Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)

But all it did was arouse her further.

Her bodice was crushed against his great chest, the slopes of her upper breasts pressed with each inhalation against the coarse cloth of his waistcoat, and she wanted… wanted something.

It’d been such a very long time since she’d been with a man. The emotions, the heat between them, made her breathless, and it was her own lack of control that finally sobered her.

“Wait,” she gasped, breaking away, pressing one palm to his chest. “I…”

He licked lazily at the corner of her mouth, not demanding, but seducing, which was, in this case, far more dangerous. She moaned a little and then got herself under control and pulled back.

“Put me down,” she said in her most haughty voice. Had she not been so very breathless, it would’ve come off rather well.

“You’re sure?” he drawled. There was a slash of color high on each of his craggy cheekbones and his eyes were lidded with sensuality.

Was she? “Quite,” she said, much more firmly than she actually felt.

He sighed heavily and let her slide—slowly—down his chest.

“Erm… thank you,” she said, trying and probably failing to regain some of her dignity. She brushed down her skirts, looking anywhere but at him. “We should return to the theater. I sent Maude and Indio out for meat pies for our supper and they should be back soon. You’re invited, of course.”

“I’m honored… to accept,” he said as formally as if she were the Queen.

She nodded and began to set off before she realized that they were in a part of the garden she’d never seen before. “Where are we?”

“The heart,” he said, his voice low and rasping. “The very… heart of my future garden… the center of the maze.”

She shivered at his words. This place didn’t look any different from anywhere else in the garden, but garden hearts, she supposed, like human hearts, could be disguised.

“I can’t see it,” she said.

He took a step toward her and turned her to face the same way as he, her back against his chest. “Here,” he said, wrapping his arms over her shoulders to hold her hands. “There’ll be a folly… of some sort right here… beneath our feet. A fountain or… waterfall or statue. Benches for lovers to sit and… kiss. The entrance will be over here”—he pointed to a space to the right—“and the maze… will wind all around us… like an embrace.”

Slowly he turned with her, tracing with his outstretched hand his imaginary maze.

“You have so much faith,” she whispered.

She felt him shrug behind her. “It’s there already… just waiting for the right person… to find it and bring it alive,” he said softly in her ear. “A maze… is eternal, you know, once discovered.”

She shivered at that and pulled away, turning to give him a bright smile. “Indio will be waiting impatiently for his supper.”

He nodded, but didn’t return her smile. “Of course.”

“I don’t understand how you can see so much in what is only destruction and debris now,” she commented as they turned back toward the theater. She was very careful to keep from brushing against him as they walked, for she was afraid that if they touched a spark might be lit. She felt as if a fine tension ran along her skin, making her nervously aware of his every movement.

He shrugged beside her. “I see it in my mind’s eye, complete… and wonderful. It’s only a matter of… planting and moving… to reveal what’s already there.” He glanced at her fondly. “Really, ’tisn’t such a mysterious thing.”

She had a certain suspicion that he was talking about something else as well.

He coughed rather harshly, and she looked at him quickly. “How is your throat?”

“Sore,” he replied. “But… that is to be expected… after so long unused.”

“I’m very glad you can speak again.”

He smiled at her finally and then they were at the theater.

Daffodil scampered to greet them, closely followed by Indio with the news that he and Maude had brought back two large pies and they must wash at once to have them while they were still hot.

Thus instructed, Lily and Caliban washed by the old water barrel.

“Mama,” Indio said as they sat, “the wherryman had only two teeth and he could spit ever so far.”

And he proceeded to tell them all about the wherryman’s unusual and rather disgusting skill.

Caliban expressed suitable interest in this dining conversation and Lily was content to watch the play between the two males. Even Maude unbent enough to give her opinion on long-distance spitting and the number of teeth one usually found in the average wherryman.

Lily almost forgot her nervous tension until after supper, when Maude was clearing the dishes with Indio’s help.

Caliban drew Lily out the theater door, quietly closing it behind them.

“See?” he said, pointing to the North Star. “In another year… or two, you’ll no longer… be able to glimpse… the stars from the garden. The lights… and fireworks will obscure them.”

“So I should treasure the wildness now?” she asked whimsically.

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing her close. “Or… just be glad that you… have this time, hard though… it seems at the moment. After all, most of London has not this… grand view… of the night sky. Only we two.”

“As if we have a world of our own.”

He smiled right before he kissed her, and she knew somehow he felt the same. They were a universe apart, Adam and Eve, in a garden that wasn’t quite Eden.

And then she thought no more for many long minutes as he leisurely kissed her, mouth opened wide over hers as if he would consume her, meld with her and make them one being under the starlit night sky.

When at last he drew back she felt a little dazed, almost off-balance, as if the world had tilted a bit on its axis.

“Tomorrow,” he said, walking backward into the dark. “Shall I… show you the secret island… in the pond?”

