Touch of Passion (10 page)

Well, perhaps not everything.

The tenants had been glad of the improvements that Kian had begun, the new fences and better ditches and leveled roads. He had plans for building new dwellings and cattle sheds as well, as soon as the land began to return a profit, but with every flock and herd that was slain, that hope was becoming increasingly dim.

He wished, not for the first time in his life, that he had the gift of personal levitation. It would be remarkably handy just now to be able to fly over all his lands during the coming night to see where the evil would strike next and perhaps
stop it. He would even be glad for the ability to immediately and accurately feel a stranger's presence within the borders of his land; at least then he'd have some idea of which direction to go in order to hunt the intruder down.

Malachi possessed both of those gifts, of course, and Kian supposed that he would, too, one day. Extraordinary wizards, unlike greater and lesser ones, continued to increase in powers until they departed for the spirit realm. But though Kian was glad to know that he'd eventually gain such abilities, it did little to help him now. And so, tonight, just as they'd done for the past five nights, he and his men would do what mere mortals were required to do when hunting a predator. They would mount their horses and frantically ride about, hoping to catch the killer before he or, more likely, it struck again.

He was so weary. If he got within ten feet of a bed he would be asleep before he could close the distance. And he missed Loris with growing intensity. He'd not been able to visit her as Liw Nos since the troubles began, and he longed to hold her in his arms again, to kiss her. To lie upon her bed and simply talk, as they often did, and then to do all those other things that had nothing at all to do with talking. His body hardened simply thinking on it.

Loris must wonder, too, why Liw hadn't come to her chamber for so many nights, though there had been other times in the past when Kian hadn't been able to do so. When he and his brother and father had gone to London each year, for instance, and Loris had so stubbornly remained behind, refusing to accompany them. Surely she must have become suspicious that Liw stopped coming to her until Kian returned, but she had never said anything of it when he at last crawled over her balcony and into her bedchamber.

It was proof, he believed, that she suspected who Liw Nos really was and didn't want to risk losing him by speaking the truth aloud. The idea made Kian a little jealous, for he realized that she preferred his other self to his true self. The trouble was, he often felt the same way. After so many years, Liw Nos had become a part of him, and if Kian were
asked, it would be difficult for him to say which of his two selves he preferred.

He should stop deceiving her. It had always been terribly wrong, and when Loris at last knew the full truth she would likely never forgive him. Time and again he'd told himself that he'd not go to her, and time and again only a few short days had passed before he'd given way to desire.

Just as he wished to give way to it now, despite all the dangers at Tylluan that demanded his attention. He had become addicted to being with Loris in the night hours, and it was impossible for him to force his mind into obedience when it was most necessary and to think on what must be done, rather than on when he would be alone with her again.

And so, as he couldn't master his unruly mind and his unwilling body, he would have to take the next wisest step and send Loris away. Not simply to remove her from his reach but to keep her safe as well. He knew little thus far about what was happening at Tylluan, save that it was very bad. He wanted Loris to be as far away from it as possible. Only then would he be able to fully concentrate on ridding his lands of the evil that had come to them.

And more than simply her safety or his sanity was involved now. There was the matter of the letters that had been coming to Tylluan, addressed to Loris, for the past few months. She had refused to read any of them, and Kian had been content to quietly verify the truth of the claims that the missives made. Proof had at last come, sent by his cousin Niclas, whose word could certainly be trusted, and had arrived at almost the same time as the latest letter.

Matters in London could wait no longer for Loris to attend to them, else the man who was seeking her might take it into his mind to come to Tylluan himself, and the last thing Kian needed just now was a visit from a wealthy, powerful nobleman who was both a mere mortal and not sympathetic to those possessed of magic.

