the back of her hand. The claws around his heart eased when she reached out one trembling hand and grazed his fingers.

“Let her go,” Lady Damaris said. “She’s better without us in any case. Let her think we are insane. Let her think we’re planning a play. Anything. Wipe her mind and let her go.”

Ruth snatched back her hand, and Marcus cursed silently. “Look at me, Ruth. You know I won’t hurt you. Take my hand and let’s go somewhere else.”

Swallowing, she flicked a stare at d’Argento, then to the women standing further away in the room. Her bosom swelled with her shallow breathing. After a few deep breaths she took slid her hand into his. “Just you,” she said.

“Of course,” he answered steadily, even though his heart was racing. He’d blocked her, that was why the others had not detected her presence. He’d done it from the best of intentions, but it rebounded on him now.

Would she ever trust him again? She must, that was all. Somehow he must persuade her, explain to her before he lost her. No, he would not allow that, couldn’t even think of it. He had asked her if she believed in love at first sight because he did. He fell for her the moment he saw her, sensed her presence. Maybe his extra senses gave him an advantage, he didn’t know, but from the moment they met he’d become determined to win her.

Slowly he drew her out of the alcove, supporting her the best he could when her knees buckled. He must not crowd her, must not threaten to take her over, or she would run, he was sure of it. He might never win her back, then. He meant to introduce her to his world gradually, perhaps starting with mind-to-mind communication. She could understand that, surely. Or she would have if they had become closer.

“You would not have married her without telling her,” d’Argento said. “Tell me that.”

“No,” he said. “I would not have done that.” Not because it wasn’t fair to the gods, but it wasn’t fair on
her.
She should know precisely what she as marrying into and what she might become a part of before she could not step back. He wouldn’t let her step back. He would persuade her, somehow.

Their feet were the only sounds in the room as he led her to the door and out.

He feared she might pull away, even run, but she let him take her to a room nearby, a parlour used by his Elizabethan ancestors. A plaster frieze depicting a stag hunt marched around the top half of the walls, mocking him. He was no longer sure who was the hunted.

She sat slowly on one of the large, old-fashioned sofas upholstered in crimson velvet, like blood dripping from the stately depiction of the gory event above them. Taking exaggerated care, she spread her skirts. She was wearing one of the gowns she’d cleverly made from the garments in the attics, the only things she had accepted from him. Except for last night. In his pocket burned a string of pearls, perfect for her. He’d planned to put them around her pretty throat, right before he kissed it. Now all his plans lay in the dust.

“I told them,” he said, not knowing where to start.

“I guessed.”

He loved that dry sense of humour so many missed, but he dared not smile. She might think he was belittling what must be a profound sense of shock. “May I tell you a story?”

“If it makes you feel better.” She kept her voice low. Was she afraid it might tremble if she raised it?

“Very well.” He took a seat on the chair close to her, leaving the path to the door open, should she decide to take it. She must not feel trapped. “Just over thirty years ago, the Duke of Boscobel allowed a group of people to meet in the grounds of his estate. For himself, he had an inordinate number of heavily pregnant women in his house. He’d made a plan, and it was about to come to fruition. In more ways than one. The building on the grounds was the remains of the old house, which he left in a mock ruin to adorn his gardens, but at its centre was a perfectly functional hall.

“A group of people held a meeting there. Part reunion, part celebration, they came from all over the world for the gathering. Boscobel had mined the hall. At the right time it exploded.”

Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands tightly together, but said nothing.

Marcus continued with his story. “The spirits of the people in that hall were scattered to the winds. Very few people escaped the conflagration. They were gods, Ruth. The ancients of old. Except they were not. There is only one God, but through the ages people worshipped false gods, because of their attributes. They called themselves immortals, but they weren’t, not truly. They were less vulnerable than most others, that is all. They’re immune to disease and they live longer than others. So these people died.”

He went on, since she appeared disinclined to speak. “Their spirits went to God and their attributes, that part of them that made them different, fled to the nearest receptive body—the babies inside the women in the house, for the most part. Boscobel and his acolytes tried to keep control. They wanted all the immortals to obey them. There are more immortals than gods. There are nymphs, and other beings, people with lesser but similar gifts. They gathered together and rescued some, and others escaped by their own efforts. Very few people escaped the explosion.”

“I read about that. I saw engravings of the explosion.”

A sigh of relief escaped him. Would she believe him? “It happened. My parents were there that night, and I’m the result. My mother was bearing a baby, and she caught—me.” Restlessly, he drummed his fingers on his knee. He wanted to pace, but he could not display his restlessness. He must remain in control of this situation, otherwise she might run. He did not read her mind, but he didn’t need to. Tension snapped like a whip in this room. “I am Marcus Allingham, third Duke of Lyndhurst. I’m also Mars, god of war. Or what passes for him these days.”

She said nothing but gazed at him, her eyes alert with speculation. “So what can you do that is out of the ordinary?”

He should have expected her to ask that. “I’m stronger than the strongest man. I can read minds, to a certain extent. Not to the level d’Argento can, but I can communicate mentally—that is, without speaking. I can sense other presences. I can—”

“Read my mind.” Her command came abruptly. “What am I thinking?”

He met her gaze frankly. “I dislike doing it. The practice strikes me as underhanded, and I prefer not to employ the technique. Communicating is all very well, but reading and scanning, other than detecting a mood is something I prefer not to do.”

“Do it.”

She needed proof. He would not go too deeply.