“If you must,” she said, the tremble in her voice betraying her discomposure.

The last thing she heard before he disappeared into the garden was the sound of his laughter.

IT WASN’T EVEN dawn when Apollo woke the next morning, but he knew it was already too late.

He could hear people in the garden.

“In th’ gallery, ’e said,” a male voice called.

A disturbed bird shrilled as it flew away.

Another man swore softly.

They were close—very close.

Apollo rolled from his pallet, glad that he’d slept in his clothes, and grabbed his shoes and his pruning knife. There was no door to the alcove in the musician’s gallery where he slept, only the tarp he’d hung over the corner. He slipped, barefoot, to the side, down the gallery.

Just as men appeared in the pink-gray light of morning in his garden. They were closing in on him.

Soldiers. They were soldiers. Red-coated, with bayonets fixed on their guns.

The breath caught in his throat. His right heel skidded on grit-strewn marble, and he beat back a sudden, cowardly wave of panic.

He whirled to his right only to find a soldier within arm’s distance, just a young boy beneath his tall cap, blue, blue eyes wide and frightened.

The soldier brought up his bayonet and Apollo swung his pruning knife in a vicious feint.

The boy soldier screamed, flailing as he scrambled away from the knife, his breath pluming white in the cold morning air.

“Oi!” someone shouted.

“Watch it!” cried another. “ ’E’s a murderer thrice over!”

No. No. No.

Not again. Never again. He’d slit his own throat before returning to Bedlam.

Apollo ran.

Through the beautiful morning light, through the blackened garden he’d hoped to redeem, with demons on his heels.

Not all were corporal.

Chapter Eleven

Ariadne stared thoughtfully after Theseus and then, unwinding the red thread from the queen’s spindle as she walked, turned left into the labyrinth.

It was a cold, silent place. The walls of the labyrinth were of ancient, worn stone, for ’twas said that it had stood since before men had discovered the island. No birds sang, nor wind blew there, as if all had been put to sleep under a spell…

—From The Minotaur

A pounding at the theater door startled Lily awake that morning. She sat up in bed, groggily looking around as Daff barked hysterically.

Shaking her head, she found her wrap and stumbled out of the bedroom, calling, “Who is it?”

She expected perhaps Edwin’s voice—although normally he never arose before noon—but it was another voice entirely that shouted back.

“Open in the name of the King!”

That made her halt abruptly, her eyes widening as she stared at her door.

The pounding came again, provoking Daffodil into a frenzy of yapping.

Lily threw a glance at Maude, who had risen as well and stood with her hand on Indio’s shoulder. Indio looked excited and a little frightened.

“Catch her and hold her,” Lily told Maude. “The last thing we need is Daffodil attacking soldiers.”

She went to the door and opened it, putting on her most charming smile. “Yes?”

The man without was an officer. He wore a red-coated uniform with smart white facing, breeches, and waistcoat, but his face was unshaven and lined. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

“ ’As a man taken refuge ’ere? A big man?” he asked.

Dear God, they were after Caliban. Lily prayed that Indio wouldn’t volunteer information.

“Why no,” she answered, puzzled, but sweet. “We were asleep until you came a-knocking, Major.”

The man actually flushed. “It’s Sergeant, ma’am. Sergeant Green. We’re searching for this man and we’ll ’ave a look around your… uh…’ouse.”

“It’s a theater, Sergeant Green,” she said, pulling the door wide, “and naturally the King’s men have my permission to look to their heart’s content.”

He nodded curtly and three uniformed soldiers tromped in, tracking mud onto Maude’s clean floor.

The maidservant’s mouth’s tightened, but she made no comment.

“May I offer you some tea, Sergeant?” Lily asked.

“That’s right kind of you, ma’am, but I’m afeard we ’aven’t the time,” Sergeant Green replied. His men were already in her bedroom doing Lord knew what with her bed linen. “Is there anyone else in the, er, theater?”

“Just myself and my maid and son.” She gestured to Maude and Indio. Daffodil took the opportunity to growl at the sergeant and attempt to wriggle free from Maude’s arms.

“Quite.” The sergeant had narrowed his eyes at the little greyhound. “And you are…?”

“Why, Miss Robin Goodfellow,” she said with what she knew was becoming modesty.

One of the soldiers tripped.

The sergeant looked impressed. “The actress?”

“You’ve heard of me, Sergeant?” she asked, all wide-eyed amazement, her hand pressed modestly to her chest. “How flattering.”

“Saw you in that play—the one in which you wore”—the sergeant blushed a deep russet and lowered his voice—“breeches. Awful grand, you were, ma’am. Awful grand.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, feigning flustered confusion. “Can you tell me whom your men are looking for?”

“A wanted man,” Sergeant Green said darkly. “Right dangerous character. Are there more rooms in the theater, ma’am?”