Brimstone Bride Page 4

  “I hope that’s a lie,” he said. His gaze dropped to her open lips, but he didn’t close the distance. The warmth between them flared until she tasted salty perspiration on her upper lip when she moistened it with her tongue.

  His eyes moved to watch the pink flick of her tongue tip. For a second, he seemed almost as if he would dip to claim it. He seemed mesmerized. But he straightened up and backed away before she made the fatal mistake of wanting his kiss enough to make it happen herself.

  He blinked. The move was gloriously slow, as if he really had been in a trance and had needed to force himself to lower his lids. When he opened them again, his jaw had hardened and the expression in his eyes had cooled. She could still feel his Brimstone heat, but he was no longer controlled by it.

  “Good night, Victoria. I told you that you’d be safe here and I meant it. From every danger,” he said.

  * * *

  He was shaking with it—anger, desire, the willpower it took to not pick her up and carry her away from the life she’d been forced to lead. His men were already discreetly cleaning up the mess he’d left them in the garden. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to kill one of his “brothers.” The Order was twisted, obsessive, and they never stopped. There were times when it had been kill or be killed, although his primary mission was to capture them and turn them over to the justice of Lucifer’s court. One of the reasons his body quaked from adrenaline overload this time was that capture had ceased to be an option as soon as the evil monk had hurt Victoria.

  He was supposed to be a sophisticated vintner with her. No more. No less. But she stoked the fire in his blood until his disguise went up in smoke.

  He checked on his men. They had standing instructions. When he saw all was in hand, he turned away to seek sanctuary in his own rooms. What the guests would make of his and Victoria’s early disappearance from the party wasn’t his concern. He needed to wash away the blood and forget the look of fear in her eyes.

  She’d pretended not to fully understand what had happened, but a darker knowledge had been in her hazel gaze when she’d trained it on his face.

  A spiral iron staircase provided an outside entrance to his private retreat in the house. It was almost hidden by his mother’s roses. She’d loved the climbing vine varieties and he’d continued to have them tended after she was gone. They’d become a profusion of tangles near the staircase where he’d instructed the gardeners to allow them to grow unchecked. In this back corner of the house, he had a bed, bath and study that were completely separated from guest bedrooms. Guests were rarely invited to stay longer than a night. He didn’t run a bed-and-breakfast. He only allowed visitors at all in order to provide an alibi for his actual activities beyond wine making.

  As he climbed the familiar treads of the staircase, it wasn’t the Brimstone in his blood that made him see red. His memory called up the image of the petite opera singer in the grip of a madman trained to be merciless. His anger came from the same sense he’d always had of a wrong that needed to be righted—magnified by fury at an innocent’s pain.

  Victoria was caught up in a war that wasn’t her making. Just as he’d been as a child.

  Adam shed his ruined clothes and left them for a housekeeper he could count on for stoic discretion. She’d seen worse. All his people had. The small sword he wore in a specially made sheath that fit close to his body between his shoulder blades he placed in a hidden compartment in the top of his mahogany dresser. He would clean it later after he’d cleaned himself.

  He couldn’t afford empathy for Victoria, this sense of connection to her that shook him to his cursed core.

  He told himself this even as he recalled the tense moment when he’d almost given in to the temptation to taste her lips.

  Steam filled the bathroom when the cool water hit his Brimstone-warmed skin. Clouds of it rolled and swirled, disturbed by his movements as he scrubbed his hair and his hands. Beneath the soap, he felt his scars as he washed. A familiar reminder of what he’d been through and what he still needed to accomplish with the long life the Brimstone had given him.

  Father Malachi was his objective. Finding him, capturing him, delivering him to Lucifer’s court. It wasn’t revenge. It was justice. Not only for the abuse he’d suffered at the obsessive monk’s hands—all in the name of “training”—but also to keep him from harming other children.

