The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (17 page)

“Three children,” I teased, well knowing he wanted five. “Three and no more.”

“No. Two sons, and a trio of girls with their mother’s beauty and compassionate nature.”

“I’m afraid that will never do. For our sons will look and act just like their father. Strapping lads with laughing gray eyes who tease their sisters mercilessly. It would be difficult for any girl to maintain compassion while being tortured thusly.”

“Oh, ha. If the girls are anything like their mother, they’ll be well equipped to hold their own in a war of pranks.”

Our musings always ended on those bittersweet notes … Hawk and I imagining the lively capers of our children. Then laughing until we cried.

On cloudless nights, moonbeams reflected off the snow outside and filtered through the curtains to gild Hawk’s form in silver-blue light. His soft-glowing stare resonated within me, so intense and ardent, that I swore I could fall into
him
, skim his blood. Our emotional connection had never been stronger; but I coveted the physical touches deprived us … ached to feel his flesh against mine—man to woman. To experience sensations I had never known.

When my soul grew heavy with need, Hawk would hum a seductive tune while binding my gown to friction in sensual and forbidden places. He taught me the things I craved to learn of pleasure. Yet his ethereal body suffered in absence of the same.

I could not even offer the spirit-kisses that would grant him bliss. Fearing his flower might lose some petals in the move, I held tight to the fifteen we had left.

Departure arrived on the wings of a wintry Monday morning. Fog blotted the dawn to a dank, pinkish-gray while a moderate snowfall clustered the tree branches and frosted the grass.

Lord Thornton stepped into the parlor to greet us all. He wore a double breasted vest and pants the same metallic silver as Hawk’s petals. A tombstone shirt—such a bold lime green it burned the eyes—peered out from the buttoned neck of a bright red cape. In the few weeks since his visit to my home, he had grown a soft bur over his mouth and chin once more. The whiskers complimented his olive complexion with an austere sensuality, though I put such thoughts from my mind, feeling Hawk’s possessive glare on my back.

Before Lord Thornton retreated outside to help load the wagons, Hawk paused beside his brother, measuring himself against him. There they stood, head to head, the nobleman and his gypsy doppelganger, fascinating me with their likenesses and differences.

The viscount had brought his finest carriages teamed with high stepping strawberry roans, black-stockinged bays, and dappled mares to ensure our portage would be stylish and comfortable. Bundled in our coats and caps, Enya and I were led to an exquisite berline.

A lemon-yellow gilded the carriage’s frame and doors while its trim and spindled axels shimmered with a lilac hue. Complete with crimson velvet squabs, lilac damask curtains, and navy pin-striped paper on the interior compartment, it reminded me of the viscount’s own style … elegant and polished, yet jarring in its tonal severity.

Once Enya and I were settled inside with furs draped from our waists to our feet, Hawk took the seat across from me. His broad shoulders slumped, forearms propped on his thighs so the ruffled sleeve cuffs hung down to the top of his shins. He studied his muddy boots, quieter than I’d ever seen him.

I clutched his flower’s pot in my lap and silently bade him not to doubt my love. A mere viscount could not replace the man whose voice had illuminated two of the darkest events in my life.

Hawk attempted a smile.

I lifted the mourning veil to the back of my cap. Forehead pressed to the chilled window, I watched the six tigers load trunks onto a covered fourgon, tucking as much of our cargo within the servants’ seat box as possible to save room for the crates of potted plants used in Uncle’s dyes and my hats.

After fastening extra canvas sheets in place to shield the plants, the bird cages were loaded—with utmost care under Uncle’s supervision—into a long and spacious britschka converted to a sleeping carriage with raised sides and full coverage hood. The viscount wrapped furs around each cage, providing my pets added insulation for the six hour journey.

Upon completion of the loading, Uncle climbed into the berline with us.

The viscount headed the caravan, perched on the fourgon. With one flick of the reins, the horses tromped over my past and pressed hoof prints into the blank, white landscape of my future.

