The Pact of the White Blade Knights Read online

  Ex tenebris, ad lucem. Ex umbrae, ad solem.

  With another push of his power, Tyon ordered Sir Morris to let Hazel in. He couldn’t bend a mind to his will, but he could offer a strong suggestion once the soul was clean and prone to listen. Not that it always worked. Some souls couldn’t be cleaned if the person didn’t want to see the light.

  Sir Morris staggered on his feet. His soul brightened with a new white light breaking through the crumbling darkness of the sins. Tyon wouldn’t eat them all. He couldn’t. To restore a soul so compromised, at least two sin-eaters were required, but the cleansing would give it a good chance at resisting sin again. From now on, it’d be Sir Morris’s choice. His free will hadn’t been touched. He was the only one who could open the door of his soul to evil.

  Tyon released his hold on the soul with a long exhalation. His muscles contracted and relaxed for lack of energy.

  “I merely request to see Leon for a moment.” Hazel’s outraged tone cut through the numbness surrounding Tyon. “He’s a friend of mine, and he told me I can come and visit him whenever I want.”

  Sir Morris rubbed his forehead, frowning at the floor as if wondering what he was doing here.

  Hazel jutted out her chin. “Am I boring you, sir?”

  A smile tugged at a corner of Tyon’s mouth. If she was intimidated by this man, she didn’t show it, and he admired her for holding her ground.

  “Sir!” She raised her voice, fist slamming against her thigh.

  Sir Morris jolted and raked a hand through his hair, glancing around. He was probably seeing a new world. A world made of hope and possibilities instead of anger and hate. “All right. Do what you want.” He waved a dismissive hand before pivoting on his heels and marching down the corridor.

  Hazel recoiled, mouth shutting. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Sometimes, one has to raise his voice to be heard.” Tyon stretched out an arm towards the open door. “After you.”

  She led him through a maze of corridors, rooms big enough to accommodate a hundred people and crammed with wooden crates, and chambers that smelled of naphthalene.

  She stopped in front of a cream-coloured door and knocked. “Leon? It’s me, Hazel.”

  No reply.

  The door opened when she tried the handle. “He isn’t here.” She drummed her fingers on the doorframe. “He didn’t lock the door, so he should be back soon. We’ll wait for him.”

  Minutes ticked. Hazel craned her neck right and left, tapping a foot on the tile. He did his best to not follow the curve of her neck or the quick rising of her chest, but his gaze seemed to shift towards her on its own volition.

  She glanced around again. “If he’s busy with a meeting and forgot to close the door, it can take hours before he returns.”

  A drop of blood trickled down Tyon’s leg and splashed on the floor. He wiped it with the tip of his shoe before she could spot it and start questioning him. “Can’t you take the list and leave him a message?”

  She paced with small, slow steps, probably mulling this over. “All right. I don’t want to loiter here and risk seeing Sir Morris again. He might change his mind and call the police to kick us out.”

  “I’d like to see them trying,” he muttered under his breath.

  He stayed on the threshold while she stepped into the room. Rising on her tiptoes, she opened the highest drawer of a cabinet. He couldn’t gaze away from her. Eating Sir Morris’s sins had drained him of energy, and now his power dwelled in the depth of his soul, too exhausted to be a threat. He could enjoy the view of Hazel’s body stretched up and the luscious roundness of her hips. He should help her and reach for the drawer himself as a gentleman would do, but he liked being a spectator too much.

  “There.” She slammed the drawer shut, a few documents rolled in her hand. “There’s another copy, so if Leon needs it, he’ll find it.” She bent over the desk, offering him one hell of a view of her arse, and scribbled on a piece of paper.

  This time his power stirred, dragged to the fore by his burning desire. The bustle and layers of petticoats didn’t allow him to see much of Hazel’s body, but there was no mistaking the sensual shape of her hips and the firmness of her bottom. His palm itched to rest upon it. All his rational thoughts and blood flowed south where a growing concern stretched his trousers. He wanted to lift her skirts, bare her behind, and take her on the damn desk until she moaned his name in pleasure.

