The Golden Key Legacy Page 7

  She jerked on the knife so fast, the thin blade slipped from between his fingers. Oh, shit. Now what had he done?

  His muse and her “uncles” exchanged glances like they all belonged to some high-level government agency and weren’t sure if he’d been granted clearance.

  She frowned and fiddled with the key between her breasts. “You do not know?”

  Why? Should he? He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Not unless you decide to tell me, no.”

  Another round of curious glances, and he crossed his arms and sighed. Since when was asking someone their name breaking one of the ten social commandments?

  Forbes slightly shook his head and she turned back to Rhys.

  “Faedrah.” Tipping her chin to the side, she studied him like some strange specimen she’d discovered under a microscope. “My name is Faedrah Austiere.”

  Chapter 5

  Her knee bounced an impatient jig, and the answering click of her pointed heel rapped a sharp cadence upon the hardwood floor of her uncle’s shop. Faedrah sighed and dug a finger into the thick twist of her hair, scratching at the metal pins Sir Jon had employed to secure the heavy knot at the nape of her neck. Her mother had never been one to insist she coif her long tresses in the elaborate styles favored by the court and, at long last, Faedrah fully comprehended the reason why. The persistent tugging on her scalp and heated weight only served to heighten her agitation. “Is it nearly time?”

  Wizard Oliver glanced up from the glowing screen he’d opened atop the glass case to peer at the tall, ornately carved cabinet ticking away the moments like some damnable mechanical heartbeat. “Ten minutes, love.”

  Faedrah sighed. Ten minutes, ten days, ten seasons… She cleared the dampness from her palm along the thigh of her fitted blue breeches and brought her gaze back to the street. No matter how long, this wait imposed all the same nuisance to her.

  Her knee resumed its anxious bounce where she perched at an angle upon the padded window seat. A glance at the cloudless blue sky, and she shook her head. Helios had traversed nearly half the distance toward Apex and still her uncles refused her permission to return to the gallery. According to them, for her to arrive before dawn in search of the mysterious Rhys McEleod would merely emphasize her unrestrained tirades from their previous encounters.

  A huff left her lips, coating the window in a patch of condensation, and she rolled her eyes over such a ridiculous code of etiquette. Apparently inflicting bodily harm and threatening another with a pilfered dagger was frowned upon in this realm.

  Gritting her teeth, she jammed a finger under the tight pull of her hair to scratch at the unrelenting itch.

  “Keep that up and we’ll have to re-do your hair.” Jon selected a large ruby from the padded box on the counter and added the ring to the other baubles adorning his left hand. Rainbow sprites danced along the floor as he wiggled his fingers in the pool of light Helios spilled through the window.

  She dropped her fisted fingers onto her lap. “Apologies, Lord Uncle.”

  To complain of their efforts on her behalf would be the height of rudeness, regardless of whether her appearance pleased Sir McEleod or she fell far short of the beauty he’d wrought with his able hand.

  The memory of how desire had darkened his jade gaze, the way he’d held her captive against the wall sparked a web of tingles along her nerve endings. That fragile moment his breath had warmed her ear as he’d molded the unyielding press of his body to hers seared a path of arousal through the unsettled churning in her belly.

  Whatever bond they shared, whichever link had stretched its fervent tendrils across time and distance to intertwine their fates, it was dangerous. Like a charged current before a lightning strike or the ominous rumble of thunder proceeding a dark storm, the inherent possession crackling between them both alarmed and intrigued her. From the moment they’d breathed the same air, her desire to be near him had grown increasingly more potent. Perchance this fascination with him was the very cause behind her violent reaction to his appearance.

  The first prickles of doubt had begun to needle their way under her skin the instant he’d entered the gallery and their gazes had locked. The profound astonishment slackening his jaw…the way he’d stared at her with such awe and reverence…

  Rhys McEleod had been surprised by her arrival. The answer she had been unable to determine, was why? Was he not the black demon who had summoned her to this realm? And if not Gaelleod, then who was this man? Why paint her as if he’d caressed every curve and contour of her form?

