Touch of Desire Read online

  Touch of Desire

  Susan Spencer Paul

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Pembrokeshire, Wales, February 1823

  “ ‘In conclusion,’ ” Niclas Seymour read aloud from the letter he held, “ ‘I give my word of honor that any meeting between Lord Graymar and myself will be brief and to the point. I shall not importune His Lordship for any greater period of time than absolutely necessary, and shall not press him for any but the most pertinent information. I cannot possibly render sufficient thanks for your help in this most important matter, kind sir, but please believe that I am sincerely grateful. With deepest respect, Sarah Tamony.’ ”

  Setting the missive aside on a nearby table, Niclas looked across the study to where his cousin the Earl of Graymar reclined in a comfortable chair near the warmth of the fire, a glass of wine loosely clasped in lax fingers, his blue eyes half-closed, as if the reading of the letter had nearly put him to sleep. Niclas knew better, however, than to assume that Malachi Seymour was anything but completely awake and aware. Powerful sorcerers often looked, by long practice, far more safe and vulnerable than they were. Apart from that, Niclas knew that Malachi wasn’t in the least disinterested in the contents of Sarah Tamony’s latest letter, for Miss Tamony had become, in recent months, a most unpleasant thorn in the Earl of Graymar’s side.

  “There wouldn’t be any harm in simply speaking to the woman, Malachi,” Niclas said. “Grant Miss Tamony an interview, and then perhaps she’ll leave you—and me—in peace.”

  Lord Graymar’s eyes opened slightly. He gazed levelly at his relative as he lifted the glass of wine and slowly sipped from it. Lowering the glass, he replied, simply, “No.”

  Niclas set one hand to his aching temple. He didn’t want to be where he was at the moment, at Glain Tarran, the ancient Seymour estate in Pembrokeshire, and so far away from his wife and children in London. But he wouldn’t be able to go home until he’d finished with all of the business that had brought him to Wales—all of it, including the matter of Miss Sarah Tamony.

  “Be reasonable, for pity’s sake. The woman has been hounding you for months, undeterred by your refusals, and she’s not going to stop until you grant her an audience.”

  “Then she is stubborn beyond all countenance,” Lord Graymar stated tersely. “Her parents failed her miserably, for she was clearly spoiled as a child. I do not see why the Seymours should suffer for their lack of resolution.”

  Niclas dropped his hand. “Suffer? What on earth do you imagine Miss Tamony has in mind? She only wants to speak with you.”

  The fingers on the wineglass tightened, and Malachi’s eyes narrowed. “Because she plans to write about us in her next book,” he said angrily. “Because she’s trying to ferret out secrets she has no business knowing and she intends to expose us—and all the ancient clans—to the rest of the world. And aye, the Seymours will suffer for it. I am the Dewin Mawr, Niclas.” He sat forward and pinned his cousin with a steely gaze. “The sorcerer to whom those families give their complete trust. I’m not going to lend Miss Tamony my aid in causing magic mortals harm. It would be the worst sort of betrayal.”

  “That’s utter nonsense,” Niclas replied. “You make it sound as if she plans to write the truth about us—as if she could even do such a thing, which she couldn’t, unless someone among our kind told her our entire history. Have you ever read one of Miss Tamony’s books?”

  Malachi made a grumbling sound and pushed to his feet, setting the wineglass aside on a low table near the fireplace.

  “The entire world seems to have been entranced by the woman’s scribblings,” he muttered, moving to one of the tall bookcases that lined the walls of his study. The cases, like the room itself, indeed like all of Castle Glain Tarran, were ancient, ornate, and overlarge in their medieval structure. They rose from the floor to the ceiling, dark and imposing, towering above those who happened to stand before them. Despite that, they never seemed to be able to make Malachi appear small by comparison. But then, Niclas thought, his cousin was the Dewin Mawr. It was not in his makeup to appear small, ever.

