In an alternate universe, the doorway from Elfhame to
England swung open once more. Powerful exiles from the Fae
rode forth to conquer. They divided the territory among them
and the people in their path became subject to their every
whim. An uneasy truce and a stilted regiment of war games
has kept the balance between the Elf Lords through the
centuries. But now the balance is about to tip in favor of
the humans.
Lady Cassandra has lived her life with a single purpose: to
kill, then die. Her mixed genetic heritage has given her the
Death Dance which quickens the drumbeat of her blood and
ensnares her in an instinctive connection with all energies
and inhabitants of a space, transforming her to an
unstoppable weapon. A weapon aimed at the father of her fiance.
General Dominic Raikes exists from one moment to the next.
An accident of birth has given him a face that mirrors that
of Mor'ded, his insane Elven father, lord of the Firelands.
He has learned the harsh lesson that anything he cares for
will be used against him as a test by his twisted father
designed to free the potent black flame energies
within him. He is stunned when his new wife-to-be begins to
melt the ice surrounding his emotions. At all costs, no one
must know of his attraction to her, but
there are some forces more powerful than the magic he
commands. His face is his father's but despite all the
lords' best efforts, Dominic's human heart is his own.
Kathryne Kennedy, the author of The Relics of
Merlin series and Beneath the Thirteen Moons,
has created a fully-realized world. She has created
characters that live and breathe between the pages; a talent
which is, in my opinion, a hallmark of skilled storytelling.
Kennedy gives even minor characters their bit of the stage,
causing them to haunt my memory while I wait for the next
book in the series. In THE FIRE LORD'S LOVER, the England
she has built and those who people it have become important
to me. I am eager to see the resolution of the revolution
begun in volume one of The Elven Lord saga.
Fighting for control of a kingdom that is split into seven
domains, Elven warlords use their human slaves to breed an
endless supply of soldiers for their armies. Dominic Raikes,
the half-blood son of the Elven Lord himself is one such
warrior. Betrothed to Lady Cassandra, who has been raised in
a convent to keep her pure, he little suspects that she's
been secretly trained as an assassin to murder his
father…and him. Dominic and Cassandra soon discover that
each one is not what they seem, but the price of trust may
be their very lives, and the destruction of the magical
realm each is desperately trying to save…
Excerpt
The link between the world of man and Elfhame had
sundered long ago, the elven people and their magic fading
to legend. Tall beings of extraordinary beauty, the fae
preferred a world of peace. But seven elves—considered mad
by their own people—longed for power and war. They stole
sacred magical scepters, created their dragon-steeds, and
opened the gate to the realm of man again and flew through.
Each elf carved a sovereign land within England, replacing
the baronies that had so recently been formed by William the
Conqueror. They acquired willing and unwilling slaves to
serve in their palaces and till their lands. And fight their
wars. Like mythical gods they set armies of humans against
each other, battling for the right to win the king, who’d
become nothing more than a trophy. They bred with their
human slaves, producing children to become champions of
their war games.
The elven lords maintained a unified pact, using the
scepters in a united will to place a barrier around England,
with only a few guarded borders open to commerce. Elven
magic provided unique goods and the world turned a blind eye
to the plight of the people, persuaded by greed to leave
England to its own, as long as the elven did not seek to
expand their rule into neighboring lands.
But many of the English people formed a secret rebellion to
fight their oppressors. Some of the elven’s children
considered themselves human despite their foreign blood and
joined the cause. And over the centuries these half-breeds
became their only hope.
One
London, England, 1724
The people lining the streets of London cheered while
General Dominic Raikes rode to his doom. Not that they had
any idea what awaited him at Firehame palace, and if they
did, he doubted they would care. He resembled the elven lord
too much for that. Yet he had won the final battle and they
hailed him as their champion despite his elven white hair
and pointed ears.
Young women threw flowers from upper-story windows, the
petals flickering through the air like snow and coating the
dusty streets with color. Gray skies covered the sun and in
some places the buildings nearly met above the streets,
further shadowing the rider’s passage with gloom. The
glass-fronted shops had been locked up as their owners
joined the throng in the streets: painted harlots, street
urchins, costermongers, servants, and the occasional
prosperous Cit, distinguishable by his white wig. The fishy
smell of the Thames overlay the stench of the streets as his
troops approached Westminster Bridge.
Over the murky waters the flaming turrets of Firehame palace
beckoned Dominic onward.
He shook back his war braids and straightened his spine and
glanced back at his men. They had cleaned their red woolen
coats as best they could, and lacking wigs, had powdered
their hair to resemble the elven silver white. They had
polished their boots and buttons, brushed their cocked hats.
Despite their stern faces, Dominic could see the glitter of
pride in their eyes and nodded his approval at them. They
returned his gesture with wary respect.
Dominic turned and sighed. They were brave, good men, every
one. Some he owed his victory and life to. He would like to
oversee their promotions himself but it would be too
dangerous. He didn’t know the personal life of a single man,
nor did they know of his. Dominic had grown used to his
solitary existence, yet sometimes he regretted the necessity
of it.
The hooves of his horse met the road at the end of the
bridge with a crunch of pebbles. The noise of the crowd
faded as they neared the open gates of Firehame palace. Red
flame jutted from the top of the stone pillars flanking the
entrance, danced along the outlying curtain walls. Dominic
halted his mount for the span of a breath, studying his home
with the unfamiliar gaze of one after a long absence. Elven
magic had tinted the stone walls a glossy, brilliant red.
Warm yellow flame slithered up the stone, whorled over the
buttresses, making the entire structure shimmer in his
sight. The towers soared above the three-storied palace and
Dominic’s black eyes quickly sought out the tallest, looking
for a flicker of wing, a jet of red fire. But he could see
no sign of the dragon and so flicked his reins, urging his
horse into the courtyard.
Dominic wanted nothing more than a bath and then the quiet
of his garden or the sanctuary of the dragon’s tower. He
knew he wouldn’t manage any of his comforts until he’d been
tested in fire.
He thrust away the memory of pain and dismounted, feeling
his face turn to stone, his body conform to rigid military
posture as he crossed the paved courtyard and ascended the
steps into the opulence of Firehame palace. Several of his
officers followed, although many decided to forgo the
privilege of coming to the attention of the Imperial Lord of
the sovereignty of Firehame.
The back hallways they marched through displayed the magic
and wealth of the elven lord. Delicate tapestries that
rewove their pictures every few minutes covered the walls,
and thick rugs of rippling ponds and bottomless chasms
carpeted the floors. Dominic breathed in the scent of candle
wax, perfume, and elfweed, ignoring the portraits framed in
gold with their moving eyes that followed their passage. At
the end of summer the air in the corridor still felt chill
against his cheeks. His ears rang from the silence.
