Turkey carpet in front of a dying fire. The room was cold. “How do you dare challenge him?” she asked after a moment .
“Oh, that. How can you not challenge him? It would be easier for you than for me.”
“He cares for us. All he asks is that we learn the way.”
“Men want power over us, Bea.” She sounded sad. “I know that better than you do.”
“Not Stephan. He wants to give us the tools to live in this world. They are a gift.”
“All men want power, Bea, even Stephan.” Asharti said it with finality. Her eyes were hard. She turned to look at Beatrix and softened. “Oh, he has given me a gift, I admit it. He has taught me not to be afraid. I thought I would always be afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Beatrix whispered .
Asharti’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Them.” Beatrix didn’t know what she meant, but couldn’t ask. Not when Asharti’s eyes were so angry. Asharti came to herself. “You have to find yourself, Bea, not just be what he wants.”
It seemed so noble. Asharti seemed so sure. She stared helplessly at Asharti .
“Only then will you be worthy of him . . .”
Beatrix felt she had been slapped. She blinked at Asharti. Asharti’s rebellion made her worthy of Stephan. Beatrix felt only admiration, even awe, for Asharti at that moment. Asharti knew things she had never even considered. She vowed to be worthy of Stephan, and Asharti, as she had not been worthy of her mother. But inside doubt grew a canker. Could she do it?
“Come, you are shivering,” Asharti beckoned. “Get under the quilts with me.”
Beatrix shook herself. Was that night the beginning of her lost innocence?
True, she had taken life like a feral beast before thattime. But a beast is innocent. It kills to defend itself, and because it needs to feed to live. Before she met Stephan she did not know right from wrong. Stephan’s teaching was the beginning of her end. Or maybe it was Asharti. Beatrix let Asharti lead her almost to destruction. For both, the need for blood was entangled with desire. All Beatrix could do was to suppress it, lest she become like Asharti. She had learned, in all those centuries. She had learned to suppress the desire. She squeezed her eyes shut.
All this talk of second innocence brought back Stephan and Asharti. She twitched the draperies closed, then turned and leaned against the window. It was Langley’s fault.
He was a match for her. She liked that. Maybe he was right. Maybe she needed a man she couldn’t bully.
What was she thinking? What she needed was a string of young men to offer their necks to her. She could risk nothing more than uncomplicated adoration. She couldn’t get tangled up with a man like Langley. He would demand more than dalliance. He was the kind of man who wanted to possess a woman, body, heart, and soul.
In spite of her better judgment she was looking forward to riding with him tomorrow night in the darkness. She breathed. In. Out. Of course, she could expect nothing more than a week of interest. She would hope for nothing more. A week without memories or fainting spells, perhaps. She curled in her bed as the March winds outside whispered at her window.
John walked back to Albany House as light first seeped through the brown haze of London. The masts of the ships crowding the Thames to the south rose between the church spires. Already the streets were filled with hawkers and tradesmen beginning the blustery day. He had been walking all night. He hoped the wind calmed today or she might not keep their tryst. Imagine a woman riding out at night! He had no doubt her horse would be highbredand more than just stylish, or that she would come alone, without a groom.
Was he insane? He had no wish to connect himself with a nightmare like Pauline Bonaparte again. The information he had given Pauline last year in Sicily misled her brother about the size and courage of Wellington’s force in Portugal, making Masséna slow and overconfident in his attack.
“Oh, that. How can you not challenge him? It would be easier for you than for me.”
“He cares for us. All he asks is that we learn the way.”
“Men want power over us, Bea.” She sounded sad. “I know that better than you do.”
“Not Stephan. He wants to give us the tools to live in this world. They are a gift.”
“All men want power, Bea, even Stephan.” Asharti said it with finality. Her eyes were hard. She turned to look at Beatrix and softened. “Oh, he has given me a gift, I admit it. He has taught me not to be afraid. I thought I would always be afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Beatrix whispered .
Asharti’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Them.” Beatrix didn’t know what she meant, but couldn’t ask. Not when Asharti’s eyes were so angry. Asharti came to herself. “You have to find yourself, Bea, not just be what he wants.”
It seemed so noble. Asharti seemed so sure. She stared helplessly at Asharti .
“Only then will you be worthy of him . . .”
Beatrix felt she had been slapped. She blinked at Asharti. Asharti’s rebellion made her worthy of Stephan. Beatrix felt only admiration, even awe, for Asharti at that moment. Asharti knew things she had never even considered. She vowed to be worthy of Stephan, and Asharti, as she had not been worthy of her mother. But inside doubt grew a canker. Could she do it?
“Come, you are shivering,” Asharti beckoned. “Get under the quilts with me.”
Beatrix shook herself. Was that night the beginning of her lost innocence?
True, she had taken life like a feral beast before thattime. But a beast is innocent. It kills to defend itself, and because it needs to feed to live. Before she met Stephan she did not know right from wrong. Stephan’s teaching was the beginning of her end. Or maybe it was Asharti. Beatrix let Asharti lead her almost to destruction. For both, the need for blood was entangled with desire. All Beatrix could do was to suppress it, lest she become like Asharti. She had learned, in all those centuries. She had learned to suppress the desire. She squeezed her eyes shut.
All this talk of second innocence brought back Stephan and Asharti. She twitched the draperies closed, then turned and leaned against the window. It was Langley’s fault.
He was a match for her. She liked that. Maybe he was right. Maybe she needed a man she couldn’t bully.
What was she thinking? What she needed was a string of young men to offer their necks to her. She could risk nothing more than uncomplicated adoration. She couldn’t get tangled up with a man like Langley. He would demand more than dalliance. He was the kind of man who wanted to possess a woman, body, heart, and soul.
In spite of her better judgment she was looking forward to riding with him tomorrow night in the darkness. She breathed. In. Out. Of course, she could expect nothing more than a week of interest. She would hope for nothing more. A week without memories or fainting spells, perhaps. She curled in her bed as the March winds outside whispered at her window.
John walked back to Albany House as light first seeped through the brown haze of London. The masts of the ships crowding the Thames to the south rose between the church spires. Already the streets were filled with hawkers and tradesmen beginning the blustery day. He had been walking all night. He hoped the wind calmed today or she might not keep their tryst. Imagine a woman riding out at night! He had no doubt her horse would be highbredand more than just stylish, or that she would come alone, without a groom.
Was he insane? He had no wish to connect himself with a nightmare like Pauline Bonaparte again. The information he had given Pauline last year in Sicily misled her brother about the size and courage of Wellington’s force in Portugal, making Masséna slow and overconfident in his attack.
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