Charlotte had no idea what that meant. She hadn't been able to help Lourdes or Genevieve or even herself. How could she possibly help traumatized children recover from such a nightmare? She rested her cheek against Tariq's rib cage. He seemed so sure of himself, so certain he had a way to help the children. If he did, he needed to let her in on it, because she was feeling overwhelmed.
"Liv," Tariq said gently. "I'm going to take Charlotte into the basement, where the carousel horses that need restoration are. Everything is going to be all right. Can you get through another evening?"
Liv nodded. "I want to visit Emeline. She helps."
"She's dark inside," Amelia protested. "That doesn't help you, Liv."
"I'm dark inside," Liv said. "Not the same as Emme, but she understands. No one else feels this inside me."
"I do," Tariq said, intervening between the siblings. "I feel it. I know it's there, crouching close, trying to swallow you. I know you're fighting as hard as you can. Amelia, if Emeline helps her get through a night, you need to let her go visit."
Amelia shook her head and took a step toward her younger sister. Instantly Liv transferred her hold from Tariq to Amelia.
"Come with me, then. Emeline can use company," Liv invited.
"I have to watch Bella," Amelia said.
"I can do that," Genevieve volunteered. "I'm taking Lourdes back to the play yard while Tariq talks jobs with Charlotte. Bella can come with us if she wants."
"Danny?" Amelia asked.
Danny nodded slowly. "Go with her, Amelia. Let's just get her through each night any way we can. I'll help Genevieve with Bella and Lourdes."
"Liv," Tariq said in his soft, persuasive, spellbinding voice. "You have to eat. I've given you help, but you need to actually try. It won't taste good and you'll feel sick, but it will stay down. In order for me to help you, you have to be strong enough. You understand? You know what I'm saying to you. Don't think you can take the easy way out. Together we'll get through this. All of us."
Tears swam in the child's eyes but she blinked them away and nodded slowly. "I'll eat. Just not meat, Tariq. I can get the broth down."
"Broth it is," he said. "Emeline will have some at her house. Amelia will see to it that you eat this evening." He held the child's eyes until she nodded a second time, clearly capitulating, falling under his spell just like Charlotte did.
Tariq took her hand and tugged, taking her away from the little group. "That's my family. The children."
"Tariq, what in the world are you going to do with them?"
"Give them time to process what happened to them and build them up as much as I can before I bring them fully into my world."
"I don't understand." And she didn't. His world? Weren't they already in it?
"The children are still in danger, as are you and Lourdes and your friend Genevieve. They know that, and they also know it's safer here than anywhere else." He led her back in the direction of the house.
"I don't understand any of this, Tariq. What's happening between us, the children, why those awful men are stalking us, Fridrick." He wasn't really answering her questions.
"It's happening to you because you're gifted. Genevieve's gifted. Lourdes is or Fridrick would have killed her."
"He said she was bait."
"You would have come home for your brother's funeral regardless. He knew that. Lourdes has some sort of psychic ability or she wouldn't be alive. Danny, Amelia, Liv and Bella do as well. Whatever his reasons, Fridrick and the others he works with want to acquire those gifts through you."
"Emeline?"
For the first time Tariq hesitated. "Emeline is complicated," he said finally. "She's got a strong psychic gift, and more than any other, she is in trouble. It is necessary for her to stay here to be safe. She will welcome friends. She needs them." His hand stroked a caress through her hair. "I guess we all need you, Charlotte."
She liked the feeling of his fingers in her hair, but it didn't ease her fears. She had no idea how to help any of these traumatized people, not even Lourdes. Not even herself.
8
Charlotte stared in total awe at the collection of carousel horses in the basement. Tariq Asenguard was a serious collector. Most were European, but like the carousel on his patio, there were two other American ones.
"Museums don't have such beautiful works," she whispered reverently. "Tariq, where did you get these? Ricard went his entire life looking for just one of the original carved horses used for training noblemen in the art of ring spearing during tournaments, and you have four of them."
"I have always been interested in carousel horses, the origins and how they evolved. The first carousels were necessarily different from the ones today, but no less intriguing and fun, maybe even more so."
Tariq sounded far away, as if he were back in time with the French some three hundred years earlier. Charlotte turned to look at his face. Clearly he had thought a lot about what had transpired. He looked as if he was remembering rather than thinking about what it would have been like.
"In the early eleven hundreds, the Turks and Arabs played a game, although they weren't really messing around. They were deadly serious about their game. The Italians and Spaniards referred to the game as 'little war' and that's where the term carosella came from. The carousel was born right there, but no one had a clue how it would evolve, or even that women and children would find great enjoyment on it. I love that the carousel came about with the idea of training men for warfare and ended up being something special for everyone to enjoy and relax around," Tariq said.
Charlotte had always loved that fact as well. She'd been drawn to the history of the carousel just as Tariq was. They had that in common. She loved the individual artwork on the carved wooden horses. The detail, as if the artist had taken such care to make each piece something special even knowing the nobleman training on it might not ever notice. The carvers were the artists, men exposing small bits of their souls while they worked.
