Scoundrel - The Blades Of The Rose Part 16

"No drawers?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "d.a.m.ned things are too restricting. That water better be b.l.o.o.d.y cold," he growled.

She made a choked laugh. "For both of our sakes." She waved toward the stream. "Let's swim."

Bennett went first, wading into the stream. The water shivered and bit with tiny, icy teeth. Its chill raced up his legs, but only slightly tempered the heat of his arousal. He moved deeper into the stream so that it reached his hips, then turned to help London.

"Careful," he warned, taking her hand. "The shelf of the bank is steep."

She stepped in, then yelped. "So cold!"

"Cold enough?"

She pressed her lips together in a playful pout. "Not quite. For you, either, I see." She glanced down at him, at his erection bobbing in the water, and raised a brow.

"Come on, Naiad," he rumbled, drawing her forward. "Swim."

With a show of obedience, she walked forward, deeper into the stream. Her mouth flattened into a hard line as the frigid water rose up to her calves, her knees, and then higher, but she made not another word of complaint. Her chemise billowed up in the current, drifting like a lily. As the fabric swirled, he glimpsed the dark honey of curling hair between her legs. The G.o.dd.a.m.ned cold water wasn't helping at all.

They both moved farther into the water, him leading, guiding her. The water rose to his chest. Suddenly, she gasped and slipped on the slick pebbles lining the stream bed. She plunged forward. He dove to catch her. Then they were pressed together, her arms wrapped around his neck, his clasping her waist. He felt every silky inch of her. His c.o.c.k surged against her soft, curved stomach. There wasn't enough cold water in all the world's oceans to bring down his fever.

She looked up at him through her lashes.

"You did that on purpose," he said.

"If I did, then I'm just tormenting the both of us."

"No pain. Pleasure's much better." There's a mission, in case you've forgotten, randy idiot. There's a mission, in case you've forgotten, randy idiot. He made sure she had stable footing before reluctantly disentangling, holding only her hand. "Ready?" He made sure she had stable footing before reluctantly disentangling, holding only her hand. "Ready?"

At her nod, they both took deep breaths, then sank underneath the water. The stream ran gently, so it wasn't difficult to swim against its current, though navigating around the large rocks in the middle proved a small challenge. He took his time, keeping his eyes open so he could scan the stream bed for something, anything that might be a clue. Pebbles and rocks of every hue lined the bed of the stream, and gra.s.ses rippled in the current. Distraction also came in the form of London swimming, as lovely as a river spirit, her hair darker in the water in a rippling banner, chemise clinging to her lithe body. Undulating, she smiled at him.

Something in the center of his chest constricted, sharp. He wouldn't look away, reveled in it.

After a few minutes, they both rose up to the surface for more air.

"What are we looking for?" she asked.

"h.e.l.l if I know. Keep going."

Back down again. Several times they did this. The initial burst of warmth he got from swimming leeched away in the frigid water. London, too, grew awkward in her movements.

"Wait for me on the bank," he said when they surfaced. "Your lips are blue."

"I'm f-fine."

"London," he warned.

"I'm done with having a m-man tell me what to d-do."

He could carry her out, force her to wait, but she was determined to test herself, see what she was capable of, and he had to give her that room. The problem with London was that she wasn't just beautiful and clever. She kept impressing him with her courage. At this rate, he'd be entirely infatuated by sundown. And in a week...well, he wouldn't dwell on the future. The Heirs were out there.

Without another word, he dipped back under the water. If she followed him, it would be her choice. When she truly endangered herself, though, he would make a unilateral decision to get her out of the water.

They each skimmed over the bottom of the stream, looking for anything, growing more desperate. This whole exercise could prove futile, a ruse to throw any who sought the Source off the path. It had happened before. He'd spent one extremely bitter winter in Lapland chasing the Heirs who, it eventually turned out, had been sent on a wild goose chase by a set of runes. All either of them received for their troubles were frozen beards and near cases of frostbite.

Bennett hated to think that London endangered herself for some will-o'-the-wisp.

There. A flash and gleam, small and brief, just at the edge of one of the largest rocks. He almost missed it. But he swam back, dove lower, and shoved away handfuls of pebbles. A burst of tadpoles wriggled away, disturbed from their hiding. Yes. The glint of metal, the edge of something, but what, he couldn't tell. Most of it was buried underneath the rock.

London appeared next to him. He pointed at the metal. They shared an excited smile, cold water forgotten. The thrill of discovery never went away, no matter how long he'd been with the Blades.

One final surfacing for air, and down to the stream floor. Bennett pushed at the rock, but it didn't move. He swam around to the other side and set his shoulder to the rock, pushing it downstream. It jostled slightly, yet not enough. He shoved again, and again, digging his heels into the rocks and pebbles on the floor. A few cut his feet. He waved off her concern when threads of red stained the water. Silt clouded up. His lungs burned, but he didn't want to stop. Not when it felt so close. One more push...