Then Dominic opened the door leading to the great room and
the thunder of applause broke that brief moment of quiet. He
paused, waiting for his men to compose themselves, then
started down the middle of the enormous room through the
crowd of gentry that awaited them.
Fluted columns lined the sides of the hall, capped with
ornately carved capitals that supported archways even more
ornately carved with golems, gremlins, and gargoyles.
Courtiers milled between the stone supports, a riot of
colorful silk skirts and gold-trimmed coats. Full court wigs
of powdered white sparkled with the addition of the ground
stone the nobles used to imitate the silver luster of elven
hair. Buckled shoes flashed with diamonds; ceremonial swords
sparkled with ruby and jet.
The smell of perfume became overwhelming and Dominic
suppressed the urge to sneeze. He kept his gaze fixed on his
goal, the dais of gold where the elven lord Mor’ded waited,
but he caught the faces of the courtiers from the corners of
his eyes. The lustful gazes of women—and more than a few
men—followed his every movement. Despite their fear of the
elven, humans could not resist their beauty, and Dominic had
inherited more elven allure than his half blood warranted.
When he reached the Imperial Lord’s throne, Dominic stared
at Mor’ded for longer than he intended. Silvery white hair
cascaded past broad shoulders in a river broken only by the
tips of the elven lord’s pointed ears. Black, fathomless
eyes stared coldly into Dominic’s own, the expression
robbing them of their almost crystalline brilliance. Smooth,
pale skin glistened like the finest porcelain over high
cheekbones and strong chin. A full mouth, straight nose,
high brow.
When Dominic looked at the Imperial Lord, he might as well
have been gazing into a mirror of his future, for although
his father must be over seven hundred years old, he did not
look a day over five-and-thirty. And despite the thickness
of his elven blood, Dominic aged at a normal human pace. In
ten years, Dominic would look like the man before him.
Dominic dropped to one knee and bowed his head, war braids
dangling beside his cheeks and eyes fixed on the marble
floor. A wave of silence rolled across the room until he
could hear nothing but the breathing of his men and the
rustle of the ladies’ silk skirts. "I have won the king, my
lord."
At his words, the room erupted in applause again and Dominic
stood, gazing at his father, hoping to see a glimmer of
pride in those cold black eyes. He had fought for years to
achieve such acknowledgement.
Imperial Lord Mor’ded smiled, revealing even white teeth,
and cut his hand through the air, signaling the court to
silence. He stood with a grace no human could possess and
stepped down from the dais, one hand wrapped around the
black scepter that enhanced his magic. Dominic’s eyes
flicked to the rod, the runes carved upon it swirling
momentarily in his sight before he quickly looked away.
As a child he’d been constantly hungry. He’d been stealing
food off the sideboard in the grand dining room when his
father and court had entered. He’d hidden under the table
and his father had sat, the triangular-shaped head of the
scepter jutting beneath the crisp white linen. Dominic
didn’t know what made him reach out and stroke the forbidden
talisman, for everyone knew only one of true elven blood
could hold it without being flamed to ash. But he hadn’t
tried to wield it, had only touched it, and since then he
couldn’t look at it without feeling strange. As if the thing
possessed a conscious awareness of him. It bothered him that
he had such a fanciful thought.
Mor’ded reached his side and placed his other hand on
Dominic’s shoulder. The chill of his long fingers penetrated
the heavy wool of Dominic’s coat. "After a hundred years the
king will finally be returned to his rightful place. Thanks
to my son, the champion of all Firehame."
Applause thundered again. The elven lord’s words echoed in
Dominic’s ears. His father had publicly acknowledged him as
his son. Fierce pleasure rose in Dominic’s chest and he had
to force himself to concentrate on Mor’ded’s next words.
"General Raikes has defeated Imperial Lord Breden’s forces
and we have won the ultimate trophy—King George and his
royal court. London will again be the center of taste and
fashion. The sovereignty of Firehame will house the man who
decides what color breeches you wear."
A ripple of excited pleasure ran through the courtiers and
Dominic stared coldly at the assemblage. Did they not hear
the disdain in his father’s voice? Did they not understand
the mockery toward the king who should be their rightful ruler?
Mor’ded’s fingers tightened on Dominic’s shoulder, and the
elven lord’s magic shivered through his spine. Dominic
forced himself to relax under the painful grip. It did not
matter if the ton understood or not. They could do nothing
about it, anyway.
"Tonight we will feast in my son’s honor."
His fingers gave Dominic one last painful squeeze before he
released his grip and climbed back up on his dais. With a
flourish of his scepter, Mor’ded filled the long great room
with sparkling white fire, the flames harmlessly bouncing
off the wigs of the men and the silk skirts of the ladies.
The courtiers laughed and wove their bodies through the
magic, and Dominic watched them with hooded eyes until his
father grew tired of amusing his playthings.
When Mor’ded swept the skirts of his red silk coat through
the door behind the throne, Dominic followed, resisting the
sudden urge to draw his sword and run it through his
father’s back.
He’d tried it once. It had cost him the life of his best friend.
His father lit their way through the gloomy passage with
white fire that slithered on the ceiling above them. Dominic
knew most of the passageways behind the walls of the palace.
He’d spent hours as a youth exploring them. This particular
one led from the throne to Mor’ded’s private chambers, and
branched off only once by means of a tunnel that his father
told him twisted far beneath the palace, finally opening
onto an entrance to the fabled land of Elfhame. Of course,
only a chosen one could pass into that land, and Dominic had
still failed to prove worthy. They both ignored the heavily
warded door blocking the tunnel as they continued on to the
end of the passage.
Mor’ded opened the door to his chamber and Dominic followed
him into the room and suppressed a shudder. Very few people
were allowed into the Imperial Lord’s private chamber, and
he didn’t count himself lucky to be one of them. The walls
glowed with iridescent color, a copy, Mor’ded had once told
him, of the truly living walls of his old rooms in his
homeland of fabled Elfhame. Plants grew in the corners of
the room, pale pink pods that occasionally liked to dine on
warm meat through some corrosive process Dominic didn’t want
to understand. A striated crystal sat next to the double
doors that led out onto a balcony broad enough for a dragon
to land. The stone picked up the color of the gray skies and
threw it into the room. Large enough for a table, and yet
shaped like a cone, the crystal held a hole in the top of it
that Mor’ded often slipped his scepter into.
Chairs that resembled flower petals, a bed that could be
some sort of deformed swan, and a desk that snapped closed
like the jaws of some great beast completed the room.
Dominic always felt displaced here, as if a part of his mind
rejected the surroundings. But then again, he’d become quite
skilled at projecting his mind out of his body. It was the
only way he’d survived the trials with his sanity intact.