"I love that you know that," Charlotte admitted. "They didn't have the tools to work with back then that we do now, but still, they were meticulous in their work. Ricard had a theory that the earliest horses were carved by a single man. Two at the most. The horses were different, but the technique, the care and attention to detail, was so perfect that he doubted more than one man would have that ability."
"I would have liked to have met Ricard Beaudet. I always looked forward to our correspondence. I don't care to talk on the phone, so he obliged me by writing. I felt as if we had a lot in common." He looked down at her. "He told me about you. He was very proud of you and the work you did. He said the pupil had exceeded the master in skill."
Charlotte shook her head. "Ricard was very modest, but he was the best in the world. If you wanted your carousel restored right, to the absolute glory it once had, you asked for him."
"Which is exactly why I did. His reputation was impeccable."
Charlotte stepped down into the sunken room. The basement extended throughout the length of the house. Although it was one large room, there were several half walls that made the space appear to be a giant maze. Carousel horses of every era dominated the room, but the half walls separated them by age. There was a work space with all kinds of tools and paints. Carving tools. Old paints made from leaves and flowers. Everything anyone loving carousels could possibly want or use.
Charlotte looked over her shoulder at Tariq. "You carve."
He shrugged. "I find it satisfies something in me I can't define. There's a kind of peace in carving. The wood shavings curling, the block of wood taking shape, the detail. I feel as though I can take an inanimate piece of wood and bring it to life. I like it." He sent her a self-deprecating grin. "I can't say I'm all that good at it, so don't examine mine too closely. But I like carving."
Charlotte loved the expression on his face. He was so handsome with his long, thick, very dark hair and his gemlike blue eyes. Gorgeous. All man. Sophisticated. Yet he would sit down in his base
ment, using his hands to create something beautiful. He really loved the carousels just as she did; she could hear it in his voice. She liked being able to breathe life back into them, and clearly he liked creating the life in them.
"I name them," he blurted out, admitting something he clearly thought was crazy. "The older ones. I like to name them."
"Because they seem real," she murmured. "That's beautiful."
"It's insane. I don't let the children down here," he said, suddenly all business.
She was fairly certain he was embarrassed by his admission, but it endeared him to her even more.
"There are too many ways they could hurt themselves. My tools, the horses themselves. The oldest are still wrapped." He indicated the section closest to his workstation. "I bought those from a collector's estate recently. They're the ones I wrote to Ricard about. The collector, Paul Emery, had pictures of them, and some of the wood has deteriorated as well as the original paint. Paul bought the horses and chariots for his daughter. He apparently hung the four horses up on his porch for her and her friends to use. His wife died in a car accident right after his little girl was born, and he claimed he spoiled his daughter as much as possible."
Charlotte could see the four bundles wrapped carefully in Bubble Wrap. Just behind them were four larger ones she was certain were the chariots. She couldn't wait to open the Bubble Wrap to see them. The pictures indicated they were some of the oldest carousel horses in existence.
"His little girl became ill shortly after he bought the horses for her and eventually she died. The doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong. Emery was dying when I spoke to him about the horses. He had insisted any potential buyer speak to him before the transaction was complete. He believed there was some kind of curse on the horses. He explained that over the last few centuries, anyone owning the horses and using them eventually succumbed to some unknown disease. He wanted to make me aware of the curse before I purchased them. He had been given the warning and it went unheeded as, apparently, it had for all the collectors before him."
She turned and faced him, fascinated. "He died?"
"Yes, of the same illness as his daughter. As had the collectors before him and their families. Apparently anyone who has owned those horses died of an unknown withering disease, or . . ." He paused, watching her face. "Or the owner was murdered in the same manner as your brother and Ricard Beaudet."
She felt the color drain from her face. "Tariq. Is that the truth?" A chill went down her spine and goose bumps rose on her arms. She could see by his expression that he was dead serious. "Tariq." She whispered his name. "That's horrible. How many collectors or owners over the years have been murdered? You can discount an illness, because everyone gets exposed to germs, but murdered with throats torn out and drained of blood? Does it make you afraid to own the horses?"
"Does it make you afraid to work on them?" he countered.
She inhaled deeply, drawing the masculine scent of him into her lungs. He smelled of forest and spice. A heady combination, but there was a single ingredient that smelled like danger. No matter how sophisticated and suave Tariq appeared, he could suddenly look very predatory. When that particular look crept into his vivid blue eyes, it made her all too aware she was alone with him and she didn't really know him very well.
"No," she whispered, even more horrified at herself than she was at the disclosure. "It makes me want to work on them more than ever." She needed to touch them. To feel the wood under her palm. Under the pads of her fingers. She would know everything, see everything. She would know why people became ill. Understand why some people were murdered and how. Then she would know why Fridrick had chosen to kill her brother and Genevieve's grandmother in a like manner.
Tariq stepped from the main entrance toward the back section to the four large objects covered with Bubble Wrap. "These are the four horses used, and the bundles behind them are the four chariots. On this particular carousel a horse goes between each chariot. The carousel has a center pole with arms radiating from it to hold the chains that hung the horses and chariots. Of course there is no platform. That wasn't done until much later."