The rock heaved forward, uncovering more of the metal. London darted forward and grabbed it, just before the rock rolled back into its original place.

London and Bennett shot up to the surface, gulping in air, then raced for the bank. Bennett reached the sh.o.r.e first, and pulled London out. He nearly fell over backward, thunderstruck, to see her.

Women in all states of undress were not uncommon to him. He ventured to guess that he'd seen more nude women than most men had seen clothed. He loved all the shapes women took-slim, lush, spare, abundant. In dishabille or fully bare. They all held their charms. And now, London. The wet chemise clung to her, entirely transparent, and he saw everything. b.r.e.a.s.t.s, belly, thighs. The perfect oval of her navel. Her woman's mound.

None of those other women ever stopped his heart as did London Edgeworth in her sopping chemise.

"Please don't look at me that way," she gulped. "Or I'll forget why we are here in the first place."

"Good," he growled. But he knew she was right.

Several small, brown birds scattered from the branches of nearby laurel trees, reminding him of his duty.

Together, they knelt in the gra.s.s, the warm sun drying their skin, as they examined their find.

A bronze mirror, round, with no handle. Instead, a hole at the top indicated where it would hang on a wall. A pattern of rays, like those from the sun, encircled the reflective surface. Bennett felt the faint hum of power he'd come to recognize when handling magical objects, through his fingertips and to the very ends of his hair.

"There's writing here," London said, peering closely. "In the same Samalian-Thracian dialect as the song. Which would date this as being at least two thousand years old. But," she added, wonder tingeing her voice, "there is not a bit of corrosion anywhere. Even if it had been at the bottom of the stream for a few years, it would be tarnished."

Bennett and London's faces stared back at them from the perfectly reflective surface of the mirror.

"Sources and some magical objects are like that." He studied the mirror. "Time and the elements don't affect them. Can you translate it?"

"Yes."

"We'll take it to the boat, and you'll translate it there."

She glanced at the water with concern. "Is it all right to remove it from the stream?"

"If we leave the mirror, the Heirs will find it. And I'd rather have it in our hands than theirs."

Seeing the lesser of the two evils, London acquiesced.

He rose to his feet, and almost sank back down as London's eyes moved over his body. Her damp chemise still clung to her. "We need to get back," he said, more for himself than for her. She nodded, but with reluctance. d.a.m.n and h.e.l.l. The pa.s.sion in her was going to kill him, and he'd die happy.

They made their way back to their clothes and dressed quickly, but not before he had to endure the torment turning away so she could remove her chemise to wring it out, then put it back on again. Bennett did not don his jacket, instead swaddled the mirror in it. Before they left the stream, Bennett filled the pottery jugs with water. "This'll still serve us well," he said. The water, cold as it was, had been delicious, just as the villager promised.

London carried the wrapped mirror back up the valley, with Bennett toting the water. She fared better on the return journey, tripping less and maintaining her footing. As they pa.s.sed through the olive grove, Bennett indicated the tree that held the disgruntled owl. The bird was still there, eyeing them sulkily. "Hold the mirror up to the bird. Don't bother to unwrap it."

Frowning in puzzlement, London did so. The owl began to hoot loudly, dancing from side to side until it finally took flight, shrieking. London ducked out of its way, but was careful to protect the mirror.

"Birds are sensitive to magic," Bennett explained. "A good test when looking for Sources. That's why the birds scattered from the trees when we got out of the stream."

"I wondered why my father always kept a parrot," London murmured, "even though it was a horrible, mean-tempered beast. Pulled my hair and tried to peck out my eyes every time I walked past him. Wellington." She shuddered at the memory.

"You'll roast him and serve him with chestnut dressing." He drew her forward.

She made a face. "Welly would be too tough to eat. Maybe just shot and stuffed for my mantel."

"I'll bring the brandy. A nice fireside rendezvous at home."

The idea pleased her, until, "I don't have a home anymore." Her gaze went far off, searching for purchase amidst instability.

It struck him anew, how much she'd given up and lost in the span of only a few days. Even he he didn't know what would become of her, after the mission had been achieved. didn't know what would become of her, after the mission had been achieved. If If it was achieved. it was achieved. If If they survived. they survived.

Two things Bennett vowed to himself, watching her as she strode with straight shoulders through the silver-green shade of the olive grove: He would succeed in this mission for the Blades. And he would protect London Harcourt. At the cost of his own life, if necessary. She was brave and intelligent, but a mission for the Blades always held danger, the kind of danger she had no experience facing. He, on the other hand, was a seasoned soldier on the frontlines of the battle for the world's magic. And he'd use his knowledge to keep her safe.

