Eternally Bound (Thistles & Roses) (4 page)

Chapter Three

MAX stared at the closed door, stunned. Her hand was pressed to her rapidly beating heart, and the last of the nobleman’s words still rang in her ears.

The relics were mine before they were yours. And they will be mine again.

Relic
s? They?
What had he meant? Only the sword sat upon the mantel. Then she remembered the poesy ring her father had mentioned.

His dark brown eyes had burned with hatred when he said the words. Scorn had curled his full lips as he looked down his long straight nose at her. Nor had he shown a single ounce of respect for her father. Only a man with a higher title could do such a thing—and a man who felt he was owed.

Max gritted her teeth, fisted her hands at her sides. What she wouldn’t give to be able to storm after him and furnish him with a piece of her mind. A slow burn kindled behind her ribs. If she were to have done that, she’d be scorned from society, shunned from court and most likely disowned by her father. A lady, especially one of noble descent, must never show her emotions in public. She must show restraint at all times. ’Twas one thing to raise hell with her sire a few times a year—but another matter altogether to do so with a stranger. Max felt like a puppet. She had no control over her actions and not even her own thoughts.

With no one to watch her, and needing to let off a little bit of her anger, Max stomped her slippered foot against the wooden planked floor. The sound pounded in the room, echoing. Perhaps she should have done it on the carpet, else now she might have alerted one of the servants to the study.

There was always something. She was never free to do as she pleased. Not even stomp her own foot. She let out an exasperated growl, trying to make sense of the meeting she’d just had with the handsome stranger.

Handsome. Yes. He was very handsome. And men that good-looking were dangerous. Womanizers. Thieves of more than just relics, but also women’s virtues and hearts. She’d hoped to scare him away with talk of marriage and her father, and perhaps she should be glad that he’d run—except she wasn’t glad. She was left feeling incomplete and unsatisfied. He’d gotten in the last word, and for some reason, he was a man she thought she could spar with. Indeed, she’d teased him plenty, something she never did with anyone.

That alone was terrifying. Yes. Good riddance to the thieving swine.

His threat to return to claim what was his had to be empty. And why in blazes would he think anything in her home was his to begin with?

Had her father acquired something from the man? And if so, why was he trying to steal them back? A sale was a sale. Or a bet… Her father was forever gambling with other courtiers, whether it be a game of cards or a bet on a sport such as jousting. She turned around to stare at the sword on the mantel. What was so special about it?

The Gladius fairly sparkled in the dim light. Whoever had owned it—mysterious nobleman or no—had taken care of it. Polished it.

She walked over to the hearth to stare at the Gladius. Before now, she’d not taken much interest. Not after the odd feeling it gave her. The sword appeared above her father’s hearth years before. One of an endless stream of what he called priceless artifacts graced their various households.

The dim light from the oil lamp on her father’s desk gave off enough of a glow that it flickered over the Latin words etched into the sword, some legible, others not. Though she’d studied the language with her tutor for years, she wasn’t an expert. And it was no thanks to her father who, whenever he saw her head in a book, pulled her out to have her practice her sewing. She had to be an asset to a man and men liked a wife who could sew.

Max had an idea that she wouldn’t like a man who cared only about her sewing. She was probably doomed to a miserable marriage. Especially if she had to pick from the dolts her father had invited over this evening. Most of them were elderly widowers who played at advising the queen. Everyone knew Queen Elizabeth held her own counsel. Max admired her for it. She might have been a fearsome woman, a sovereign to fear, but she was also a strong woman. Max wondered if her own mother had been strong or if she’d been weak, as Max’s father kept wishing her to be.

Max slid her fingers over the words, jumping when a tiny jolt, like that of lightning, shot up her arm.

“Ouch,” she exclaimed, although it more shocked her than hurt.

Ignoring the continued tingle in her arm, she studied the words.

Something…
Theodosia…

Was it the name of the sword? She smirked. Men named everything. Her father even had a name for his lucky pair of gloves—The Protectors. She couldn’t help but wonder if the thieving nobleman had named this sword. “Theodosia,” Max said.

She could have sworn the Gladius glowed for half a breath.

If the Gladius was meant to be hers—and it was, the stranger’s claim be damned—then she’d best figure out what these words translated into
and
what they meant.

Rubra prunas… Cum tantum somnium vestrum.
She couldn’t understand the words. Max squinted at the verses, as if that would make them easier to decipher, but she’d been awful at Latin as a girl and age had not made her any better. She frowned, wishing she could make out what the rest of the scripted words said. There were at least four other lines of illegible writing.

What a puzzle!

She licked her lips, suddenly more interested in one of her father’s relics than ever before. Rushing toward his desk, she reached for his quill, ink and parchment to scribble down the words.

Heart pounding with excited curiosity, she finished writing down the words when the door to the study banged open. Max jumped and whirled to face the baron.

“Max, what are you doing in here? You disappeared. The feast is about to be served.” Her father scowled, his eyes flicking from the paper back to her. “Put that down. Let us go.”

