“WELL THAT WAS THE MOST exciting dinner of my life!”

Climbing the huge winding staircase that led to their rooms, Isabella held on to the banister, her legs still shaking and her mind swirling with the memories of what she had done with Black not more than ten minutes before.

“Imagine, talking of such things! There was absolutely no discretion at the table, and how I loved it! I never knew it could be so liberating to be freed of social constraints. I thought Papa would have paroxysms, though, when Knighton and Black challenged him about the lower orders.”

Content to let Lucy carry the conversation, Isabella stayed inside her mind, reliving those moments of sheer bliss in Black’s arms. The way he had touched her, suckled her breasts. It was…rapturous. She should never have allowed it, of course, but she had been at the mercy of her own desires. One taste, the taunting demon inside her coaxed. She had thought it would be enough, just a little glimpse of what she would find in Black’s arms if she allowed herself to fall. But like a sweet from the candy shop, she could not stop at just one.

“Wasn’t Sussex’s sister delightful? Imagine, his sister!” Lucy shook her head and smiled. “I was perfectly horrid to her, and I did find a moment to apologize to her in private. I…I don’t know what came over me.”

Isabella did. Lucy may not understand it, but she was, on some level, attracted to the duke. Seeing him there with a woman brought those feelings to the forefront, and she hadn’t been able to control the swift sense of jealousy she was experiencing.

Isabella was happy for her cousin. The duke was an excellent choice. Perfect for Lucy, in fact. Unlike Black, who was the exact opposite. Where the duke represented safety, Black was danger. The duke would temper Lucy’s sometimes flighty nature. Where Black brought out the absolute worst in her.

She had acted like a wanton in his arms. Everything she had told herself she must not allow was flown away with his touch.

“Elizabeth is so cultured, so very adept at conversation. I wonder why she doesn’t come out into society?”

“Perhaps her blindness inhibits her,” Isabella suggested. She more than anyone knew how harsh the ton could be to those whom they felt were inferior. While Elizabeth appeared to be well adjusted and content with her lot in life, Isabella knew that a woman wore two faces—the face she knew everyone wanted to see—and the face she hid—the one that was her true self.

“Elizabeth and I are going shopping tomorrow,” Lucy prattled on. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Of course.” She would love to see Elizabeth again, and the outing would keep her mind off Black and what had happened in his library.

The door opened to Isabella’s chamber, and Lucy followed her in. Isabella had to admit that she was somewhat irked by her cousin’s presence. She was not up for entertaining Lucy tonight. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically. As she lay in Black’s lap, held in his arms, his scent and body heat enveloping her, she had wanted to close her eyes and sleep. Wanted to awaken in his arms. Whatever he had done to her made her feel lazy and languid, a boneless heap of quivering flesh. And his butler had knocked on the door, making the sensation of euphoria slip away, replaced by horror. What had she done?

“Lady Elizabeth’s blindness does not bother me one whit, Issy.” Lucy sighed as she flopped down onto Isabella’s bed. “What of you?”

Perhaps spending a few minutes talking with Lucy was the tonic she needed to get her mind off Black and the feelings in her body. She was restless, and her body, now that it seemed awakened to passion, wanted more.

“No, of course her blindness is of no bother to me. I find her quite brave, in fact, and very beautiful.”

“Yes, her eyes, how lovely they are, so gray and mysterious, like a steel-laden winter sky. I would never have guessed she was blind, for her eyes…well, you know what I mean.”

“She wasn’t born blind, I do recall that.”

“Yes, well,” Lucy said as she lay onto the pillows, “it doesn’t matter to me. For I’m certain that Elizabeth will make us a most agreeable companion, and a wonderful friend. I don’t have many friends,” Lucy murmured.

Neither of them did. They were each other’s best friend. And that had always seemed enough for Isabella. But suddenly she was thinking of her cousin, looking at her lying in the middle of the bed—so beautiful and fashionable. Rich, titled. She should be the belle of the ball, the favorite of the ton. She should have a hundred friends, and yet she didn’t. There were few girls their age that could be described as acquaintances, but nothing more than that.

“And what of the duke?” she found herself asking. “Does he improve upon closer inspection?”