Mor’ded slid into one of his petal-chairs, the scepter
carelessly laid across his lap. He liked to play with
Dominic a bit before he began, taunting him to display any
human weakness.
"You used magic to gain your victory."
Dominic clasped his hands behind his back and widened his
stance. No use in denying it. He’d seen the shadow of the
dragon hovering over the battlefield, his father atop the
great beast, enjoying the sight of the games. "I used it to
save the lives of my men."
That handsome mouth crooked, so like Dominic’s own. "It
looked to be quite a firestorm."
Dominic shrugged.
Mor’ded shifted, the swish of his silk coats loud in the
silent room. "Breden is furious, of course. He says we
should not allow any of our bastards to play in the games.
Indeed, that we should cull any of those possessing the
slightest degree of power."
Dominic kept his face impassive. He did not doubt that the
elven lords would destroy all their offspring on a whim, for
he knew of their madness better than anyone. "One of
Breden’s bastards tried to quench my fire with a wave of
water from the Bristol Channel."
"Which I pointed out to Breden," replied Mor’ded. He waved a
graceful hand. "It matters not what he says. His pride has
been injured by the loss of the king. He had become
complacent, and we elven must never succumb to that human
weakness, eh, Dominic?"
"Never, my lord."
"Aah, but it makes me wonder. Have I allowed myself to
become complacent?" Mor’ded leaned forward, his glittering
eyes intent on his son’s face, baiting him with the agony of
anticipation.
Dominic clenched his teeth.
Mor’ded collapsed back in his chair, the petal swaying with
his laughter, a ringing song emanating from the depths of
the flower. "You were one of my greatest mistakes, and yet a
most amusing one. We elven procreate with you animals so
rarely, and yet a brief rut with a common kitchen maid
produced a bastard with enough of my blood to bear a marked
resemblance to me. And sometimes I swear your heart is all
elven." He shook his head, pale locks winking with silver.
"Still, who knew that when I saw you fighting with the other
kitchen boys and threw you into the game you would rise to
claim the king one day? Not I."
"You’ve taught me well, Father."
"Indeed. And now we must again test your worthiness. You
know what has to come, do you not?"
Dominic lifted his chin.
His father stood, the scepter held before him with both
hands, calling on the additional power the talisman gave
him. "There is no other way to be sure of your power. Defend
yourself, boy." And he unleashed the black flame.
It engulfed Dominic with a hiss and a scream, licking at his
feet, shivering down his arms. His clothes appeared
unaffected by the flame, and yet he felt them melting into
his flesh, fusing into him. His skin still looked whole, and
yet he felt it searing into ash. The black flame only burned
in the mind, but ah, even the worse for that. He gritted his
teeth and vowed that this time, he would not fall. His own
little game he always played against his father.
Dominic held up his hands, his own magic instinctively
responding to the assault. White, blue, gray—he could call
the entire spectrum of fire magic except for the black, but
only the red fire did any damage, and his father easily
squelched the blaze before it could sizzle the tiny fibrous
hairs off his monstrous plants.
"Come on, lad. You can do better than that," said Mor’ded.
And increased the magic twofold.
Dominic gasped for breath. The blackness slid down his
throat and into his lungs, charring them until he could not
breathe. The pain he could withstand, but the suffocation
always defeated him. He dropped to one knee. His magic
flared again and he imagined he felt the power of the black
fire within him, the flame that burned only in the mind.
Dominic tried to call it forth, but as always, nothing happened.
He always forgot how bad the pain could be. How could he forget?
Dominic had been wounded in battle many times. His men
whispered that his elven blood made him impervious to pain.
They did not know his mind had been tempered in fire, that
the cut of a sword or sting of a bullet seemed a minor ache
compared to the agony of his father’s magic.
And Dominic knew he couldn’t possess the power of black
fire, as much as he wished for it. The gift would have been
revealed when he reached puberty, when any elven powers
first appeared, and he would have been sent to Elfhame with
the rest of the chosen children. Only those with small
magics stayed in the human world.
Yet his father continued to test him again and again, as if
he suspected his son held stronger power as well. Or perhaps
Mor’ded just enjoyed torturing him.
Dominic’s lungs began to falter, his breath reduced to no
more than a strangled wheeze of agony. His other knee
collapsed and he fell to all fours, cursing his weakness.
Cursing his father.
And suddenly the burning fire ceased.
Blessedly cool air caressed his cheeks and he sucked in a
deep breath. Dominic resisted the urge to run his hands over
his face, his hair--to reassure himself that he stood
unharmed as he’d done the first time he’d endured one of his
father’s trials. Mor’ded had laughed at him and Dominic had
vowed never to give the man the satisfaction of that
pleasure again.
Dominic rose with elven grace.
Mor’ded studied him with narrowed eyes. "No elf could
withstand such pain and not instinctively call forth his own
magic in defense. Again you’ve proven how truly weak you
are...and yet..."
Dominic let out a tired sigh. He did not bother using the
blue healing fire. His body might be whole, but it always
took some time for his mind to heal from the memory of the
pain. And he rarely used so much of his power; he felt tired
unto death. "Either destroy me completely or allow me to
leave. I’m half human, you know."
"Indeed, indeed." Mor’ded chuckled, lifted his scepter and
the door of his chamber flew open with a breath of fire.
"You look so elven I forget you’re half animal. Go lick your
wounds, then. I want you rested for the feast tonight, and
of course, your marriage tomorrow."
Dominic halted in midstep. He had forgotten the date. Easy
to do, since he’d almost forgotten what his intended looked
like. He’d met Lady Cassandra a few times and could only
recall a plain wisp of a girl with brownish hair and eyes.
"Is it tomorrow, then? I suppose it’s best to get it over with."
Mor’ded rolled the scepter between his palms, his black eyes
glittering. "It will make the humans happy, seeing my son
wed to one of their finest aristocrats. And who knows?
Perhaps you will breed true and produce another champion."
Dominic sighed. Fatigue shrouded him and it took all of his
will to pick up his feet and put one before the other again.
He had realized years ago that it would be pointless to
fight the destiny his father had forced upon him. If Mor’ded
wanted him to take a wife and breed champions, so be it.
It mattered only that Dominic never allowed them to be used
against him.
When he left Mor’ded’s room his feet took him to the tower
stairs and not his own chambers. Halfway up the curving
staircase a wave of nausea overtook him and he allowed
himself a brief moment of weakness. In the dark, where none
could see. He felt again the searing of his flesh and the
constriction of his lungs. Sweat broke out on his forehead
while his body trembled in wave upon wave of remembered
pain. But he gritted his teeth against the sobs that
threatened to rise from his chest and for a brief moment
pictured his father’s slim neck between his battle-hardened
hands.
