Harrington Manor

Bramhope, England

August 1882

If only her betrothed and her lover could be the same person.

Despite her wish, the painful fact remained otherwise. Raven Drake suppressed a shiver of need, tingling in anticipation to have her lover's hands on her body. This need for him had her mind wandering far too often away.

"They are cursed!" the nasally male voice jarred her.

Struggling to concentrate on the insipid speaker before her, Raven looked at the imposing figure of Sir John Corwin. She did her best to ignore the phantom memory of her lover's talented fingers as she listened to Corwin's abominable opinions.

When he spoke of his passion for hunting the impure, for the Trials, the conviction in his tone rang clear. As far as she could see, his way of twisting the truth had swayed others in this parlor as they nodded in righteous agreement.

It made her nauseous to look at them. Their thoughts blindly followed the popular trend in the vain hope this didn't affect them. Raven wanted to escape, but couldn't. Born to this life, it was her duty to prevent anymore of the terrifying purifications.

When it came to Corwin, she had to tread carefully. She couldn't afford to allow her thoughts to wander when he recruited. No matter how much she needed the release.

Raven glanced out the window; the garden beckoned. There, amid the old-fashioned plantings, she could find refuge from this vile man. Perhaps steal a few moments with Malcolm.

Stealing a glance at her lover, she quickly refocused on Corwin. It'd be unwise to draw attention to her affair.

They were in a small coterie by the tall, velvet-curtained windows. Too-strong perfume and the smell of gas from the lamps outside lay heavy in the room. Rich, jewel-toned fabric covered the furnishings, the satin finishes made all the more prominent by the electric lights.

"We cannot live in peace with these vermin," the preening upstart, the self-proclaimed prelate of the Witch Hunters said. He used his baronetcy to infiltrate peerage circles and garner support. "They have proven that time and again."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Corwin had an annoying habit of emphasizing random words. Raven wanted to shake his sentences out of him.

Basil, Lord Granville, hadn't yet completed the upgrades to his country house. Persistent chatter and soft music hummed in the background as the festivities carried on. Thankfully, most in attendance were oblivious to the conversation in this corner.

She hoped it would remain that way. Corwin was enough of a problem with this small crowd.

"They are unworthy," Corwin continued.

Raven snapped her attention back to the monologue and dearly wished for a glass of champagne--or something stronger. She hadn't thought to take one before, and now couldn't see through the crush of bodies to snare a footman's attention.

"They are not of this world." He spoke with all the flair one might expect from a theatrical performer.

"Are you implying--" Her faint Scottish tone reflected barely controlled incredulity. "--that magick practitioners arise from a divine curse or, or plague?"

"Miss Drake..." Corwin's tone patronized, but his eyes registered suspicion.

Drat. Her aim hadn't been to turn his attention on her, let alone his suspicion, but she couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"What else could it be? Before the purifications, Druids and other vile magickers--" He spat the word as if he'd swallowed a bug. "--littered the land with their temples. Their insidious and immoral ways corrupted the good people of this country. Their deviant sexual habits, bizarre rituals, and abnormal powers were demonic works. Do you doubt this?"

Corwin's ice blue eyes first bore into Raven, then, slowly and deliberately, he glanced about the assembled listeners. Blanking her features, she watched him. Corwin's authoritative tone didn't fool her. But she had to wonder how many here, beyond her small group of conspirators, had fallen prey to this charismatic orator with frayed cuffs.

"The purifications commenced over four hundred years ago," she pointed out. She struggled to control her considerable temper, lest it expose just who she was to those gathered. "Are we really to believe that magickers' purported simple tricks are dangerous?"

She kept her steady gaze on Corwin, willing her face not to betray her. Next to her, she felt her lover's presence, strong and comforting.

"Could they," Raven inched a step closer, "not be helpful in some way? Hadn't a magicker saved the queen herself a mere three months ago?"

Corwin's expression darkened at her words. She'd hit a very sensitive nerve and had to resist the laugh that threatened to bubble out of now pursed lips.

Corwin took a step in her direction, murder in his eyes. Raven smiled, wished she had a dimple, and tried to look her most beguiling. What a scene he would cause, threatening a young lady such as herself in front of all these spectators. Had she managed it already? With such little effort?

Malcolm, Earl of Preston, deliberately moved closer to her. His hand brushed her arm, sending another shiver through her. So close and yet she could do naught in public. Her eyes drifted to the gardens again. Oh, to follow him to the seclusion of their paths and lose herself in his embrace.

"Miss Drake makes a valid point, Sir John," he said. "We are eradicating a resource which could, in time, be very useful to us."

