Demon's Bride (15 page)

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Authors: Zoe Archer

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BOOK: Demon's Bride
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“A request.”
He did not hesitate to answer. “Anything.”
“When you take a mistress, don’t let me find out.”
His head lifted, and he stared down at her. “What?”
She did not look away, and her expression was grave. “Your mistress.”
“I don’t have a mistress.”
Her tension eased minutely. “But you
will
take one. All men of means have them.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“My mother. And ... others. One hears things.” Her lashes lowered. “Every married man known to my family keeps women. Lord Haverbrook spends more time with his mistress, Mrs. Delphi, than he does with Lady Haverbrook. The Earl of Macclestone had his bastard son educated at Cambridge.”
Leo only stared at her.
“It’s how things are. The only recourse for wives is acceptance.” She raised her gaze once more, and a storm stirred within. Only a few days earlier, she would have been too guarded to reveal this much of herself, yet now things had changed,
they
had changed, and she spoke with strength. “When you
do
take a mistress, keep silent. I don’t wish for ignorance, but of this, it’s preferable to knowledge. Thinking of you, doing
this
”—she glanced down at their entwined bodies—“with anyone other than me is ... insupportable.”
Leo, who seldom found himself at a loss for words when finessing deals on Exchange Alley, discovered he could not speak. Not for a full minute. At last, however, he gained his voice.
“Mark me, Anne. I have no mistress. Never did, and never will.”
Her eyes rounded. “All men—”
“Not all. Not me.” When she began to protest, he would not allow her to continue. “My body is yours. Only yours. If that makes me a baseborn peasant, that’s what I am.”
“That is not how I think of you.”
He knew this, and it weighted his words. “
You
are my wife.
I
am your husband. We shall know the pleasures of no one else’s flesh but each other’s.” The very thought of touching a different woman made him feel sick. And the idea that she might have another man kiss her, let alone make love to her ... he’d never experienced such rage.
“Only you.” She held his gaze. “That is all I want.”
“Good,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers. He wanted their bare torsos pressed together, but knew it could never be. He had to keep his secrets. If ever she discovered the truth, he would lose her, and that he could not allow. “For I find that when it comes to sharing my wife, I’m damned miserly.”
 
 
Anne walked in a temple. It was a strange temple, its walls solid stone, and stone loomed overhead. Torchlight flickered, and she saw that the temple was actually
underground
. Or perhaps set within a hill or mountain. She did not know the where of the place, nor how she came to be there. One moment, she had been lying in Leo’s arms, warm, replete, her body tired and her heart full to bursting. Then she was here, in this place.
The stone floor chilled her bare feet, and she clutched herself close to stay warm. Columns had been carved into the walls. At one end of the temple stood an altar, surrounded by bronze lamps. Cautiously, she approached, then recoiled. A lamb had been sacrificed. Recently. Its body splayed across the altar, steaming, and blood dripped onto the ground.
“You see yourself there.”
Anne spun around. A woman stood a few feet away. She wore a tunic in the Roman style, with golden brooches pinned at her shoulders, and her dark hair was piled atop her head in elaborate curls. She stepped closer, the torchlight revealing her to be a woman of lustrous, aristocratic beauty, her gaze proud and cunning—and urgent.
“To what am I being sacrificed?” asked Anne.
“Him.”
“Leo?”
The Roman woman shook her head. “He is but the instrument of your oblation. The blade plunged into your heart.”
Instinctively, Anne’s hand crept between her breasts, shielding herself. “I do not understand the purpose of this sacrifice.”
“He serves another. The Dark One.” The temple turned to mist and became an elegant chamber with gilt friezes upon the walls. In the middle of the room stood a stylishly dressed man with white hair and irises as pale as diamonds. The guise of the elegant man melted away like liquefying flesh, revealing a humanlike creature of immense height, its skin the color of ash, curving horns atop its head scraping the mural on the ceiling and its cloven hooves tearing the Kidderminster carpet. The eyes remained the same, pale, cold. Ablaze with power and malevolence.