He thrust the futile image away and began to climb again.
The elven lord could level London if he so chose. Dominic’s
strength would never be a match against Mor’ded’s and he’d
been forced to accept that.
But he had won a victory today. He’d made his father proud
enough to call him son before the entire court. Dominic
would grasp that slender victory, as he’d grasped even
smaller accomplishments over the years.
He shoved open the wooden door and stepped out onto the flat
roof of the tower. Humid air caressed his skin; a light
breeze swept his silver hair against his cheeks. The
metallic smell of the dragon teased his nose and he glanced
across the rooftop at the huge beast.
Ador raised his black-scaled head and blinked at Dominic,
his red eyes glowing even in the overcast day. Strange eyes,
with elongated pupils with black lines radiating from them,
separating the red color like pieces of a pie. The dragon’s
leatherlike wings lay tucked against his sides, appearing
deceptively small against his long, sinuous body.
Dominic removed his woolen coat and spread it out in his
usual place at the base of a merlon and sat, his back
against the stone. He leaned his head against the hard
surface and closed his eyes with a sigh of utter weariness.
The dragon shifted. Dominic heard it in the slide of scale
on stone, felt it in the tremble of the floor beneath his
feet. It had once frightened him, the sheer size of the
beast. But no more. He’d gotten used to the beast and
Ador...well, the dragon had finally managed to tolerate him.
"Do you remember the first time I came up here, Ador?"
Dominic didn’t wait for the dragon to answer. He rarely
received a response to his musings. But for Dominic it was
enough that someone listened. "Father had tested my magic by
burning Mongrel to ashes. He was a good dog and a loyal
friend. I didn’t think I’d ever forgive myself for not
having enough magic to protect him."
The pungent smell of the Thames swept across the tower, even
at this height, and for a moment, Dominic thought he could
hear the muffled sounds of the city below them.
"It was the first time I realized I could no longer allow
myself to care for anyone. Man nor beast. For Father would
always use them to test my magic." Dominic blocked the
images of those who had suffered because of him. He’d found
it much easier to bear the pain himself. "But my human
weakness for companionship made me think of you. All alone,
atop your tower. And then I realized Father would never harm
his dragon-steed. That I could care for you, at least. Even
if you couldn’t return the sentiment." Dominic cracked a
hopeful eye. But Ador appeared to have fallen back to sleep,
his lungs like a great bellows pumping beneath those black,
shiny scales.
Dominic sighed and allowed the solitude of their high perch
to settle over him. The world seemed very far away up here.
The wars, the court, his father, all dwindled to minute
specks of matter. One final small tremor shook him,
dispelling the last memory of pain. And when he spoke again
his voice held the coldly rigid control it always did.
"I have done well, in most respects, to be like my father.
Remote and untouchable, concerned only with my own pleasure.
But you know the truth of me, don’t you, Ador? Whether you
willed it or not, you’ve been forced to hear my true
thoughts over the years." Dominic scrubbed a weary hand
across his brow. "This elven face of mine is deceiving, for
I’ve been cursed with an all-too-human heart."
Ador snorted and his wing twitched, his only reaction to
Dominic’s damning statement. Ah, well. Dominic should
consider that a remarkable response. Usually the dragon
resembled nothing more than a still lump of shiny black coal.
Dominic rose and arched his back, wincing at a stab of pain.
Just an ordinary pain, though, from an old bullet wound in
battle. He smiled with relief that it held none of the taint
of black fire magic. "Are you aware I’m to be married on the
morrow? A dangerous proposition, for one such as I. I almost
feel sorry for the girl...but the aristocracy are used to
being breeding stock, are they not?"
He picked up his coat and slung it over his back. His mind
felt settled again, the memory of the burning fading to a
manageable degree. Dominic couldn’t be sure if the dragon’s
quiet presence soothed him or if the release of his thoughts
brought him peace. He knew only that he always healed faster
atop the tower.
He’d taken a few steps toward the door when the dragon’s
rumbling words stopped him.
"I smell a change in the wind."
Dominic turned and stared into those red eyes. "What do you
mean?"
Ador, of course, did not answer. He closed his eyes again
and huffed a small stream of smoke through his nostrils.
Dominic considered the implications of the dragon’s words.
Ador had once told him Father was mad. An obvious statement,
it seemed, and yet those words had allowed Dominic to deal
with his father time and again. So he did not think the
dragon referred to something as simple as the coming of the
king. Yet no matter how he twisted the statement around in
his head, he could not fathom it.
Ah, well. How could Dominic know the turnings of a dragon’s
mind? It would become clear in time...or until Ador chose to
make it clear.
Two
Lady Cassandra Bridges knelt on the wooden step of the pew
in front of her and pressed her palms together. The small
chapel lay shrouded in shadow, the gray clouds failing to
light the stained glass windows above the altar. Several
students surrounded her and so Cassandra kept her voice to
less than a whisper. "Almighty God, please let my new
husband be happy with me tomorrow—"
She started at the light touch on her shoulder, turning to
face Sister Mary, who only nodded her veiled head towards
the open chapel door. Cassandra mutely followed the sister
down the aisle, noting with satisfaction that none of her
classmates noticed her departure. She’d worked hard to make
herself almost invisible to them, fostering no friendships
or acquaintances.
They stepped out into the long hall with its arched roof and
mosaic-tiled floor, their footsteps echoing softly over
scenes of glorious battles and cherubic angels. Sister Mary
slowed to walk beside Cassandra.
"You must be sure to pay extra attention during your private
lesson today," said the blue-eyed nun.
Cassandra mutely nodded, waiting for the other woman to
explain herself. She’d learned that if she kept her mouth
closed, people talked more freely than if she’d asked them a
hundred questions.
Sister Mary clasped her hands before her bosom. "General
Raikes—your intended—has won the king today. So you must be
even more diligent in your studies, for when you go to
court, you will not only have to impress the Imperial Lord,
but King George as well."
Cassandra’s heart fluttered with excitement. Not because her
future husband had accomplished what no other man had done
for over a hundred years. Not because she would live under
the same roof as the king. But because the king’s most
trusted advisor, Sir Robert Walpole, would be coming to
Firehame. Having the counsel of the leader of the Rebellion
might make her task easier.
"So you must listen well to Father Thomas," continued Sister
Mary, a slight hitch to her breath at the mention of the
handsome priest. "Practice your curtsies and table manners
and forms of address, so you will do our school proud."
Cassandra glanced at the nun. She required a response. "Yes,
Sister."