Corwin dropped his hands, seemingly unaware he'd raised them. Indeed, his entire demeanor changed. Now, he all but kowtowed to the earl.

"Your resource, Lord Preston, is much too dangerous. Controlling magickers is simply impossible." He sounded distressed at this last statement, as if he hated to inform such an esteemed peer of foolishness beyond hope. "It is because of their very instability, Lord Preston, their dangerousness to the non-magickal people of this world that the spread and rise of their kind is inevitable."

Her stomach twisted at Corwin's sentiments. They poisoned so much that she and her council worked for, the tolerance and amity between those with magick and those without they'd built over the years. Corwin advocated death--murder--as the only way to eradicate the so-called menace.

"They are an infestation of the worse kind, Miss Drake," Corwin replied. His nasal tone reminded her of nothing more than a scrapping rat, begging for attention. "Evil incarnate walking amongst us."

He shook his head as if he'd decided to feel sorry for her poor deluded mind. "No, they do not wish to use their dark abilities for good works." His eyes once more rested on her. He stood ramrod straight, using his height to his full advantage.

Not intimidated, Raven looked back.

"They use tricks to fool us into believing them, for they wish only to amass power. They want to infest us with their ungodly ways, murder us if we do not follow."

Malcolm took hold of Raven's hand and placed it into the crook of his arm. Relaxing at the touch, the warmth of his body easing the tension in hers, she almost let herself lean against his tall frame.

"They do not wish for our salvation, Miss Drake," Corwin continued in his righteous way, "but our destruction. We must prevent them from gaining a hold before we are enslaved by their devilish powers. A mere four years ago they began their insidious invasion."

Corwin swept his gaze around the growing crowd. "Do you not remember? The streets of London were riddled with the dark holes housing them. Traverse any back alley you'd find a magicker luring in innocents, peddling opium, sex, death. Using their souls as currency."

A murmur arose at his choice of words among polite company, but that did not seem to stop Corwin. The glint in his eyes stayed bright, ravenous. "These ... individuals aren't human. Yes, they seem like our kind, can even pass themselves off as upstanding citizens, but I've seen them in their natural state."

What does he think we are? Hell demons with claws, horns, and tails, come to rip human throats or devour their souls? Raven fought to contain her anger, fingers digging into Malcolm's arm.

Unwilling to draw further attention to herself, she remained silent. After smoothing the dark red silk of her gown, she snapped open her fan to cool her temper. By her side, Malcolm's features stayed a mask of civility. He didn't flinch as her nails dug deeper into his arm.

For a heartbeat, her eyes met his. Returning her gaze to a still-ranting Corwin, Raven wondered at that look. Malcolm's eyes burned with a fierceness she'd only seen when they were together.

One more piece to the puzzle of him. Relaxing her fierce grip on his arm, she glanced up at Malcolm again. His golden-green eyes warmed as he gazed down at her. She gave a soft, answering smile, a hint of what she felt.

Nevertheless, she could not help the fleeting thought ... resource? Did Malcolm agree with any part of what Corwin spouted?

"Are you saying they don't appear human?" Baroness Harrogate, who'd recently joined the conversation, asked once the murmur died down.

Raven had enough. She didn't want to hear the answer, did not wish to know what Corwin thought they looked like, or what demonic features they possessed. Stepping back through the gathering crowd, Malcolm easily guided her toward Lucien, Viscount Harrington, their host and heir to the Granville title.

"I cannot agree with his assessment," she whispered, her voice harsh as Malcolm directed her through the main parlor.

Raven tried not to allow her vehement hatred of Corwin to show to Malcolm. He knew her body better than even she did, knew what made her climax and what made her beg and plead for more, but he didn't know her deepest secrets. One of the last Druids of a line Corwin believed to exterminated long ago, she possessed more power than all the magickers the baronet had ever encountered.

Considering the pain her lover no doubt felt from her nails, she doubted her success.

Lucien and his sister, Isadore, her dearest friends and fellow magickers, understood. Malcolm, a stranger to their world, would not. Lucien had known him for years. They'd traveled, done business together, and developed a long-standing friendship, yet Lucien had never shared with Malcolm, or anyone outside their circle, his status as a magicker. No matter how any of them trusted non-magickers, the danger proved too great.

Although she wanted to tell Malcolm, she knew such a thing to be impossible. Other than the attraction and need she felt for him, Raven knew very little of his views on this political situation. Knew very little of him at all.

