Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 (11 page)

All kinds of reasons. “If you go with him, you’ll create a scandal you won’t be able to quell,” d’Argento said.

“More than that,” Ellesmere said. “It will probably end in your arrest. You know you’ll be accused of her murder.”

“Now, perhaps,” Marcus said. “But they will forget. I’ll take the children.” With Harry standing stock-still behind him, he addressed Virginie as if nobody else was in the room. “Wait for me.” Emotion tinged his tones, a longing so foreign to a man as powerful as Marcus that she lost her voice for a moment. She had to cough to regain it.

“What?” she said, startled.

“I can’t live without you. Wait for me. In a year, maybe sooner, we can be together. There’s no need for us to stay apart. I was prepared to marry Rhea, but she has gone now.” He concentrated on her as if they were the only two people in the room.

She was holding on to reality by a thread. Every part of her told her to accept what he offered, to throw her reputation and her life to the wind and go with him. Only rationality held her back, but she found it so hard to counter his pleading expression. So much that she hurt.

“We are the principal suspects,” Virginie pointed out, her voice no longer steady. “We killed her to get the children and be together. Can’t you hear them saying it?”

Marcus waved a hand impatiently. “What does that matter?” She read his desperation, could almost taste it. That, above all, helped to make up her mind. Despair had no place in her life.

She turned around slowly, meeting the eyes of everybody in turn. “I am the goddess Venus. Until I die, nobody else can have those attributes. I have no intention of dying anytime soon. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. But I tell you, I didn’t kill this woman or have any hand in her death.”

“I believe you.” Harry spoke softly, but somehow his voice reverberated around the room.

“Thank you.” She swung around to face him. The view of the man with the craggy face came as a douche of cool air after the heat of Marcus. “Why?”

“Do I answer that here?” The expression in his eyes took her breath away. They held a promise she didn’t know if she had the bravery to accept. He was so much more than she’d given him credit for.

He stood an inch or so shorter than Marcus, but broader, his thighs thicker. Marcus had a clean, warrior demeanour, but Harry was more rugged, his face lined, a permanent frown furrowing his brows.

Both men wanted her. It was up to her to choose.

“You will wait for me,” Marcus said confidently.

“How can you say that?” Harry turned away from her, to Marcus. He pointed at him, jabbing him in the chest. “The woman who may have borne your children, who you had a relationship with, has been violently murdered!”

“Is there any other way to be murdered?” Marcus murmured. He was provoking Harry, his confidence overweening.

“I believe so. I would not know from personal experience.” Harry planted his hand on Marcus’s brocade-clad chest and shoved. Marcus took a step back, but immediately came forward once more, facing Harry with a glare of warning. “Do not disparage her memory.”

“A mortal?”

Murmurs and shouts sounded. Immortals sprang to their feet. Power thrummed in the room.

“I thought we had agreed that mortals were equals, not inferiors?” Harry demanded. “Shouldn’t we be putting our minds to discovering who committed the crime?”

“I’ll take care of that,” d’Argento said, “considering my attributes and the fact that she died in my club. I propose to put it about that the lady killed herself in despair.” He glanced at Marcus, who was fulminating. Virginie wouldn’t have been surprised to see sparks burst from him.

“Because she did not want to marry me, I suppose?” He knocked Harry’s hand away violently.

The result was almost instantaneous. Tossing his cane away, Harry threw a punch that, had it landed, would have knocked Marcus through the nearest wall. Marcus dodged the blow, and, clenching his fist, sent a well-judged hook Harry’s way. It caught Harry squarely on the chin, but Harry barely paused. He swung out again, this time to once side, bringing his fist around, but Marcus returned the blow.

The speed of the combat was breath-taking.

Men sprang forward, but only to move the furniture from their way. Jupiter helped Eros with a fairly large side-table, and the sole footman deposited his tray on a nearby surface and set to shifting chairs.

What were they doing? Before she could ask, Virginie found herself lifted. Amidei put his hands on her upper arms and just ported her out of the way of the men, now intent on killing each other.

Both wore their town coats, full-skirted and cuffed, lace ruffles flying as they flung powerful blows at each other. They had not even paused to remove them.

“What is this? What are you doing?” she screeched, sounding as far from the goddess of love as a cat did from a lion.

“Moving you out of danger.”

“Why don’t you stop this?” He set her down gently. She smoothed trembling hands over her gown. “Stop them, for God’s sake!”