The nun nodded with satisfaction. Sister Mary had elven
blood somewhere in her family line, for Cassandra caught the
brief flash of a halo around the other woman’s head, the
brilliant white plumage of angel’s wings behind her
shoulders. The illusion faded, though, at Sister Mary’s next
words. "Although I can’t imagine anyone not paying close
attention to Father Thomas." A small sigh escaped her pretty
mouth.
Cassandra stifled a smile. She didn’t blame the nun, despite
the other woman’s vows of chastity. The handsome priest
would cause any woman’s heart to yearn for just a touch of
his hand. Indeed, Cass had even once thought herself in love
with him, when he’d first come to tutor her.
Sister Mary stopped just outside a heavy wooden door, a
relief of elven figures being warmed by rays of light from
heaven carved into the oak surface. "Do you wish me to
accompany you inside?"
Cassandra heard the note of longing in that request but had
to shake her head. The staff had strict instructions from
the headmaster to never enter this room. And despite Sister
Mary’s longing to catch a glimpse of Father Thomas, it would
be safer for her not to become too familiar with the priest.
The nun sighed and left, the long sweep of her robes
floating back down the hall, her wings reappearing and
flowing in her wake like some feathered train. Cassandra
took a breath and slowly turned the doorknob, allowing not a
hint of a squeak, a ghost of a sound, to announce her
presence. Although her fellow students chose to wear the
silk gowns befitting their aristocratic status, Cass had
years ago traded them for soft, brushed wool and
modest-sized hoops. Her skirts did not rustle nor did her
hoops catch on the doorframe.
She closed the door as silently as she’d opened it.
Father Thomas stood with his back to the room, his hands on
the windowsill, contemplating London’s dreary skies. Tables
littered the room, where he’d taught her all the card games
with which the court amused itself. Near the columned
fireplace sat two velvet chairs and a tea tray, arrayed with
meticulous precision. A pianoforte waited on the left wall,
music sheets carefully arranged for her instruction.
But the middle of the room lay bare, nary a rug or carpet to
break the smooth expanse of flagstone. Her true lessons took
place within that empty space.
Cassandra waited with bated breath. Father Thomas appeared
deep in thought, unaware of his surroundings. One of his
ancestors had ties to Dreamhame, for the man possessed some
of that sovereignty’s elven power of illusion and glamour.
He often startled Cass by appearing silently at her side.
Had her tutor really made such a mistake, or had he
orchestrated a clever trap?
She slowly removed the cloth-of-gold belt from around her
waist. A tune formed in her head. She felt the slight shiver
of elven magic run through her blood as her feet began to
move to the tempo of the music in her mind. Her body
trembled in anticipation of the dance; the kettledrum
pounding a growing beat, the flute twittering its notes, the
bassoon growling beneath the increasing tempo.
Cassandra wrapped the ends of her belt firmly in both hands
and allowed the music to possess her. It fired her blood,
strengthened her muscles, gave her a speed that surpassed
all but an elven lord’s. She danced across the room within
the blink of an eye. Looped the belt around Father Thomas’s
neck and twisted.
His hands scrabbled at the cloth around his throat. She
could feel his magic rising within him in defense of the
attack. But speed and surprise aided her. The need of his
body for air overwhelmed his instinct for the magic. He
fell, his heavier weight bringing Cass to the floor with
him, knocking over a small mahogany table and shattering the
pale blue vase that sat atop it.
Lady Cassandra squeezed until Father Thomas stopped
struggling. Had she really caught him by surprise, then? Had
he broken the rule he’d pounded into her over the years?
"You were distracted," she accused him.
He didn’t respond. Fear fluttered in her stomach, and she
loosened her hold. "Thomas?"
He grunted and she slid her belt off his neck, tossing it
aside as she crawled over his body to look into his face.
Despite the slight blue tinge to his full lips and the scowl
tightening his brow, he still managed to look incredibly
handsome. The annoyance in his gray eyes softened to
something else as Cass continued to study him with genuine
alarm.
"Have I hurt you?"
He smiled. "My pride more than anything else."
Lady Cassandra humphed. "Because you were bested by a woman?"
"No. Because I was bested by my student."
She suddenly realized their faces lay only inches apart.
That she sat close enough to him to smell the scent of his
cologne. Cass scrambled backward, smashing her hoops against
the wall. "Well I should think," she continued, "that you’d
be pleased with yourself, Viscount Althorp. Isn’t the best
teacher the one whose student surpasses him?"
He sat up, rubbing at the red mark around his throat, his
priestly garb twisted around his lean body. Cass never
understood how he’d managed to fool so many with that
clothing. He had the eyes of a wicked man.
They looked at her with a glitter of wickedness even now.
"Perhaps. And I suppose the timing is fortuitous, since
you’re to be married on the morrow."
Cassandra abruptly rose and he copied her movement, his eyes
never leaving hers. He reached out to touch her hand and she
turned away, facing out the same window he’d been standing
at but a moment ago. "You’ve heard that he has won the king?"
"Of course."
Cassandra didn’t need to name her intended. They both knew
of whom she spoke. And suddenly her doubts overwhelmed her.
If only she had inherited some of that elven beauty, perhaps
she wouldn’t be so unsure of winning him over. Her brown
hair had a hint of red, her brown eyes a touch of gold, but
her appearance held nothing unusual enough to tempt him.
Fie,the nuns likened her to a little brown wren. She lowered
her voice to a near whisper. "The very thought of him
frightens me sometimes. I think he is more elven than human.
I worry I shan’t be able to please him."
"Cass." Thomas’s own voice lowered to a husky timbre. "Look
at me."
She never should have spoken of her fears. Not to him.
Truly, not to anyone. But her marriage had always seemed a
distant thing, something she needn’t worry about for a long
time. The day had come faster than she had been prepared for.
When she didn’t turn around, Thomas clasped her shoulders
and spun her, forcing her to look at him. "You don’t have to
go through with this."
She looked into those gray eyes and saw to her utter
astonishment that he meant what he said. "Do not allow me to
give in to a moment of cowardice, Thomas."
"I’m serious." His hand brushed her cheek.
When he’d first come to tutor her, she would have given her
life for that touch. But Thomas had kept himself aloof,
recognizing her infatuation for what it was. Or so she had
thought.
"Come away with me," he said. "You don’t have to go through
with this. The Rebellion will find someone else to marry the
bastard."
Just the thought that she would stray from the path laid out
for her dizzied Cassandra for a moment. Nearly every day of
her life had been in preparation for her marriage to the
Imperial Lord’s champion. The thought that she wouldn’t
fulfill her destiny set her adrift. "It would be impossible."
He misunderstood her. "No, it wouldn’t. I’ve given this a
lot of thought over the past few days. I’m the most skilled
spy in the Rebellion, Cass. I can get you out of Firehame
into one of the neighboring sovereignties before anyone
suspects you’re even missing. I can keep you safe."