“He has never seen the Dark One’s true face,” continued the Roman. A priestess, she must be. A witch. “And on the day he does, it will be too late. His doom shall be sealed, and with him, the doom of countless others.” The elegant chamber shattered into pieces like broken glass. Anne shielded herself from the shards. When she lifted her arms, she saw the world ablaze. Cities leveled. A never-ending war. Famine and misery. And over all of it, the horned beast watched and applauded.
This scene crumbled away, and Anne and the priestess stood once more within the temple.
“My allies are too few,” said the Roman. “This half-world imprisons me, and only two willing fighters exist in your realm. Not enough. We need others to wage war.” The priestess turned her gaze to Anne. “Powerful warriors.”
Anne held up her hands, palms up. “I have nothing. No power of my own, and am certainly no warrior.”
The Roman’s eyes glittered as she advanced. “Strength lies within you. As for the rest, I shall bring it forth.”
Anne backed up, until she felt slickness under her feet. Blood from the sacrifice. “No.”
“Think you there is a choice?” The priestess looked scornful. “Death is your only other option.”
“I want out of this place. I want to go home.” Anne sounded small and terrified, precisely how she felt.
“We have not the time for this,” snapped the woman. “My hold here weakens.” As she spoke, the edges of the temple blurred and grew hazy. “There is no safety at home. You sense this, and my warning presence. That place is a haven for wickedness.”
“Not Leo.”
The Roman’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “He is most wicked of all. The Devil’s operative who makes the world ready for his master.”
Not the same man who held her, who gave her so much, who believed in her strength even when Anne had been uncertain it existed at all. “I don’t believe you.”
The priestess made a sound of irritation as more of the temple turned to smoke. “Time draws apace.”
She raised her hands and chanted. Anne did not understand the words, though some sounded vaguely familiar.
Tempestas, ventus, maleficus.
The air grew colder. A wind began to gust. It swirled, its movement marked by eddies of dust. Torches flickered. Faster and fiercer blew the wind, cold and lacerating, until it howled like the gates of Hell being opened.
Anne staggered, fighting to keep standing, yet the wind had the force of a storm, pushing her back.
The wind screamed, and the priestess’s voice raised to a shriek, her words barely audible above the tumult. She curled her hands into fists, and the wind spun around her, gathering, collecting. Building momentum. Her hair came loose from its elaborate arrangement, her tunic billowed, and her eyes blazed as she chanted.
Then she opened her hands and
shoved
the wind toward Anne.
Certain she would be torn apart by the vicious storm, Anne darted to the side. But too late. The wind slammed into her. She stumbled against the altar and fell to her knees. The pain of impact was nothing compared to the sensation of bitter, cutting wind reaching into her, filling her veins, pushing through her.
She screamed. The torches guttered and went out, sinking the room in darkness.
“Anne?”
She jolted, then felt Leo’s large, warm hand on her thigh. There was a hiss of a tinder being struck, then the flare of lit candle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, she discovered herself sitting upright in bed. Leo stared up at her, concern furrowing his brow.
“A nightmare?”
Yes, that’s what it had been. Only that. She looked around. No underground temple. No bloody altar. And no Roman priestess speaking of things Anne could not understand. There was no howling wind, nor even a breeze. The bedchamber was warm and still.
“I think so.” She resisted the impulse to check her feet to see if they were sticky with blood.
“You’re bone cold.” He drew her down beside him, surrounding her with his heat. He felt so solid, so real and alive, and Anne relaxed into him. “Better?”
She drew from his warmth, his substance. Her body slowly thawed.
A peculiar ache resounded through her, but she dismissed it as the aftereffects of very thorough, very enthusiastic lovemaking. In time, she might grow used to such physical activity, but she hoped and rather believed she would not. How could she grow accustomed to so much sensation, to a man like Leo?
“Better.” Still, when he began to nibble along her jaw, she added with regret, “I think ... I may be a little sore.”