  ʼTwas not until he’d reached for the key, alarm and confusion had dictated her instinctive response to attack. Yet, no question remained. The simplicity with which she’d rendered Rhys McEleod unconscious validated his innocence. Gaelleod could have never been bested by a mere flip to the floor.

  The unrelenting need to be near her mysterious artist did not ease once her uncles had ushered her from the gallery and, upon her second trip, Sir McEleod’s initial shock had been replaced with something exceedingly more daunting.

  The tick of the pendulum inside the tall wooden device was interrupted by the mellow tolling of its chime and Faedrah closed her eyes, suppressing the urge to leap to her feet.

  Desperation had lingered behind the dark fringe of his lowered lashes. A reckless need to confirm the same fire coursed through her veins at their nearness. His full mouth had brushed her ear, the thick scruff of his beard had swept her cheek, and his whispered confession bespoke her same longing for a satisfying release.

  Nary one beat of her heart had passed before certainty slammed home.

  Rhys McEleod was no more Wizard Gaelleod than she was.

  The tenth tolling of the chime lingered in the air and Faedrah shivered. The time had come. She blinked to find her uncles standing before her, Wizard Oliver’s arms crossed, one eyebrow lifted in shrewd assessment of her wayward ponderings. Sir Jon firmed his lips as if to restrain a smile and tossed a funny little head covering onto her lap.

  “On second thought, maybe we should go with her.” Oliver shook his head and turned back toward the glass counter.

  Alarm skittered over her heart as Faedrah gathered the hat and stood, but she would not lose herself in a fit of hysterics. They’d discussed the matter at length, and to do so would only confirm their misgivings she was too young to handle Rhys McEleod on her own.

  Though, given the circumstances, admitting her undeniable attraction to the man may have been a bit unwise.

  Wizard Oliver rummaged through a drawer and slammed it shut before retracing his steps around the counter. Nevertheless, their options were limited. Her parents were undoubtedly grief-stricken with worry by now, and McEleod’s portraits were their only clues to her purpose in this place. Confronting him unaccompanied was the most prudent course. He would never speak candidly with her elsewise.

  “Here.” Her uncle approached with a small shiny gadget and beckoned her near. “This is a cell phone. Unlock the screen like this,” he swept his thumb across the surface, “press the number one and hit send.” An other-worldly chime sounded from a similar device affixed to his belt and she mirrored his motions as he placed the contraption to his ear. “Then you can reach us whenever you need to.”

  Her brows sprang up in surprise as his voice echoed in her ear. Goddesses’ tits, this realm held wonders far behind the limits of her imaginings. He instructed her how to terminate their communication and she deposited the magical device in the slash pocket of her thigh-length double-breasted surcoat. “You have my solemn vow, I shall summon you at the first sign of danger.”

  “Pffft.” Jewels sparkled as Sir Jon fluttered his hand in the air. “Danger-schmanger. We all saw the protective way McEleod looked at you. What’s he gonna do? Adore you to death? Fall down and worship at your feet?” Her cheeks heated as he tugged the hat from her hand and centered the rolled brim low on her brow. “Personally, I don’t blame you one bit for crushing on him. The guy is a rock-solid tower of smoldering ang
st. For God’s sake, he practically vibrates.”

  No, no, she didn’t intend to crush him. Not anymore…at least, not in a harmful way. A giddy laugh pressed upon her chest and she busied her hands by tightening the belt at her waist.

  “Hmmm…” Oliver withdrew a step and assessed her from hat to her ankle-high boots. “It’s good, but is it enough?” He snapped his fingers and spun away, disappearing behind a velvet curtain at the far end of the room. A moment later, he reappeared and propped a set of dark-colored eye shades on her nose, and she started when the room was cast into shadow.

  “There.” Stepping aside, he turned her to face the large mirror spanning the wall behind the glass case. “Those sunglasses belonged to your mother, you know.” He ran his hands across her shoulders and applied a slight squeeze. In the reflection of the glass, his eyes filled with a glistening sheen. “Seeing you like this? My God, I could swear not a day has gone by since Ro left.”