  “I suppose it would be astonishing if I hadn’t read something of her work,” Lord Graymar said. “Society talks of little else these days. I assumed at first that the fascination sprang mainly from the fact of her father’s famous works on ancient civilizations, and that the clamor would quickly dim once it was seen that her efforts couldn’t possibly compare to his scholarly epics. But I was wrong. She’s evidently inherited Sir Alberic’s way with words. Well-meaning acquaintances find it necessary to force her publications upon one with the assurance that they shall be found absolutely riveting. I came to Glain Tarran with the hope of escaping the current, terribly annoying fascination Society has with Miss Sarah Tamony.” He spoke her name as if it was distasteful even to say. “But even here I find no peace. My servants adore the woman. I can only pray the foolishness has passed before the Season begins. Here.” He pulled a particular volume from among the many before him. “This one. I brought it back with me from London and promptly shelved it with the ardent hope that I would never again be made to set sight upon it. I believe it is her latest.” He examined the cover more closely. “Enchanted Heritage: Factual Accounts of Europe’s Most Beloved Myths and Legends.” His hand opened and the book floated slowly across the room to Niclas, who took it.

  “Yes, this is her latest,” he concurred. “A sequel of sorts to the first, Fascinating Truths of Fantasy and Fables.”

  “Aye, that’s the bothersome tome that started all this ridiculous fascination with the supernatural,” Malachi said unhappily, taking his place in the chair again.

  “Why, Malachi,” Niclas said with a touch of surprise, examining the book more closely. “You’ve actually read this. The pages are worn.”

  “Of course I read it,” Lord Graymar said irately. “ ‘Know thy enemy.’ My father taught me that from the cradle, just as I know yours taught you. It’s the second most important rule of our kind, next to never revealing one’s magic to mere mortals. I’ve read Miss Tamony’s books merely as a means to understanding what we’re all up against in this woman’s determinations.”

  Niclas looked at him. “And you enjoyed them, didn’t you? She is a marvelous writer, just as Sir Alberic is, though I think her subjects far more engaging. Her books are wonderful.”

  Malachi took up his wineglass and drank before uttering, “Hmph.”

  Niclas gave a shake of his head. “They are wonderful,” he insisted. “Julia and I took turns reading the second one aloud to the twins at night. They were enchanted.”

  Lord Graymar’s eyebrows rose. “Enchanted?” he remarked. “Children who’ve been raised with magic all their lives? I should have thought they’d find the writing as dull as memory work compared to the reality of their lives.”

  “But that’s precisely my point,
” Niclas said. “Miss Tamony doesn’t tell the old stories as other mere mortals have always done, as if the tales are simply ancient history without any purpose or interest for modern society. She’s unearthed nearly forgotten fables and brought them back to life, much as the elders in our Families have done throughout generations of magic mortals. Miss Tamony is giving mere mortals that same gift, save that she uses far more humor and wit in the telling. She’s our English version of the Brothers Grimm.”

  Malachi gave a single ill-humored laugh but otherwise made no reply.

  “Sarah Tamony isn’t going to go away because you continue to be so stubborn,” Niclas pressed. “Part of what’s made her so well loved by her many readers is her tenacity in ferreting out the details of the most ancient and far-flung mysteries. Even her loudest critics admit that her research is incredibly thorough … as well as unusually insightful. If I didn’t know better, I would almost suspect that Miss Tamony is of our kind.”

  At this, Malachi uttered an inelegant snort. “Aye, from one of the darker clans, as she seems to be intent upon destroying us. Perhaps she’s in league with the Cadmarans. Have you ever considered that possibility?”

  Niclas scowled. “She only wants to write about the lives of unusual characters in British history,” he countered. “Nothing more. Do you sincerely believe that mere mortals are going to accept as true the intimation that those same characters had magical powers?”

