Anaïs de Rohan has been trained most of her life to join the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
But when she is sponsored as an acolyte by Lord Lazenby
behind the doors of the St. James Society and her gender is
revealed, it causes an uproar. Although nothing in the
Brotherhood's charter specifies all members must be male,
the majority of the membership disregards the proofs of her
training and sacrifice and are adamant that she shall not be
sworn in.
Lord Bessett and the St. James Society have recently
received a plea from a French member of the
Fraternitas. A child with special gifts is being
coerced to use her gifts to support the evil cause of those
who would bring back the French King. Her widowed mother is
ostensibly under the wing of her husband's uncle and at this
point is it unclear whether or not her mother is conspiring
with him. It will be necessary for a man and woman of the
Fraternitas to travel there and strike up an
acquaintance before taking action to remove the child from
the uncle's influence.
Reluctantly Bessett asks Anaïs to pose as his wife, an act
that could ruin her reputation. Anaïs does not hesitate, it
is for challenges like this she has been training her entire
life. She does to intend to marry until she meets the man
who is meant for her, as foretold by her grandmother.
Bessett too is only interested in marrying to continue his
line, there are very few women who could understand the
constant strain his own gift places upon him and his life.
Still, that gift will be needed to aid the child and bring
her safe away from danger.
Liz Carlyle has another marvelous book in her St. James
series. She has a gift herself, that of crafting both
delicately tender love scenes as well as intricate and
suspenseful plots. Her characters are unique and strong-
willed yet each has vulnerabilities which endear them to
readers.
THE BRIDE WORE SCARLET is book 2 in the series, with The
Bride Wore Pearls to follow.
Anais de Rohan was raised from childhood to become a
Guardian—a covert warrior trained in the ways of a secret
militia so ancient its existence is believed mere legend.
When Anais presents herself for initiation, however, her
male compatriots are impressed with nothing save her hot
temper and dark allure.
But when one of the St. James Society’s darkest, most
enigmatic leaders challenges Anais to prove herself, she
boldly accepts. Courting ruin to pose as Lord Bessett’s new
bride, Anais must travel with the handsome, ruthless
nobleman on a mission to save one of their own—a little girl
with frightening gift—from danger.
But as intrigue swirls about them, drawing them ever closer,
Anais begins to realize that their mission is hardly the
only challenge she faces, for Lord Bessett is proving a
temptation too hard to resist. As for Bessett himself—well,
he might be a soldier sworn to the Society, but he certainly
isn’t anyone’s saint . . .
Excerpt
Bessett spun round to face the half-naked woman.
She had made no effort whatsoever to pull together the robe
he had hurled about her shoulders, a fact which made him
inexplicably angry. He let his eyes trail hotly down her,
and felt something besides anger curling in the pit of his
belly.
\"If you are truly Vittorio’s acolyte,\" he said tightly,
\"then you’ll be marked.\"
She jerked up her chin, anger flashing in her black eyes.
\"Oh, I am,\" she said, her hand seizing the hem of the shift.
\"Do you wish to see the proof?\"
\"Good God, Bessett,\" said Rance on a groan. \"She’s marked. I
made sure.\"
Bessett spun in the other direction. \"You made sure?\" he
echoed incredulously. \"Do you mind telling—no, never
mind.\" He turned again, and seized the girl by the upper
arm. \"You, come with me.\"
\"Where are you taking her?\" Belkadi, one of the Advocati,
had materialized at his elbow.
\"To Safiyah,\" Bessett answered, his voice pitched low. \"For
I can see, even if Rance cannot, that an unmarried female of
good family cannot stand half naked in the middle of what is
believed to be little more than a gentleman’s club.\"
\"Oh, thank you!\" said the girl bitterly. \"Ten years of my
life tossed into the rubbish heap over a point of etiquette!\"
Bessett did not reply but instead hauled her up the steps
and through the wine cellar, into the laboratory passageway.
Another flight took them to the ground floor, and eventually
to the relative privacy of the servants’ stairs, the girl
snapping at him the whole way.
Except that she was not a girl.
No, not by a far shot.
And what she had just done—dear Lord, it was courting
ruin. Did it simply not matter to her?