She shook her head and his temper flared. "You are going to
your death, Lady Cassandra."
Her own temper retaliated in response. "You’ve known this
for years. Need I remind you that you are the one who taught
me the death dances? You are the one who swayed me to the
Rebellion’s cause. How dare you take advantage of my
cowardice to offer me this false hope."
"It’s not false." He picked up her hands and went down on
one knee. "Marry me."
"I cannot."
"Why?"
"Because I don’t love you."
His breath hitched. She hadn’t meant to put it so baldly.
"You don’t love the bastard either. And you can’t marry him."
She pulled her hands out of his. "I can. I will. That’s
different and you know it. It’s a path I decided to take
long ago. I’ve made my peace with God and am willing to risk
my immortal soul."
"Don’t spout that holy drivel at me, Cassandra. This
priestly garb is nothing but a disguise, you know."
She couldn’t help the half smile that formed on her mouth.
"And well do I know it, Viscount Thomas Althorp."
He stood, raking his gold hair away from his eyes, scowling
at her stubbornness. "You used to love me, once."
"I admit I was infatuated with you. How could I not be?
Besides my father, you’re the only man with whom I’ve spent
any company." She didn’t mention her betrothed. She’d been
allowed out of the confines of the school to meet with him
on several occasions. But it had all been formal functions,
and Dominic Raikes barely seemed to notice her.
Thomas made a strangled sound, stepped forward, and roughly
took her into his arms. And then he kissed her.
Cassandra had never been kissed before. He caught her
completely unawares and at first she could do nothing but
study the peculiar sensation of having a man’s mouth on her
own. Warm, wet...and decidedly odd. She couldn’t quite
decide whether she liked the experience or not.
Thomas pulled back his head and stared down into her face.
"You don’t feel a thing, do you?"
She frowned. "What exactly am I supposed to be feeling?"
He let out a sigh of exasperation and kissed her again.
Cass wondered if it would feel the same when her intended
finally kissed her. Although she couldn’t be sure if he
would, not knowing if it was necessary for the act
of...procreation. He’d made it very clear he would do only
his duty and nothing more. That he viewed her as his
breeding stock.
The thought made her try to respond to Thomas. This might be
her only chance to experience a true kiss. She cautiously
curled her hands around his shoulders, which made him moan
and lean even closer to her, nearly bending her backward
with the force of his mouth.
Cassandra could think of nothing other than the pain in her
back and the need to breathe.
Thomas pulled away and raised his golden brows. "Despite
your lack of enthusiasm I know you aren’t frigid," he muttered.
"What do you mean? I’m not the slightest bit cold. Indeed,
your hold is nearly suffocating me with warmth."
He straightened and set her away from him. "You could come
to love me, you know."
"I’m not destined for love. I knew that the moment I decided
to join the Rebellion."
He spun and sought out the chair by the fireplace, sat with
his elbows propped on his knees and stared into the embers.
"You’ve always been stubborn. Once you set your sight on
something, there’s no changing your mind. I had to try
though." He glanced up at her, gold hair tumbling over his
brow. "Do you know how many assassins we’ve set on the elven
lords? And they’ve all failed, Lady Cassandra. Every last
one of them."
The look in his eyes frightened her. She prayed to God for
courage and took a moment to compose herself. She smoothed
her sleeves, fluffed her skirts. Their lesson today had not
gone as she had thought it would. Fie, she had never
imagined having such a conversation with Lord Althorp. Had
never imagined that the man who’d always reassured her would
now require that same sentiment back.
She folded her hands in front of her and gave him a cheeky
grin. "How many of them managed to nearly strangle you to
death, Thomas?"
He couldn’t seem to resist smiling back at her. "Confound
it, girl. I can’t help but admire you. There’s nothing I can
say to change your mind, is there?"
"No." She felt her smile falter as she thought of the
enormity of her task. "I cannot think of myself, Thomas. Nor
you, nor my father...or the elven bastard, for that matter.
The freedom of the people of England is at stake. And just
the chance"—she clasped her hands tight—"the mere chance of
ending these ridiculous war games and setting the king in
power once more is worth my soul."
"Not to me." She opened her mouth again and he held up a
pale hand to quiet her. "Enough. Do you know your eyes glaze
over like a nun at prayer when you say such things?"
"Had I not been chosen for this task, I would have liked to
have taken the vows."
Thomas laughed at her, slapping his knees. "Oh, no, my girl.
Becoming a nun is not for the likes of you."
Cass raised her chin, miffed at his opinion of her. "I would
make a very good nun."
He laughed harder, wiped the tears from those wicked gray
eyes. "Sometimes I think I know you better than you know
yourself. There’s a fire within you, Lady Cassandra. I felt
it in your kiss. And one day it will be set free, and heaven
help the man who stokes it." He motioned her to the chair
across from him and Cassandra took it, although her back
stayed as stiff as a rod. He eyed her for a time in silence,
only the crackle of the fire and the muted sounds of a
carriage rumbling past the window disturbing the quiet.
All trace of humor vanished from his expression, and he
leaned forward, his brow creased in earnestness. "I do not
think your father did you a favor by having you raised among
all this religious dogma. You’ve taken it to heart and I’m
not sure if it will help or hinder you."
Cass frowned. She’d always considered Thomas’s lack of faith
a peculiarity, another oddity to his character compared to
those she’d always been surrounded by. She pitied him for it.
Thomas sighed. "Well, then, there’s no help for it. Despite
my teaching, the nuns have managed to keep you pure, anyway.
What a paradox you are, my dear. The court won’t know what
to make of you."
"Unless they get in my way, they hardly matter."
"I dare say. Now, this will probably be the last time we
will be able to meet privately."
Cassandra felt her stomach twist. In many ways, Thomas had
been her only friend. How would she manage without his company?
He patted her hand then snatched his away, as if he had to
force himself not to hold onto her. Their conversation
today, that kiss of his, had changed their relationship, it
seemed. Perhaps it would be better if they did not meet again.
"Don’t worry," he assured her. "You shall still see me. But
not as Father Thomas. Viscount Althorp, however, will
reappear at court, to the surprise and delight of all, I am
sure." He gave her that crooked grin that had once made her
younger self swoon. "But it wouldn’t be safe for us to talk
often, or privately, so listen closely."
She nodded, relieved they had resumed their familiar roles
as tutor and student.
"I don’t know," he said, "if having the king’s court in
Firehame will make your task easier. See if you can aid our
leader, Sir Robert Walpole, but do not risk your task for
his sake. We’ve never had an assassin this close to an
Imperial Lord before. Your mission is far more important
than the leader of the Rebellion, do you understand?"