He chuckled. “Madam, your husband is a brute.”
“Which is one of his more charming qualities.”
Leo gazed over her face. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart. How to keep the nightmares at bay.”
It was strange, she was seldom plagued by bad dreams, and this one had been particularly vivid. Yet Leo’s presence shoved away the last vestiges of the nightmare.
She snuggled closer. “Having you here is enough.”
He pulled away just enough to blow out the candle, then wrapped his arms around her.
“Sleep well, sweetheart.”
“And you,” she said, then added shyly, “my dear.”
His arms tightened, holding her closer. They lay together. Anne felt the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he drifted into sleep, and it lulled her. The darkness felt more comfortable now, everything secure, everything as it should be. Because of him.
Yet as sleep began to claim her, the priestess’s words echoed in her head.
He is most wicked of all. The Devil’s operative who makes the world ready for his master.
Chapter 8
 
The world spread beneath Leo’s hands. Seas, continents, nations. The span of his hand covered the whole of an ocean. If he so desired, he could crush all of it into a ball and consign it to the fire. He grinned.
“Have an interest in maps, do you, sir?”
Leo glanced up from his perusal of the map spread out on a table. The shop’s proprietor watched him with an eager smile. “I begin to.”
“My shop has all that you could desire. The very latest. The Americas, the East Indies. Even the newest geographical surveys of England. Here.” The proprietor hurried behind a curtain and emerged with a globe upon a turned oak stand, surmounted by a brass meridian. “Just come from France, sir. A beautiful example.”
He set the globe down on another table and waved Leo over to it. “Can’t do any finer than this. The latest in the cartographer’s art, and a stunning addition to the home of a distinguished, worldly gentleman.”
Leo peered down at the globe. The cartouche was in French, so he could not read it. He rested his finger atop the dot marked
Moscou
. How many souls beneath his finger? Giving the globe a push, he watched the world spin on its axis, the passage of days in a matter of seconds. A godlike power.
“My purchases today will not be for myself,” he murmured.
“A friend, then.”
Smiling, Leo moved away from the spinning globe. He perused charts hanging on the walls, with the shopkeeper trailing after him. “I believe so. My wife.”
The proprietor frowned. “Would they be for your wife, or a friend?”
“She is both.” It surprised him, but there was the truth of it. Anne was more to him than could be conveyed in the simple term
wife
. She accepted him as he was, and did not look for weaknesses to exploit. What she admired in him was ...
him
.
“Beg pardon, sir, but you mean to say, you would give maps to your
wife
?”
Leo looked at the shopkeeper, and the man shrank beneath the coldness of his expression. “That is exactly what I intend to do. I’ll take my coin elsewhere.”
“Oh, no, sir. No, no.” Seeing the fineness of Leo’s clothing, the rings upon his fingers, the proprietor was all solicitousness. “I think ’tis a wonderful thing for a man to dote on his wife, indulge her every fancy.”
It was more than a fancy for Anne, her love of maps. She considered not just the things themselves, something pretty or curious to be idly looked up, but what they signified, what they
meant
. It troubled him how little he had credited her when first he began to pay court. She had been merely an instrument to aid in his objectives. And he had been a fool to think her so easily rendered into a discrete, uncomplicated category.
All this, before he had known the sweet pleasures of her body. Now he had, and the world was new.
The proprietor gestured to a small chamber, separated by a curtain. “The best merchandise lays within, sir.”
Leo nodded and entered the chamber. He would give Anne the best. Anything she wanted, she would have.
The scent of paper enriched the air. Stacks of charts and maps lay atop tables and collected in V-shaped stands. Neat scrolls of parchment rested in cubbies built into the walls. Every sheet of paper represented a part of the globe, whole civilizations, and lives lost to the cause of exploration. But the world needed to be known, and in so knowing, owned. Leo understood this impulse, this covetousness. Always, it had been centered on his demands and what he could attain for himself. Now, he wanted everything for Anne.