\"You are bruising my arm, you lout,\" she informed him. \"What
are you so afraid of? After all, I am just a mere woman.\"
\"I am afraid for you, you little fool,\" he whispered. \"Be
still, before you’re seen by someone whose silence we can’t
so easily command.\"
She bucked up at that, jerking to a stubborn halt on the
landing. \"I am not ashamed of what I am,\" she said,
clutching his robe shut with one hand. \"I have worked hard
to learn my craft.\"
\"You, madam, do not have ‘a craft,’\" he said coldly. \"For
God’s sake, consider others if not yourself. What would your
father think if he knew where you were just now?\"
And that, a faint flush chased up her cheeks. \"He might not
approve, to be honest.\" \"Might not?\" Against his
will, Bessett’s gaze swept hotly down her length again.
\"He might not approve? Of his daughter running around half
naked in a London club?\"
Her hard, black eyes narrowed. \"It isn’t like that,\" she
said. \"I simply haven’t told him everything. Not yet.\"
Bessett hesitated, incredulous. \"You mean you’ve told him
something?\"
Her blush deepened, but her tone did not soften. \"Oh, for
pity’s sake, I’ve been staying in Tuscany with Vittorio for
months at a time,\" she retorted. \"What do you think I told
him? That I was off to finishing school in Geneva? Do I look
finished to you?\"
No, she did not.
She looked like something . . . wild and totally unfinished.
Like something a man might never be finished
with—though she was not precisely pretty. But she was
intriguing and earthy and full of a vivacity he couldn’t
quite grasp.
And whatever she was, she looked like no woman he’d ever
known before—and he’d known quite a few.
Her father’s wrath, however, was none of his concern. Oddly
angry with himself, he turned as if to set off again,
yanking her toward the next staircase. But he caught her
unaware. One foot tangling in the hem of his long woolen
robe, she tipped precariously forward.
\"Oh!\" she cried, her empty hand flailing for the stair rail.
Instinctively, Bessett caught her, his arm lashing round her
slender waist, hitching her hard against his chest.
Suddenly, time and place spun away. It was as if no one
breathed—a mere instant of warmth and scent and pure,
artless sensuality that seemed to stop logic dead in its tracks.
And when he looked down into those eyes—eyes the color
of warm chocolate, fringed with thick, inky lashes—he
felt something deep inside him start to twist and bend, like
metal warming to the fire of some otherworldly forge.
Her bottom lip was full, like a slice of ripe peach, and for
an instant, it trembled almost temptingly.
Then the girl saved him from whatever folly he might have
been contemplating.
\"Ooff,\" she grunted, pushing a little away. \"If you mean to
kill me, Bessett, just pitch me over the banister and be
done with it.\"
\"Don’t tempt me,\" he growled.
But inexplicably, he couldn’t stop looking down. The swells
of her extraordinary breasts were plainly visible from this
angle, and God help him, he was no angel.
Irritation flashing in her eyes, Miss de Rohan fully righted
herself. \"Really, my lord, do you mind?\" she said, hitching
up the front of her shift. \"I’m not in the habit of
displaying my assets unless they’re corseted into a ball gown.\"
\"And that,\" he said quietly, \"cannot possibly be often
enough.\"
Her face colored furiously.
\"I beg your pardon,\" he said again. \"But you did choose to
wear that, Miss de Rohan. And I am, after all, just an
ordinary man.\"
She sniffed disdainfully. \"Ordinary, hmm?\" she said. \"I
didn’t think anyone here was ordinary.\"
\"Trust me, my dear, when it comes to attractive women, all
men are the same.\" He held out his hand to her, his actions
more gentle now. \"Yet another reason I am afraid for you.\"
\"You suggest I’m not safe in this house?\" Her voice was sharp.
\"Your reputation is not,\" he answered. \"But no one here
would do you a harm, Miss de Rohan. You may trust each and
every one of us with your life—my roaming eyes
notwithstanding.\"
With obvious reluctance, she laid her hand in his.