Cassandra nodded.
"Your magic for the dance will not be enough. You never
would have returned home after your trials if you had enough
magic to truly threaten the elven lord. Only surprise and
skill will overcome him."
Although Cass vaguely remembered her trials, she knew her
father had been disappointed when she hadn’t possessed
enough magic to be sent to the elvens’ home world, the
fabled Elfhame. His friend, Lord Welton, had bragged for
years that his son had been a chosen one, and the duke had
been decidedly put out when he could not say the same of his
only child.
It had soothed her father somewhat when she’d become
affianced to General Raikes. And now that her intended had
won the king...
"It may take you years to get close to the Imperial Lord,"
continued the viscount. "It will help you immensely if you
can manage to make your new husband trust you. But even
then, do not rush forward blindly. Remember your most
important lesson."
The words fell from her mouth without thought. "Patience."
"Just so. Practice it with Dominic Raikes. I’m sure he will
tax it."
Cassandra smiled. Thomas did not return it this time.
Instead he leaned forward, his gray eyes hard as steel.
"Make sure of your opportunity before you seize it. If
nothing else, remember that, my girl."
"I will. I promise."
The bell rang, signaling the end of prayer, and made both of
them jump. Thomas smiled at her rather sheepishly, and
Cassandra feared the smile she gave him in turn held too
much sadness in it.
He walked her to the door, bowed low over her hand. "If you
ever need me, leave a message for Father Thomas. I will
come...if it’s safe."
She understood. From this moment forward, she should depend
only upon herself. She turned to leave, but he would not let
go of her hand.
"Are you sure?" he murmured.
"Yes." Oh, how confident she sounded! Was it false or true?
She supposed the next few days would tell.
His grip loosened and she felt her entire body grow cold.
Would she ever be truly warm again?
"Farewell, then, Lady Cassandra. You have been a most
excellent student."
She might never see him again, at least in this guise. She
wondered what he would be like in the full role of Viscount
Althorp. "Goodbye, Father Thomas."
Cass slipped out the door almost as quietly as she’d
entered. Some of her training had become pure habit. The
hall flowed with the colorful skirts of the ladies of
quality and she insinuated herself within the crowd of
students with barely a notice. She knew she should go to her
rooms, that her father had sent his servants along with her
wedding gown so she would be prepared for tomorrow.
But the entire encounter with Thomas had shaken her belief
in the path she had chosen to take. Her widowed father had
no idea of her involvement with the Rebellion; he would
have disowned her, since he stood to gain status and funds
with her union to the champion.
She’d missed her mother over the years, but never as much as
she did at this moment.
So when Cass passed by the chapel she slipped inside and
closed the door behind her. She’d always had God to talk to.
For a moment she enjoyed the silence, the chatter of the
girls muffled behind the walls. Prayer time had ended and so
she had the entire place to herself.
She passed the pews and went straight to the altar, sinking
to her knees on the bare stone, as close to the cross as
propriety would allow. She bowed her head, pressed her palms
together, and continued her interrupted prayer, her words
barely above a whisper.
"Almighty God, please let my new husband be happy with me
tomorrow so I can murder his father."
***
Cassandra sat within the carriage, trying not to rumple the
silk of her wedding dress. The sunshine streamed through the
windows and struck the silver edging decorating the cream
fabric, and shot tiny sparks of light around her. Father had
insisted on the silk, had chosen the pleated gown himself.
He wanted his daughter to shine.
Cass wanted only to disappear.
She glanced across the coach at her father. The press of
traffic to Westminster Abbey impeded their progress, and the
Duke of Chandos grumbled again.
"Devilishly foolish of the lot. They’re all here to see the
wedding and they can’t have one without the bride. We shall
be late because of all the gawkers."
He checked his gold watch for the hundredth time. Age had
not diminished her father’s handsome looks. His silver white
wig made his hazel eyes appear lighter and they made a
striking contrast against his tan face. He loved to hunt,
spent a great deal of time outdoors, which had kept up his
youthful physique. He had not mourned Cassandra’s mother for
long, although she supposed she couldn’t blame him, when
women kept throwing themselves at his feet.
He’d inherited only a pretty face from his elven blood.
"Please, Father, don’t be concerned. They will wait for us."
"Eh?" He glanced up, as if he’d forgotten her presence.
"Yes, quite right." The Duke of Chandos leaned over and
patted her hand. "As you are my only child, your son will
inherit the title. Of course they’ll wait."
Cassandra gave him a weak smile and turned to stare out the
window. Her new stays itched. And Father had insisted she
wear the most outlandishly wide hoops; as a consequence,
they kept popping up in her seated position. She gave a sigh
of relief when she saw the Gothic arches of the Abbey. The
carriage stopped in front of the ornately carved entry. The
area had been roped off to hold back the crowd, and a line
of uniformed officers standing in rigid military attention
created an aisle for her to walk through.
Their uniformed escort leapt down from the back of the coach
and opened the door, stepping aside to create another
barrier against the watching crowd. Cass felt as if she were
on display and confined all at the same time.
A sudden flare of cool white fire highlighted the officers
and the entrance to the church, dancing upward past the tops
of the spires in curling waves of crystal scintillation.
Cass could feel the strength of the Imperial Lord’s magic
like a shiver in the very air. Her hands began to sweat
inside her silk gloves.
Father stared out the window and swallowed. "Don’t worry, my
dear. We’ll do just fine."
She couldn’t be sure if his words were to reassure her or
himself.
Father exited the carriage first, adjusted the lace at the
sleeves of his satin coat, and held out his hand to her. Her
fingers trembled as she clasped it. The sweep of her gown
preceded her from the carriage and when she raised her head
a sudden beam of fire touched her satin pinner, radiating
outward to join the already swirling beams. Her knees felt
like pudding and for the first time in her life she thought
she might swoon.
Cass muttered a prayer, took a deep breath, and walked
forward to her doom.
But the moment she entered the grand abbey, the carved
images of saints and apostles calmed her. Statues of angels
stared lovingly down at her, the feathers in their wings,
the very folds of their robes, appearing softly real from
the skill of the artisan that had sculpted them. Father led
her down the nave and she ignored the hundreds of staring
eyes of the nobles sitting in the pews, keeping her gaze
focused on the great cross over the high altar. The music of
the choir soared above and beyond the Imperial Lord’s
magical fire that had led them inside, and she let the
melody carry her slippered feet down the very, very long aisle.
She didn’t trip on her gown. Father didn’t stumble in his
new high-heeled shoes. Cassandra thought she might manage
this public display without too much fuss after all, until
they neared the altar. And she saw her intended. And his father.