  “Done.” She straightened, the documents clenched against her chest. Her gaze narrowed on him.

  Shit. Caught staring like a young man at his first meeting with a beautiful woman. Tyon pushed himself off the doorframe, the collar of his shirt suddenly too tight, his skin clammy. “Very well. We can return to my house then.”

  It promised to be a challenging day.

  Chapter 6

  AFTER THREE HOURS of checking the artefacts’ list with the item’s name, description, and simple sketch, Hazel slouched back into the chair and put down her pen. Only three artefacts had caught her attention. She remembered them in detail. The opal stone from an Etruscan princess’s tomb, recovered near Florence. Its blue and jade light had seemed to glow from within it and lit the dark room of the museum where she’d been working.

  The rose pendant, modern compared to the other items. It came from the collection of a Russian aristocrat, a rose carved in pink quartz, rumoured to have belonged to a tsarina and to have been stolen by her French lover.

  The last one was a canopy vase from the Valley of Kings in Egypt, found in the tomb of a vizier of Ramses II. With an owl shape and a pair of big yellow eyes that had pierced her with their intense stare, it had taken two days to clean and restore the vase to its original colours.

  Flames danced in the hearth in Tyon’s sitting room, spreading warmth and a cosy orange glow that suffused the cherry-wood furniture. The pot of tea Tyon had offered before leaving was cold now, but the biscuits, slices of cinnamon cake, and cheese scones were enough to feed three people despite the generous helping she’d wolfed down. Working with a full stomach in a warm place wasn’t like rubbing her numb hands and listening to her rumbling stomach in her apartment.

  She folded the newspaper on the desk and rolled the pen back and forth on the table, wondering where Tyon had gone. With a gruff ‘see you later,’ he’d disappeared without sparing her a glance. Although he’d been sure she had enough to eat and enough coal to stay warm before leaving. She’d forgotten the heart-warming sensation of being taken care of.

  Don’t touch me.

  Fear had rung in his voice after she’d put her fingers on his leg in the carriage. So it was blood the scent she couldn’t identify. His trousers were dripping with it by the time they’d returned here.

  Hazel scraped her chair back and strolled in front of the shelves laden with books. So many of them. Some were first editions. She trailed a finger over the spine of A History of the Middle East Tribes. The first intact and undamaged copy she’d ever seen.

  Latin, ancient Greek, Aramaic—Tyon had books in every language, some of them she couldn’t identify. Like the big red one with runes and symbols she’d never seen. She pulled the book out when footsteps padded towards her on the polished floor.

  “Did you find something interesting?” Tyon’s deep voice was like a soft caress on her skin, but she flinched when she gazed up and found him only a couple of feet from her.

  Damn his speed. The book slid from her hands and dropped on the floor with a loud thud and a crack.

  “I’m sorry.” She crouched to retrieve the tome.

  He knelt as well, and his fingers brushed hers, sparking a little fluttery feeling in her abdomen.

  “Sorry,” she said again, at the same time he said, “Don’t worry.”

  They withdrew their hands, the book forgotten on the floor, and stared at each other. His lips parted as if he were inhaling. His hand twitched at his side. The light swirling in those amber eyes was the only sign he’d been affected by the brief touch.
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  She gazed away before she drowned in that golden sea. “I hope I didn’t ruin it.” She picked up the book and turned it. The threadbare cover missed a chip in a corner, but the strange, curled runes running along its edge shone as if new. “I can’t understand what language this one is.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the shelf. In any other man, it would be a casual pose, but nothing was casual or relaxed about Tyon Sancerre’s body. “It’s written in the language of the Ashrabat Tribe, warriors who lived not far from modern Turkey.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “I’m not surprised.” He smiled a secret smile as if he were enjoying a personal joke or memory. It was the first time she saw him smile, and something hot and powerful coursed through her veins and caused her toes to curl.

  “They had a matriarchal society,” he added, “and only women were allowed to become warriors.”

  “Like the Amazons.”

  He bowed his head. A short, dark lock swished about his cheek, and she had to close her fist to not brush it away. And his gaze was taking her prisoner again.

  She cleared her throat. “Why could only women become warriors?”

  “They said women give birth to new life, so only women can take one.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, and she wasn’t sure she was talking about the tribe’s belief and not about him. “Do you speak the tribe’s language?”

  “I do,” he said casually as if it wasn’t a big thing.

  Another long stare lingered between them. Hazel put the book back on the shelf. All these rare books, all his knowledge—she’d lie if she said they didn’t intrigue her. “I reckon we had a deal about secrets.”

  “A deal?” He cocked a brow.

  “You wanted to know what happened with Sir Morris. I want to know about your wound.” She waved a hand in the space between them. “One secret for another. You first.”

  The faint veil of humour in his features disappeared. Tension rode the hard muscles of his shoulders and neck. “I don’t lie. Ever,” he said as if taking an oath.

  She nodded. “All right, so how did you hurt yourself?”

  He ran a finger over his thigh where the blood had oozed. “I wear a cilice.”

  A noise halfway between a snort and a laugh escaped her mouth. She couldn’t have heard it right. Who wore a cilice in the nineteenth century?

  His jaw hardened. “And I don’t joke.”

  Good God, he was serious. She swallowed the hard knot in her throat and glanced at his thigh. Now that she knew the reason of the bleeding, she could make out a slight bump underneath the fabric of his trousers. “Why do you wear a cilice?”

  He shook his head. “This is another secret. You said one secret each.”

  “But—”

  “It’s your turn now. What happened with Sir Morris?”

  The rules she’d established were biting her back. She chewed the inside of her cheek as the memory of that awful evening with Sir Morris filled her mind. “Well, he—” Her tongue tripped on itself. Standing in front of Tyon in this comfortable room with the fire cracking in the hearth, it wasn’t easy talking to him about having been groped. Besides, what if he reacted as other gentlemen she knew and accused her of either exaggerating due to her feminine, hysterical nature or having provoked Sir Morris because deep down she enjoyed the attention?

  She’d heard one too many conversations on the emotional instability of women to have learned how men could twist the truth in their favour.

  “Yes?” Tyon prompted, head tilted, and gaze focused on her.

  “Can we discuss what I’ve found in the list first, please?”

  Another brow shot up. “Do you promise we’ll discuss this later?”

  “I promise.” She hurried to the table and showed him the short list. “I think these are the only items I have a special memory of.”

  He read the paper. “Have these items been sold during the auction?”

  “Yes, but”—she shuffled the other documents of the folder—“here, Leon has recorded the auction houses where they’ve been sold.”

  “So we don’t know who bought them. I guess that information is—”

  “Confidential, yes. But these types of artefacts leave traces.” She rummaged through the stack of newspapers in a box. “When toffs get their hands on an ancient or precious relic, they usually like to show off. They organise parties, balls, dinners to display the artefact and impress their friends.” She turned the pages of the latest The Herald issue to the social events page. “Here.” She tapped a finger on the announcement of a dinner party at Lord McCormack-Brighton’s house.

  The notice advertised the display of an Egyptian canopy vase next evening.

  Hazel circled the announcement with a pencil. “I bet this is the owl canopy vase of the museum.”

  “This is brilliant,” he whispered, awe filling his voice.

  She lowered the newspaper. Her toes curled all over again but for another reason. She hadn’t realised how desperately she wanted his approval, his admiration, and the respect glowing in his amber gaze spread the warm flames of confidence within her, the best gift his words could give her after so many rejections.

  “Thank you.” Her voice cracked a bit.

  He moved closer as if about to touch her, but then paused, his attention on the newspaper again. “I’ll make sure we have an invitation for this party.”

  “It’s for tomorrow night.”

  “It’s not a problem. We’ll be there.”

  A little frisson of worry worked its way up her back as his words finally sank in. “We? Do you want me to come with you at the dinner?”

  He folded the newspaper and frowned as if what he’d just said was perfectly understandable. “I need your presence to identify the correct item. Of course I’ll pay all the necessary expenses. If you wish to buy new clothes for the dinner, I’ll be happy to provide them.”

  Oh dear. The room temperature rose a few degrees. “That’s very generous of you.”

  She must’ve said something wrong because the hard lines of his neck contracted, and he gazed away. A few moments of thick silence stretched. The flames crackled.

  “What happened with Sir Morris?” It was more a command than a question.

  From any other man, the tone would’ve annoyed her, but she was starting to see through Tyon’s layers of coldness. A caring note rang in his voice. Mayhap anger or worry about what had upset her was behind the harshness of his voice.

  Hazel gathered the papers on the table into a neat pile to give her hands something to do. “I was working late in one of the museum’s storerooms when he found me.” She cast a glance at him. He peered at her as if nothing in the world mattered but her. “He thought taking some liberties with me was a possibility, and despite my refusal, he groped me. I slapped him hard enough to hurt my wrist and kicked him where it counts, and his male pride didn’t take it well.”

  The gold in his eyes seemed to smoulder. A shadow sparkled across his face as his fists clenched.

  The table shook. Even the floor quaked, and she dropped the documents. “What is it?” The pencil rolled on the desktop and clucked against the inkbottle. Then everything went still. She put a hand on the wall. An underground tunnel had to run underneath the house, but she’d been here for hours, and no shaking had occurred. Just like in Mr Harcourt’s house.

  Tyon turned away from her and strode to the window. She couldn’t see his face, only the merciless cast of his shoulders. Her heart dipped to her stomach. It was hard to say if he blamed her and was angry with her or if he cared for what she’d gone through.

  “I did not encourage him,” she whispered.

  He spun so fast his coattails flapped around him, nostrils flaring. “Trust me, Hazel, the thought has never crossed my mind.”

  Hazel. The intimate way his said her name, the way the vowels rolled from his tongue shot a lightning of pleasure right between her legs.

/>   “And I’m glad you defended yourself from his unwanted attentions.” His features didn’t soften, but the same awe of before drifted from each word.

  “I lost my job though.”

  “We’ll see.” He took out his wallet and handed her a few banknotes. “For today’s work and to cover the expenses of a new outfit.”

  Her mouth hung. She could pay six months of rent, a new bed, and an entire new wardrobe with that sum. “Fifty pounds?”

  He opened his wallet again. “I don’t know ladies’ fashion well. Do you need more?”

  Hellfire. “No. No, it’s fine.” More than fine.

  Accepting this job hadn’t been a bad idea after all.

  Chapter 7

  NO PLACE IN London smelled better than The Milliner’s boutique. Hazel stepped into the sparkling shop and breathed in the scent of lavender, lilies, and jasmine tea. The pounds Tyon had given her last night seemed to hum in her reticule.

  After paying the bills, the rent, and buying butter, bread, and fresh fruits, she was left with forty pounds, more than enough to buy a pretty dress, matching shoes, and accessories. Ladies milled around, squeaking and giggling as they rummaged rails filled with gowns and satin sashes. The sophisticated swish of silk filled the air.

  She dallied on the threshold, guilt sneaking into her chest like a worm in an apple. She shouldn’t spend the money for a new dress. The pale green gown she’d bought three years ago would be all right to wear after a good cleaning and brushing.

  Hard days would come. Autumn had barely started, coal was expensive, and the job with Tyon would end soon. Sadness slithered through her at the thought of not seeing him again.

  Food or clothes? Yes. She’d keep the money. Yet, she didn’t move. Temptation pounded in her head like loud music.

  “How can I help?” A young woman in the beige and blue uniform of the boutique strolled to her, a smile stretching her plump cheeks. “Are you searching for something in particular?”

  Hazel licked dry lips as temptation played a triumphant march. “A dress for a dinner party.” To hell with saving money.