Finally—dear God, finally—she felt the tweezers clink against something. She tried to open the thin blades to grasp the ball, but there wasn’t room.
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath. It was terribly unladylike to swear. But then it was unladylike to have one’s fingers in a gentleman’s bloody shoulder.
She twisted her implement, trying to somehow capture the little bit of metal. For a moment she thought she had it, but then the tweezers slipped off the bullet.
Iris swallowed. She was so weary. She just wanted to correct the wrong she’d done to Dyemore.
Make him whole again.
Nicoletta murmured something and patted around the wound with a piece of cloth, wiping away some of the blood.
“Thank you.”
Iris inhaled and closed her eyes. Working slowly, she felt for the bullet again. Caught the bit of metal … just there … and carefully withdrew the tweezers with the bullet and then the knife.
She blew out a breath, eyeing the nasty little thing, then reached for one of the cloths on the table. She wiped the bullet and examined it.
It was whole.
Thank God.
She set it down on the table and turned back to Dyemore. The wound was still oozing blood. She licked her lips and inhaled. She’d have to sew it closed.
There was no needle or thread on the table and she turned to Nicoletta. “Do you have a sewing kit?”
The maidservant nodded and hurried away.
That left Iris in the room with three big manservants. Ubertino knelt to stir the fire and put more coal on it.
Iris picked up a cloth, folded it into a pad, and pressed it against the wound. How much blood had he lost tonight? Dyemore was a big man, a strong man from what she’d seen—and she’d seen all of him—but even the strongest man could succumb to blood loss.
The door opened and she looked up to see that Nicoletta had returned with a basket.
The maidservant bustled over and opened the basket, revealing a sewing kit. She selected a sturdy needle and threaded it with what looked like silk.
“Thank you.” Iris took the needle.
She lifted the soaked pad from the wound and hesitated. She’d seen bullet holes sewn up before, but she’d never watched closely.
Well. It wasn’t as if they had any other choice.
She pinched the edges of the wound together, then laid the needle’s point at his skin. It was harder than she’d imagined, piercing a man’s flesh. The needle was slippery beneath her fingers and she almost lost her grasp.
Suddenly Nicoletta’s hands were there as well, helping her by holding the wound closed.
“Thank you,” Iris said again gratefully.
She stitched the wound together as best she could, but she was afraid it was rather a mess when she was done.
At least the bleeding had slowed.
Together she and Nicoletta bandaged Dyemore’s shoulder. At one point the men had to lift the duke so that they could wrap the bandages around his back.
Even that didn’t wake him.
When they were done, Iris found that her hands were trembling.
She blinked, feeling so weary she didn’t know what to do next.
Nicoletta clucked and produced a clean bowl of water. Iris slowly washed her hands, watching the water turn pink from the blood.
She dried her hands and the maidservant gave her a glass of wine and a piece of bread.
Iris ate and drank mechanically, and then Nicoletta showed her the chamber pot behind a screen in the corner of the room.
She should be embarrassed, but Iris found she couldn’t muster the energy. Instead she squatted and relieved herself.
When she emerged from behind the screen she found that the duke had been tucked under the covers of the huge bed and that the other side was turned back.
Waiting for her.
She stopped dead.
It hadn’t occurred to her …
Well, of course they’d married, but …
Oh, good Lord, Nicoletta and the manservants were looking at her expectantly.
Dyemore was injured. Surely she should sleep somewhere else? But what if there wasn’t anywhere else prepared?
And she was so damned tired.
Iris made up her mind. The bed was more than big enough for two—even with such a large man as Dyemore—and she was exhausted. If she disturbed him in the night, she could always sleep on the floor.
She was that weary.
And besides—someone would have to make sure he was all right during the night.
She crossed the room, kicked off her ragged slippers, and climbed into the bed.
Oh.
Oh, heaven.
The light withdrew from the room and she heard the door close.
And then it was just her and this man.
Her husband.
Chapter Three
Now the elder of the stonecutter’s daughters was tall, fair, and strong, and her name was Ann, but the younger was small, dark, and sickly, and her name was El. Soon after her twelfth birthday El took to her bed and lay, gray skinned and shivering.…
—From The Rock King
That same night the Dionysus sat upon his throne and watched the revels of his followers. Underneath the great arch of the ruined cathedral torchlight flickered, drawing macabre shapes on heaving bodies. Moans and the muted slap of flesh on flesh sounded in the night.
The screams had stopped hours before.
He was unaroused by the sights and sounds. These things didn’t appeal to him. Actually, few things of the body appealed to him, truth be known, but this was, after all, a society of debauchery, so needs must.
Besides, they’d made him their Dionysus—their king. It was well to let his subjects celebrate this night.
The Dionysus smiled a little behind the smooth wood of his mask as he watched them. He knew who they were beneath those animal masks. Knew the respectable magistrate fondling the breast of his own sister. Knew the earl being buggered by a handsome youth. Knew the archbishop whipping a weeping woman.
He knew them, and they had no idea at all who he was because, unlike all the idiot men who’d been Dionysus before him, he’d made sure to gain his power without revealing his identity. He wasn’t interested in mere rape and corruption.