  “What I believe scarce matters,” Lord Graymar told him. “As the Dewin Mawr, I cannot take such a risk. If Sarah Tamony writes the book she’s proposing to undertake, a great deal of Seymour family history will be laid bare to public eyes. People will begin to wonder, and to ask questions, to poke and pry. I’m not going to lend her my aid in bringing that about. Indeed,” he said, taking another sip from the wineglass, “I’m going to do everything possible to stop her.”

  With a sigh, Niclas set aside the elegantly bound volume he’d been holding and regarded his immovable cousin with resignation. A flash of lightning illuminated the tall windows at the far end of the study, only partly concealed by heavy velvet curtains, and a moment later a distant rumbling sounded from the direction of the ocean shore. A gust of wind caused the fire in the grate to give a sudden spark. Malachi smiled and murmured, with obvious pleasure, “A storm is coming.”

  Malachi loved storms, Niclas knew, and the wilder they were, the better. Where more normal individuals might find such weather daunting, uncomfortable, even frightening, the Earl of Graymar found it … well, the only word Niclas could think of that truly described it was “sensual.” He remembered vividly those times when he and Malachi were boys, growing up in Wales, and a sudden storm would overtake their outdoor play. The same wind and rain that had Niclas running for shelter sent Malachi into raptures of delight. Something in wild nature seemed to transport him to another sphere. Which meant that his parents, Niclas’s long-suffering aunt and uncle, were often obliged to forcibly fetch their son indoors, and that Malachi spent a great deal of his time—considering the frequency of rain along the Pembrokeshire coast—in wet clothes.

  “I hope it passes by morning,” Niclas muttered. “I don’t fancy riding in the same sort of weather that accompanied me here, and Abercraf will be exceedingly put out if he’s made to endure the rain again.”

  Malachi chuckled. “Your manservant is as delicate and particular as the highest-born nobleman. But you’ve nothing to fear, Cousin. It will pass. The morning will bring clear light, and you and Abercraf will find the way ready to traverse, if not entirely dry. I know how eager you are to return to London, to Julia and the children.”

  “I cannot go until we’ve discussed the next matter of import, which is the cythraul, and we cannot move on to that subject until we’ve finished with this one.”

  Malachi sighed. “There are times, cfender, when your sense of organization is far too overdeveloped. I’m weary of speaking about Sarah Tamony.”

  “No more so than I,” Niclas replied tartly, a touch of aggravation in his voice. “Can you not reconsider, Malachi, and talk to the woman? If you’re so concerned about what she’ll write of us, then use your powers to persuade her to do so in a manner that you approve of.”

  By the look on his cousin’s face it was clear that Niclas had surprised him. “Do my ears deceive me,” Lord Graymar murmured, “or is my strict and saintly cousin Niclas actually suggesting that I place an enchantment on a mere mortal?”

  “Don’t look at me as if the idea shocks you,” Niclas countered irately. “You’ve already thought of it yourself. I know how your mind works.”

  Malachi grinned. “Aye, I’ve considered it,” he confessed. “But it would answer far better if you’d simply write the dratted woman and tell her to leave us in peace. I don’t want to risk placing a secret, lasting spell on the daughter of a baronet, no matter how odd Sir Alberic reportedly may be. His writings are uncommonly insightful, and I’ve no doubt the man is the same in all his dealings.”

  “You’ll have the opportunity to find out if that’s true,” Niclas told him. “The famous Tamonys have returned from all their wanderings this year to be in London for a proper Season, also to introduce their celebrated daughter and their niece to Society.”

  Malachi slowly sat forward. “At her age? I should have thought Miss Tamony to be firmly on the shelf by now.”

  “She’s six and twenty,” Niclas countered, “and still a beauty, by all accounts. But it would scarce matter if the woman was a six-headed Gorgon. The ton is seized with anticipation of her coming—of her entire family’s coming. Sir Alberic and his wife haven’t been to Town for nearly ten years. Indeed, they have seldom resided in England, spending so much of their lives traveling the world on Sir Alberic’s scholarly quests.”