  This dance with Victoria added another element of challenge to his mission. If she knew he was aware of why she’d come to Nightingale Vineyards, she might become even more determined and reckless to find and free his prisoners before Lucifer’s Army came to claim them. The Loyalists came when the moon was full each month. On that night, he held a party to provide cover for the prisoner delivery. The full moon galas were much larger than the occasional dinner parties held at other times. The gala was a coveted invitation, never more so than in June. To commemorate his mother’s birthday each year, he brought in an orchestra, dancing and a Firebird theme. He needed to keep Victoria in the dark until then, or longer if possible.

  And while he kept her in the dark he needed to keep himself under control.

  The water became superheated to the point of pain as it ran down his skin. Paired with the stitched wound on his back, the discomfort distracted him from the lush, full red lips he saw every time he closed his eyes. They’d been slightly open, welcoming, even though she’d seen him at his most ferocious.

  He’d been trained to be a ruthless killer. Though he’d turned those skills on the men who had made him, he was pretty sure that didn’t negate the fact that they’d created a monster.

  It had been dark in the garden and she’d been thrown to the ground with her face in the grass, but she’d seen the blood on her shoes.

  And a monster had no right to kiss a woman with the voice of an angel, even if she’d temporarily forgotten how to sing.

  Chapter 4

  Dressing for breakfast with a man who had decapitated an evil monk for you was more challenging than you might think. Adam Turov had secrets the regular world wasn’t privy to. He’d showed her his true nature for several violent seconds. Now, she either had to pretend she’d been disoriented enough to not fully realize what she’d seen, or she had to risk more honest discussion.

  Honesty wasn’t possible between them. Not as long as Michael was in danger.

  She’d had wine on an empty stomach after a long trip. She’d been accosted in the garden and her host had helped her. She wouldn’t mention the sword. She wouldn’t mention the blood on her shoes. It would only work if he wanted to maintain his disguise enough to play along.

  So, she dressed in a light dress with a soft cashmere sweater and sandals. Very holiday. Much innocent.

  She matched her outfit to the embossed invitation that had arrived with a fragrant coffee tray at her cottage door that morning. Semicasual, but elegant and nothing that said, “I saw a man lose his head in the garden last night.”

  Her sundress was translucent georgette in white with fine satin polka dots sprinkled in black across the skirt. The dots lessened in number until they disappeared completely at her cap sleeves and the cut flared out softly from a pinched waist and tight bodice. She gathered up her hair in a soft chignon with a clip that allowed wayward tendrils to brush her cheeks.

  She couldn’t help it if her expression didn’t match the swingy skirt that swirled against her pale legs as she walked out to meet her host. She couldn’t help that her eyes looked wide and dark, much greener than the usual soft hazel that had to be lined with kohl to show brightly enough onstage.

  She followed the directions of the invitation to a—thankfully—different part of the grounds, where a table had been set among the wildly abundant roses. Her low-heeled sandals crunched on the path. The silky rose petals were soft and dewy against her fingers when she reached to brush the blooms as she walked by.


  Victoria had to present herself at the table as a regular guest even as she decided how best to explore the estate in secret. So far she’d seen no other evidence of Turov’s activities involving the Order of Samuel. None beyond his aiding her against the monk last night.

  She had to pretend she hadn’t seen him in the pale moonlight with a bloody sword or that afterward he hadn’t courteously offered to replace her shoes. How else could she proceed? She knew who and what he was. He might have suspicions about her. But she had to pretend innocence over toast and orange juice.

  Luckily, Adam Turov had been living a double life long enough to cover for them both.

  He sat at the table sipping his juice from a cut crystal glass. His suit was tailored tight to his broad, lean chest. His black hair was as dark and gleaming as the shine of his jacket’s gabardine. He was freshly shaven. Not a wave of his hair was out of place. His blue eyes glittered mildly in the sun as she joined him.