Dyfed would have to go with her, of course. There was no one else, and she certainly couldn't go alone. Kian had always
hoped that he would be the one to reintroduce Loris to London, to replace all her unhappy memories with good ones, and to make certain that she enjoyed a proper Season. Indeed, shortly after the letters first started arriving, he'd begun making plans for a possible visit. Unfortunately, just as word had come from Niclas, the killing of the cattle had begun. After six mornings like the one that had just passed, there was little hope that the matter was going to be quickly remedied. And so Dyfed would be the one to escort Loris to her first ball, perhaps to partner her in her very first dance, to see her smiling delight as she experienced the sights and sounds of a London that she'd not experienced in her youth. The thought only made Kian feel even more desolate.

He looked down at the letter in his hand, rubbing a thumb across the thick, waxy seal, and willed Loris to come to him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated. Her image came clearly into his mind's eye, happy, smiling, jesting with someone nearby.

Loris had been a beautiful girl and had grown into an even more beautiful woman. She was taller than most of the females Kian had known, slender and regal in her bearing. Her thick, curling hair had grown so long that, unbound, it fell like a shining dark gold waterfall to her hips. Her face could, without prejudice, only be called beautiful. Not pretty or comely or lovely, but strikingly beautiful. Her features were in perfect proportion to one another, neither too large nor too small, save perhaps for her cinnamon-colored eyes, which were prominently set beneath delicately arching eyebrows.

She was in the great hall, putting flowers on one of the tables, directing some of the servants in the placement of cups and bowls and plates. Kian could feel her contentment and pleasure as if it were his own and knew that familiar stab of pain at the knowledge that she seldom felt such things when he was near.

Kian had no idea how long Loris would have to remain in London. Weeks, perhaps even months, might pass before
they would see each other again. It would be an awful time. He wasn't quite sure how he would survive such a separation.

“Come to me,” he whispered softly. “Come, my
unoliaeth
.”

She would come, whether she wished to or not, whether she thought it was her own idea or not, because even the curse couldn't change what they were to each other. She had the power to call him to her side as well, though when she did he always came to her as Liw.

He could see her straightening. The flowers were set aside, and she said something to one of the nearest servants. Wiping her hands on her apron and running her hands over her loosely bound hair, Loris turned and walked out of the great hall. She was coming.

Loris hesitated before knocking lightly on the study door. It still seemed strange not to see Ffinian in the room but to walk in and see Kian sitting behind the desk that had fit his father so well.

But Kian wasn't sitting there now. He was standing by the window, gazing out at the view beyond. She saw the letter in his hand even before she spoke.

“I'm sorry if this isn't a good time,” she said. “I've come about my letter.”

He turned to her, and Loris was struck by how terribly tired he was. His handsome face was drawn and pale, and his blue eyes were heavy with weariness.

“When did you last sleep?” she asked, and quickly wished that she hadn't. She'd learned long ago that it never did any good to worry about Kian. He would only mock her for being concerned.

But, to her surprise, he simply replied, “I can't remember,” and held the letter out to her.

And that made her even more concerned. If Kian didn't have the energy to say something tart and unpleasant, then he was clearly far more exhausted than she'd realized.

She moved closer and took the letter, but continued to look up into his face.

“Why don't you lie down for a few hours? There's enough time before night falls and I can prepare a tray for your room so that you needn't rise for the evening meal.”

A certain look came into his eye and he tilted his head slightly. “Are you worried for me,
darling
Loris?” he asked, sarcastically emphasizing one of the endearments that his father had called her by. “How sweet, and how very odd. Perhaps you're sickening with something that's made you lose your senses.”

The familiar anger that rose up in her when she was with him finally came to life, and out of habit Loris tensed, straightening full-height. If she had been cursed to dislike him, which she still doubted was true, then he had been cursed as well—to make her feel that way. No one else could aggravate her so quickly and thoroughly. But that was what he wanted to do, of course. As he so often reminded her, Kian preferred her anger to her kindness—or her coldness, as he called it.

