Brimstone Bride. Barbara J. Hancock
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sweater and sandals. Very holiday. Much innocent.
She matched her outfit to the embossed invitation that had arrived with a fragrant coffee tray at her cottage door that morning. Semicasual, but elegant and nothing that said, “I saw a man lose his head in the garden last night.”
Her sundress was translucent georgette in white with fine satin polka dots sprinkled in black across the skirt. The dots lessened in number until they disappeared completely at her cap sleeves and the cut flared out softly from a pinched waist and tight bodice. She gathered up her hair in a soft chignon with a clip that allowed wayward tendrils to brush her cheeks.
She couldn’t help it if her expression didn’t match the swingy skirt that swirled against her pale legs as she walked out to meet her host. She couldn’t help that her eyes looked wide and dark, much greener than the usual soft hazel that had to be lined with kohl to show brightly enough onstage.
She followed the directions of the invitation to a—thankfully—different part of the grounds, where a table had been set among the wildly abundant roses. Her low-heeled sandals crunched on the path. The silky rose petals were soft and dewy against her fingers when she reached to brush the blooms as she walked by.
Victoria had to present herself at the table as a regular guest even as she decided how best to explore the estate in secret. So far she’d seen no other evidence of Turov’s activities involving the Order of Samuel. None beyond his aiding her against the monk last night.
She had to pretend she hadn’t seen him in the pale moonlight with a bloody sword or that afterward he hadn’t courteously offered to replace her shoes. How else could she proceed? She knew who and what he was. He might have suspicions about her. But she had to pretend innocence over toast and orange juice.
Luckily, Adam Turov had been living a double life long enough to cover for them both.
He sat at the table sipping his juice from a cut crystal glass. His suit was tailored tight to his broad, lean chest. His black hair was as dark and gleaming as the shine of his jacket’s gabardine. He was freshly shaven. Not a wave of his hair was out of place. His blue eyes glittered mildly in the sun as she joined him.
“Just us?” Victoria asked. She took the only other seat at the table. It was on the opposite end from Turov, giving her a reprieve from his Brimstone heat.
“Yes. No one else is staying with us at this time,” her host said. He used a silver knife to spread butter on a toast point as he spoke. Its blunt blade winked in the sun. The larger sword he’d used last night was a secret best kept in the moonlight.
In the sun, Turov was the picture of sophisticated ease.
Victoria blinked and reached for the pristine linen napkin on her plate. Its swan shape dissolved in her fingers.
“I have a meeting that will tie me up until this afternoon, but I hope to give you a tour at some point during your stay,” Turov said.
“Thank you,” Victoria replied.
Swords and winery tours. She doubted the tour he offered would give her the access she needed to find the monks he’d captured and set them free.
Father Malachi had said that they would use their combined strength to kill Adam Turov once they were freed.
The table was a long rectangle of polished glass with hammered copper legs, but she was still closer to Turov than she should be. She looked away from his direct gaze, uncomfortable with the truths that they weren’t free to discuss that were revealed with eye contact. She noticed movement in the vineyard. Dozens of workers in coveralls were obvious among the greenery. She could see their hands busily tending the vines. Occasionally, they would call out to each other, but mostly they focused on the work of their hands.
“Are they pruning the grapevines today?” she asked.
“It’s time for shoot thinning. Every spring we refocus the energy of the plant. Some of the leaves are removed and most of the buds to encourage uniform flowering. They’ll leave windows in the canopy to allow filtered light to hit the cluster of grapes as it grows. We take great care to ensure proper color development,” Turov explained.
His whole demeanor changed when he talked about his vines. Gone was the sophisticated businessman. But the warrior didn’t take his place. Instead, he was all vintner, an artist who worked with nature to sculpt an exquisite harvest.
“I had no idea the process was so complex,” Victoria said. Her mouth had gone dry. No Brimstone heat necessary. His honest passion for his work was seduction itself.
Oh, she could feel the pull of Brimstone. The table was only eight feet long. Her skin flushed in the sun, but not from its rays. Yet it was more than Brimstone that called her to Turov. He was an artist. And like calls to like.
“We have numerous parcels—vineyard blocks—they all produce a different crush. Different altitudes, different soil types, slightly different sunlight...all influences the flavor of the grapes. I’ll be thinning the shoots of the hillside block later this evening, before dinner. Those vines produce the crush we use to create the Firebird Pinot Noir. If you’d like, you can ride over with Gideon to see how it’s done,” Turov offered.
“Yes. I’d like to see you work,” Victoria said.
Be interested in the grapes and the growing process. God, do not make it about his hands or about seeing him completely honest as he labors in the sun.
She couldn’t avoid him. She had to engage in an odd dance of following him around and keeping her distance. She needed to discover his secrets without revealing her own. But now she had even more to worry about because she was pretty sure natural chemistry was as much a part of her reaction to him as the Brimstone.
She hadn’t meant her gaze to linger on him, but when he abruptly rose and broke eye contact she knew it had. He tossed his napkin on the table and approached her. Her temperature rose with every step. Maybe because of the Brimstone. Maybe not.
She held her breath when he paused beside her chair, but she released it in a shaky sigh when he reached to take her arm gently in his warm hands. He tilted and lifted until the underside of her arm was exposed. Only then did she see what had caught his attention the length of the table away.
Her arm was bruised. The monk’s hands had bitten painfully into her skin. She’d noticed a scrape on her cheek and she’d covered it with makeup, but had missed the marks on her arm, a reminder of the evil fingers that would never pinch and hurt again.
Turov had noticed.
His brow had gone heavy. His jaw hardened into a chiseled stiff line. A hint of his hidden warrior returned.
“You’re hurt,” he said. His thumb brushing her bruised skin was incredibly gentle. A whisper. Shakily, she breathed in and held it as the unexpected sensation of tenderness claimed her.
She looked up at his face. The move was a mistake. Sunlight fell full on her cheek, revealing the mark she’d tried to cover. He lifted his other hand to cup her cheek. Her eyes went wide in a sudden reaction she couldn’t prevent. Her whole body stilled. The magnet of Brimstone urged her to rise and press against him. She had to resist that pull and the added allure of his touch, his concern. Every ounce of self-control she possessed held her in place.
“I promised you safety,” he said. His accent had deepened and strengthened. He traced the scrape on her cheek with his fingers, whisper soft. But she wasn’t fooled. Battle was in his eyes. It waited to be released on anyone who deserved his wrath. She shivered. The warmth of sun and Brimstone didn’t negate the potential for ferocity she’d already seen.
“No one can promise me that. Not even you,” Victoria said.
Her reply broke the spell. He dropped his hand from her face and stepped away. Her body swayed an infinitesimal bit toward him, but she corrected herself before he’d seen. She couldn’t gauge what he’d felt. She could only feel her reaction to their connection. And her control over herself felt tenuous at best.
“You’re