Lucy’s face flamed as red as her hair. “The Duke of Delicious,” she drawled, using the sobriquet the women of the ton had given the duke. “There is no denying he is a handsome man, but he is not what I want.” Frowning, Lucy looked away. “He’s too bland. Staid. I want someone more elemental. Someone at the mercy of his own desires, who would do anything, risk anything, to be with me. Like your Lord Black, Issy.”

“He isn’t my Lord Black,” she muttered irritably.

“Isn’t he? He certainly seemed like he was yours when you exited the library. Were you aware that your hair was not quite right, and that Black’s hand was intimately and possessively pressed against your back? No, Issy, I fear he is yours, whether you want him or not. And, you’d be a damn fool if you didn’t.”

“How can you say that? You know nothing of Black! I know nothing of him!”

“What is there to know? He’s an earl, he’s rich and he’s utterly besotted with you. And he desires you. His every look speaks of it. He can’t keep his gaze off you. He was practically devouring you with his stare during supper.”

“I don’t know him, Luce. Not his past, his future, what his dreams are. I don’t know what sort of man he really is. There is nothing between us but a strange, and rather alarming, flare of desire,” she said while biting her lip. She was pacing. She couldn’t help it. Lucy watched her from the bed, her head tilted with curiosity.

“Issy, I think you had better tell me what happened in the library.”

Never! Oh, she could never admit to another living soul how brazen she’d been—she had not even pretended to rebuff his advance. He had touched her there, and she had never protested, just asked for more—encouraged him with her moans and the way she’d panted like a common dockside harlot.

He had gone slowly, the raising of her skirts had been gradual and seductive. He’d given her plenty of time to protest, but she hadn’t thought of it. Not once. By the time he turned her to face him, her mental admonishments had ceased and the dangerous and unseemly behavior was being encouraged with the voice of desire. She’d wanted it. What he gave her, and that much more.

It had been liberating. She had loved the feel of being desired so fiercely by another living soul. But now, in the aftermath, she was mortified by her easy fall. But more than that she was afraid. Afraid of what she had become. Afraid that, like her mother, she was thinking of the next time she would see him, touch him.

“Oh, Issy,” Lucy said irritably. “Look at you, wearing a path into the carpet. For heaven’s sake, you’re not going to hell because of a little kiss and caress.”

Lucy’s irreverence annoyed her. How could she make so little of the turmoil of what was eating away at her?

“Oh, do not look at me like that,” Lucy said as she sat up, watching her. “You’re allowed to be attracted to Lord Black. He’s a beautiful, mysterious man. I daresay any woman’s dream. And he wants you. How can you deny it? How can you refuse it? If I had a man desiring me with such passion,” she continued, “I would not hesitate to take what was offered.”

“Well, you and your kind have that ability. Others do not.”

“What do you mean me and my kind?” Lucy demanded as she flew off the bed. “What an absolute insult!”

“It is the defect of the aristocracy, isn’t it, to take whatever they want with little consequence. But an ordinary person like me cannot do so, not without consequence.”

“Oh, do not use that excuse with me, Isabella. You’ve been living the life of an aristocrat and taking to it quite nicely. You cannot now look down your nose at us. Besides, this has nothing to do with me, but Black, and what he does to you. You’re a frightened little mouse, afraid to reach out for what you want. I wouldn’t be, not in a million years.”

“That is because you are spoiled!” Isabella countered, unsure of just where this sudden rage was springing from. She only knew that it bubbled up, erupted like the force of the ocean pounding relentlessly against the rocks. “You care only for yourself, your own pleasures. You don’t care what happens, or who gets hurt just as long as you get whatever it is you want!”

“Oh, how could you!” Lucy cried. “Is that what you think of me? You chastise me because I would follow my heart? You think I’m blind about Sussex? Well, you should have a look in the mirror, Isabella, because you’re being just as blind. Black wants you, and you want him! You’re just too frightened to allow yourself to take him. You’re still that waif from Yorkshire, cowering in fear, making excuses to not enjoy life because of what your mother chose to do with her life!”

“And then what?” she demanded as they stood toe to toe baring themselves to one another. “I shall surrender to him, and he will tire of me and cast me aside. And then I will be soiled goods. No, I will not allow it. I don’t want what he’s offering. I’d rather be the cowardly waif from Yorkshire. At least I know her. I don’t know this person you want to make me into—this creature who lives for pleasure. Who would offer herself to a man she barely knows.”

“So, what Wendell Knighton is offering is something much better? He could not even be bothered to greet you properly or escort you in to dinner. You’re wasting yourself on a man who only wants you because you further his social position and open doors to him that might have forever remained closed.”

