Demon's Bride (32 page)

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Authors: Zoe Archer

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Demon's Bride
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Another orgasm tore through her, harder than the first. She cried out. A moment later, he groaned, body stilling. Head bowed, he gasped against her neck, and his breath fanned over her skin.
They stayed like that, him still deep within her, their bodies fused.
“I love you, Anne.” His voice was deep, vibrating through her. “Even if the Devil drags me off to Hell, I will never stop loving you.”
She said nothing, only wrapped her arms around him and wished for answers that would not appear.
 
 
Leo woke with a start, and found Anne curled against him, his arms wrapped around her. She was soft and warm, deeply asleep. Darkness filled the room. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up the feel of her, her supple pliancy and the silk of her flesh. It had been far too long since they had lain like this, completely at ease, unguarded—yet he knew it was an illusion shaped by fatigue. Though he had loved her body with a soul-draining intensity, she would not permit him this closeness were she not exhausted.
Pain, it seemed, had a limitless supply, for he felt it anew, cutting through him. He had always taken whatever he wanted, yet there seemed nothing he could do to make Anne his once more.
A soft tap sounded at the door. This had been what had awakened him moments earlier.
Naked, he eased out of bed, grabbing his primed pistol as he did so, and padded noiselessly to the door. Likely demons would not knock, nor common thieves, but he’d take no chances.
Whit’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Livia has returned.”
Leo opened the door a bare crack. “Is she in your room?”
“She appeared for only a moment. Doesn’t like populated places like inns. We’re to meet her by the river as soon as we can.”
Leo nodded, and closed the door. He turned to find Anne sitting up in bed, already pulling on her chemise. Though he was used to dressing in the dark, she was not, so he lit a candle. It guttered, until Anne gave it a pointed stare, and the flame steadied. More evidence of her strange new power.
In the pale yellow light of a single candle, they noiselessly dressed. The air in the little room felt filled with broken glass, each inhalation a study in pain. They were two strangers who had shared the deepest intimacy. He helped lace her into her gown, now stained and limp, and she thanked him with a small nod.
Dressed in his borrowed clothes, Leo put on his brace of pistols and slung his hunting musket onto his back. He had reloaded all of his weapons, ready for whatever might come. As Anne moved past him, he gently took hold of her arm.
She gazed up at him, stronger than he had ever seen her before, her hazel eyes clear.
“However long it takes,” he said quietly. “From this life to the next. I will find a way to regain your trust.”
“You have it,” she murmured. But she held him off with an upraised hand when he stepped closer. “I don’t know if it is enough. What we had ... is broken.”
“I’ll fix it. Make it as it was.”
She shook her head. “It can never go back to what it was. That is irrevocably lost.” She glanced down at his hand on her arm. “We have to leave.”
He did not want to, but he let her go, and they both left the room. At the doorway, she turned, then waved her hand. The candle winked out, throwing the chamber into darkness once more.
Down in the taproom, he purchased some bread, cheese, and apples, and had them packed into a hamper. “You need to eat,” he explained at Anne’s questioning look.
“What about you?”
“Take care of yourself first.” He had been hungry before. It had not killed him.
The inn stood some hundred yards from the riverbank. They walked together, passing a lone cottage, and Anne ate as they moved toward the water. The night was cold and still, a thick blanket of clouds pressing down, smothering sound.
Beneath the branches of an oak, close to the water’s edge, stood Whit and Zora. They kept close to each other, hands linked and voices low in shared confidence. The distance between Leo and Anne felt wide and echoing—but he had spoken truly. No matter what it took, no matter the time, he would find a way back to her, fashioning a bridge from his bones and blood if necessary.
“Where is our ghost?” Leo asked. “Do we summon her?”
“I am not
summoned
,” came the specter’s voice from the darkness. Light gathered around the roots of the tree, an unearthly glow, and it gained strength as it grew.
Though Anne, Whit, and Zora seemed more familiar with the sight, Leo stared as the shape of the Roman woman emerged. There was still much of this hidden world he did not know, and it struck him again how reckless he and the other Hellraisers had been, dabbling with such potent magic, skirting the edges of unfathomable power.
“I choose to come when I so desire,” the ghost said, her voice sharper as she came into focus. Leo had seen her a handful of times in his dreams, a plaguing presence urging him to turn away from the Dark One, as she called it. He would have dismissed visitations as nothing but a restless mind had not his fellow Hellraisers confessed to having the same dreams.
Now he was awake, and here she stood. Or floated, rather. For her sandals hovered above the ground as she drifted toward him and the others. Unease prickled along his neck.
She stared at Leo, mistrust and haughtiness in her dark eyes. “The emblem of the Dark One obscures him. He is no ally.”
“He
is
,” Anne said, surprising him. “He has renounced the Devil.”
“Words.” The ghost scoffed. “Any child may recite them, without thought to the meaning.”
“I’m no child,” Leo rumbled. “My words are backed by my deeds.”
“He fought against demons, Livia,” added Whit. “He has proven himself.”
Leo and Anne’s gazes met, for he
had
proven himself to her. Yet she insisted there could be no regaining what they had once shared. God, how he hoped that was not true.
“That determination shall be made by me,” pronounced the ghost.
“Tell me what I need to do,” Leo said through clenched teeth, “and it will be done.” This was far more than wresting a place for himself in the upper ranks of Society. The opinions of a few weak-chinned aristos did not matter. Let them think him a baseborn guttersnipe. They might print the foulest slurs in all the newspapers, create belittling caricatures to be flung across the most distant shores. None of that carried significance.
Only now, when he stood on the brink of not only losing his soul, but the only woman he ever loved, did he understand this. His pursuit of status had been a fool’s trade. He did not even
like
most of the gentry, and yet he sought entry into their ranks. A hollow ambition that would leave him broken and alone.
All that would change. Had already changed.
Everyone—Anne, Whit, Zora, and Livia—stared at him now. Fissures appeared in Livia’s wariness, but all Leo cared about was Anne, and fighting to recover what had been squandered.
“This fight we soon face,” said Livia, “the stakes are far greater than the fate of a single soul.”
“I know.”
“Such confidence. Will you be so assured when your life is imperiled?”
One thing had not changed: Leo did not like to be questioned. He bristled. “Whatever is necessary. If that means my death, I accept the consequences.”
The ghost continued to stare at him, judging, assessing. Finally, she nodded. “All things have a genesis and a culmination. The journey ends where it truly began.”
“We must go to the ruined temple?” asked Whit.
“No,” said Leo. “To London. To my home.”
 