So the men had finally stopped patting themselves on the back and the food would be served. There was no arguing with her father. What would be the point? He’d likely take away her ability to choose one of the old dolts in their great hall and then where would she be? Likely more miserable than she would be if she simply agreed to do his bidding here and now. She set the quill and ink back on his desk, but rolled up the parchment. There was no way she’d leave it. Deciphering the words had been the most exciting thing to come her way since… well, since she could remember. A flash of dark brown thieving eyes assaulted her memory. No.
He
was not exciting, she lied to herself.

Her father pointed to the parchment, his brow raised disapprovingly. “What are you doing with that?”

“I found the Latin inscriptions fascinating. I but wanted to study them later,” she answered honestly, giving him a pleading look.

Her father rolled his eyes. “A lady has no place in studying. You should be looking for a husband.”

Max held her tongue and slipped the rolled parchment up her sleeve. “Yes, Papa,” she said. “I will.”

“Now, enough with this silliness. Come to dinner.”

Max nodded, following her father from the study and wondering if she would see the mysterious nobleman at the long table in the great hall.

“Wipe him down and see that he’s given a proper amount of oats,” Sebastien told the groom as he dismounted and handed over the reins.

“Aye, my lord.”

Sebastien gritted his teeth as he walked over the cobles from his stable to the elegant front stairs of Rayne Hall. The doors were opened before he could touch the iron handles and his butler, Bims, sank into a bow.

“My lord,” he murmured.

Sebastien grunted, glancing up the marble staircase, half-expecting to see his mother surge down its expanse to find out if he’d been able to accomplish his mission.

He breathed out a heavy sigh when he didn’t see her and flicked his gaze at Bims. “How is the countess?”

Bims, ever stoic, did not appear in the least ruffled at the question. “The lady has been in her room since you left, my lord.”

“Did she eat?”

“Her lady’s maid did bring her a tray from the kitchen. From what I understand, she did not, however, eat any of it.”

Sebastien’s frown intensified. His mother had refused food for the better part of three days. A wild, mad look had come into her eyes, and this morning, when he’d spoken to her, he’d been determined to give her what she wanted—the ring and sword. The return of the de Rayne relics would solve everything and bring his mother back to him.

This was Lady Maxwell’s fault. If the chit had not interrupted him, his mother might yet eat and regain her senses.

Bims took hold of Sebastien’s coat and slid it down his arms. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

Stomach rumbling, he was reminded that he’d not stayed for dinner. In fact, as soon as he’d finished threatening Lady Maxwell that the relics would be his, he’d stormed from her father’s home. Even though he was hungry, the thought of food did not sit well.

“What did Cook make this evening?”

“I believe an almond soup and capons in a lemon butter sauce, my lord.”

Sebastien started for the stairs, not overly excited about the fare, but knowing he should eat all the same. “Send up a tray.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Sebastien stilled on the third floor, outside his mother’s chamber. He heard no sounds from within, but that didn’t stop him from pressing his knuckles to the wood and giving two raps. There was no answer, and so he knocked again.

“Mother?” Sebastien called.

A rustling sounded behind the closed door and then it was opened by the countess’s maid.

“My lord, welcome home,” she said with a kind smile.

Sebastien glanced over her shoulder, finding his mother’s solar empty.

“Is the countess awake?” he asked.

“No, my lord, I’m sorry. She’s not been…” Her eyes shifted about nervously. “Feeling well.”

A dull headache started to pulse at the back of his skull. “Bims said she ate none of her evening meal?”

“Not even a sip of her soup.” The maid wrung her hands. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but she is overwrought at the loss of the ring.”

“And my father,” Sebastien added sharply.

“Yes, of course, but she speaks of nothing more than the ring and that she’s bound to it.” The maid chewed her lip. “I am worried.”

Sebastien was, too. His mother’s obsession with the piece of jewelry was unsettling.

“I’ll come speak with her in the morning. If I cannot entice her to eat, then I will call a physician.”

The lady’s maid gave him a suggestive smile. “Is there anything
else
I can help you with, my lord?”

Invitation was clearly written in the woman’s eyes. Not only was he not interested, but he couldn’t even recall her name. There was no doubt he loved bed sport, but he did not dabble with the household help.

“Another time,” he said with a smile, not wanting to hurt her feelings and have her lash out at his mother in revenge of his dismissal.

Her face fell slightly, but she nodded with acceptance. “I bid you good night then, my lord, and I’ll have your mother dressed for your visit in the morning.”

“My thanks.” Sebastien turned on his heel and headed down the corridor toward his own bedchamber.

Once inside, he headed straight for the buffet table beneath his glass window, which had a view of the road below. He poured a full goblet of claret, drinking it down in one swallow and then refilling to help dull the ache in his head.

The road below was empty, save for the occasional crowd of noble riders who’d not taken their barges on the Thames returning to their houses for the evening. Their dark shapes were lit by the moon and their guards’ torches passed by en masse.

How was he to persuade Lady Maxwell to give him what he wanted? The stubborn chit had made it clear she wouldn’t help him and he knew there was no reasoning with her father. The man had stolen the relics, he’d not likely hand them back because the Countess of Bedford was miserable over the loss.

There might be only one way out of the tangled mess—though her father would be hard to convince, given that he’d recently thieved from the late Earl of Bedford. He’d have to persuade her first.