Her, yes, endless nights with her under his hands, eager and straining, always ready to provide him with all the pleasures she had sacrificed to become a bride of Christ. His eyes went to the cross she wore. Instead of a depiction of Christ, the exquisitely worked silver held a tiny jewel in its center. If he did not get her off him in the next three seconds, he would begin to destroy her reasons to wear the symbol of her faith, along with everything of importance to her.
“No.” He took his hands from her hair. “I do not require that of you.”
Now, thanks to his ability, she would beg and plead for it, unaware that she had fallen under the worst of his power. Korvel clenched his teeth, ready to endure her pleading, only to go still as she bobbed her head like a polite peasant and climbed down from the pallet. She knelt to open the trunk and retrieve some clean garments.
He had not enraptured her, Korvel realized. He doubted she was even bespelled—and then it occurred to him why she hadn’t fallen under his command. “You are tresori.”
She slipped into a fitted undershirt and panties before turning to him. She lifted her left arm out, turning it to display the tattoo of a black cameo. Instead of the profile of a Kyn lord, a mariner’s compass had been inked in the center of it.
Korvel recognized the rare design, a designation given to sentinels, mortals sworn in service to the elders of the tresoran council. Only the most trusted of the Kyn’s human servants were permitted to take the oath, which elevated them above all other tresori.
It also made her a mortal equal to Korvel in rank, something that completely astounded him. “Why did they send you to France?”
“They did not send me. I live here.” She tugged on a pair of dark trousers. “The men who burned the château have taken the scroll to Marseilles. I must go prepare some supplies for the trip.” She pulled on a knitted long-sleeved sweater before she took a stack of clothing and placed it on the bed. “These should fit you.”
His long hair should have fallen in a curtain around his face as he reached for the garments, but only a few dark red strands spilled over his forehead. He rubbed a hand over his shorn head. “You knew to cut my hair.”
She nodded. “Until your body sheds all the copper in your blood, it is best to keep it short. If you wish to bathe before we leave, I saved you some clean water in the pitcher.”
He started to tell her he didn’t need her to accompany him, but she walked out of the cell, quietly closing the door behind her. Rising from the pallet to follow her, he felt a twinge from his leg wound, and reached around to probe it. Thanks to her ministrations and the blood she had given him, it would be completely healed by morning.
Korvel went to the basin, first splashing his face with the cold water and then drying it on the towel she had used. It smelled of sunshine and her, and he breathed in deeply.
“How are you feeling, my lord?”
He dropped the towel to see an old woman standing a few feet away. “I am well. Who are you?”
“Flavia Roux, the abbess of this convent.” She dropped into a polite curtsy before holding out a dark bottle toward him. “For your needs, should any still linger.”
“Sister Simone attended to me.” He noticed her expression as he took the bottle. “She did so freely.”
She sniffed. “From the smell of you I expect they all do. You should know that Simone has never been called on to serve, and has no practical experience with the sort of demands your lot make.”
“But you do,” he guessed.
The old woman inclined her head. “Thirty years I served in the household of Seigneur Tristan. Had I not lost my sight, I would still be there, explaining the bizarre nature of social behaviors among mortals, and the inexplicable delights of modern sexual freedoms. But I came here and created a haven for other tresori women blinded by illness or injury. I brought them back to God. And I have taught Simone everything I know.”
No wonder the nun had thought nothing of her nudity. No one here could see her. “The girl is of your bloodline?”
“No.” Flavia listened for a moment. “Our sisters are awakening, so I must be brief. Pájaro, the coward who orchestrated this butchery, was once in training to serve as a sentinel. He failed, but before he could be dealt with properly he fled. Make no mistake: He is not simply another ignorant mortal.”
That explained the copper-clad weapons his men had used. “Has this traitor allied himself with the Brethren?”
“No. The only allegiance he has is to himself and the vengeance he seeks. Do not underestimate him, for he has had ten years to prepare for this day.” She took a step closer, and reached out to touch his arm. “Whatever happens, you must not allow him to take Simone alive.”
He stiffened. “Madame, I have no intention of—”
“I speak for the council now,” she said, cutting him off. “If you cannot keep her safe in this life, then you must send her on to the next. It will not be an easy thing, but it must be done.”