  Malachi’s brows drew together in thought. He lifted a hand and made a gentle waving motion. Across the room, a crystal decanter lifted from its table and floated toward him. He waited until his glass had been refilled before he looked at Niclas and asked, “Will you have more?”

  Niclas gave a shake of his head. “We must still discuss the cythraul. I’ll want all my senses for that.”

  “Aye, the cythraul,” Malachi muttered wearily. “I discerned that you’ve brought a package from Professor Seabolt for me, filled with warnings and advice.”

  Niclas nodded. “Indeed I have. He hopes to meet with you immediately upon your return to London to discuss the situation more fully. He seems to think you’re not taking as seriously as you should the imminent arrival of so powerful a demon.”

  “Of course I take the matter seriously,” Malachi countered. “I should be a fool not to. The spirits send the demon as a test for ruling wizards, after all, and it is not a test I intend to fail. But I understand the professor’s impatience. It’s quite a boon for a mere mortal who loves the supernatural as he does to be involved in such an event.”

  “It will be a boon for someone else, as well,” Niclas remarked, “if you don’t get to the demon first.”

  Malachi looked at him. “Morcar Cadmaran, do you mean?”

  Niclas nodded. “The Earl of Llew will do all that he can to gain control of the cythraul before you’ve managed to banish it. And if he does, he’ll possess the strength to oust you from your place as Dewin Mawr.” His expression was grave. “We both know what he’ll do with such power.”

  Malachi shuddered lightly. “He would rule the world. It doesn’t bear thinking of. But it won’t come to that,” he vowed. “I’ll reach the demon first and command it back to the spirit realm, just as the Great Dewins before me have done.”

  “You will both be given the signs of its coming,” Niclas said. “And be required to interpret what they mean. Morcar may not be as clever as you are, but his hatred for the Seymours, particularly for you, will drive him to win the contest. He’s not forgotten how you tricked him two years past, causing him the loss not only of his betrothed but also of his cousin Tauron—which has proven to be far the worse of the t
wo. It enraged those who give Morcar their allegiance. The Earl of Llew doesn’t simply wish to bring you down, Malachi. He wants to destroy you. Don’t let yourself become overconfident simply because you’re the superior wizard.”

  Malachi gazed at him very directly. “I have known almost from my cradle that I would likely live to face the cythraul when it came. Believe me, cfender, the demon will be banished.”

  Niclas’s features relaxed. “I’m satisfied that it will be so. But we’ve still the matter of Miss Tamony to decide.”

  “Miss Tamony,” Malachi said with a groan. “What a pestilential female. And to cause such a stir in England when the cythraul is prophesied to come. God help me.” He rubbed his aching temple with his fingers. “I’ll consider giving Miss Tamony an interview once the cythraul has been dealt with. That’s the most I’ll promise. But I don’t want you to give her the hope of such an interview occurring. It’s more than likely I’ll still refuse. For now, write and tell her that I wish to be left in peace, else the chance of any private meeting at another time will be nil. I expect I’ll not be able to avoid meeting Miss Tamony in Society during the Season.” The striking blue eyes fixed on Niclas intently. “I don’t want her making scenes or bothering me—or any other members of the Seymour family—with her requests.”

  “Really, Malachi,” said Niclas. “I can’t think a woman of Miss Tamony’s intellect and talent would do such a thing. She is the daughter of a gentleman, after all.”

  “She’s a woman who apparently can’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” the earl replied. “And that’s the most unpredictable kind of female on earth. But you must make her accept my answer, Niclas, at least for the remainder of the Season. I shall have done with the cythraul by then, and can set all my attention toward dealing with Miss Pestilence Tamony.”

  “I shall do my best,” Niclas vowed.

  “Do more than that,” his cousin insisted. “For if you can’t find the way in which to convince her to leave the Seymours in peace, I shall be obliged to overcome my aversion to placing enchantments on unsuspecting members of the ton, and will assuredly take matters into my own hands.”