  She covered one of his hands with hers and held tight. The similarities between her appearance and a modern-day version of her mother were undeniable. Yet, with her hair bound and covered, half her face hidden behind the disguise of her mother’s dark shades, if any luck stood with her, no one would recognize her as the woman in Rhys McEleod’s paintings—the goal her uncles had endeavored to accomplish all along.

  Though she held firm her gifted artist was not Gaelleod, proof of whether or not the black wizard inhabited this realm had yet to emerge. Risking discovery for the sake of appearance was a gamble none of them were willing to take.

  For all their sakes, they must keep her identity secret until no other choice remained.

  Jon stepped to her other side and, with a nod toward her uncles and a parting kiss to their cheeks, she left the safety of their shop for the blessing of Helios’ rays shining down upon the street.

  Chin to her chest, shoulders hunched against the cutting wind streaming off the inland sea, she kept her steps measured and even in her trek to the gallery. The solitary journey she’d conducted the previous evening seemed far removed from the bustling activity crowded before the shops, and the reasons behind why Gaelleod may have selected this port city as his hiding place became more apparent than ever before.

  How easy for him to conceal his presence amid the masses teeming the streets. How ideal the convenience of their transportation, belching vile fumes into the air which personified the blackness of his heart.

  The steady rhythm of her heels slowed as she neared the gallery, and her eyes widened in alarm as she peered through the windows to the stark white interior. Whilst, certainly, she had expected a few patrons to be present, not in all her seasons on earth had she imagined the attending throng milling about inside.

  Her stomach sank as if filled with stone. ʼTwould seem all of them had come to view the portraits of her.

  Unease danced its icy fingers down her spine, and she tugged the hat lower on her brow before swinging the door wide. A blast of warm air coursed her cheeks, laden with the scent of imaginings keenly brought to life by the pristine bite of fresh paint. She instinctively drew a deep breath, and then jolted at her response. This place smelled like him. The essence of Rhys McEleod saturated her skin.

  Pressing her back to the wall, she slowly exhaled and scanned the faces of those nearest the door. Any one of them could be Gaelleod, veiled in the guise of a devotee. A lover of art who wished to purchase her picture to adorn a blank spot upon his wall.

  One half of her heart grew heavy at the notion. The other half lightened with glee. If she trod lightly…if she remained discreet and kept silent, perchance this occasion would allow her to flush him out, providing her a slight advantage in his game of cat and mouse.

  The caress of a heated stare tingled the side of her face and she turned, lowering her chin to peer over the top of her eye shades. Her lips parted with a sharp gasp. Through the shifting bodies, Rhys McEleod scrutinized her from the far side of the room. The disheveled mess of his thick hair shined in the light as if he’d recently bathed, his scruffy beard neatly trimmed to accent the deep hollows of his cheeks. The same style jacket favored by her Uncle Oliver rested on his broad shoulders, pushed up his forearms and hanging open to expose the crisp white shirt beneath. A pair of blue canvas pants rested low on his hips, the pockets frayed above the snug fit encasing his thighs, his long legs ending where the material bunched atop his unlaced black boots.

  She snapped her gaze back to his and amusement quirked one side of his generous mouth. The slightest narrowing of his gaze and all motion ceased; the distance between them dwindled to nonexistence. Not the mingling bodies, his scent in the air nor the threat of Gaelleod’s discovery mattered in the least. Not anymore. Because, in his eyes, that she would be here with him, alive and in the flesh, far exceeded the colors he’d placed to canvas with the talented stroke of his brush.

  She knew it. Believed in it. As surely as blood coursed warm and swift through her veins.

  That he would gaze upon her as a creature of such unsurpassed beauty made her heart take flight. Sir Jon had spoken true. No harm would come to her whilst Rhys McEleod was near.

  He stepped in her direction, but the dark-skinned gentleman who had initially welcomed her and her uncles to the gallery gripped his arm, waylaying his departure. Their gazes broke as he rejoined the conversation with a buxom woman draped in a foxtail trimmed coat. A moment later, the room sharpened back into focus.

