When Valentin reached the upper floor, he heard the unmistakable sounds of Mary pounding on her bedchamber door and shouting for help.
He put his hands on the door, his fingers becoming logosh claws. “Mary!”
“Valentin, they’ve locked me in. Sir John …”
Valentin let his hands finish becoming demon—his logosh strength was far greater than his human’s.
“Stand away,” he told Mary. Then he ripped the door from its hinges.
Mary rushed out, swathed like an Athenian goddess, the ambassador’s saber in her hand. Valentin reached for her, but Mary jerked from his grasp, flinging the folds of her draperies to the floor as she ran.
Valentin caught up to her on the stairs. “What has happened? Who did this?”
“She’s going to kill him!” was Mary’s reply. She dashed the rest of the way down the stairs, and raced through the drawing room and out one of the long French windows.
The evening had clouded over, and a light snow fell from the lowering sky. Mary ran across the park, bare-armed and bareheaded, wearing only dancing slippers. Valentin ran with her, no longer asking questions. He knew with certainty what was about to happen.
As they approached the summerhouse at the end of the garden, Valentin smelled fear overlaid with rage and triumph. And blood.
He growled. He tossed off his coat, the logosh claws tearing away the rest of his clothes. His vision went dark as the beast in him broke through, changing his shape—bone and muscle.
In moments, Valentin stood on four legs, the world now gray and white, its edges slightly curved. His sense of smell became clear—multiple hues and layers of scent radiated from where he stood and flowed across the land.
Mary gazed down at him, wide-eyed, but he knew she didn’t fear him. She held up the bare blade, her fingers working something from the saber’s tip. She was a warrior, preparing to fight, and Valentin loved her.
Valentin broke down the door of the summerhouse. He dodged back as a bullet screamed past him and buried itself in the doorframe, then he burst all the way in. Mary rushed in right behind him.
Sir John, looking terrified, was slumped on a bench in the octagonal summerhouse, blood smeared on his neck. Duke Rudolfo stood nearby, pistol in hand, acrid smoke hanging in the cold air.
His wife, Duchess Mina, held Valentin’s ceremonial sword in both fists. She’d draped herself in a costume like Mary’s, and she’d pricked Sir John’s throat with the point of the saber. The smell of blood lifted Valentin’s lips from his long teeth.
Dimly Valentin reasoned that because the ambassador had fired his shot, his pistol was now empty. Not a threat. But the duchess was armed and could run Sir John through any second. Valentin leapt at her, snarling in animal rage.
The ambassador threw himself between Valentin and his wife. Valentin fell onto Rudolfo, taking him down, Rudolfo’s fear filling Valentin’s heightened senses.
This was the coward who’d stepped aside when Sophie had been attacked, the man who’d sacrificed Sophie’s virtue and sanity to save his own hide.
Valentin hated him. In human form, Valentin could reason that he understood Rudolfo’s actions, but the logosh inside him didn’t care. This man had let harm come to Valentin’s beloved sister, harm that had led to her death.
Valentin wanted to kill. He needed to kill.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Duchess Mina raise her saber. The blade came at him, but was met with a clang by Mary’s.
Mary shouted something. He saw a sword flash through the air, heard it clatter on the stone floor. Then the duchess was on the bench next to Sir John. Mary, her dark eyes filled with fury, had her sword’s point at Mina’s chest.
Under Valentin, the ambassador cried out. Valentin’s claws had raked through his clothes to his skin. More blood. Hot, salty, wet.
Rudolfo fought, but he was no match for Valentin’s strength. Savage. Kill.
“Valentin!”
Mary’s voice broke through the pounding in Valentin’s head. She was afraid, deathly afraid of what he would do to Rudolfo, but she stood straight, her sword unmoving.
“Let him go,” Mary said. “Please.”
Why? The ambassador was a traitor, a murderer. So was his wife. They should both die.
“Please, Valentin.” Mary’s voice went soft. “Do not.”
The wolf growled in fury, Valentin’s need to kill strong. He hadn’t forgiven. He wanted blood for blood. It was the way of his people. The cold English did not understand this.