“They need to do this,” Ellesmere said. “They have to rid themselves of some of the anger. We want no feuds.”

“But they could kill each other!”

Harry slammed to the floor. Marcus landed on top of him, bringing his knee up, but Harry twisted away. “I’m better off my feet,” he commented, sending a kick towards Marcus’s crotch.

The company watched, some in silence, some by shouting encouragement. Others yelled bets. “A thousand on Vulcan!”

Virginie stared at them, frozen in horror, but d’Argento prevented her from going forward. In any case, who would she go to? Which one?

Marcus was faster, but Harry made up for it with sheer brawn. He absorbed Marcus’s punches instead of moving away, concentrating on dealing harder ones of his own.

The men would soon be bloody messes. Their fine clothes were stained rags, the lace torn, the fabric splattered with blood, and still they traded punches.

Marcus rolled away and sprang to his feet, his chest heaving. He crouched, and held his clenched fists before him in a classic boxing pose.

Harry stayed where he was.

Chapter Eleven

Ellesmere and d’Argento moved in. Ellesmere heaved Harry to his feet by the simple expedient of wrapping his hands in the remains of Harry’s coat and lifting him. D’Argento stood in front of Marcus, blocking him from making any further move. He shoved a large, linen handkerchief at Marcus, who took it and wiped his face, eyes first.

Their wounds were healing before the onlookers’ eyes. Humans would show signs of such a brutal encounter for weeks. These two gods must have been healing as they fought. The fight could have gone on for an eternity.

“Apologise,” Harry said, “to Virginie for insulting her.”

Marcus bowed, the tattered remains of his lace fluttering mockingly in the wake of his extravagant flourish. “I apologise to all the ladies for creating such an unedifying sight. Their delicate sensibilities must be outraged.”

Susanna snorted, and the other women laughed or shrugged. “We never get to see a proper mill,” Susanna said. “I should probably offer to reconcile you, but I doubt anyone could do that.”

“If anyone could, it would be you,” d’Argento said. “But I fear you are right. This conflict will not end here. The best we can hope for is politeness.” He jerked his head at Marcus. “Move over there.”

Marcus scratched a mark over his brow, which a minute ago had been a gaping cut. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I insist.”

Marcus sketched a mocking bow and moved to the middle of the room. Out of reach of the fulminating Harry.

He stood, his cane restored to him, glaring at his adversary. “This man is despicable. No sooner is his mistress cold in her grave than he comes for the old one again.” He turned his attention to Virginie. “Do you mean to go with him? You have a free choice, but once you take it, it is yours for good. My offer to you still stands, but not for long. If you go to him, I withdraw it and I will never return for you.”

She knew that. She didn’t need him to tell her. “You’ve been kind, and you understand what this is,” she told him. She gave him a straight look and watched the long scratch on his cheek heal up, leaving only a trace of dried blood.

Then she turned to Marcus. “We are victims, but we can no longer blame Eros for his actions. He started us on this path, that’s all. We continued it. He can’t remove the spell because there is no spell any longer. It’s of our making.”

“Stay where you are,” d’Argento said. No, it was an order. “Before this goes any further, we must decide on our path with the woman who was murdered. If I ensure that a verdict of suicide is reached, then I want this cleared up. Because I don’t believe it was anything of the kind. It was murder.”

The word echoed around the suddenly silent chamber.

“Yes, it was,” Ellesmere said. “It’s serious enough to make me stay here when I have other duties to perform.” Namely ensuring that his father, the Duke of Boscobel, otherwise Kronos, remained confined. Ellesmere glanced at his wife. His intimate smile hid nothing, displayed his love for anyone who cared to see it. “Faith came to me when I planned to go home to her.”

“I had no desire to stay away,” she said. “Not any longer.”

If Virginie had needed an example of what real love looked like, she need look no further. It was there before her, not only in the way Ellesmere behaved to his wife and she to him, but also Kentmere and his wife.

Loath though she was to admit it, Kentmere had been right. He and the nymph belonged together. She wished she had someone like that, someone she knew without doubt belonged to her.

Her decision made, she pushed d’Argento aside. Taken by surprise, he staggered to one side for long enough for her to grab her skirts and move quickly across the room.

She stood by Harry’s side. “This is my decision,” she said. She didn’t touch him, but faced Marcus. “I know you for an honourable man. In your right mind, you would never say those things about a dead woman. That she was a nuisance, an inconvenience, that her death cleared the way for us. You know you would not. Read your heart, tell me that’s not true.”