They pa.s.sed through the tiny village, but the man who had directed them was nowhere to be seen. The orange cat now lay on its other side, the only evidence that the feline had moved at all. When a goat trotted close to London, she glared at it until it backed down with a bleat.

"What a fierce creature you've become," he said.

"The daring foe of parrots and goats everywhere."

"And island thugs." He nodded toward the shadow of one house. The five youths who had attacked them in the olive grove skulked there, watching Bennett and London with sullen, bruised faces. They scattered like sheep, bleating, when Bennett smiled at them.

"You've attracted your share of admirers, too," London remarked. She looked pointedly at the window of another house, where three girls, freshly arrived in early womanhood, stared and giggled. It was safe to a.s.sume they weren't interested in London.

He glanced at London and saw pinched disapproval in her expression, which made him absurdly pleased. He couldn't understand why. Usually, he avoided jealousy, both in himself and his women. He demanded and gave complete freedom. Yet seeing London's possessiveness, he exulted.

"To those girls, anyone who isn't a goat seems like a fairy tale prince," he said.

"Between those oafs from the olive grove, the goats, and you," she said dryly, "the choice seems obvious." But she didn't say which she would pick.

He laughed, then the laugh died in his throat. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," he swore.

London followed his gaze. Her "Good Lord!" was slightly more decorous than his curse.

Approaching the island, less than half a mile away, chugged the Heirs' steamship, its smoke a black smear against the azure sky. At that rate, the ship would reach the island within minutes.

Bennett dropped the water jugs, and they shattered on the rocky ground. "Can you run?"

"I believe so."

"Then we run."

"Thank the Chaste Warrior," Athena called when she saw London and Bennett speeding down the hill to the beach. "We did not know where you were."

London's heart slammed in her chest, knowing that her father and the Heirs approached.

At the water's edge, Bennett stopped and held out his arms to carry London to the caique, but she brushed the offer aside.

"As my lady wishes," he said in response.

Then he was speeding through the shallow water to where the boat was anch.o.r.ed. London followed, finding the task of slogging quickly through water to be a bit more difficult than she had imagined. Her skirt dragged, heavy, through the surf. Still, she reached the boat soon enough, and Bennett lifted her while Kallas pulled, until she found herself back on the caique's deck, clutching the bundled mirror. Bennett swung himself over the railing.

"How fast can we get out of here?" he asked Kallas.

"Not soon enough," came the grim answer. "We need a distraction."

"I can provide one," Athena said, stepping forward. She cast a quick glance at the sodden, dirty hem of London's borrowed gown, but did not seem to mind the poor garment's defacement. Thank goodness for that. London had no way to repay her for its loss.

"What will you do?" asked London.

"A spell," answered the witch. "Rather big, but I think I can do it."

Bennett, already a.s.sisting Kallas with the mainsail, asked, "Have you tried the spell before?"

Athena shook her head, but appeared calm. "Not yet, but I have read about it. Do not be concerned."

As Bennett pondered this, London marveled again at Athena's presence and confidence. The witch spoke with utter conviction, not only that she could accomplish the spell, but that her word had weight and significance. Athena had no doubt that Bennett would listen to her and give her opinion the same consideration as a man's opinion. Because he was Bennett, who listened, and she was Athena, who had faith in herself. London wanted that for her own self. Confidence could be hers, now. She had only to command it.

"Do it," Bennett said after a brief pause.

"I need some nails," Athena said to Kallas.

"Please, don't hurt my father." London placed a hand on Athena's sleeve. "I know he's done terrible things, but I can't let you hurt him."

"Do not worry," Athena a.s.sured her. "He will not be harmed." She turned back to Kallas. "The nails."

He frowned, but did not, for once, question her. "Down below, in the cargo hold."

Without another word, Athena hurried below.

"London, we'll need you to help getting us out of here."

"Of course." London set down the mirror inside the quarterdeck house, then hurried to her position by the foresail, ready to spring into action.

The caique became a frenzied hive of activity, directed by its captain, as London, Bennett, and Kallas made sail. Both Bennett and London remembered much of what Kallas had told them the other day, so the process went much faster, each of them raising their sails at the proper moment, keeping enough slack in the sails to keep them luffing in the wind. The boom swung to the breeze, giving Kallas a better feel for the wind. With main and foresails hoisted, London raised the jib while Bennett brought up the anchor. The boat began to drift backward, Kallas at the helm, shouting commands to Bennett and London. She kept casting nervous glances out to sea, where the Heirs' ship plowed steadily toward them. The small, dark shapes of men began to form on the steamer's deck. One of them was her father. She didn't know which, but he was there.

In the middle of this organized chaos, Athena came back on deck with a small crate, then removed its lid to reveal neat stacks of nails. She stood with her eyes closed, chanting softly but steadily, holding the crate. London kept to her post, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the foresail when Kallas directed, but she watched Athena, wondering what kind of magic the witch conjured.