“Here, sir.” The shop owner pulled a map of South America from one of the stands. “Taken from the most recent voyage. Mark the profusion of rivers. Most prodigious.”
Leo did not know much of cartography, but he trusted his own judgment. “I will find what I need. On my own.”
With a bow, the proprietor backed from the chamber. As he did, he drew the curtain, affording Leo privacy.
Leo made a thorough, careful survey of the contents of the room. He knew many of the places on the maps, for England served as the heart to the beast of commerce, pumping blood in the form of money and merchandise through the veins of global enterprise. Bending to study a map of the West Indies, he examined the multitude of islands dotting the Caribbean Sea. Barbados, Saint-Domingue, Hispañola. Growing the cane that sweetened the world’s tea, and distilling the rum that spun the world’s head.
“A marvelous place, the West Indies.”
Leo glanced up. The
geminus
leaned against a table. It had its arms folded across its chest, its legs crossed in a posture of perfect, gentlemanly leisure. Having gained Leo’s attention, it pushed away from the table and joined him in the perusal of the Caribbean map.
“I’ve never been,” Leo answered.
“Some call it a paradise.” The
geminus
chuckled. “My master particularly enjoys it.”
“The sultry climate.”
“The atmosphere is in all ways pleasing to him. Particularly that of the plantations.”
Leo replaced the map and selected another, this one of the Barbary Coast. Tiny ships sailed atop a painted sea, their sails billowing. Pirates, maybe, preying upon the hordes of merchant ships and their holds laden with wealth.
“I am surprised to see you at this place,” said the
geminus
. “Trading is ongoing at the Exchange, and yet you are here.”
Without looking up from the map, Leo replied, “My time is my own. How I spend it is my choice.”
The
geminus
gave another indulgent chuckle. “Of course. One cannot engage in business every waking moment. Yet ...”
“Yet?”
“Now that you possess knowledge of Lord Overbury’s imminent disaster, would you not be better served putting that knowledge to use?”
“Counterinvest.” Leo straightened and pulled the map of the Caribbean out of the stand once more. He had seen Overbury’s plantation destroyed by storm, a future calamity that could easily be taken advantage of. His ever-present hunger stirred at the thought.
“At the very least,” agreed the
geminus
. “My master knows how exceedingly clever you are at exploiting weakness.” When Leo did not immediately respond, the
geminus
continued. “It was clear that Overbury had no love for you, nor others of your class. Had it not been for your advantageous marriage to an aristocrat, you would never have been invited into his home. Indeed, I overheard him say to Lord Devere that he wasn’t surprised by your use of sleight of hand, since it is the perfect skill for someone born
of the streets.
And that you deserved a wife who came to you very nearly a
beggar.
”
Familiar hot rage poured through Leo, its origin somewhere between his shoulder blades and spreading throughout his body, tight and burning. He looked down to see that he had crushed the map he held. “I did not see you there last night.”
“I am often close.”
The calm that had enveloped Leo all morning singed away. Overbury’s insult could not stand. The slur against Leo was no surprise, but that Overbury dared to slander Anne ... “The beef-fed bastard won’t live out the rest of the day.” He stalked toward the curtain, ready to race to the man’s doorstep and punch him bloody.
“Hold, sir.” The
geminus
stepped into his path. “There are more effective ways of hurting Lord Overbury. Ways that will keep you out of Tyburn, and ensure the nobleman’s suffering.”
Leo fought for calm. Damn it, the
geminus
was right. Though Leo craved blood, money might serve the same purpose. He could manipulate the marketplace against Overbury, ensuring that his loss would be even greater. If Leo acted prudently, he could make certain that the nobleman’s losses gutted his estate. Overbury might not be forced to become a mudlark, scavenging in the slime-draped banks of the Thames, but he’d feel his fall, and painfully.
Today’s plan had been to finish at the map shop, then return home to present Anne with an abundance of gifts. He thought to gladly accept her thanks by taking her to bed, and so pass the day in communion with her body. That plan could not stand. Overbury must be crushed, and Anne avenged.