Marcus went stark white, and compressed his lips together tightly.

She turned to Harry. “I stand by what I said the other day. I made a promise.” She spared Kentmere a glance. “
I
keep my promises.” He did her the courtesy of flushing. “I am yours, if you still want me.”

A slow smile curled Harry’s lips. “Yes, I do.” When he held his hand out to her, she took it, ignoring the dried blood that still stained his flesh.

She moved closer to him and turned back to the room. Everyone watched her. “We must discover the murderer, if only among ourselves. Why would she be killed?”

A few people looked at Marcus. That was one reason they had to find out. Because until they did, Marcus was under suspicion, and despite her currently low opinion of him, she didn’t think he’d done it. Even in a temper Marcus wouldn’t ever strike a woman, much less kill her.

“Why would he want to kill her?” she said, answering the unspoken accusations. “I had already accepted Harry’s offer. He had proposed to her. Much better, don’t you think, to take her and her children to the countryside and do away with them quietly, rather than draw attention to himself?”

A few murmurs, mostly of agreement. She was right, she knew it. Marcus hadn’t done this. She was
almost
sure of it. Only a soupcon of suspicion remained. That was because of what she knew of the enchantment. It could drive either of them to madness. He could have cracked under the strain from the way they had spent the last two months. They’d indulging themselves to excesses that threatened to send the balance of sanity off for good. Just
could
have.

Marcus bowed his head. “I have no witnesses. I did not do it.”

That simple denial sounded more sincere than anything he’d said earlier, more like the old Marcus she’d met when she’d first arrived in London. The one who would have married a woman he was forced to escort rather than see her face disgrace and ruin. It had not come to that, but his steadfastness, courage and honour were still there, buried inside the man.

“We must break this enchantment, Marcus. Somewhere inside you know this.”

She gained a reluctant nod for her pains.

With Harry firmly holding her hand, she turned to leave. “We will support whatever you decide,” she said.

“Wait,” d’Argento commanded. “Not that way. Henry will take you up the back stairs. Unless you want more gossip.”

Ah, yes, his clothes. They took the long way around to the small door the footman took them to, in order to avoid Marcus. He was still standing, staring at them as if he’d seen a ghost. She hoped to God he would come to the same realisation that she had. Otherwise someone would have to intervene. She didn’t have the least idea how that would come to pass or what was involved.

She had to get out of here.

Henry took them to the top guest floor, where Harry had his rooms. He opened the small servant’s door and let them through. From there it was easy to slip into his room. Virginie didn’t hesitate.

A burden had left her once she’d made her final decision. For the past few days she’d hesitated. Did she really want this man? Could she give up the passion she found with Marcus? Now she knew she had to. Could she go through life never seeing Marcus again? Another yes. She’d have to try, at least until she’d finally broken the addiction she’d forced herself into.

Because she wasn’t done with it yet. It hung on, sending yearnings through her body, making her want to run to Marcus, to take more of what she found. Could Harry provide her with some release?

Harry took her to his sitting room, a small but comfortable apartment much like the one she’d had when she’d stayed here, and bade her sit. “I’ll change and be with you directly,” he said.

And wash, no doubt. But she didn’t want that. She needed—something. Contact, perhaps. She took his hand. “I’ll help. Don’t send for your valet.”

He raised a dark brow but said no more. He led her through the connecting door and she found herself in his bedroom. The bed was of dark wood, with rich green covers and drapes. Very masculine in appearance. Did Amidei ensure his guests had rooms that suited them? Or was it an accident that she’d stayed in a room decorated in the shade of forget-me-not blue she liked best?

He had fresh water in the can next to his washstand. Cold, but clean and fresh. She poured a generous amount into the porcelain basin and dipped the sponge in it. Glancing over at him, she saw he was watching her, standing with his arms folded. “Take off those clothes, they’re ruined.”

“Is this what I’m getting myself in for?” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. He crossed the room to the bed and pulled off his coat. “If that’s the case, I can’t wait.”

His waistcoat followed the coat, and then he tugged his shirt, the one with the ruined lace, over his head. His hands went to the buttons on his breeches. “Is this enough, or do you want more?”

No, she wanted to admire his magnificent torso first. Shaking her head, she beckoned to him.

“You’ll ruin your lace,” he pointed out.

