“The Victoria and Albert Museum?”
“You will be on your feet too much, it will take too long, and we will see little of the city.”
She sent him a mulish stare. “The Tube.”
He shuddered. “Never. I dislike cars, but that…I would rather burn in hell.”
“I’ve got it!” She snapped. “The London Eye.”
“The what?”
An hour later, Olivia settled into one of the observation cars of the giant Ferris wheel and watched Marrok sitting stiffly beside her. Amazing to think that, in fifteen hundred years, he’d never given his heart to anyone. What did that say about him? He didn’t seem to fear intimacy, but she was no expert. Was he gun-shy, after Morganna?
The attendant closed the door. The big warrior turned green.
“You’re claustrophobic.”
“I am not.”
“That’s why you’re restraining the urge to claw out of here with your bare hands.”
“Silence. I must focus on not vomiting.”
“Look out the windows. There’s so much open space and air.”
“And one locked door trapping me.”
Olivia sighed. She didn’t want to upset Marrok, just make him see what he was missing by hiding out in the forest. “The view is gorgeous.”
It was. Fall nipped at the last of the summer greenery, giving London an austere face. But some of those flowers remained. A warm wind blew. People laughed. Tourists snapped pictures. She loved being in the middle of it.
The observation wheel took them up, up, up. Slowly. Olivia grabbed Marrok’s hand and squeezed reassuringly. He grabbed on to her like a lifeline, his breathing shallow and fast.
“Look.” She pointed out the window to distract him. “Westminster Bridge.”
He nodded. And gripped her hand tighter.
London spread out before them like a giant maze. The River Thames just north, south London filling the other half of their view. From here, the scope of the city amazed her.
“Wow,” she breathed.
Marrok finally gazed out at the city. “It has grown…beyond belief.”
“There was nothing here when you fought for Arthur?”
“Nothing like this. I am in awe. Though I could not live amongst all these souls.”
“You will never be a modern man.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Olivia laughed and let him clutch her hand. It was crazy. She’d barely met the man twenty-four hours ago and by his own account, he wasn’t into relationships. But somehow in that short time, he’d…filled her up. The bond between them kept growing, strengthening. First like a sturdy rope, then like a heavy-duty chain, now a mammoth steel rod reinforced with seven feet of concrete. The sense of attachment astounded her, like she belonged with him. To him.
Did it work both ways? He seemed in no hurry to let her go. He was immortal, difficult, had an ax to grind with one of her ancestors—and still, he seemed to care. True, he needed her to help break his curse, but it felt as if they shared more. Was she deluding herself? She hoped the feelings were mutual, because she feared she was falling hard and fast.
CHAPTER NINE
THE NIGHT OF BRAM’S GATHERING arrived. Olivia had honored Marrok’s request…sort of. Her dress wasn’t skimpy and black; it was minuscule and siren red, left over from a gallery showing back in her college days. She’d grabbed the flashy garment from her flat when he wasn’t looking, and now couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she removed her coat. Or discover every wicked thought on his mind once they were alone. That he wanted her so feverishly and often amazed her. Yeah, he’d done without for a long time, but when he touched her, it felt as if she mattered to him.
It was more than sex. He was gruff, not a big talker, but his protective glances and constant touches were like buckets of golden sunshine after years of her mother’s indifference.
He had no idea of the immense gift he’d given her.
But a nagging question persisted: What would happen if they managed to break his curse, he no longer needed her, and this fling ended? He sought death. If he found it…Olivia knew she should be pulling back, protecting her heart. But he was so damned hard to resist.
She shoved the thought aside and flipped a glance over her shoulder. Tucking her hand inside his callused palm, Olivia led Marrok to Bram’s door. He knocked reluctantly.
The man so didn’t want to be here. So why had he come? Marrok wasn’t a people person, and Bram appeared to be one of his least favorite. What was the purpose of this gathering anyway? Every time she’d asked, Marrok muttered something about information and silenced her questions with a kiss…or more.
Olivia flushed just thinking about the delicious way he’d reduced her to moans a mere hour ago. For a man deprived of sexual satisfaction for a millennium and a half, he was making up for lost time fast. She wasn’t getting much sleep. And she wasn’t complaining.
Marrok turned to her. When their stares met, his mouth lifted in a wicked smile. “Your face tells me the thoughts on your mind.”
“Proper party etiquette, of course. Is there an Emily Post of the magical world?”
“Liar.” He leaned closer and whispered, “If you are not very careful, I will enjoy making you suffer later tonight.”
She shivered. That was a promise she knew he could keep.
“Ditto in double for you,” Olivia shot back.
The door opened then into a sleek, contemporary room. Small clusters of people sat about or stood in various corners. The middle of the room was filled with people of all ages dancing to a contemporary but unfamiliar tune. The sounds of children playing upstairs echoed in the high-ceilinged room during the pauses in the music.
As soon as they stepped inside, about forty strangers stopped and turned to stare. When she stripped off her coat, Marrok’s eyes bulged. He swore under his breath.
“You will pay for that dress,” he whispered.
For once, she wasn’t listening. Everyone, young and old, male and female, was staring.
Marrok glowered at the partygoers—big surprise—as he escorted her farther into the chocolate brown and taupe room, brightened by splashes of terra cotta and turquoise. He made his way directly to the bar, ignoring the partygoers’ gapes and gasps.
“Why are they staring?” she whispered.
“They are thinking how scrumptious you look in that dress.” He ripped his gaze away from the low neckline and scanned the room.
