When Twilight Burns

Twenty-Three: Wherein Our Friends Are Horrified by Multiple Locks of Hair

Christ Almighty, what a bloody weak fool, was Max’s first thought. The second was, absurdly, Where the hell is Vioget?

Yet he had to touch her hair again. So dark and heavy, it was a wonder Victoria could hold her head up when it was piled on top. It spread over the pillows and coverlet of his bed, curling down over and between their bodies.

Good God… in his room?

But he couldn’t pretend not to remember how they’d come to be here, how, in the back of his lust-fogged mind, he’d decided to carry her to the bed in the small chamber reserved for servants. Not to hers. Not to the one she’d shared with Vioget.

And the rest of the night… for once in his bloody life, he’d not listened to conscience. In for a penny, in for a pound had been one vague thought as he went to her again. And again.

Now, early morning sun filtered through the window, here in the servants’ quarters on the upper floor where he’d cloistered himself for the last weeks. It brought reality, regret… uneasiness. And it cast enough light for him to see the curve of her ivory shoulder, the peek of a pink nipple, the rise and swell of her hip next to him. The glint of his vis bulla at her belly. Full red lips, swollen and crinkled in the aftermath of a passionate night.

Bloody hell.

Bloody damned hell.

He eased away from her, cold and furious.

She opened her eyes. Surprise, pleasure… and then her lashes swept down to hide the flush that colored her cheeks. Devil take it, had she seen the bald fear in his eyes?

“I trust you’re still drinking the potion from Eustacia,” he said calmly. His fingers didn’t want to release the thick curl they rubbed between their pads.

“How did you know about that?” She sat up and he looked. Christ, how could he not? All that dark hair fell forward and around, obscuring the details… but he knew every rise and fall of them. “Oh, yes, I forgot. You know everything. Yes, I’m still drinking the potion to keep me from conceiving. But I had already decided to stop taking it.”

“I think it a wise decision. You are Illa Gardella, the last of the direct line.” He drew subtly away, released the lock of hair. “And I think it best if we keep this… to ourselves.”

She blinked at him, her brown-green eyes all too shrewd. It was too blasted hard to hide anything from them. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s no bloody need to tell Vioget. Or anyone.”

“Max, you’re being obtuse. You can’t think I’d…” Her voice trailed off, understanding dawning. Thank God she was smart, and caught on quickly. It would be much easier if he didn’t have to explain. “This is like the time you kissed me, isn’t it? You’re going to walk away and pretend nothing happened. Pretend I goaded you into it.”

She was too bloody damned smart. Dammit. “Victoria, you-”

And forever after, he wasn’t certain whether the knock on the door was a godsend or misfortune.

Regardless, the interruption catapulted their attention far from the matter at hand. A wiry orange puff of hair preceded the maid’s eye peering around the corner. She didn’t appear surprised to see Victoria there; in fact, Max was struck by the combination of satisfaction warring with trepidation on her face.

“Verbena? What is it?” Victoria must have sensed it too, for her voice was sharp. Or maybe the hardness was for him.

“I’m begging yer pard’n, my lady, but I foun’ this on the front stoop. I don’ know when it came, as there was no one to answer the door… Charley’s day off, y’know… an’ so I foun’ it when I went out to see…” Her voice trailed off as she offered a small paper packet around the corner of the door.

“What about Kritanu?” Victoria mused, reaching for the envelope. Of course she wouldn’t be uncomfortable being undressed in front of her maid… but here, in his bed? Perhaps this circumstance was more common than he thought. The maid seemed to have known where to find them.

“He’s not ’ere.” Verbena shrugged, spreading her hands. “Ol’ver said he didn’t return last night.” And Wayren was… well, Wayren. She was likely closed up wherever she chose to be, studying an old manuscript or scroll. She appeared when she needed to. Obviously, Brim and Michalas hadn’t yet arrived.

Victoria snatched the packet from her maid. It was thick, tied with a red ribbon and sealed by a familiar wax blob. And… “Christ,” he said at the same time as she drew in her breath.

“That’s blood.” Victoria tore off the ribbon and flipped the seal open. When she saw what was inside, she drew in her breath sharply.

Pressed into the folds of the stiff paper was a thick lock of shiny jet-black hair. And beneath it, a matching lock of tawny gold curl. Both were sticky with blood.

The folded piece of paper accompanying them was unmarked but for an ugly brownish streak. It was stamped with the seal of the Earl of Brodebaugh.