General Dominic Raikes’s handsome features had always
flustered her. But today she realized the elvenkind had
brought the beauty of angels to earth for them...and Dominic
looked so strikingly similar to his elven lord father. Her
intended stood with military precision; indeed, he’d worn
his uniform, although she doubted he wore this version in
battle. The red wool had been replaced with red velvet, with
gold trim about the sleeves and flared skirt of the coat.
Dozens of gold buttons trimmed the wide cuffs of the coat
and down the opening, although only one clasped it closed at
the waist. His cravat and sleeves dripped with black lace
and that color matched his shiny boots and the velvet cloak
slung over his shoulders.
Not the normal dress for a marriage, but it suited him well.
He wore no wig, of course, since after all, the reason the
gentry wore them was to copy the elvens’ silver blond hair,
and the general had inherited the original. As she drew
closer to him, she noticed he wore his battle braids in his
hair, but they’d been drawn back and fastened behind his
head, revealing his pointed ears and the high cheekbones in
his face.
Cass had her attention riveted on him, but he didn’t return
the favor. Indeed, his gaze roamed the vaulted ceiling and
he looked...bored.
She glanced over at Imperial Lord Mor’ded. He’d dressed in
the same manner as his son, although Cassandra imagined he’d
never fought on a real battlefield in his life. His face
looked slightly paler than his son’s, his shoulders
narrower, his legs less muscular. And his black eyes...
Cass’s face swiveled between the two of them. Large elven
eyes, as shiny and black as coal, they almost looked like
they had facets in them. Both their eyes would be
beautiful—glittering like exotic jewels—if they hadn’t
looked so very cold. So very cruel.
Instead of the angels to whom she’d compared them, she
should have been thinking devils.
Cass turned her attention toward the archbishop and kept it
there as her father brought her to stand next to General
Raikes. He didn’t so much as blink to acknowledge her
presence. Her head just topped his shoulders and she fancied
she could feel the heat of his body.
She refused to allow her intended to intimidate her by his
mere presence.
The entire wedding party waited in a frozen tableau while
the choir finished its song. Yet beneath Cass’s dress her
toes continued to tap in time to the music. She felt the
dance swell inside of her, seeking direction. A brief
thought came to her and made her stomach flip. Could she
kill Mor’ded now and put an end to this farce? She’d
resigned herself to the knowledge that she wouldn’t survive
the assassination. Surely the Imperial Lord’s son would kill
her if she moved now. What better way to send the
sovereignty into chaos and advance the tide of the Rebellion?
Her heels lifted. Her knees swayed.
General Dominic Raikes leaned down and whispered in her ear.
"Do you have an itch?"
The archbishop frowned at them. Imperial Lord Mor’ded
fastened those cold eyes on her.
Cass froze. Had she detected a note of mockery in the
general’s deep voice? She stole a glance at him. His
emotionless eyes stayed fixed on the archbishop as well, but
the corner of his mouth twitched. She vowed she’d seen it
twitch.
She felt a flush creep from belly to nose and knew her face
had turned a deep red. And knew her opportunity to act had
passed. The choir ended with a crescendo of glorious song,
and without further ado the archbishop began the ceremony.
Perhaps it was just as well. Thomas had cautioned her for
patience and she’d almost rushed forward. And as she stood
through the painfully long ceremony and went through the
motions required of her, she chided herself.
Imperial Lord Mor’ded’s body nearly vibrated with tension,
his eyes watching the assembled guests without appearing to.
His white fire magic still swirled among the guests and she
suddenly wondered if it had all been for show. Could he
search for hidden dangers with it? Could he sense an attack,
whether magical or physical, with his power?
Cass couldn’t be sure. The information that the Rebellion
had on the elven lords was sketchy. Thomas had done the best
he could, but she suddenly realized she’d been ill-prepared
for her task. She could feel the power of Mor’ded’s magic,
and the tiny bit she possessed seemed negligible by
comparison. Perhaps the wiser course would be to discover
all she could about the elven lords and their magic before
she acted at all.
Cass now stood facing her...new husband. She supposed she’d
have to get used to that idea. Although she didn’t think she
could ever get used to the coldness of his beautiful eyes.
She’d hoped she could use the general to gather information
about the elven, but right now he did not look like a man
who could be used. Indeed, when his eyes met hers for a
moment, a shiver of dread went through her.
The few times she’d visited him, he had treated her with a
disinterest bordering on contempt. She’d foolishly thought
that when she became his wife that might change, but it
appeared the ceremony affected him not at all. Faith, how
would she manage to share his bed tonight? Best not to think
of that.
She blanched as her new husband slid a ring on her finger. A
band of gold with a rose carved atop it. But the rose looked
so real, the edges of the petals as delicate as the true
flower. Cass couldn’t resist the impulse to bring it closer
to her face, then nearly jumped when the petals curled
closed, changing the carving to a tight bud.
He’d given her a ring crafted with elven magic.
Her eyes flew up to his in alarm.
General Raikes lowered his head. "It won’t harm you," he
muttered, a note of exasperation in his velvety voice. And
then he lowered his head and kissed her, signaling an end to
the ceremony.
Cass’s heart flipped over. She stood quite frozen, unsure of
what had come over her. The general had done nothing more
than press his lips to hers. And her entire body had
shivered. From that one dispassionate touch.
As the onlookers broke into polite applause, Mor’ded leaned
close to his son and said, "Surely the champion can do
better than that."
She watched her husband glance at his father. Saw his face
harden with challenge. Then the general wrapped his arms
around her and roughly pulled her against his chest and Cass
could only pray.
Her new husband kissed her again. But this time, he kissed
her like Thomas had, bending her backward in his arms,
moving his mouth over hers as if he sought to eat her alive.
But the experience was totally unlike the one she’d shared
with Thomas.
The world seemed to fall away. Cass became aware of nothing
and no one but the man holding her in his arms. The heat of
his mouth, the fire that ran through her body, the sheer
exhilaration of the taste of him. Her senses heightened. She
felt her breasts tighten and strain toward him. Felt a
wetness between her legs that frightened and excited her all
at the same time. His tongue pressed against her lips and
lacking any experience of what to do, she opened her mouth
and he invaded it, stroking and tasting until she just
forgot to breathe.
Her new husband abruptly let her go and set her away from
him. Cass swayed. The applause in the room had risen in
volume and she blushed again to realize she’d behaved in
such a manner in front of an archbishop, half the country,
and in the house of the Lord, no less. She couldn’t account
for what had come over her.
General Raikes gave his father a heated look. "Will that do?"
Mor’ded chuckled.
When Dominic took her hand and led her back down the nave,
Cass could do nothing but weakly follow. But she noticed the
rose in her ring had come unfurled, spreading out into a
glorious open blossom.