"Miss Drake," Malcolm said in that low, deep voice that went straight through her, causing her insides to shiver in anticipation. "His views are extreme. Quite crass, if you ask me, to speak of such things in this setting."

She swallowed, remembering their last encounter. Him deep within her body as she chanted his name while shattering in explosion of ecstasy.

"It is not his crassness which offends me, Lord Preston," she said hotly, recalling herself in time and using his title. "But his views on those he seeks to destroy. He speaks o' humans like rabid animals, beasts to be slaughtered because there is some danger t' them." Raven's eyes flashed, as her Scottish intonations deepened with her anger. Her mother would be so disappointed to hear it.

"While he is, in fact, the real danger."

"In my travels I have seen many things." Malcolm stood between her and the crowd, as if trying to shield her from the malevolent energy spewing from Corwin's direction. Appreciation over the gesture flooded through her. Raven felt a little more tension leave her. Amazed with him simply being there, this had the effect of easing her nerves. She felt a twisted tangle of emotion for him, one she didn't wish to explore too deeply.

"In all that time, I've yet to see anyone, magicker or otherwise, rise up like a demon from hell, tentacles waving or some such, to slaughter innocents. In fact," Raven noted that Malcolm's left hand flexed at his side, "the one time I've seen anything close to a magicker was in a healing capacity."

"Don't let Corwin hear you," Lucien offered with a sly, knowing grin Raven wondered at, "he'll think you're in collusion with the devils."

Raven chuckled, retook Malcolm's arm, and forcibly led them all further away from that contemptible man. "Then let us whisk you off before he mistakes the dimple in your cheek for the mark of a beast."

Malcolm smiled down at her as she held his arm, the deep rumble of laughter vibrating along her skin. Unabashed desire glimmered for a brief second in his golden-green eyes, causing her fingers to tighten on his arm in response.

"Let's storm the dining room. With Corwin distracting the crowd with horror stories we'll manage to abscond with some of Mrs. Dodley's special pastries," Lucien suggested, with a glance at the group surrounding the Witch Hunter.

"Aye, Lucien," Raven nodded, "we must save a few for Isadore. She'll need the sweets after being trapped into listening to Corwin at length."

Lucien led them towards the dining room, voice low so as not to attract undue attention. "If it weren't so unseemly to toss the man out with the rubbish, I'd have his carcass out of this house in a heartbeat. But I don't want to offend Lady Harrogate, as he is her guest this evening."

"One would think," Mac quipped as he looked down at Raven, wondering how soon they could leave the ball, "the Baroness Harrogate would have better taste in guests.

Men like Corwin seriously tried Mac's patience. Considering he wasn't the most patient to begin with, it was difficult not throttling him.

"My impression was that Lady Harrogate is going to instruct her son to vote against Corwin's directives at Parliament. Has that changed?"

His hand reached to the crook of his arm where Raven's soft, warm one rested. To the casual observer it looked no more than a gentleman touching a lady's hand.

They both knew better.

"Lady Harrogate insisted she hear the other side for herself, and therefore invited Corwin," Lucien answered. "Father will be none too pleased when he hears Corwin was in his house."

"It's a good thing your father is still in London," Mac offered. "I don't think his health could stand such an evening."

"Corwin is a blight," Raven interjected. Her deep blue eyes looked behind him to where Corwin continued preaching. Mac caressed her skin through her long gloves. She bit her lip, eyes locking with his to keep from freeing a gasp of pleasure.

Mac caught himself leaning down. Tearing his eyes from her delectable lips, he turned to Lucien.

She'd worn gloves so sheer this eve it seemed she wore nothing at all. The feel of such sheer silk between them had his imagination running wild with what he wanted to do to her. He wanted to use those silk gloves to tie her to his bed, have her at his mercy, a very passionate, and oh so lovely prisoner.

Hot need speared through him, a reminder, not that he required one, of the passion between them. He wanted her from the first moment he'd seen her alighting from the carriage outside Harrington Manor six weeks ago. Her dark tresses, blue eyes, and alabaster skin against the dark traveling dress she wore combined to present a beautiful woman, to be sure.

Something else about her thoroughly captured his attention though. A spark of life in her deep blue eyes, a bright and energetic laugh, an indefinable quality about her presence. He'd been instantly drawn despite the engagement ring on her finger. Some part of him his mother would be pleased to know had not disappeared, told him a gentleman never pursued the fiancée of another man. He hadn't listened. That would not have surprised his mother one bit. The ring that sparkled even in the dim yellow light from Harrington's electrical bulbs had not prevented her from succumbing to their shared desire, either.

She took it off whenever they made love.