“Yes, I forgot myself, of course,” she said tightly. “For a moment I mistook you for someone else. Dyfed, perhaps.” That did it, as she knew it would. Nothing made him angrier than being compared to Dyfed. The taunting smile on Kian's face thinned into a straight line. “Forgive me for being so foolish.”

“That's better,” he said, his tone filled with scarcely suppressed amusement. “Absent your waspish tongue, I might have mistaken you for someone else, as well. And then here we'd be, two strangers discussing a letter meant for you.”

The letter. Loris immediately forgot their sparring and gazed down at the object in her hands.

“Is it from the Goodbodys again?”

“Yes.”

“Why can't they leave me in peace?” she said unhappily, beginning to feel sick, as she did whenever she remembered her days at the Red Fox. “It can't be so very important, can it? They probably want money.”

“Sit down and open it,” Kian said, his tone gentler now. “You need to read it this time, Loris.”

She looked up at him and saw the emotion in his blue eyes before he could hide it. “You know what it is, don't you?” When he began to look away she reached out and touched his arm, stilling him. “And all those other letters. The ones I threw away. You knew what was in them as well.”

He stared at her hand, then nodded. When he looked up at her, his expression made her tremble with fear.

“Come and sit,” he said, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. “You look as if you're about to faint.” He pulled up another chair and sat beside her, leaning to set a strong, reassuring hand over her trembling ones. “I swore to you long ago that no one would ever harm you again, most especially not the Goodbodys, and regardless what you may feel for me, you know that I hold to my promises.”

That was true, Loris thought. Kian Seymour was an irritating wretch, but he was an honorable man. And he cared for her. He still believed that she was his
unoliaeth
, regardless of every proof otherwise. He would feel duty-bound to keep her safe.

“Open the letter,” he murmured, sitting back. “And then we'll discuss what's to be done.”

It took some doing, for her fingers still trembled, but at last she had it opened and unfolded. The handwriting within was difficult to read at best and completely indecipherable at worst.

“It seems to be from Mr. Goodbody. Or perhaps his wife. I believe she knew how to write. I can't quite make it out . . . . Is this about my mother?”

Loris held the missive out to Kian, but he didn't look at it. He gazed directly at her and answered, “It seems to be.”

Loris frowned and gave her attention back to the letter. “It says . . . I believe . . . my mother's . . . What is this word?”

She held the letter up to him once more. This time he looked, squinted at the word, and replied, “
Family
.”

“Family?” Loris repeated faintly, and looked at the letter. “My mother's family is . . . is searching for me?” She lowered the missive to her lap and turned to the man sitting beside her.

Kian was still regarding her steadily, not in the least surprised. But of course he wouldn't be. He didn't need to read the letter to divine by magic what the Goodbodys had written.

“Tell me what it means,” she said. “Can this be true?”

“It is, in a way,” he replied calmly. “A certain gentleman has been seeking his runaway daughter for some years. He had gotten as far as discovering the existence of a woman—your mother—who closely resembled this daughter, though he could not be certain that it was she, as she had long since died. He learned that the woman had left behind a husband and child. Following their trail—which you will understand was not easy, being many years old—at last led the gentleman to the Goodbodys, who were able to tell him of both you and your father. Their description of your departed father accurately fits the appearance of the fellow who ran off with this gentleman's daughter. Apparently the Goodbodys had never met your mother, and thus could not give the gentleman any information regarding her.”

Loris nodded. “She died when I was seven. We lived in a different part of London then, and only came nearer to the Red Fox when I was ten.”

“That may be, in part, why it's been so difficult for you to be found,” Kian said. “The gentleman—Lord Perham—had reason to believe that his daughter was with child when she disappeared, and that child, if living, would now be approximately your age. Unfortunately, Lord Perham has had several false turns with fortune hunters pretending to be this unknown grandchild, and is understandably wary of believing the claims made by the Goodbodys. He is determined, however, to meet you himself before giving up hope entirely.”