“Do you know what you are asking of me?” he demanded. “That girl saved my life.”
“These are the wishes of the council. No sentinel may be taken alive. As for me…” She stopped, and with some difficulty went down on her knees. “I love Simone like a daughter, and I would gladly take her place. But I cannot. So I beg you, my lord, spare her the suffering Pájaro will inflict on her. For the sake of your kind as well.”
Over the centuries Korvel had heard stories about the sentinels and their vast knowledge of the Darkyn. While all tresori were trained from birth to serve, only the council and their sentinels were permitted complete knowledge of their masters, from the location of their strongholds to the number of sworn immortals in the Kyn lord’s household and garrison, collectively known as the jardin. Under the duress of torture, Simone could be forced to reveal all she knew about the Darkyn.
He lifted her back to her feet. “I will look after her, and when this is done, I will bring her home to you. But if that is not possible, then I will see her safely to the next place.”
She blinked back bright tears. “You have my eternal gratitude, my lord.” She extracted a thick envelope from her skirt and pressed it into his hands. “Money for the trip, as well as a map to our safe house in Marseilles. I will pray for you both.”
Chapter 5
S
imone checked the fuel gauge on the courier’s Land Rover before she opened the hood to inspect the motor and its oil and fluids. Although it was almost new, she had learned never to assume that any vehicle was kept in good operating condition. This one, at least, had been maintained, and when she started the engine it ran smoothly. She searched the interior, removing two loaded handguns that had been taped under the front seats and a bundle of cash in various currencies and several expertly forged passports wedged behind the false back of the glove box. She pressed her lips together as she found one final stash, a lozenge box with a variety of capsules, vials, and even a small syringe, all neatly concealed beneath the top layer of cough drops.
So the courier served another master, one who wanted to deliver more than a message no one could understand. Whoever had sent him must have thought her an idiot.
She shut off the car and sat looking at the convent. The Englishman’s kiss had left her lips tender and her thoughts in a tangle. He had wanted her; she’d felt the evidence of that pressing like an iron bar against her bottom. So why had he refused her? Had she not offered herself properly? She knew the Darkyn had strange ideas about correctness and protocol; Flavia had never tired of recounting her years with the Italian lord she had served. Simone also knew that when in dire need the immortals always wanted sex as much as blood.
Perhaps he prefers men to women. But if that were so, then she should not have aroused him. He had kissed her and touched her with such passion, in fact, that she had expected to be taken without any discussion at all.
Simone understood physical desire, and how to control and channel it, but his mouth on hers had caused all her training to vanish. In the space of a heartbeat she had been rendered mindless, all flesh and feeling. Her father had always said mastering the art of physical pleasure was to gain an enormous weapon against which there was almost no defense. In this as in all things, he had been right, and she had nearly become a victim of her own senses.
Would it have been so terrible?
Living in a house of women for so long had made her forget what strong and beautiful brutes some men could be. Even in that Korvel had surprised her, for while his strength far surpassed her own, he had handled her with restraint, as if she were something precious.
What would he think of her if he knew what she had burned to do to him? As he kissed her she had clenched her hands and her teeth, not to resist, but to keep from using them to tear at his clothes. She had wanted to make him as naked as she was, to see the column of his shaft so that she might stroke it and hear him groan before she guided it to the clenching ache between her thighs.
She had never known a desire for sex. Even as she wanted to blame him for her bewildering emotions, she knew the fault was her own. He had no power over her other than his physical superiority; he could make her do nothing against her will.
He can’t make me do anything.
She got out of the car and walked to the old chapel, where she slipped in through the side door. Because the sisters had no need of light she had learned to move through the small, dark sanctuary just as blindly, and made her way instinctively to the simple altar where the village priest sometimes stood to deliver one of his outdated sermons.
She knelt down behind it, tracing the outer seam of the pedestal until she found the hidden latches to release it. The bag stuffed inside had not been removed from its hiding place since she had placed it there. At times she had amused herself by imagining it being found someday, far off in the future, to puzzle whoever had wrested it from the convent’s ruins.
Now it would vanish from those distant sands of time, just as she would.
“I do not hear you praying, child,” a querulous voice admonished from the pews. “You must be taking out that bag from the altar.”