  “Just us?” Victoria asked. She took the only other seat at the table. It was on the opposite end from Turov, giving her a reprieve from his Brimstone heat.

  “Yes. No one else is staying with us at this time,” her host said. He used a silver knife to spread butter on a toast point as he spoke. Its blunt blade winked in the sun. The larger sword he’d used last night was a secret best kept in the moonlight.

  In the sun, Turov was the picture of sophisticated ease.

  Victoria blinked and reached for the pristine linen napkin on her plate. Its swan shape dissolved in her fingers.

  “I have a meeting that will tie me up until this afternoon, but I hope to give you a tour at some point during your stay,” Turov said.

  “Thank you,” Victoria replied.

  Swords and winery tours. She doubted the tour he offered would give her the access she needed to find the monks he’d captured and set them free.

  Father Malachi had said that they would use their combined strength to kill Adam Turov once they were freed.

  The table was a long rectangle of polished glass with hammered copper legs, but she was still closer to Turov than she should be. She looked away from his direct gaze, uncomfortable with the truths that they weren’t free to discuss that were revealed with eye contact. She noticed movement in the vineyard. Dozens of workers in coveralls were obvious among the greenery. She could see their hands busily tending the vines. Occasionally, they would call out to each other, but mostly they focused on the work of their hands.

  “Are they pruning the grapevines today?” she asked.

  “It’s time for shoot thinning. Every spring we refocus the energy of the plant. Some of the leaves are removed and most of the buds to encourage uniform flowering. They’ll leave windows in the canopy to allow filtered light to hit the cluster of grapes as it grows. We take great care to ensure proper color development,” Turov explained.

  His whole demeanor changed when he talked about his vines. Gone was the sophisticated businessman. But the warrior didn’t take his place. Instead, he was all vintner, an artist who worked with nature to sculpt an exquisite harvest.

  “I had no idea the process was so complex,” Victoria said. Her mouth had gone dry. No Brimstone heat necessary. His honest passion for his work was seduction itself.

  Oh, she could feel the pull of Brimstone. The table was only eight feet long. Her skin flushed in the sun, but not from its rays. Yet it was more than Brimstone that called her to Turov. He was an artist. And like calls to like.

  “We have numerous parcels—vineyard blocks—they all produce a different crush. Different altitudes, different soil types, slightly different sunlight...all influences the flavor of the grapes. I’ll be thinning the shoots of the hillside block later this evening, before dinner. Those vines produce the crush we use to create the Firebird Pinot Noir. If you’d like, you can ride over with Gideon to see how it’s done,” Turov offered.

  “Yes. I’d like to see you work,” Victoria said.

  Be interested in the grapes and the growing process. God, do not make it about his hands or about seeing him completely honest as he labors in the sun.

  She couldn’t avoid him. She had to engage in an odd dance of following him around and keeping her distance. She needed to discover his secrets without revealing her own. But now she had even more to worry about because she was pretty sure natural chemistry was as much a part of her reaction to him as the Brimstone.

  She hadn’t meant her gaze to linger on him, but when he abruptly rose and broke eye contact she knew it had. He tossed his napkin on the table and approached her. Her temperature rose with every step. Maybe because of the Brimstone. Maybe not.

  She held her breath when he paused beside her chair, but she released it in a shaky sigh when he reached to take her arm gently in his warm hands. He tilted and lifted until the underside of her arm was exposed. Only then did she see what had caught his attention the length of the table away.

  Her arm was bruised. The monk’s hands had bitten painfully into her skin. She’d noticed a scrape on her cheek and she’d covered it with makeup, but had missed the marks on her arm, a reminder of the evil fingers that would never pinch and hurt again.

  Turov had noticed.

  His brow had gone heavy. His jaw hardened into a chiseled stiff line. A hint of his hidden warrior returned.

  “You’re hurt,” he said. His thumb brushing her bruised skin was incredibly gentle. A whisper. Shakily, she breathed in and held it as the unexpected sensation of tenderness claimed her.