That stung. Even as it stabbed at her heart, Isabella knew it for the truth. In a sense, they were both using each other.

“Why would you throw away your life in such a way? God,” Lucy raged, “you have been given what few others in this world have. You’ve been given a second chance at life, and you’re going to toss it away for something cold and calculated and safe!”

“There is nothing wrong with longing for safety.”

“There is everything wrong with settling,” Lucy countered. “And selling your soul for comfort, instead of giving it freely to the man you want.”

“You may think that way, Lucy, because you have never had to worry over anything more substantial than when your pin money will be increased so you can buy anything and everything you see. You can give your soul and body to whoever you damn well please because deep down you know your father has power and influence. He can make any man yours. But it is not like that for me.”

“It is, you just stubbornly refuse to see it. You’d rather hide like a coward than to live. You almost died, and here you are, given a second chance and still you refuse to live. Your fears of your past rule you.”

“Perhaps if you understood hardship, if you knew what it was like to be denied anything, instead of having everything handed to you on a silver platter, you would understand my feelings. But as is so typical of you, this conversation has turned into what you would do, what you would feel if you were me. Well, you aren’t, and you can never, ever know what it was like to grow up as I did. What it is like to be me.”

“And this is what you think of me, that I am a spoiled, indulged, pleasure-seeking ingrate.”

“Yes,” she gasped, then immediately wished to take it back. “No, Lucy, not exactly—”

The ravaged expression on her cousin’s face made her reach out to her, but Lucy’s green eyes suddenly blazed, and she brushed past her, running to the door. “Do you know something, Isabella, you don’t know me, either. You’re much more indulged and spoiled than I, because the one thing I’ve longed for my whole life is what Black is giving you. And do you know, I could almost hate you for tossing it aside for some lukewarm respect and barely feigned attraction from Wendell Knighton. You have been given the one gift that money cannot buy—true desire, and I daresay love. Dearest Papa,” she spat, “won’t be able to buy that for me.”

Her body jolted as the door slammed behind Lucy. In a fit of despair, Isabella slid to the floor and gave in to a flood of tears.

Lucy was wrong. She didn’t understand anything, most especially Black, and her fears of unbridled passion. They would ruin a woman who had nothing. She had seen it. Lived it. Lucy had been tucked away, richly clothed and fed. If she was cold, a servant was summoned to stoke the fire. When she had been cold, Isabella had had no choice but to huddle beneath threadbare blankets. Stoking the fire had not been an option, because more times that not, they had been saving the last piece of coal or two.

No, Lucy did not know what it was to suffer, to long. But as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, Isabella thought of her cousin, the hurt, the devastation in her green eyes. And then she realized that behind the haughty indignation was the look of a young woman who had suffered. It had always been there, although vague, and fleeting, she had seen it, on more than one occasion—but more of late.

Lucy knew what it was to be sad. To hurt. To long for something she could never have.

 

THEY GATHERED in the upper balcony where the candlelight could not reach, and where the shadows reigned. Ceremonial incense wafted in curling tendrils, the scent of frankincense cloying the air, coating their clothes and hair. Below them, members of the lodge surrounded the candidate who was applying to be initiated in the first degree.

The steward walked to where Wendell Knighton stood in black trousers and a white shirt. He had been stripped of his coat and neckcloth, and was in the process of being divested of all money. His shirt was pulled open, his chest bared, then he was blindfolded and a rope placed around his neck. Next, the tip of a sword was placed over Knighton’s heart as he swore never to reveal the secrets of the craft, the mysteries, the handshake and password, the tools of their kind.

Black remembered taking his vows. His father had been the worshipful master, and had actually pierced the sword tip through his skin. Black could still feel the warmth of his blood running down his chest and stomach; his initiation had been more than the mere taking of the first degree. His acceptance into the lodge was symbolic of the oath he was undertaking. It was not just to keep the secrets of the craft to himself, but something else.

Later he had been taken below stairs, to the old crypt that had once been the place where the Templars had held their secret meetings. There, he had been stripped to the waist and placed on a stone slab. Surrounding him had been his father, the old Duke of Sussex and the Marquis of Alynwick. Beside the marquis had been his son, Iain, who watched with knowing eyes. He had already been initiated to his first degree, and branded.