\"Now, about your father.\" He kept his voice firm. \"I believe
you were about to tell me who he is.\"
\"Precisely?\" For an instant, she caught her lip in her
teeth. \"He’s a minor Alsatian nobleman. The Vicomte de
Vendenheim-Sélestat.\"
Carefully watching those chocolate-brown eyes, Bessett stood
his ground. \"And imprecisely?\" he pressed. \"Come, Miss de
Rohan. You are London born and bred, I’ll wager. I may be a
lecherous lout, aye, but I’m sharp enough to know when I’m
getting but half the truth.\"
At last, her gaze broke away. \"A long time ago, he was
called Max de Rohan. Or just de Vendenheim. He’s . . . with
the Home Office. Sort of.\"
Well. So much for gentleness. Bessett stifled a curse, then
turned to haul her up the next flight of stairs.
De Vendenheim! Of all people! Rance must be a lunatic to
allow her into the fold.
That little shite from the Chronicle had finally driven him
stark, staring mad.
Bessett didn’t know anything about de Vendenheim’s title,
but he damned sure knew the fellow wasn’t the sort of man
one antagonized. And he wasn’t ‘with’ the Home Office, sort
of. He was the Home Office—or more accurately, the
ruthlessness behind it.
Politically, he was untouchable—unelected,
non-partisan, and more or less unofficial—the ultimate
eminence grise.
And now his daughter had been trained as a Guardian? And
not, apparently, with his blessing?
Good God.
\"Hurry up,\" he said gruffly. \"You are going to get
dressed now.\"
\"A capital notion, given the miserable draught coming up
these steps,\" she snapped. \"Can’t you people afford coal? I
thought you were all rich. My feet are bare and my arse
hasn’t been so cold since the winter of —\"
\"Miss de Rohan,\" Bessett managed to reply, \"I could not be
less interested in the state of your arse.\"
Liar, liar, liar. \"Why, I am crushed, my lord!\"
she said mockingly. \"Of course, I was supposed to be
completely naked, according to the ceremony—but even I
couldn’t summon up the cheek to do that.\"
\"A tiny sliver of good judgment for which we must all be
grateful,\" said Bessett through clenched teeth. And he meant
it. The last thing he needed on his mind just now was the
vision of Anaïs de Rohan naked.
And yet he was already imagining it. Conjuring up those
impossibly long legs in his mind, and wondering if they
would reach—
No. He needed to know nothing about the length of her legs.
He needed to get rid of her.
Thank God they had reached the topmost floor of the house,
where Belkadi kept his private apartments. At the door,
Bessett rapped twice, hard, with the back of his hand, still
holding on to the hellcat. It took all his English civility
not to sling her inside and bolt as soon as the door
cracked. His Scottish half wanted to tie her to a rock and
tip her into the Thames.
Safiyah opened the door, her wide, doe-brown eyes sweeping
over them. \"My lord,\" she said, startled. \"Where is Samir?\"
\"Your brother’s still downstairs,\" said Bessett, hauling
Miss de Rohan inside. \"It has been a strange night. Sorry to
barge in but I need your help.\"
\"But of course.\" Safiyah lowered her gaze. \"Who is she?\"
\"The acolyte,\" snapped Miss de Rohan. \"And I have a name.\"
Safiyah colored furiously, and looked away. \"I shall put the
kettle on.\"
Bessett’s prisoner looked immediately contrite. \"I beg your
pardon,\" said Miss de Rohan. \"You did not deserve that.\"
\"No, I did not.\" Safiyah’s hands were folded serenely.
\"Excuse me. I shall be but a moment.\"
\"I’m Anaïs,\" she replied, thrusting out her hand. \"Anaïs de
Rohan. Do forgive me. Being manhandled up the steps has left
my temper regrettably short. And I should love a cup of tea.
By the way, I have do clothes, Lord Bessett. I did not walk
in off the street naked. And you are Lord Bessett, are you
not? After all, you did not introduce yourself before
hauling me from the Temple and up the stairs.\"
\"Where did you leave them?\" he asked, ignoring the rest of
the diatribe.
Her eyes widened with irritation. \"In a little room on the
ground floor,\" she said. \"I came in through the gardens.\"
Bessett went at once to the bell-pull, then realized the
stupidity of it. \"Sit down and be quiet,\" he ordered. \"I’ll
fetch them. And be kind to Safiyah. She may be your only
friend here when this dreadful night is over.\"
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy