The Lord of Illusion - 3 (39 page)

“Now, off with you both, before you catch the sniffles. I shall take care of all the arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” echoed Drystan. He had thought only to find a priest, gather his friends, and say their vows. After having waited so long, he did not doubt that the king would give them a special dispensation.

Lady Hawkes gave Camille a conspiratorial smile. “Just like a man, to think these things are just thrown together. I must make arrangements with the Abbey, and then there are the flowers, and the ring—oh, will this one do? It belonged to Drystan’s great-great-grandmother.” She held up her hand to Camille, displaying a sapphire ring surrounded by diamonds and filigree.

“It is lovely,” she agreed.

“Good, then. Morning weddings are more in vogue, but I am sure those involved will understand the necessity of an evening service. Will that suit, Drystan?”

Camille answered before he could. “That will suit us just fine, Lady Hawkes.” Her face shone with a strength Drystan had not noticed before. He imagined that after saving an entire country, his wife would manage a new mother-in-law.

The dowager viscountess blinked, studied Camille, and nodded. “We shall suit exceptionally well, you and I.”

“Indeed. I am touched by your efforts to make our marriage memorable.” Camille turned to her two ladies. “Ann. Molly. Please assist Lady Hawkes with anything she might require.”

Ann nodded mutely, her eyes wide. Molly threw Camille a wink.

She ignored it, and held out her arm to Drystan. “My lord, I do believe we should follow your mother’s advice and remove our wet things. Shall we?”

His mother swallowed. Loudly.

Drystan could not help the grin that curled his mouth, and led his lady through the corridor, up two flights of stairs, and into the long hall of guest chambers. As they progressed, they drew speculative stares from gentry and servant alike, but no one spoke a word to them.

“Yours, or mine?” he murmured, pausing in the hall.

“Mine.”

Drystan opened the door to the burgundy chamber and ushered Camille inside, closing the latch firmly behind them. He had just turned about when Camille pushed him against the wall and began to unbutton the front of his coat.

“I suppose it would be proper to make you wait until after the ceremony. But apparently the damage has already been done.”

Drystan barked a laugh, his fingers busy with the fastening of her girdle.

“It is rather a shame,” he replied, struggling with the wet ties of her stays. Thank heavens they had been fastened loosely because of her condition. “I would not mind creating another little Hawkes tonight. It would be a perfect way to remember our wedding day.”

Camille did not reply, too intent on removing his wet clothing. They both huffed and tugged, until Drystan mumbled, “’Twas much easier when I had magic.”

And this time Camille laughed, the sound like the chiming of bells.

Magic or no, they eventually managed to strip completely, and Camille glanced down at her swollen stomach. “It is true, isn’t it?”

Drystan caressed her rounded flesh, so smooth, so soft and perfect. That touch made him long for the rest of her, and he curled his arms around her, pressing the length of her to him. They warmed their chilly skin against each other, until Camille lifted her face and he kissed her. Long and hard and sweetly.

Camille broke the kiss and clutched his shoulders. “Faith, we must hurry, Drystan. Molly will not be able to delay your mother for long, and she will be at our door with yards of lace to fit me in.”

He lifted her bottom, and when she wrapped her legs around him, he had a sudden inspiration. He turned, putting her back against the door. “Demanding wench.”

“Yes, I rather like this new me.”

“I am afraid to hurt the babe.”

Camille reached down and curled her fingers around his shaft. “You will not. You shall only make the mother very happy.”

Drystan sucked in a breath. “I have missed you so much.”

“I can tell. Fie, quit talking, Drystan, and show me.”

He held her up with one arm and touched her where she needed it the most. Camille groaned and leaned her head back against the polished oak door. He could not resist the vulnerable lure of her neck, and sucked and nuzzled the skin there, stroking his fingers slowly back and forth. Damn, he wished he had the time to take it slow. To savor his Camille.

But they would have a lifetime together, and the thought made him flush with anticipation.

Camille sucked in a breath, went rigid, then exploded in tremors of pleasure. As soon as Drystan felt the wet warmth of her drench his fingers, he guided himself into her. A bit at a time. Still fearful of the babe, despite her assurances.

She lowered her head and kissed him, looping her arms beneath his, around his back, and pressing him more tightly against her.

Drystan obliged. He would make it his mission to oblige her for the rest of his life.

He kept a fast but gentle rhythm, allowing his need for her to overtake him, until she cried out, deep shudders wracking her body, and he could not help his own response to her bliss, releasing his rigid control and allowing his pleasure to join with hers.

They sailed away together, taking a very long time to settle back down to earth.

Drystan cradled her in his arms and carried her to the bed, and she kept her body twined around his as they settled onto the linens. He felt Camille’s sigh sweep from her head to her toes, and she whispered, “See, Drystan. We do not need clouds of gossamer or Arabian tents to feel the magic between us.”

And when she wrapped her fingers in his hair, and tucked her head beneath his chin, Drystan knew he had been given his own happily ever after.

From

The Fire Lord’s Lover

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 riders’ 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 overlaid 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 his 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 acknowledgment.

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 on 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.