As his father turned and reached for the handle of a brand, its glowing metal, orange at the end, Iain had pressed forward in a pretense of whispering the words of the sacred induction ritual of the Brethren Guardian.

“It burns like the devil’s tongue licking your skin,” he murmured. “Lay quiet and still and endure it. It will be faster. If you struggle, they’ll only prolong it. They want us men, strong of mind and body.”

He pulled away and Black watched him, his eyes fixed on the ice-blue eyes of Sinclair who, at sixteen, was already rough-hewn and hard. Black knew at that moment that Iain had struggled, maybe even cried out, and had suffered the effects of three old men and their absurd drive to carry out an ancient, barbaric ritual.

“The candidate is ready,” Iain said, his voice deep. He did not glance away, but held Black’s gaze, giving him unspoken strength to endure. At fifteen years old, Black was a year younger than Sinclair, but he doubted he was stronger. There was something in Sinclair’s eyes that was at once comforting and frightening. Black did not flinch or cry out when the brand sizzled against his chest. Did not frown or turn his nose up at the smell of burning flesh and hair. Sinclair did not, either, for he was inured to pain.

Black gritted his teeth, held Iain’s gaze as, his anchor and endured the horrific pain of being branded.

“Again.” It was the old Duke of Sussex’s voice, the sadistic bastard. “He did not cry out. He acts above us, above the pain, above God.”

It was the only time Sinclair’s gaze ever wavered. Iain had cried out and was punished. Thinking to save Black such pain, he had warned him, only to discover that the three men standing above him in white robes adorned with red crosses would punish him for not crying out and surrendering to his pain.

He was branded again, only this time it was his father who pressed the searing metal into his skin, letting it stay for unendurable seconds. Only when he screamed and fought the bonds that bound his wrists and hands did his father lift the brand.

“He is humbled,” his father replied.

“What is your oath?” Sussex growled, and Black could hardly speak, could barely see through the black cloud of pain.

“Never tell what you know. Never say what you are. Never lose our faith in your purpose, for the kingdom to come will have need of me and my sons.”

The symbol of those words no longer burned his flesh, but they scorched his mind. He could not imagine giving his son up to this, this band of families. He could not imagine Isabella willingly giving her child over to him, to torture with heated brands—would she ever countenance her own flesh and blood as a Brethren Guardian?

“So easy for them, isn’t it?” Alynwick murmured as they looked upon the initiation of Knighton. “Had they any idea of what we endured, they would run.” Alynwick snorted with distaste. “Cowards, all of them. There is no loyalty amongst them, no faith. It has become a social club, a reason to meet and smoke and indulge in dinners. There is nothing of the old ways. It is only men of leisure who join now. Dilettantes.”

“I think it’s them that are the normal ones,” Black muttered. “It is only the three of us who are crazed. A legacy from our fathers.”

Alynwick snorted in disgust. “Knighton is the biggest dilettante of all. He’s only here because we need to keep an eye on him, and it was right to do so.”

“How has Knighton come dangerously close to the truth?” Sussex murmured.

“I don’t know,” Black replied as he listened to Knighton repeating his vows.

“You haven’t been free with your tongue, have you, Black?”

“If you’re insinuating that I’ve spoken to Isabella about this, then you can go to hell, Alynwick. I may not like what I am obligated to do. I may not believe in those damn relics, but I gave my word. And I do believe in my vow of honor. I have not spoken to Isabella about any of this.”

“Then how does Knighton know?”

“I don’t know. Who killed Alice Fox? I don’t know. Who wrote the letters to Alice, on Masonic letterhead? I don’t know,” he growled.

“We must move fast,” Alynwick demanded. “We have to find the chalice and the pendant. Damn me, I’d love to know how Knighton discovered so much about the pendant, how it contains the seeds from the apple of the Garden of Eden.”

“What I would like to know more is how he knows the seeds, when mixed with innocent blood in the chalice, brings knowledge and immortality,” Black murmured. “Just think of the consequences if they’re found. Mankind will be forever changed, plunged into darkness and sin by the very serpent who seduced Eve into sinning.”

“What did you learn from Lucy, Sussex?” Alynwick asked.

“Nothing. She vehemently denied even knowing about the House of Orpheus. She protects someone,” he snarled. “Someone she must care a great deal for, because she is keeping his secrets close to her.”