What should have been a half-day trip stretched into late afternoon due to snow-packed byways. We stopped several times so the tigers could warm up in the cabs and so the horses’ half-frozen hooves could be scraped clean with knives.

Toward the end of our journey, one of the strawberry roans lost a shoe. We pulled up to a tavern and stable—an ivy-wreathed oasis that cut through the fog along our route. The swinging sign above the door touted:
Swindler’s Tavern
. Lord Thornton, none too pleased with the location, stepped inside to ensure there were tables to spare for an early supper while the blacksmith tended the roan.

As we shivered on the porch, Uncle asked the coachmen about the safety of the establishment, but no one knew who owned it; for years the tavern had been run by an anonymous proprietor who’d never been seen. Before the viscount returned from inside, a crowd of rowdy men gathered behind and rushed us through the door.

Within the establishment’s stone walls, a mingling of licorice, maple, and fruit flavored smoke tightened my throat and blurred the lit sconces beneath each high, dusty window. I could no longer see anyone’s faces clearly. Were Hawk not at my side offering insights, I would have been lost once more to isolation.

The group of coachmen separated to search for the viscount as Uncle, Enya, and I waited next to the bar. Two drunken nobles seated on tall chairs cast furtive glances our way. Between smoking a cheroot and flirting with the serving matrons, one of them said something unreadable to Enya and me. My uncle looped both of our arms tight and Hawk stepped in front of me, his jaw clenched in rage.

Uncle said something back to the man who started to stand, unsteady in his drunkenness. My uncle was still at a disadvantage with his crotchety back. I searched in desperation for our coachmen.

I had just captured the eye of one and waved my arm when Hawk shoved Uncle’s would-be opponent. The man slipped backward and dropped his cheroot into his companion’s mug of ale. The glowing end stifled to a thin trail of muddied ash. Both men stepped up to Uncle, their faces twisted and red. I tried to intervene, but the taller one grabbed me around the waist and held me tight against him—a manhandling so intimate my skin crawled. His hot breath slithered down the nape of my neck, reeking of liquor.

Hawk shouted in anger, thrusting forward. At that moment, the viscount appeared, his silver ensemble and red cape cutting through the smoke like a bloodied blade. In a flash, he broke the man’s grasp on me. Using his cane, Lord Thornton knocked my attacker off balance and pinned him to the floor beneath the heel of his twisted foot. He yelled something unreadable and the veins in his temples bulged and throbbed—an echo of his violent outburst at the cemetery played out in full color.

Chaos erupted. The other drunk launched a fist at Uncle, but Hawk shoved his arm aside. A third nobleman jumped into the mix and a bar fight ensued with Hawk afloat between participants. The stench of spilled ale and testosterone-laced perspiration made me choke. Enya and I joined hands and ducked through the flailing fists and arms with Uncle in tow. Lord Thornton appeared and grasped my elbow. I strained my neck to find Hawk, but he was lost amidst the brawl. The viscount escorted us to some tables in the far corner where the smoke thinned to a soft haze.

My entire body trembled on the aftershock.

Lord Thornton knelt down and resituated my skewed hat—a gentle, attendant gesture. “Did that man hurt you?” he mouthed, his countenance dark with fury.

I shook my head, dazed. After assuring that Enya was all right, the viscount stepped away. Uncle informed me our host went out to the stables to see to his horse. A clammy sweat enveloped my skin and Uncle held my hand as I trembled. Hawk wandered to our table—hair tousled and shirt rumpled.

There you are.
I scolded him.
Do not frighten me like that again!

His head cocked. “That cad begged a lesson in civility, Juliet. No man speaks such filth to a lady—whether she can hear him or not.” Straightening his shirt lapels, he gestured to Uncle. “He was right to stand up for you. I just wanted to give him a little help.”

My heart swelled on a strange mix of emotions. To think my mud prince had defended Uncle Owen as well as my and Enya’s honor. But he wasn’t the only one who’d stepped in.