He stepped around the
geminus
. “I set out for the Exchange now.”
“Sir? Were you speaking to me?” The proprietor held the curtain back and peered into the chamber with a cautious expression.
“I was talking to my—” Leo turned, and frowned. The
geminus
was gone.
“To ...” The shopkeeper’s gaze slid to the crumpled map, his eyes widening. “Afraid you are going to have to pay for that, sir.”
Leo always carried cash. He unfolded several banknotes and shoved them into the proprietor’s hands, and the man sputtered his surprise.
“This is too much!”
“For the ruined map, and more. I want your finest wares delivered to my home. The globe and any other map you feel would please a devoted scholar of cartography. Anything you believe is the best, I want. And if that cash isn’t enough, bill me for the rest.”
As the shopkeeper babbled in thanks, Leo scribbled his direction on a piece of paper. Then he strode from the shop. He was known as the Demon of the Exchange. Today, he would be the Demon of Vengeance.
 
 
Anne accepted the dish of tea from Lady Kirton with a murmured thanks. She and the countess sat in a little parlor, a small table bearing an even smaller plate of biscuits between them. Anne nibbled on one of the biscuits. It was stale.
The parlor itself was a fine enough room, with a portrait of Lady Kirton’s favorite spaniel taking pride of place on the wall, but it was clear this room was not often used for entertaining callers. A larger, more elegant chamber served more frequently for guests. Anne had seen it as she had been led up by the footman. She did not merit the better parlor.
“Married life must agree with you, my dear.” Lady Kirton eyed Anne over the rim of her dish. “I have seldom seen you looking so well. Though you do appear a little tired.”
Anne fought not to blush. She did feel different today, weary but full of wild energy. It was all she could do to keep seated. Images from the previous night—and early this morning—kept stealing into her thoughts. Leo’s hands. His mouth. His ... cock. All bringing her pleasure. And she had given him pleasure, too.
He had kept her thoroughly, deliciously occupied, and if that had not exhausted her, then her troubling dream would have. Normally, when she did recall her dreams, they faded over the course of the day. Not so this one. Anne could still feel sticky blood on her feet, could describe in detail every pleat in the Roman priestess’s gown, and remembered all that had been said.
He has never seen the Dark One’s true face. And on the day he does, it will be too late.
“Mrs. Bailey?”
Anne’s attention snapped back to the present. “Apologies, my lady. Indeed, I am a little weary, but I find your company altogether delightful.”
“The first weeks of marriage can be quite taxing.” The older woman spoke from wellsprings of experience. “In time, the novelty wears off, and we wives are left in blessed peace.”
Anne hoped not. The more she knew of Leo, the more of him she wanted. And it seemed the feeling was mutual.
How very different her marriage was from others of her class! How full of wonderful potential! It exceeded her every expectation.
Yet her memories were darkened by the dream that had followed. That temple. The images of an evil being bringing death and destruction. And the awful storm being slammed into her body.
Anne gulped at her tea, striving for warmth. “I have heard that a husband’s interest wavers.”
“If one is fortunate.” Lady Kirton smiled thinly. Having met the ill-tempered Lord Kirton, Anne could understand why it was preferable to keep him at a distance.
“For the present,” Anne said, “I do enjoy having my husband’s favor.”
The countess sniffed. “Though he lacks any sort of breeding, when it comes to fortune and appearance, your husband
is
generously endowed.”
It took Anne’s supreme force of will to keep from saying something extremely unpleasant. She had a purpose here, and could not allow herself distractions.
“Though I know in time he will behave as all men do, in the interim I strive to keep things amusing between us.” She affected a conspiratorial giggle. “Shall I tell you how?”
Lady Kirton’s veneer of polite boredom fell away, and she leaned in close. “Yes, do.”
“I like to play little practical jokes on him.”
Though clearly this was not quite the response the countess had been hoping for, she still looked interested. “Practical jokes?”

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