While those earlier leaders of the Lords had thought only of pricks, arses, and cunts, he concerned himself with larger things.
He dreamed of power.
“Dyemore hadn’t the right.” The Fox had risen from the mass of bodies and was attempting to saunter toward the Dionysus’s throne. He stumbled, though—his usual grace inhibited by the wine he’d drunk. “He flouts your authority.”
“How so?” The Dionysus tilted his head, watching the Fox.
Like the animal he’d chosen for his mask, the man was sly and untrustworthy. But the Fox had also managed to live through the last six months of bloody upheaval that started when the old Duke of Dyemore—their Dionysus—had been murdered, leading first to a savage struggle for power, and then to the final catastrophe, when the Duke of Kyle discovered them and nearly destroyed their illustrious ranks. Few of the old guard in the Lords of Chaos had weathered the storm.
The Fox was one.
Which was why he bore watching.
“Took the woman, didn’t he?” The Fox waved his arm, presumably to indicate where Dyemore had taken Lady Jordan. Or perhaps simply because he enjoyed waving his arm. “The woman was for us. For tonight.”
The Dionysus sighed impatiently. “She wasn’t the Duchess of Kyle. Her sacrifice would not have been the grand revenge against Kyle that I’d planned.” He shrugged. “I made the decision to give Lady Jordan to Dyemore. It’s done.”
“It was a mistake—”
The Dionysus sat forward, the abrupt movement drawing several eyes in the crowd, among them those of the Mole, lurking alone under a broken pillar. “The mistake was in taking the wrong lady. That mistake was yours, I believe.”
/> The Fox took a step back before he caught himself and stood his ground. “I wasn’t the only one on that foray. The Mole and the—”
“Yes, but they’re not here complaining to me now, are they?” the Dionysus asked. “They aren’t questioning my authority and despoiling my enjoyment of the revelry.”
“I … I only sought to warn you, my lord,” the Fox said, his head lowered in submission.
“Of course,” the Dionysus said, gentling his tone smoothly. “I know you are loyal to me.”
“I am,” the Fox said, raising his head cautiously. “Dyemore wants your throne.”
The Dionysus sighed silently. Of course Dyemore wanted his throne. Everyone wanted his throne. Most, however, hadn’t the brains or the ruthlessness needed to challenge him.
Dyemore, however …
If nothing else, the Dionysus liked to keep his enemies close under his eye to better understand their plans.
“You cannot trust him,” the Fox said, his tone whining. He’d crept nearer. “Please, my lord, beware of Dyemore.”
“Your concern is sweet.” The Dionysus saw that the Mole was watching them from behind his pillar. “Come. Let us partake together. Bring a sacrifice and we will share.”
“Oh yes, my lord,” the Fox said eagerly. He darted away and was soon dragging back a drunken wench, her hair the color of burgundy. “Does this one please you?”
“Indeed,” the Dionysus lied. He drew his finger down the woman’s slack face—watching as her eyes widened in fear—and then drew the same finger down the Fox’s freckled shoulder.
The Fox shivered at his touch.
Over by the pillar the Mole started forward, then froze.
The Fox thrust the woman down before the throne so that her face was between the Dionysus’s legs, her task obvious.
The Dionysus sighed silently. His prick was limp—and would remain limp for her mouth or any other’s were that the only thing available to stimulate him.
But needs must. A show was important—to him, the Fox, and, perhaps most importantly, the Mole.
So his fingers found the small dagger hidden in the side of his throne, and he palmed it in his fist and drove it into the inside of his right thigh, perilously close to where an artery ran just under the skin.
Pain blossomed and bright blood gushed over his fingers.
His prick awakened.
He took his bloodied fingers and daubed them about the stunned woman’s mouth before meeting her terrified eyes. “Begin.”
As she bent her blood-painted mouth to his genitals he dug his thumb into the wound, sweet, blissful agony shooting through his body.
The Fox was already grunting over her back.
The Dionysus glanced up once to make sure the Mole was watching, his fingers clenching the pillar, before he closed his eyes.
Yes, he’d have to look after Dyemore. Make sure he’d gotten rid of Lady Jordan.
And nullify him as a threat to his throne.
* * *
Iris awoke the next day to sunshine.
She blinked.
Sunshine seemed most inappropriate, considering the ghastly events of the night before, but there it was, all the same. A merry little beam of sunlight danced across the ancient wooden floor of the ducal bedroom, almost to the huge bed she lay in. She could see the window where the sun was coming in—made of stone, with a severely pointed top. The surrounding wood paneling was a dark, reddish brown, intricately carved into vertical points and honeycombs. The paneling continued all the way up to the ceiling. If she tilted her head, peering past the heavy purple canopy of the bed, she could just make out the edge of a carved medallion in the very center of the ceiling.
Iris let her head drop back on the pillow.
She could hear Dyemore breathing beside her, even and deep. It was actually rather comforting, knowing he was there with her. Knowing that he’d given so much to protect her.
Iris frowned at the thought. She really oughtn’t to feel safe with Dyemore—she knew so little about him, and what she did know was suspect—and yet she did.
