Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Read online

  She hesitated, not knowing what to say. She didn’t want to lie to him, but to say more would be to betray her father, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. “I don’t know.”

  He laughed. “Yes you do.” He kissed the tip of her nose and she lifted her chin, catching his mouth with hers. She lost herself in his kiss. Already she knew how to open her mouth and play with his tongue, the dance a teasing continuation of their activity earlier downstairs in the assembly room. His hand clasped her waist, and then he moved it up and grazed her breast.

  When she shuddered, he moved away. “No. I meant it, sweetness; I want to know you better. That doesn’t mean tumbling a perfectly respectable woman in an inn room.”

  At this point she didn’t mind one bit, but she should recall she was a respectable society miss. Her immortal status meant she could take a few chances, and consider alternatives not open to her mortal sisters. However, her status didn’t mean she could get away with flouting the rules of society. Anyone seeing her leaving this room, family excepted, would spread the rumour that she had lost her respectability.

  This was her body to do with whatever she willed. If she gave herself to a man, then it was her choice. If she decided he would not do, that was her choice, too. Even her sisters thought that somewhat dangerous.

  “Then when will you tumble me?” she asked breathlessly when their lips finally parted.

  His sudden laugh vibrated against her lips. “When? I hardly believe you said that. I expected maidenly modesty.”

  “I’ve waited long enough.”

  He touched their lips together in a barely-there kiss. “I don’t think I can wait very long, either.”

  What in hell’s name was he thinking? Having seen Portia back to her room, Edmund paced his own chamber, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed. He’d intended to waylay her, flirt with her a little, maybe share a few kisses, enough so that she relaxed her mind enough for him to read it without detection. See how deep he could get, but stay separate. Well, that plan had gone well. He turned at the fireplace and scowled at the flickering flames.

  She’d got into him. She’d charmed him utterly. He’d never met such a beguiling mixture of innocence and daring. An ordinary mortal wouldn’t have accompanied him to his room. Not a respectable mortal, at any rate. But she’d done it from sheer bravado and because she wanted him. He wanted her. His shaft was still hard even though he’d seen her back to her room over five minutes ago.

  He’d read her desire and felt a knave for intruding, but he’d needed to know. She was immortal, and she knew it. Her parents had taught her everything his mother should have told him, but didn’t. But she was extremely careful in hiding all traces of their identity. From the strength of the power he found in her he’d guess she was a minor immortal—a nymph, perhaps.

  He thumped the fireplace with a clenched fist. He needed to know. Were they friends? Perhaps a family of minor immortals making the best of their lives. They seemed to have done very well. If he moved here—

  “Sir?”

  Edmund spun around, cursing. “Damn you, Lightfoot, don’t creep up on a man!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. Was it a seduction spell you were wanting?” Dressed as perfectly as ever, Lightfoot stood inside the doorway, his hands by his sides.

  Edmund started to laugh, incredulous at what he was hearing. “Don’t you think I can do that for myself? Have you forgotten who I am?”

  “Cupid, sir.”

  He waved a hand irritably. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a cherub with a bow and arrow. I prefer Eros.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And buy that house on the cliff. If I don’t get there, her father will get there first.”

  “At once, sir.”

  “And bring me some brandy.”

  “Consider it done.” A pause. “Your grace.”

  Chapter Three

  “You saw that man on Thursday night, didn’t you?”

  Portia didn’t pretend she didn’t know who her father meant, but the discussion felt decidedly odd in these circumstances.

  Her father had named tonight for offloading a hundred barrels of best French brandy from the ship that had silently floated close to shore. They were standing on the cliff above the scene, and both had spyglasses. It was the dark of the moon, the best time for smugglers.

  Portia wore her breeches and coat. She’d been helping her father for years, as had her sisters. Her father had informed her he required her to learn the family trade, since he’d expect them to help their brother in it one day.

  The wind whipped a strand of hair from under her cocked hat. She shoved it back in. “Damned hairpins.” The pause gave her a chance to think of a reply to her father, but nothing clever came to mind. “I danced with the newcomer at the ball and kept Peter sweet. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

  Her father grunted. “You know I’m not talking about the ball. Afterwards.”

  “How do you know that?” She wanted to clap her hand to her mouth. Damn. If she’d denied it, and he’d known, he was capable of coming up with some devilish punishments.

  He glanced at her. “I heard you, and then one door closed, very quietly. His door. Portia, we are not like mortals. However, we need to keep the pretence. I don’t want anyone knowing what we’re up to or who we are. Especially now.”

  “Why? What’s happening ‘especially now’?”

  He shot her another glance. A miracle, since usually he never took his attention from what was going on in the bay. Especially for such a large run. “The Titans are at it again. I got a visit last week from someone who wanted me to join in. Like Hades, I will.” He snorted. “I’m happy here. Why should I worry about world domination? The Olympians who died thirty years ago are all grown up. Some of them know who they are and what they can do. They’re back and they’re fighting.” Another glance. “You know your man from last night could be an immortal, don’t you?”

  Shock made her silent. She blinked. “I didn’t know.”