  Faedrah waited, scratching at the prickling hair at her nape, removed her glasses and hid them inside her pocket to more carefully scrutinize the faces about the room. The intensity of Rhys’ gaze returned and, secure in the fact he watched over her, she left the wall to follow the red velvet ropes stationed around the perimeter of the gallery.

  The shelter of his stare disappeared, and she stopped, poised on the brink of a step. A subtle shift of the people to her left, and the comfort of his steady reassurance returned. Like the needle of a compass, the magnetic draw of his presence was her lodestone, providing direction, gifting her strength, until she came to rest before the largest of three portraits centered on the western most wall.

  ʼTwas the same picture he’d been working on prior to their intimate scuffle of the previous evening, and the same that had held her spellbound the moment she had cast her eyes in its direction. The black strip of hair currently hidden beneath her hat fluttered on the wisp of a breeze, trailing free and loose over the shrewd assessment of her narrowed eyes. Lips parted, the angle of her chin slightly lowered, the woman before her defined the spirit of resilience. She was enigmatic and beautiful…or perchance the enigma lay within the oddity that Sir McEleod had recreated her with such a sympathetic eye.

  Goddesses wept, what she wouldn’t give… She lifted the heavy knot of her hair to relieve the pressure on her neck. For just one moment, if she could truly be the formidable warrior staring back at her, then perchance she could defeat Gaelleod, safeguard her family and return worthy of her position within the realm.

  Her gaze fell to the bottom left-hand corner and the strange rune Rhys employed as his signature. Something in its rendering seemed familiar, but her mind refused to supply on what occasion she may have seen another of its kind. She stepped over the rope for a better view and lifted her hand to trace the fierce strokes with her fingertip.

  “Oh no, dear, you mustn’t touch my painting.”

  Faedrah glanced over her shoulder to the fur-festooned woman who’d been speaking with Rhys and the gallery owner, and dropped her hand to her thigh with a slap.

  Her painting? A scowl tightened her brow, though Faedrah kept the surly words on her tongue banked against a reply. ʼTwas not as if the painting were hers to sell or give away.

  “She can touch anything she wants.”

  She spun to fully face the room and returned Rhys McEleod’s smile. That he would so quickly jump to her defense set her heart back to rights, as did the way he kept their gazes locked, ignoring the disgruntled huff of the painting’s
new owner.

  “Here.” He swung his legs over the rope to stand behind her and, as if her curiosity was as natural as petals on a daisy, clasped her hand in his and lifted her finger to the canvas, guiding it over each of the strokes. “R…M…E. There, do you see it?”

  A strange tingling suffused her hand at the contact, though whether from the warmth of his palm, the heat of his breath in her ear or some other mystifying reason, she had not the clarity to garner the significance of its meaning. All her efforts were focused on wrestling the urge to lean against his chest, wrapping his arm around her so she could indulge in the power of his nearness.

  “I’m glad you’re finally here.” He twined their fingers together and lowered them to her side. A tug on her hand and her lashes fluttered when his knees bumped the backs of her thighs. “In all honesty, I didn’t sleep a wink. I hope you know you’re to blame for that.”

  Two identically uniformed men approached and she arched a brow at the strange arrangement of their attire. Instead of a surcoat and breeches, one light blue garment covered them from nape to heels, sewn together at the waist and belted with an odd assortment of tools. They lifted the painting from the wall and she stiffened as their task became clear.

  “What’s the matter?” The artist’s hand left hers, and his warm palms landed atop her shoulders.

  Snapping her focus to the right, she carefully studied the woman who had purchased the painting. If one inkling of Gaelleod’s evil sorcery glinted in her eyes, Faedrah would drop the beast to the floor and strangle the infected body with those foxtails so artfully draped around her neck.

  The woman withdrew a step, her hand pressed to her chest, and stormed off across the room. Faedrah grunted. And good riddance, too.

  “Hold up a second, guys.” Rhys turned her to face him and tipped her head back, the curve of his bent knuckle pressed to the underside of her chin. Her knees involuntarily locked as he scrutinized her face. Whatever whim he desired…whatever folly, ʼtwas a certainty he could melt hearts or destroy souls with a simple blink of such a determined perusal.