Carefully she inched from her side to her back, the sheets bunching around her waist and rustling horribly. She froze for a moment, but his breathing didn’t hitch, so she rolled to face him.
Dyemore lay on his back, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks ruddy. From this angle his aquiline nose rose in sharp profile.
Iris propped herself up on her elbow.
Lines were drawn on his forehead, between his brows, and on the unscarred cheek from his nostril to the corner of his mouth. She didn’t think they sat there normally. He looked as if he suffered in his sleep.
She gingerly laid the back of her hand against his brow.
His skin was hot and damp and she frowned worriedly—had he started a fever?
He sighed and she snatched back her hand.
She might feel safe with him, but intellectually she knew she had no reason to do so. If she woke him, would he start ordering her about as he had last night?
Iris wasn’t sure she wanted to submit to this man’s rule. His husbandly right to do with her what he wished.
His right to bed her.
She shivered, staring down at him, forcing herself to examine the horrific scar that marred the right side of his face. The Duke of Kyle—Hugh, as she knew him—had been with her when she’d first seen Dyemore at that ball so many months before. He’d mentioned that there were rumors surrounding the scar. That there had been a duel between Dyemore and an enraged father because of a corrupted daughter. That Dyemore’s own father, the old duke, had carved the scar into his son’s face. Or that the scar was somehow the sign of a family curse.
That Dyemore had been born with half his face disfigured.
Her gaze dropped to the right side of his mouth, to the corner of his lip that was permanently pulled into a slight snarl by the edge of the angry scar, and then to the other side of his mouth, to the sensuous curve of his lips. She raised her hand, reaching out to touch that perfect curl. She stilled, her hand hovering, as the sunlight glinted off the ruby ring on her finger. It was a pretty little ring, delicate and made for a woman. In any other circumstances she would’ve worn it with happiness.
Here, though.… Well it was almost a mark of possession, wasn’t it?
Iris inhaled and jerked her hand back before she made contact. This man might be her husband now—courtesy of a series of terrible events and his own stubbornness, but he was still a stranger.
A stranger she wasn’t even sure she could entirely trust.
She shook her head and rose from the huge bed.
Hugh and Alf must be insane with worry. Iris had been taken from her carriage, but Parks, her lady’s maid, the driver, and her footmen had been left behind. They would’ve notified Hugh of her kidnapping. There was also her elder brother, Henry, to consider.
Iris lived with Henry and his wife, Harriet, in their London house. Though she hadn’t given them a specific date for her return from Hugh and Alf’s wedding, surely Henry would be concerned over her continued absence by now. Hugh might even have ridden to London and raised the alarm over her disappearance.
She had to send word to them that she was still alive.
Dyemore had said the previous night that she couldn’t be seen in the nearby village, but perhaps she could convince one of his men to ride with a note to Hugh or Henry.
Iris turned from the bed and froze.
At one side of the room a huge medieval fireplace took up most of the wall, blood-red marble veined in ivory framing the hearth.
Above the mantel was a portrait of a woman.
She was dark haired, wearing the rounded neck and long waistline of several decades before. Her complexion was so fair the artist had tinged it faintly green in parts. She was hauntingly beautiful, but it was the tragedy in the lady’s light-gray eyes that made Iris stare.
Her eyes were the same gray as Dyemore’s eyes.
Dyemore, however, never expressed s
uch deep emotion—or any emotion at all save for anger. At least Iris had never seen him do so.
His eyes were as cold as winter ice at midnight.
The woman in the portrait must be Dyemore’s mother. Iris thought, but she couldn’t remember hearing anything about her.
She glanced around. Besides the massive bed, the room was almost stark. There were a dainty chest of drawers standing on gilded legs in the corner, two trunks sitting on the floor beside it, a few low velvet chairs before that enormous fireplace, and the screen in the corner, hiding the commode.
She cast a worried look at the bed, but Dyemore slept on, so she hastily relieved her bladder and felt much better afterward. Unfortunately, now she could think about other matters—such as the state of her clothes and her person.
She needed a bath and to send word to Hugh, and Dyemore needed someone to nurse him.
Time to go in search of the Corsicans.
She opened the door as quietly as possible so as not to wake the duke, and ventured into the corridor. It was completely deserted, but she could hear the faint murmur of voices from below.
Iris strode down the corridor to the staircase. In the light of day, the abbey was better maintained than she’d thought from her impressions of the night before, but it still had an air of neglect. As she descended she noticed that the stairs were carpeted, but dust was matted in the corners of the treads. The paintings that hung on the walls, too, needed dusting, and motes danced in the sunlight that weakly struggled in from the few windows. There should be more candles lit, the marble banister should be polished, and the chandelier hung high above in the entry hall should be taken down and cleaned.
It was as if this house had been shut up and forgotten.
She frowned, following the voices back through the abbey into the servants’ quarters. The hall became narrow and dark, and she followed a short set of servants’ stairs leading down. She emerged into the kitchen, a large lowceilinged room.
Ubertino, Nicoletta, and three other servants were sitting around the central table.
“Good morning,” Iris greeted them as she entered.