Mary would remind him in her calm voice that she was Scottish. She knew about blood feuds—Highlanders had a long history of them—and yet she was begging Valentin to show mercy.
Mercy. Had Duke Rudolfo shown mercy to Sophie? No, he’d stepped aside and left her to her fate. Rudolfo was as guilty of her suffering and death as the Imperial Prince.
Valentin smelled the guilt now in the ambassador’s blood. Guilt, shame, sorrow, fear. Did he deserve mercy?
“Valentin,” Mary said again.
He heard the tears in her voice. Mary wanted Valentin to be the person she thought he was—a good man, a protector. She wanted the guard who’d braved a long journey to lead her sister-in-law, Zarabeth, to safety, the man who’d had compassion enough to forgive Prince Damien for what Damien’s father had done.
Mary loved Valentin. She believed in him.
Valentin forced the wolf to leave him. His brain clouded as his limbs stretched and straightened. After what seemed a long time, he found himself panting, on hands and knees on top of the terrified Rudolfo. Rudolfo was flat on his back, his chest a bloody mess, his face pale with dread.
Valentin climbed painfully to his feet. He was naked, his body covered in sweat and blood, but Mary’s eyes shone with relief. Sir John looked on, bewildered; the duchess, furious.
“Get up, Rudolfo,” Duchess Mina snapped. “Kill him. You must.” She gestured at Sir John.
The ambassador shook his head, remaining on the floor, and covered his face with his hands. “No. No more death, my dear. Please.”
“Coward! Fool!”
Duchess Mina struggled to rise, but Mary pushed her back with the tip of the saber.
“Stay there, if you please,” Mary said coldly. “Consider yourself under arrest. Sir John, go to the house and have someone send for the magistrate. Hurry, please.”
Sir John gulped, but under Mary’s glare, he climbed to his feet and rushed out.
“We are diplomats,” Duchess Mina snarled. Anything innocent and affable about her had vanished. “We do not answer to your magistrate.”
“Very well, then you will be asked to leave the country,” Mary returned in a hard voice. “You assaulted Sir John and hired people to shoot him. That is highly illegal in England, I must tell you.”
“We will fight you,” Mina warned.
“No.” Rudolfo sat up, his hand to his bandaged shoulder. “We will return to Nvengaria. We must confess and throw ourselves on the mercy of the Grand Duke.”
Duchess Mina gave a shriek of fury. “I will never grovel to Alexander.”
“It would be better if you groveled to Prince Damien,” Valentin said, his voice gravelly. “He might actually listen to you.”
“I will never speak to that misery of a prince,” the duchess said in disgust. “The offspring of the horror who destroyed Nvengaria? The Imperial Prince’s line must cease. It is the only way Nvengaria will be strong.”
“Oh, I see.” Mary managed to sound calm. “You consider yourself a patriot. Who will rule your country then—your Council of Dukes? I believe Alexander is the head of that, but you do not much like him either, do you?”
“Alexander has finished his usefulness,” Duchess Mina said. “Another Grand Duke must take his place and lead Nvengaria to greatness.”
Mary turned her cool stare on her. “Let me guess, your husband, Rudolfo?”
“A mad idea.” Rudolfo sighed. “It is over, Mina. Please see that.”
&nb
sp; “Fool,” the duchess said, then she went off into a string of Nvengarian. She called her husband, Valentin, Prince Damien, Alexander, and Mary all manner of things. Valentin was glad Mary couldn’t understand the filth pouring from her mouth.
The Nvengarian bodyguards burst into the summerhouse, flanked by curious Hertfordshire footmen, eager for a fight. Valentin gave abrupt orders to the bodyguards, who saluted him and moved to take charge of the ambassador and his wife.
Mary at last lowered the sword and stepped away from the duchess. She admonished the guard who bound the duchess’s hands to not be cruel, then she walked past Valentin and out into the frigid winter evening.
Valentin went after her, but Mary would not slow or wait for him. Still holding the ambassador’s saber, she moved with a quick stride to the lighted house, ignoring the servants who boiled down the garden path past them.