He sank into her mind, seeping in like water into silk, watching for her reaction. Her eyes opened wider, but she said nothing. Her thoughts were there, spread out for him. “You don’t believe me, but I expected that. I didn’t need to read your mind to know that. You think I might be deranged. I’m not. Sometimes I wish I were. You love me. I love you too.” He wouldn’t let her protest, but continued, “You’ve written to your parents, but you’re waiting for the wedding date, and then you’ll ask me to frank the letter for you. You have fresh concerns about the children, the boys upstairs, because you’re concerned about my sanity.”

“You surmised all that,” she said. “It proves nothing.”

He didn’t tell her that when he’d skimmed the part about her loving him he’d wanted to linger.

He tried again. “Your parents treated you like an unpaid servant, so you thought you might as well earn your living doing what they were not paying you to do.” He loved that. She had moved to make her own future, instead of sitting back and letting it happen to her. “You told me that, did you not?” He held up his hands. “Then watch my lips.” He turned to mental speech and said what he longed to straight into her mind.

I meant it when I said I love you. I fell in love with you the moment we met and I will not change. Whatever you do, you must do. Know I will support you and care for you.

Her fingers flew to her mouth, as if she was testing it for speaking without her knowledge. At the same time, she responded to him.
I cannot love you. I don’t know what you are or why you believe these things.

See?

Leaping to her feet, she walked to the window, her skirts swaying with her jerky movements. Then she turned back to him, her eyes wide. “Do you know everything I’m thinking?”

“I told you, no. I don’t usually do it, and I put a shield around you to stop others doing so.” He shook his head. “If I had not, they would have detected your presence in the library.”

She spun around so fast she needed to put her hands on her skirts to stop them continuing the motion and turning out of place. “Then you should have left it. I still don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine anything so—so unimaginable.”

She didn’t like it. She hated that he could read her. He did not want her to fear him. “I’m sorry. It’s a natural talent.”

“Can I stop it happening?”

He would block anyone else reading her, but he could not bear to do that himself. But in all conscience he would tell her how she could accomplish it. “Imagine a door. Make it as real as you can. Then close and lock it.” He would not tell her that the defense could be forced by someone close to her, or someone with the power to do so. But at least, if they did, she would know. It would hurt.

Her mouth a grim line, she nodded. “I will practice.”

She appeared more at ease after that, the lines of tension around her eyes dissipating.

“Do you mean to say all the aristocracy of this country are secretly ancient gods?”

He loved her bright intelligence. Suppressing his smile, he answered her. “Not all. The ones that did inherit the attributes of the gods are still the children of their fathers and mothers, not some kind of changeling. Some of the spirits escaped and they are still free and lost to us.”

“It’s preposterous.” She sounded less certain than she had a moment ago. He was winning her round. “Marcus, I cannot possibly rationalise all this immediately. Give me a day or two to come to terms with what you’ve told me. Please?”

“Of course.” He got to his feet and held out his hand to her.

She crossed the room to him but did not take it. “Thank you.” She spoke to him as if he was her employer again, not his love and his bride-to-be. He’d set matters in train to give her the estate he’d promised. If she wanted to delay the wedding, at least she would not starve.

“Whatever you decide, sweetheart, I will care for you and make sure you possess the means to do whatever you wish. You are deeply precious to me. Never doubt that.”

“I won’t.” But as she told him, she did not meet his eyes.

“When I walk barefooted,” he told her, “I sometimes leave fire in my wake.”

* * * * *

Ruth hardly knew how she summoned the presence of mind to allow him to escort her to her chamber and retain her dignity. Once there, she flung herself on the bed, now neatly made with fresh sheets, and gave way to the floods of tears she had not allowed herself earlier.

She had to get away. She
must––
and then she needed to secure a future for the boys, well away from this madness. For their sakes and for hers, she needed to find somewhere safe. Somewhere secluded, maybe a small out-of-the-way town, perhaps abroad.

Her reasoning stopped there. Anxiety for the twins filled her mind, pushed panic through her veins until getting away was the only truth she knew.

She needed to act fast. It was real. For sure and certain. That last remark about the footprints of fire tipped the balance, and disbelief tipped over into recognition. Little things like the way he seemed to understand her without her saying a word, and how he could find her wherever she was in this maze of a house. She had not noticed before, but it added up to the one big truth.

It was getting on for dinnertime. While the servants were busy attending to the company in the dining room, she’d have the chance to get away. At night, hall boys were stationed at all the doors, and the windows were fastened tightly. Footmen patrolled the corridors on the hour, since the scare with the drapes in Marcus’s room. Now, with the doors open and the kitchens and servants either eating or serving in the drawing and dining rooms, she could find her way out. She would not stay, no, not even to leave a note. He would know why she left. She could not stay here. She would not be a part of this insanity.

Should she take the boys now?

No, she could not. She had barely enough money for herself, for quarter day was not yet come, and she had no means of support, other than the small amount she had brought with her.

Her heart was breaking. The thought of the precious twins, Peter and Andrew, left in his care worried her beyond bearing, but she could do nothing about that now. She would first establish herself somewhere, somehow, and then return for them.

Someone tapped at the door and Ruth nearly choked on the terror that rose to her throat. Instead of calling out, she went to the door herself, relieved beyond measure to discover a servant with a tray standing there. She let the maid in and waited until she had the meal set up elegantly on a table. Then as calmly as she could, Ruth told the woman not to disturb her again that night.