“At least the scroll is safe,” Black reminded them. “That will buy us time while we search for who is involved.” Glancing at the dozen of Brethren below them, he studied each one. Lords and politicians, doctors and barristers, they came from all walks of life and, unlike Stonebrook, Black knew that it could very well be an aristocrat behind the whole business. But why? What was the motivation? That was the crucial piece that was missing.

“I’m going to the museum,” Alynwick murmured. “I have a feeling that Knighton has stumbled across something in Jerusalem.”

“I’ll go to Miss Fox’s house,” Black said. “She claimed she destroyed the letters, but maybe she was lying.”

Sussex nodded. His fingers rapped against the marble balustrade. “I’ll stay and follow Stonebrook. We cannot deny that Lucy has some involvement. Perhaps the old marquis does as well—perhaps he keeps Masonic letterhead.”

“Then it’s to the Adelphi to investigate the club.”

“Knighton will spend the night here for his contemplation of the darkness. It’s the best time for us to continue our investigation, knowing he’ll be here and not following us.”

Silent as wraiths and as unseen as ghosts, the three of them dispersed deep into the shadows, their ancient order calling them forth to find the relics, and protect them from greedy humans who would use them for their dark powers.

“Tomorrow, in the park. We’ll meet on Rotten Row, make it look like a coincidence,” Alynwick said. “We must make sure we’re not seen too much together. We may be being watched.”

“I’ll bring the carriage, and Elizabeth. It will look more natural if we’re not all on horseback.”

“Damnation, man, she doesn’t need to be involved in this business,” Alynwick growled. “She’s too fragile, too…well, you must have a care with her.”

“She was involved the day she was born. The day my father dragged her into this business of Templars. Besides, she did a wonderful job of ferreting out information from Knighton, and deflecting the conversation from our families when he got too close. Once she discovers where I am going and what I am doing, there will be no stopping her. I thought you knew how bullheaded she can be.”

Sussex was talking to the air, because Alynwick was already gone. Black looked at him, shrugged and headed the other way, for the back exit of the building. He did not need anyone to see him. He wanted to be undisturbed when he searched Alice Fox’s house. He knew now he was being watched by someone from inside the Freemasons. More than ever he should stay away from Isabella—for her protection, but she was already involved. His gut told him that it would not be as simple as staying away from her. If he thought it would keep her safe, he would try to give her wide berth until the matter was solved. But the murder of Alice Fox and Isabella’s name being purposely written on that letter sent his instincts tingling. She needed his protection. His love could save her. In more ways than one.

 

IT WAS NEARLY OVER. The silence was deafening, his blindness disorienting. This was the final part of the initiation. The hours he would spend contemplating the darkness. When they came back for him, he would be unbound, reborn to the light. It was part of the ancient Templar practice, and Wendell Knighton breathed deeply, focusing on what he most wanted.

The door of the lodge echoed through the columned room, alerting him to the fact that he was now all alone in the lodge—bound and blinded.

“Up you go.”

The shock of the voice behind him made him stiffen. “Who’s there?” he asked, but silence answered him. He felt himself pulled from where he knelt and dragged along. Stumbling in his blindness, he struggled to keep up.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Keep your damn mouth shut.”

Through the darkness he walked, blind, hands bound, the rope around his neck tightening as some unseen person guided him through winding twists and turns like a horse being led by the reins.

This was not part of the initiation ceremony. He knew that much.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded. But he was met with silence, just as he had been the other dozen times he had demanded explanation for this absurd behavior.

He was nervous, he was sweating with it. He didn’t like the feel of this. The danger. He had the sense it was Black. There had been a menacing air about him at dinner. More than once he had caught Black staring at him. Those strange eyes of his could unnerve a man, and in truth they had intimidated him. There was blatant dislike in those eyes…dislike, and a very great anger.

On the carriage ride over he had wondered about it, what had he done? Black had sponsored him, but left it up to Stonebrook to see him educated and prepared to take the first degree.

Isabella. Somehow he knew it had something to do with her. He’d seen Black’s villainous gaze coveting her, devouring her in that low-cut gown. She had no reason to wear such a garment. She was lovely and pure, and tonight she had been dressed like a courtesan. He had been enraged when he saw her, so angry that he hadn’t trusted himself to greet her.