Mary ducked inside through the French door from which they’d exited. In the drawing room the Yule log burned high on the hearth, bathing the chamber in rosy warmth. Mary dropped the saber on a sofa and continued walking.
Julia rushed in from the hall. “Mary, what happened? They will not let me—” She broke off with a squeak when she spotted Valentin standing in the middle of the drawing room, stark naked.
Mary went to her, clapped a hand over Julia’s eyes, turned her around, and gave her a shove into the hall. “Go tend to your father, Julia. He was hurt. He will need you.”
For once, Julia did not argue. “Yes, Aunt Mary,” she said meekly and rushed away.
“Mary,” Valentin said.
Mary turned back, body rigid. “Not yet, Valentin. Please.”
He folded his arms over his bare chest. “I only wish to say—thank you for saving me.”
Mary nodded once, her eyes a mystery. As she started to turn from him, a new voice filled the outer hall, a light baritone with a Scottish cadence.
“Is that you, Mum? Good Lord, what’s all the fracas?”
Joy lit Mary’s face. She rushed from the room, and Valentin followed in time to see her fling her arms around a young man who’d entered through the front door.
“Dougal,” Mary cried. “Oh, my dear, I am so very happy to see you.”
* * *
Hugging her son was the best remedy in the world, Mary decided. She kissed Dougal’s cheek and embraced him again.
“Everything all right, Mum?” Dougal asked, gently pulling back from her. “I’ve ever seen ye so chuffed to see me before.”
Mary pressed her son’s face between her hands. She felt the rough of shaved whiskers—good heavens, when had he become such a man? Tall and strong, like Egan. “Nonsense, darling, I am always glad to see you. Goodness, I think you’ve grown another inch this term.”
Dougal was looking past her, brow furrowing. “Did ye know there’s a man with no clothes on peering out of th’ drawing room? Good Lord, is it Baron Valentin?”
Mary couldn’t even blush. “It is.”
Dougal laughed. “The pair of ye could be more discreet, ye know. What would Uncle Egan say?”
“Valentin and I are going to be married,” Mary said calmly.
“Are ye now?” Dougal sounded much like his uncle Egan as he looked from Mary to Valentin, who had frozen, his blue gaze hard on Mary. “And ye could nae wait for the wedding night?”
Mary’s face heated. “Do not be so silly. This is not …” The feeble words what it seems stuck in her throat. “Turn your back so the poor man can go upstairs. We shall speak in the library.”
Dougal shrugged good-naturedly and spun to stride through the open door of the library across the hall. Mary gave Valentin a smile, her heart pounding in both fear and joy, before she hurried after Dougal, and Valentin was lost to sight.
* * *
It was not until very late that Mary finally had time to pack her things alone in her chamber. She would leave on the morrow with Sir John, Julia, and Dougal, making for London.
Duke Rudolfo and his wife had been taken to the magistrate’s house for the night, under guard of Valentin’s trusted men and soldiers from the local regiment. Rudolfo and Mina would begin their return journey to Nvengaria tomorrow. What they’d face there, Mary did not want to imagine.
Dougal explained at the hastily prepared supper the stunned cook gave them that he’d come to Hertfordshire straight from Cambridge. He mourned that he’d arrived too late for the fun when Julia and Sir John told him a breathless tale of events. Mary found that she could not speak of it, and Valentin had disappeared, likely to the magistrate’s house with the prisoners.
Mary noted distractedly, as the other three talked, that Julia spoke to Dougal in a friendly, uninhibited way. Julia did not try to preen or be witty; she simply conversed with him as she would an old friend. Mary found it refreshing, and she could tell Dougal liked Julia in return.
Mary breathed a sigh of relief when she could finally retreat to her room to pack. She jumped only slightly when Valentin opened the door and walked quietly inside.
“Be thankful that I am used to your abrupt comings and goings,” she said. “Or I would have screamed.”
“You do not scream,” Valentin said in a low voice. “Except on special occasions.”
His dark tone made her hands shake. “Is all well?” she asked.
Mary expected him to approach her, but Valentin remained heartbreakingly far away. “Duke Rudolfo has fully surrendered to take his punishment. He seems relieved.”