  She looked up at his face. The move was a mistake. Sunlight fell full on her cheek, revealing the mark she’d tried to cover. He lifted his other hand to cup her cheek. Her eyes went wide in a sudden reaction she couldn’t prevent. Her whole body stilled. The magnet of Brimstone urged her to rise and press against him. She had to resist that pull and the added allure of his touch, his concern. Every ounce of self-control she possessed held her in place.

  “I promised you safety,” he said. His accent had deepened and strengthened. He traced the scrape on her cheek with his fingers, whisper soft. But she wasn’t fooled. Battle was in his eyes. It waited to be released on anyone who deserved his wrath. She shivered. The warmth of sun and Brimstone didn’t negate the potential for ferocity she’d already seen.

  “No one can promise me that. Not even you,” Victoria said.

  Her reply broke the spell. He dropped his hand from her face and stepped away. Her body swayed an infinitesimal bit toward him, but she corrected herself before he’d seen. She couldn’t gauge what he’d felt. She could only feel her reaction to their connection. And her control over herself felt tenuous at best.

  “You’re probably right. Safety is an illusion. And, yet, I insist it will be so. No more bruises. Your skin...some of us have scars we can never erase, but your bruises will fade and your skin will not be marked again,” Turov said.

  He didn’t speak of killing the monk. She didn’t have to pretend she hadn’t seen the sword or heard the head roll away. She covered the bruise on her arm with her opposite hand.

  “Please. Don’t bother with pledges. It’s nothing,” she said.

  “A line in the sand is everything. It’s how a man is defined. By the limits of what he will allow or withstand. By what we can endure. The mark on your cheek is nothing to you. It’s heresy to me,” Turov said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you finish your meal in peace. I’m no fit companion for a civilized meal.”

  He fisted his hands as if frustrated he couldn’t kill the monk again for her slight injuries. He turned and walked away, his body in tight lines beneath the tailored suit and his posture determined. She’d been hurt before. Daemon hunting was risky business even for the hunter’s bloodhound. But she couldn’t remember anyone reacting to her bruises the way Adam Turov reacted.

  Victoria cooled when he left. The flush in her cheeks
drained away until her face chilled. Her entire body cooled until, bereft of his Brimstone heat, she sat shivering in the morning light.

  * * *

  After she left the table, Victoria returned to the cottage. She changed out of her sundress into more practical celery-green pants that she cuffed above sturdy canvas sneakers. She paired the pants with a snug black T-shirt and a soft loose sweater in complementary green. She wasn’t supposed to care how she looked for Turov. Meeting him in his favorite vineyard block wasn’t a date. To prove it, she did nothing with her hair, leaving it clipped up. She planned to wander around the house and grounds during the day until it was time to meet the vineyard manager at the equipment shed Turov had pointed out to her while they ate.

  Victoria expected to encounter servants and staff in the main house, but cool and quiet darkness greeted her with hushed shadows instead. Age showed in the house’s walls, where darkly stained teak wainscoting was topped by richly tinted wallpapers. Upon closer inspection, the textured papers had the faded sheen of silk or satin. Green, pale gold and burgundy tinged with scarlet were prevalent in the varying designs from room to room.

  She stepped lightly. Her heartbeat felt obvious in her chest. She hadn’t been invited to tour the house. Around every corner, she expected an unpleasant reaction to her presence. The coolness of the air seemed deserted, empty of any living warmth, but it also held a hint of wood smoke scent that reminded her of Turov. This had been his home for a long time. His scent and the aura of all she touched and saw that belonged to him made her jump at every creaking floorboard and the whispers from each well-oiled door.

  She wandered with no interruptions through hallways and rooms filled with framed memorabilia and photographs. Awards, newspaper articles and family photos all in black-and-white. Adam Turov wasn’t in many of them. When had he realized his longevity meant he shouldn’t be photographed?