Hawk scowled. “What, my brother? Ha. He had no business leaving you alone at the bar to begin with. And he should be tending you now that you’ve been traumatized, yet he’s too busy seeing to his prized roan.”

I glanced down at my fingers where they nestled in Uncle’s hand, wishing there were some way to show Hawk my appreciation.

“A lady traditionally repays her knight with a kiss.” His eyes held a teasing glint. “But since that’s out of the question, I’ve another idea. When next you bathe,” his gaze roved the faces of our returning coachmen, “which, after such a taxing journey, will no doubt be tonight … what say you allow me to watch?”

I kneaded my hands in my lap.
You’re asking me to make myself vulnerable, in a way you never will be to me.

Hawk trailed a fingertip along his shirt placket. “Well, if you'd like me to strip down, too, I'll be happy to oblige. You're the one who will have to see me naked every moment of every day thereafter. Though I suppose it would give me a new place to hang my pocket watch.”

I emitted a shocked snort and Uncle pinned a glance on me. To resist Hawk’s infectious laugh, I busied myself studying the room. My attention landed on the entrance where Lord Thornton was helping the burly bartender escort the troublemakers through the door. It appeared he hadn’t yet made it to the stables, and something told me he had never intended to go there in the first place.

A plump matron intruded on my line of sight. Shifting from one foot to the other, she sputtered the choice of fare. Her lips moved too fast to read.

Uncle repeated the options, beating Hawk by a blink. I ordered the stewed beef and a steamed chocolate to soothe my stomach.

When our drinks arrived, the chocolate’s sweet, creamy aroma curled through me. Enya nursed her tea and avoided my glance. She had spoken little to me since the pillow incident and I missed our closeness, especially now.

Uncle had his back turned to talk to the coachman next to him, no doubt discussing the remainder of the trip. My attention settled on our bar matron who delivered drinks to the tigers at the far end of the table. Her mouth shaped Lord Thornton’s name, but I couldn’t make out what she said. Frustrated, I asked Hawk to listen in.

Standing beside me, he scanned the room, oblivious to my thoughts for once. “Several men just slipped into an alcove in back. The entrance is tucked behind that stone antechamber and guarded by a watchman. I believe it’s a gambling hall.”

I glanced over my shoulder, wondering why it would need to be guarded.

His teeth gnawed his bottom lip. “There must be a great amount of money at stake. Juliet, this place … feels familiar.”

He had my full attention. The other time he’d said that, we found the journal in a gypsy camp.
Have you had a memory?

The ropelike muscles along his neck corded. “Nothing quite as substantial as a memory. More of a … moment. Something to do with a paneled glass humidor and a deck of cards.”

I frowned.

Hawk raked a hand through his hair to smooth it. “Perhaps I gave someone a card dukkerin here, and they paid me with a humidor.”

I’d learned bits of the gypsy language while he’d read his journal to me.
Dukkerin
meant a fortune telling.

Taking another sip of chocolate, I asked if I should help him explore the secret room.

“No. There’s a door and a wall. We would get separated and spurn a petal. Besides, you require my help hearing something?”

With a grateful smile, I gestured toward the matron.

Hawk moved closer to her captive audience. “She just told the tigers that my brother used to frequent this place. According to her, Nicolas had a weakness for liquor which made him loose with his money … and his bed. It appears he’ll chase anything in a skirt. And she says he has a past history of going into rages—almost killed a man once. This is his first appearance back in some years, and he still brought trouble to their doorstep.” Hawk pursed his lips, somber and suspicious. “My brother’s been ostracized from high society. No doubt to the point he no longer has the option of capturing a debutante bride. Perhaps that is where you come in.”

A queasy knot roiled in my stomach. It angered me, to know the viscount was pretending to take pity on a deaf girl to win favor with the elite, to secure success for his beloved manor’s debut. Preying upon a physical shortcoming he had claimed to empathize with due to his own gimp leg. At least now I knew this attempted betrothal was a farce from every side.