  “Foolish girl.” He kept his voice quiet, but she had no doubt that had they been sitting in his study or the parlour, he’d be bellowing. “I thought you went to him because you knew. How could you be so stupid?”

  Indignation forced her into a reply. “Maybe because he was hiding it so well? Papa, I’m not a god or anywhere near one. Sometimes you forget.”

  His eyes snapped anger. “I don’t. I trained you myself. That should have served. Yes, the boy hid his identity, but he couldn’t conceal himself completely. Not from me. There’s a hum, a kind of vibration when an immortal is near. Listen for it.”

  “I did.” She felt stupid for not knowing, but her father wanted her to feel that way. He took care to arm his daughters against the fight between the Olympian gods and the Titans.

  “You didn’t detect it because you were too busy eyeing him up and down. I saw you. Take care, my daughter. You may not have the regrettable tendency of mortals to fall pregnant at the drop of a hat—or a pair of breeches—but what you have is precious and not to be given lightly. I won’t ask if you are still in possession of it. If you are, hold on to it.”

  Her miserable virginity. Before now she’d had no inclination to rid herself of it.

  “So what is he?” she asked.

  Her father didn’t answer right away. He clapped his spyglass to his eye and trained it on a distant spot. “Look at the central mast, and then lower, and slightly to the right. What do you see?”

  She did as he asked and scanned the deck of the big ship. “A man in a blue coat shoving something in his pocket.”

  “Money,” her father said grimly. “I don’t disburse the guineas until the end of the job. I’ll need words with that young man. The goods move in a carefully organised way. Anyone trying to play me at my own game puts us all at risk. I wasn’t fast enough to see who handed it to him, but
if anyone is making money off something I paid for, I’ll kill him.”

  He meant it too. Portia had good reason to know. He’d be fair. A small transgression wouldn’t cost the lad his life. “Couldn’t he have dropped it on deck and bent to pick it up?”

  “It’s possible. I’ll find out.” In the way of the immortals. People couldn’t lie in their minds, however clever they tried to be. Her father missed very little, and smugglers up and down the coast admired him for his perspicacity and his profits.

  Sir Mortimer owned the coast hereabouts. Whatever the law said, nothing was done if Sir Mortimer didn’t approve of it. Power and her father were close friends, and had been so for many years.

  Keeping her eyes on the ship, she watched the little jolly boats approach it. Here, it was like an automaton, one of those clever machines the rich used to amuse their dinner guests. There, it would be fuss and bother, muffled oars and the occasional shout. Since her father paid the officials to look the other way on nights like these, silence wasn’t much of a problem, but habit reigned here and it helped with discipline.

  A breeze gusted past her cheek, making her glad she’d worn her heavy coat. She waited for her father’s next edict. Would he tell her to leave Edmund alone? If he did, she’d have to obey, otherwise he’d hurt Edmund. Her heart heavy with foreboding, she watched the boats row the cargo off the ship and waited.

  “You may allow him to court you,” he said eventually. “If he wishes to, of course. There’s always the possibility he will tire of Dover and your presence, in which case we may let him go. Find out what you can.”

  “He knows nothing.”

  His voice turned softer, more persuasive. “You are an innocent, my dear. Portia, you must help me in this. He could be a weaker immortal, or he could be a mortal with a gift for mental communication, but I sensed something in him. It’s just possible he’s a god with a way of concealing his nature. There are far more immortals around than people think. Even immortals ourselves are unaware of all of our kind. Some live with mortal women and have mortal children. The gods call themselves Titans, but there are merfolk, nymphs, dryads and heaven knows what else. I sincerely believe there are immortals even we have no idea exist, so secretive they live in their own world.”

  He cleared his throat. Knowing the signs, Portia prepared herself for a homily. “Arrogance is a weakness, child. Never succumb to it, even if it’s useful to use from time to time. I want to know more about this young man. He could prove an asset.”

  He paused again. “Attract him, Portia. Entice him. Do what you need to, but keep your heart intact. If he is immortal he could well be an enemy. I only had an inkling of a feeling, enough to make me suspicious. Discover what he is and what he means to do. We will act from there. If he is mortal and if you still want him, take him, but do not be foolish enough to fall in love, as your sister did.” With the wrong man. He didn’t need to say that.

  The rowboats were heading ashore, the oars propelled by the men gleaming in the scant light. Their expert handlers plunged them into the sea and flicked the water off before dipping again. Sir Mortimer turned and strolled towards the cliff edge. Portia followed, glancing out to sea for one last visual check.

  Her father stepped over the edge and she followed. She hardly thought about it these days, but the precarious set of rough steps cut into the sheer rock could be lethal. Except to her kind. If she fell, she’d recover. Oh, although they called themselves immortal, they could die, but it would take more than a fifty-foot drop to kill them.

  In any case, she’d been scampering up and down the staircase since she took her first steps, along with the children from the village. They weren’t immortal. Now she followed her father, taking a little more care than usual. The light rain earlier that day had made the steps more slippery, but they arrived on the beach before the first of the boats had arrived on shore.