 
They rode east, passing through Chiswick, the buildings growing more numerous and closer together. And as they ventured farther into the city, signs of turmoil abounded. Broken glass and shattered wood littered the streets, and more than once they passed gangs of roving men who threw rocks and challenges, their eyes bright with wildness.
One such gang surrounded Leo and the others. “Pretty group of toffs,” the leader snarled. Torchlight gleamed on his shaven head. Sometime during the night’s rowdiness, he had lost his wig.
The leader reached for the reins of Zora’s horse, but before anyone could act, Whit had his saber out and pointed at the man’s throat. Leo aimed his pistols toward the rest of the gang.
“I can only shoot two of you,” Leo said to the mob. “Three, if you count my musket. But you might be one of the three.”
“By nature, I’m a gambler,” added Whit. “Are any of you?”
Muttering amongst themselves, the mob edged away and its leader stepped back. They retreated into the night, yet tension still hung over the street.
“Your efforts are appreciated,” said Zora. “But it would’ve been a small matter for me to reduce him to ashes.”
“A woman wielding flame like a weapon might attract undo attention,” noted Whit, “even amidst this chaos. Besides,” he added, bringing his horse up beside hers so he could lean close, “it gratifies my male pride to play savior every now and then.”
Leo glanced away as Whit kissed Zora. Seeing their ready trust and affection felt like rusty nails pounded into Leo’s heart. His gaze met Anne’s, who had also looked away from the open display of tenderness.
Spurring his horse on, Leo said with a growl, “When you’re done making love in the middle of the street, we’ve got my soul to reclaim and the Devil to thrash.”
He heard their horses behind him as they followed. Anne pushed her mount so that she rode beside him.
Passing Hyde Park and the genteel neighborhoods, the roving gangs thinned, but those who were on the streets moved quickly, heads down, as if anticipating attack. No sedan chairs were out, a rarity. A tense air of retreat clung to the wide streets and the imposing surfaces of Mayfair mansions, and few windows were lit. These were the prime hours for London’s elite to make their rounds of evening diversions, yet no music filtered down into the avenues, no laughter or voices engaged in lively conversation.
Only a night had elapsed since Leo had ridden these streets in mad pursuit of Anne. Yet it felt as though decades had passed.
Saint George’s struck the half hour as Leo and the others headed into Bloomsbury. His house was dark, save for a few candles burning in the front chambers, constituting the servants’ attempt to make life appear somewhat normal.
Leo quickly dismounted and strode over to help Anne down from the saddle. She did not flinch from his touch, but she did not lean into it, either. Still, he took pleasure in his hands around her waist, and her slight weight as he swung her down. He did not know how much longer he would have to hold her like this, so he would take from it what he could.
Two grooms warily emerged from the mews behind his house to take their horses. As the sweat-flecked animals were led away, Leo said to the servants, “Once they are tended to, remove yourself from this place at once.” He tossed them each a sovereign. The men’s eyes widened, but they nodded in agreement.
Standing at the foot of the stairs leading to his front door, Leo stared up at his house. Three years ago he had purchased it; for three years it had been his nominal home. Yet the colonnades and handsome brick exterior moved him not at all. It was a building, nothing more. Only when Anne had come to live under his roof did he feel any sense of excitement when seeing its façade, and only then because he knew he was close to seeing her at the end of a long day.
He had bought this place to serve as a dare to the elite. His challenge:
You cannot make me disappear or slink off to the gutter. I am here. See me. Respect and fear me.
And the magic given to him by the Devil served to shore up his challenge. It made sense that this house—the emblem of his desire for approval from those he did not truly esteem—now was to be the battleground for the fight for his soul.
Anne stood beside him and also looked up at the house. Trepidation tightened her mouth. Yet she glanced over at him and seemed to sense the swirl of emotion within him. Cautiously, she reached out and took hold of his hand.
He stared at their linked hands, feeling a tightness in his chest that came not from fear but from wonder. Whatever happened in the coming minutes and hours, he had this, this shared moment that
she
had crafted. Even when her hand slipped from his, he continued to feel her strength resonating within.
When Whit and Zora joined them, Leo drew a breath. He mounted the stairs. A gaping Munslow opened the front door, all sense of professional demeanor gone in light of the strange vision standing at the top of the steps: the master of the house, laden with weapons and wearing another man’s clothing, the mistress in her torn and dirty gown, the errant Lord Whitney, and a Gypsy. Not precisely the sort of gathering one found in Bloomsbury minutes away from midnight.
The footman recovered enough to say, “Welcome home, sir.” He held the door open, and the group moved inside.

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