“And the duchess?”
Valentin’s smile was wry. “Not so relieved. But she knows she will not win.”
“She is a regular Lady Macbeth, isn’t she?” Mary moved to the dressing table and began folding leather gloves into a box.
“Duchess Mina had many ambitions.”
Mary smoothed the gloves, trying to still her fingers. “Funny to think that Sir John was right all along. He was the intended target, which is why they enticed him out here in the first place. I recall now what Sir John said when he was introduced to the ambassador at the Hartwells’ ball. Remember?” She glanced over her shoulder at Valentin who’d become fixed in the middle of the chamber. “He mentioned all the braid that Nvengarians purchased from England and suggested they were for uniforms. I wondered vaguely why Nvengarians did not have their own braid makers, but I had other things on my mind.”
“As did I,” Valentin said. “Seeing you erased everything from my thoughts. I paid no attention.”
“Well, we ought to have noticed.” Mary dropped the gloves into the box and shut the lid, finding it difficult to breathe for some reason. “Duke Rudolfo wanted new uniforms for the army he would raise for the new Nvengaria. But he could not very well order them made in Nvengaria, could he? Sir John did not know why it was important, but they could not risk him inadvertently telling someone who might understand.”
No wonder the duchess had been so adamant to draw Julia and Sir John out of London to this house, isolated from the rest of the world. Sir John would be far from his friends, and he might “accidentally” fall through the ice or be hit by a stray shot from a winter shooting party. The country was not always a safe place—hadn’t the doctor mentioned a boy who’d been gored by an ox?
“They did not seem to mind so much my knowing,” Valentin observed. “They thought I was on their side.”
Mary shoved the box of gloves aside in annoyance. “Duchess Mina filled my head with the nonsense that you burned for revenge on her husband. So I would believe you really did hire the shooters. She was ready to push the blame onto you if Sir John died. Bloody woman.”
Valentin came to her, his face lined and tired. “She was not wrong. I hated Rudolfo, though I would not admit it even to myself. I pretended I had forgiven him, but I secretly hoped I would have to kill him.” He cupped Mary’s cheek. “You knew that. You stopped me from becoming a murderer.”
Mary’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering more because of them. I wanted to keep y
ou free. So you could be with me.”
Valentin closed the last step between them and gazed down at her. Mary loved his eyes, so deep blue and filled with power, sorrow, and a caring she wanted to reach.
“You told your son we would be married,” Valentin said in a quiet voice.
“And I meant it.” Mary held his gaze, wishing she could convey what she felt for him. “If you’ll have me.”
“I told you I have nothing to offer you.”
Mary shook her head, her heart lightening as she spoke. “I don’t care. I don’t want palaces and gold plates and jewels. I have a small house in Edinburgh and rooms of my own at Castle MacDonald. You have your estate in Nvengaria. We will always have a home, and that is all I want. A home. And you.”
Valentin slid his arm around her waist and caught a tear that fell to her cheek with his thumb. “All I want is you, my Mary. I thought that would not be enough for you.”
“’Tis more than enough,” she whispered. “’Tis riches.”
“Mary.” Valentin put relief into the word. He nuzzled the line of her hair then moved his warm lips to hers. Mary felt her clothes loosen, his hands on her bare skin. “Enough packing for tonight, I think,” he murmured.
“Will you start back to Nvengaria tomorrow?” Mary asked, fearing the answer. “With the ambassador?”
“No.” Valentin smiled, his blue eyes warm. “I have resigned. The bodyguards with me were all handpicked by Grand Duke Alexander. They will take the ambassador and his wife back without delay. I have sent a message to Alexander to not expect me with them.”
Mary’s heart leapt with hope. “Then will you come home with me?”
“To London?”
“No, to Scotland.” Her determination swelled. “I have run away long enough. We might miss Christmas Day, but Hogmanay is the bigger celebration anyway.”
“I would be pleased to see Castle MacDonald again. It holds for me the happiest memories of my life.” Valentin’s eyes darkened, and he leaned to kiss the curve of her neck. “Except for my memory of this room, two nights ago.”