Not likely. They looked shocked. “Let’s get lost in the crowd and dance.”
His gaze zipped back to her. “What?”
“Dance. You must know how.”
“As well as I cook.”
“In fifteen hundred years, you never learned to dance?” Olivia wondered what else he’d skipped.
“Bawdy victory dances with an ale in one hand and a wench’s backside in the other, aye.”
Olivia glanced around the room. “Everyone is still staring. Please. I’ll teach you.”
“Is the goal for them to stare at me instead?”
“If we’re in the middle of a crowd, I won’t feel like an insect on a corkboard.”
He frowned, clearly confused. She supposed he’d never taken tenth-grade biology.
“Come.” He held out his hand and led her to the center of the room.
People gave them a wide berth as they found their place in the middle of the crowded floor. A sensual ballad drifted through the speakers. Just what she needed to take her mind off being the local freak show.
Olivia stopped Marrok and put her arms around his neck. He looked around, watching other men gather their women against them and did the same. Against him, she melted. And felt safe. He brushed his hand down her spine, to the small of her back. She filtered her hands through the silky strands of his dark hair that hung to his shoulders. That woodsy male scent went to her libido in seconds. She wished the crowd would go away and leave them alone. But she had one problem…
“You’re not moving.”
“I told you, I know not how to dance.”
“When you fight, you have to move your body, for goodness’ sake. It’s the same sort of thing.”
“Not exactly.” Marrok glanced around again, then shuffled back and forth from one foot to the next. “Like this?”
She tried not to, but it couldn’t be helped. Olivia burst out laughing.
“Few of these men dance differently.”
It was true, but that’s not what tickled her. “I guess it doesn’t matter the century. Your average man doesn’t like to dance.”
“I am a warrior, not a fop on a stage.”
Olivia soothed his ruffled feathers with a kiss on his neck, his jaw…oh, his tempting lips. Again. Once more, just in case he was still angry. She sighed when he took charge and captured her mouth. The man’s touch truly was heaven.
The song ended, and they returned to the bar. People still stared, but now she was far more attuned to Marrok than a bunch of strangers she might never see again.
“An ale, please,” Marrok said to the bartender. “I need one to pass this evening. Especially if there will be more dancing.” He muttered the last so that only she could hear him.
“We all need a pint after hearing about the Anarki’s attack on the MacKinnetts, mate.” The bartender, an Irishman with curly auburn hair, set the beer in front of Marrok with a heavy sigh. “And now to hear that Craddock’s youngest girl is missing, and the Anarki symbol burned into her bed…Poor thing. If she comes back at all, she’ll wish she weren’t alive.”
Olivia gasped. “The Anarki? What is that? And what’s being done to find this poor girl?”
The bartender suddenly zeroed in on her as if she were an idiot.
Marrok shot the man a warning growl. “Ask the lady if she would like a drink.”
She should chastise him for being rude to the man, but the bartender had been rude first. And Marrok’s chivalry was endearing.
“Forget it. I’m fine.”
“The questions you ask about the Anarki and the girl, they are for magickind, love,” Marrok soothed. “They do not want humans involved.”
“True,” Bram said as he snuck up on them. “But in this case, neither of you are exactly human, are you?”
Marrok turned, pulling at his white collar and tie. Bram, with his artfully-mussed hair, looked like he’d just stepped from a salon.
“We have arrived. Now keep your part of the bargain and tell me what you know of the diary and that bloody symbol.”
“Soon.” Bram grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to Olivia with a smile. Then he took hold of her other hand and brought it to his lips. “You look incredible. Red is your color.”
“If you wish to keep that hand, release her,” Marrok’s voice rumbled in warning.
Bram let go, wearing a sly grin. “Feeling possessive of a new mate is to be expected, especially one so lovely.”
Mate? Did he mean in the British “we’re friends” sense? Given her very intimate relationship with Marrok, she wondered. He couldn’t mean in the wife sense, right?
“Thanks. If I look so lovely, why is everyone staring? They have been since we arrived.”
“Besides the fact you’re gorgeous, you’re a le Fay, an incredible bloodline most believed to be long dead. Right now, they are wondering how powerful you’ll be once you transition, and exactly where I found you.”
Bram directed his blue stare back to her. Cunning swirled in his eyes. Whoa! She’d better not make the mistake of underestimating him, as she’d clearly been doing since she’d met him. Suddenly, she understood that he’d cultivated a friendship with her for reasons she could only guess at.
“She is not a conversation piece.” Marrok sounded pissed.
“Not intentionally, but—”
“Transition?” she questioned. “Marrok says I’m going to be magical. Is that true?”
“Very much so, I believe.”
“That’s…incredible. What will I be able to do?”
Bram blew out a breath. “I can’t say exactly. Magic depends on the individual. Everyone magical is born with a basic set of powers to perform small tasks. Increased ability usually starts to develop shortly before transition. The big stuff comes afterward.”
“Basic powers? Like what?”
“The ability to bewitch and conjure small items, teleporting from one place to another—day-to-day stuff. After transition, your powers truly develop. Those vary widely, based on a few factors. The power you’re born with is critical. And that comes from your bloodline. But performing magic also depends on your intent and passion. Even if you’re an exceptionally gifted witch, you can think you might want to do something difficult, but unless you truly mean that and want it with everything in your body, it won’t happen. The more difficult the spell, the more you must truly desire the outcome.”