  Her father strode to the first boat and beckoned. It wasn’t the men rowing he wanted. They heaved one of the barrels to the front of the boat, taking care not to choose the first one, and someone breached it for him. He sniffed, and then dipped a finger into the liquid inside and sucked it.

  Portia stood in his shadow, but he beckoned her forward. “Try this, boy; it’ll put hair on your chest.”

  She sincerely hoped not. She tugged the front of her hat down as if bracing it against the wind that had grown sharper down here and obeyed Sir Mortimer. She dipped a finger in the liquid and sucked. “Good stuff,” she said. She didn’t even bother to lower her voice. Even if anyone recognised her, they would not betray her, because they dared not. They’d continue the charade, tug their forelocks and call her “miss” and “ma’am” when she walked through the village, but keep up the pretence that she was a boy here.

  Maybe some people would consider such behaviour strange. Portia regarded it as completely normal.

  Sir Mortimer jerked a nod. “We’ll take it. Get it ashore and split it up tonight. It’s a good night for us.” They’d divide the cargo into several different caches. Now she started to work.

  Taking control of this boat, she ensured the sample barrel was stoppered properly and supervised the unloading. The men took a barrel each, hefting them on to their backs. Brandy casks were somewhat smaller than the ones for wine, but they still needed more strength than she possessed. Than most people assumed she possessed. She could probably lift two, when nobody watched but her parents and siblings.

  For once, her mind wasn’t wholly on her job. One face floated before her eyes. The handsome, smiling face of the man who had kissed her to oblivion last night. And back again.

  Her father had spotted him. Did Edmund know? And what kind of immortal was he, if he was one at all? She prayed he was one of no consequence in the hierarchy, so she could approach him on the same level. If he wanted her, if the other night was more than a flirtation to him. Because one thing she knew—men didn’t always say what they meant.

  As if he heard her words, even though she took care to keep up her shields, her father turned to face her. He was too far away to talk to her verbally. You take the big cave. I’ll go further. Wait for me when you’re done.

  I hear, sir.

  She performed her duties by rote. Some might consider this activity adventurous and exciting. It depended on your definition of reality. This was hers and had been since she was old enough to accompany her father to the beach. Soon her younger brother would join them. Her sisters did their duty. Millicent had stopped during her marriage, but she’d married a mortal, her father indulgent because of his wealth. Although she put a bright face on things, Portia suspected her sister occasionally had her moments of despair.

  If she did, she didn’t share them with anyone else.

  Tonight Portia took her turn with the cargo. Leading the men up the beach, she reflected how foolish she was being. All these ifs might mean nothing. She should stop worrying and wait to see what happened. The problem was, she was too impatient.

  At the cave she checked the interior for people, and found none. That was the only part she hated, because if she found anyone, she was to kill them or render them unconscious. The only time that had happened, she’d nearly killed the child with one blow, since he’d fooled her into thinking he was older and she’d tempered her blow for a man.

  The reminder still made her stomach churn and the bile rise to her throat. A child, playing a joke on his father, that was all. He hadn’t come near her since, though nobody had accused her of anything. It didn’t stop her feeling any less guilty.

  The cave echoed to every shuffle of feet, and every time someone set a cask on its end. The small barrels would not stay here long, only until tomorrow night, when a crew would move them on to the next stage.

  What would Edmund think of it? She knew hardly anything about him, except how his lips felt against hers. He was a gentleman, or he had the appearance of one, and he had enough w
ealth to afford a coat with diamond buttons.

  And he fascinated her.

  A sharp finger snap brought her back to reality. Her father stood in the mouth of the cave, watching her. She gave a small shriek as she clapped her hand to her heart, which had doubled in pace.

  “I’m out of sorts, Papa,” she said before he could accuse her of inattention.

  “You were thinking of love,” he corrected her. “It’s a disease. Be sure it doesn’t affect your life.”

  Everyone else had left and the cave was empty of everything except her, her father and two dozen casks of expensive French brandy. “In what way? I’m not in love, Papa, but I confess to wondering what it’s like.”

  “Madness,” he said. “Ask Bacchus.”

  She smiled. “How can I? Nobody knows where he is.”

  The spirits of those who were destroyed would live on in new bodies, but it would take years to come to fruition. That was thirty years ago. The gods were all grown up now and probably hunting for revenge.

  All the more reason to keep quiet and live their lives in this backwater. To avoid the cataclysm to come.

  Sighing, she nodded and followed her father out of the cave and towards where they had tethered their horses.

  “He wants to buy the house.” With a jerk of her chin she indicated the ruins set just far back enough for safety on the top of a cliff. The place was buffeted by all the winds coming in from the sea, and nobody loved it, except her. Too wild for current taste and too old for comfort, the place was falling apart, bits crumbling off it each year. She hadn’t visited for a time, but her father assured her the house was in that state. She couldn’t bear to see it fall apart.

  “He won’t,” her father said. “Look at it. Who would buy that? What does it have to recommend it?” He waited for her to mount and then followed suit himself. She didn’t need any help climbing on the back of a horse, even one this size, one of the big black monsters her father bred. He was a big man and he needed a good-sized horse to ride and to pull the carriages he rode in, on occasion.