The riches of her ruffles were sewn to her shift with a running stitch that was purposely easy to remove. She pulled the ends and tugged off the deep double ruffles, tossing them on to the washstand. “Now I won’t.” He strode to her, picked up the lace and returned to the bed to place it at a distance from his soiled clothes.

His torso was bare and clear of blood. Only his hands, throat and face were marked, and only by specks and smears of dried blood. She wrung out the sponge and set to cleaning him. He held still while she wiped his face, dabbing the sponge into each craggy crease, which he made worse when he smiled.

“I never thought I’d smile today,” he said. “But you’ve made me so happy.”

“I will try to do so.” Pushing her troubles to the back of her mind, she realised she might be doing that for some time to come. But faced with this vision of male pulchritude, it might not be as hard as she’d imagined.

He had a massive chest, dusted with black hair, which clung in curls in places. It thickened towards his waist and narrowed into a suggestive line. He radiated heat, even more now he was half-naked. “You don’t have to try. Just be you. We’ll work through this, I swear it.”

“You can’t make to happen. I will be a good wife to you.” She was determined to do that, whatever it cost her. “I won’t betray you.”

“I was prepared for it,” he admitted. “You are, after all, Venus. She had many lovers.”

“One at a time,” she said. “Only one at a time.” She dabbed away the last of the blood on his face and turned her attention to his wrists and hands. His shirt had covered his arms and taken the brunt of the damage. “You could have killed each other.”

“The others would have intervened before that happened.” He touched his lips to her forehead. She loved the way he did that, so gently for such a big man. “I like your touch.” He hesitated, as if he would have said something else.

Smiling, she completed her self-imposed task, then met his soft gaze. In this brightly lit room they had nothing to hide. Not anymore. He knew all her secrets. All that were worth knowing, anyway. The most important ones, like what she’d done and how she’d betrayed herself and her fellow immortals.

Maybe this was the time to reveal more secrets. Physical ones. She flattened her hand on his chest and closed her eyes, allowing herself to savour the sensation of the silky hair rubbing against her palm.

“Not every woman appreciates a man like me,” he said. “Hairy.”

“I love it,” she said softly, and moved closer. She rubbed her cheek on his chest. He breathed softly, standing quietly, letting her take the lead. “It feels comfortable.” Almost as if she’d done it a million times before. But she hadn’t and the thrill of discovery lay before her. His arms came around her, and he cupped her head with the back of his hand.

“I have the license,” he said. “We’ll marry tomorrow and go into the country. To my house.”

“Where is it?”

“Cheshire. I’ll have to travel north to visit the village in Cumbria where the Simpsons live. I need to do that much, especially now their daughter is no more.”

Reminded of the day’s sad occurrences, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“What?”

“Talk about the Simpsons?”

“On purpose?”

She gazed at him with the knowledge born of her goddess in her eyes. “To stop this going any further.”

“God, no!” Raising his hands, he cupped her face and bent his head.

His kiss seared her. No gentle salute this, but a claiming, as he took her with strength and purpose. He repeatedly thrust his tongue into her mouth, plunging as if imitating the act of love. She responded in kind, holding him close, determinedly taking him again and again.

The news that they would travel away from London sent a shot of panic through her, and she didn’t understand it. Rather than face its meaning, she fell into his embrace. So very rewarding. He kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He sucked her tongue when she slid it between his lips, tasting every part of her mouth.

His hands left her face when she slid her arms around his waist. She couldn’t get close enough, her side hoops hampering her. She wanted flesh.

As if reading her mind, he tugged the kerchief away from her neck. It fell away, baring the skin on her upper chest, and then more, as he set to unhooking the closed front of her gown. She’d worn a long kerchief tucked into buckles, creating a pretty fall of fabric. But the buckles were for show, and the gown was fastened with a series of hooks. He set about them, as skilful as any lady’s maid. Her gown sagged as he released it, drooping off her shoulders. With one sure push and a couple of tugs, he had it off her, and the garment fell to the floor.

She hadn’t known a man who could loosen a lady’s stays so neatly. He managed it while still kissing her and then he had her breasts in his hands. He groaned into her mouth and broke the kiss, staring down at her, his eyes gleaming.

“You are lovely, my lady.”

That sounded good. Marrying Harry would give her a British title once more. She hadn’t realised that until this moment. She’d be “my lady” to most people. A relief. But now she was “my lady” to one person. The one who was holding her breasts, stroking his thumbs over her nipples and making the velvety tips erect for his pleasure. He did appear pleased.