"Wait." She caught his arm, excitement moving through her. "Do you have all the pieces for this carousel? Every single one of them?" It couldn't be true.
"I haven't tried assembling it. It arrived a few weeks ago, shipped in separate pieces. I did inventory on everything that came in and checked all the parts off. I didn't want to make any mistakes with the thing. The pictures I sent to Ricard were the ones taken by Paul Emery and sent out to all private collectors. I wanted to purchase it and wanted to know if there was a chance he would come to do the restoration."
"He wanted to," Charlotte conceded. "Why didn't Paul Emery come out and admit he had such a rare thing? Why wouldn't he disclose that information to the world? The carousel, depending on its condition, could be worth a fortune. More specifically, it definitely belongs in a museum on display for everyone to see. It's that important of a piece. This could be the find of the century."
Tariq shook his head. "It is part of the agreement that every owner has made with the one purchasing the carousel. The new owner must swear they will not allow it on display to the public until the curse has been broken. I intend to figure out what is going wrong, if it truly is, and do something about it, but I need help. I thought Ricard would be the one to do that, but now it falls to you. I hope you meant it when you said you'd stay."
"They believe in the curse so much that they don't want to take chances with the public," she mused. "It's an inanimate object. It can't be responsible for illness or murder."
"Unless it harbors some pathogen on the surface of it."
The tip of her tongue moistened her lips as she thought about that. "I suppose it could happen, but unlikely, right? Do you believe in this curse? Really believe in it?"
"Something has gone wrong for certain. Every single owner has had family members die, and most succumbed to the curse. I did my research before the purchase and everything Emery told me was true. Every owner and his family has met with a strange, unknown illness or murder. I wanted the chance to solve the puzzle."
She noticed he was noncommittal as to whether he believed in a curse, but that didn't matter to her. She had to touch those wooden carvings. She would know the history of them, see into the lives of those who had ridden on them, who had played on them. More, she would know intimately the men who carved them, their hopes and dreams, even, if she was lucky, get a glimpse into their lives during the period of time they worked on the chariots and horses.
She was desperate for the carousel to be authentic--one of the first ones ever made. Horses or men turned the carousel while the young nobles practiced thrusting their spears through the rings in preparation for tournaments. Then masters of sword and spear taught young men to battle using the carousel for similar practices. Later, it was rumored, the wives and children found fun on the carousel and that was how it slowly evolved into the modern-day carousel. She might even find out if that was the truth, just by touching the carvings.
Charlotte could barely contain her excitement. The "curse" of an illness sounded so like that surrounding the Egyptian pyramids that she was filled with curiosity and knew she could probably get answers about what illnesses the previous owners actually died of. Which would only add to the mystique of this ancient carousel.
"I don't want you to touch anything until I've had a chance to do it myself," Tariq decreed in a voice that said he meant business.
She frowned and rubbed at her temple, where an ache had begun that fast. "Did you just try to use a compulsion on me?" She couldn't keep the note of accusation out of her voice as she pushed down hard on the throbbing pulse point.
"If I did, it was inadvertent. And I probably did. I'm used to using a little compulsion on the children to keep them out of danger. It's also a tool I use with Liv to keep her nightmares at bay. Unfortunately, it doesn't work on Emeline. I cannot help her no matter what I t
ry."
It was his voice that saved him. The genuine regret that he couldn't help Emeline over her nightmares. She could almost forgive him. Almost.
"What happened to Emeline?"
"We don't know exactly. She hasn't really spoken since we took her back from Fridrick's boss, Vadim. She went into the tunnels with Danny and Blaze to try to get the girls back. While she was down there, she was taken."
She was silent a moment knowing he wasn't giving her much information, but she didn't want him to overload her. She had enough to worry about with Fridrick threatening Genevieve and Lourdes. She lifted her chin and met his vibrant blue eyes. Eyes a woman could get lost in. She'd gotten lost more than once, so she knew.
"Did you use compulsion on me last night?"
The blue eyes didn't waver. Didn't blink. She watched them change. That gentle, sweet look he had disappeared, replaced by one so predatory she took a step back and one hand went to her throat defensively.
"Last night was beautiful. Every single moment. Why would you want to pick it apart?" he countered.
He didn't sound hurt or regretful. Nor did he sound guilty or innocent. He asked a question in a tone she couldn't read.
"I acted out of character last night. You had to know I've never been with another man. I never let other men touch me. Not once. The thought of it was . . . abhorrent. Yet the moment you touched me, I responded."
"Detonated."
"What?" She blinked. His tone was once again readable--smug satisfaction.
"You detonated when I touched you. That belongs to me and to no other man. Me. After searching for you for so long, believe me, sielamet, I loved that. I loved that every time I reached for you, you didn't hesitate. You made me feel extraordinary, and when I kissed you, after, you looked at me as if I were the only man in the world. I want to be that for you. The only man in your world."
She had detonated when he touched her and she knew it would happen again. Every time. "I don't want you to ever use any form of compulsion on me. Not. Ever." She stated it firmly so there would be no mistake. She would do everything in her power to care for and please this man, but she had to know he would respect her boundaries and want to care for and please her as well.