That sort of gown was best left to the boudoir, for the eyes of a husband. She had flaunted her luscious body, the creamy swells of her breasts, and he had almost taken a hold of her and pulled her from the room. But Black had been there, assessing his every move. And then there was Stonebrook. He had made it very clear that he loved his niece and considered her happiness and safety vital to his own. He could not afford to become ill favored in the old marquis’s eyes. Marrying Isabella would open many doors to him—more than he could have ever hoped for. And having Isabella for a wife would not be a hardship. She was beautiful and timid. So eager to please. She would be biddable and would not complain when he continued his pursuits for knowledge. She had looked surprised and perhaps a bit let down that he would be leaving again for the East, but she would not give him any fits of pique. She knew her place. She was the exact sort of wife he had always wanted. And bedding her wouldn’t be a chore. His appetites, compared to those of other men, were rather subdued. But they had been suddenly aroused tonight, seeing Isabella in that harlot’s gown.

It was all due to her cousin, the rash, impetuous Lucy Ashton. He loathed her and everything she stood for. She was the embodiment of the aristocracy that the middling class, as Stonebrook called him and his brethren, despised. She lived for pleasure and felt no guilt that she had so much, while millions had nothing.

He had risen from virtually nothing to get where he was. The thought of marrying a woman from the ton repulsed him, but then he had met Isabella. She was of blue blood, but with a humble upbringing and a past scandal that had been very tightly shut up. He’d decided immediately that he would have her as his wife. Isabella represented the blossoming of his career through gifts and introductions from Stonebrook, while making it possible for him not to compromise his principles. The very thought of placating a spoiled wife was anathema to him. Isabella had grown up poor and in harsh circumstances. She would be grateful—and happy—for anything he gave her. He would be kind. He would allow her—to a certain extent—to read the ridiculous gothic stories she liked so much, provided they did not taint her idea of what sort of marriage they should have. Often, those silly weekly serials gave women the wrong impression of what a man should be. Silly love stories, he thought as he tripped along.

He would have her to wife, provided he survived this ordeal. And if Black was behind this bit of business, he doubted very much he would live to see the morning light.

Death was no stranger to the Earl of Black. He had discovered at least that much about the reclusive earl. It was suspected that Black had murdered his brother in cold blood after discovering his brother’s plan to run off with the woman the earl was intended to marry. After offing his brother, he’d turned his murderous intent to his fiancée. The police had deemed her death a suicide, but there were many who believed she’d died at his hand.

If he survived tonight, he would make certain Isabella knew of Black’s character. Make her realize how much of a danger he was to young women.

They had stopped, and Wendell felt warmth on his bare chest, as if he stood in the glow of a hundred candles. He heard the hiss of candle flame as a draft swept through the alcove.

“Kneel.”

He was forced to his knees at the command of a new voice, a familiar voice. There was an accent to it. A rather cultured accent. If he could only hear it again.

“Wendell Knighton, correct?”

“It is.” That voice… He searched his mind trying to place it, but could not.

“You found something of interest in Jerusalem, did you not?”

He swallowed hard; the thickness of the air was saturated with danger. “Yes.”

“An ancient text that tells of how three Templar knights were given three sacred relics to protect from the world.”

How had they discovered such a thing? He’d said nothing about it, not to anyone. Unless they had been to his house and discovered…

“Bastards,” he spat, thrashing about his bonds. The rope around his neck was pulled back and was choking him. Damn thieves! The bastards were everywhere. Well, they would get nothing out of him. That was his find, and he would die in silence and under torture, for he would never reveal what he knew. That find would bring him riches—greatness. It would be his claim to fame, and he would not see someone else take it from him, not after all the digging, the weeks of finding nothing! And then, when he had almost abandoned all hope, he’d come across the dusty, crumbling tome, and the story of the Templars and the relics they had taken from the Holy Land. It had long been maintained the Templars had been guardians of an ancient wisdom, and the text he’d found proved that fact.

“Release him.”

The rope went slack and he pitched forward, gasping and coughing. He heard footsteps walk around him, the brush of a robe against his bound hand, and then he was brought upright.

“Who the hell are you?” Wendell rasped.

“Orpheus.”

“Not bloody likely,” he snapped. “You’re a treasure-hunting thief.”

“In a way, I suppose I am, but you need have no fear of me.”

The voice was more familiar. He could almost place it…

“You found an ancient text that speaks of three Templars. You discovered that they have in their possession relics of significant religious importance.”

He neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, but remained on his knees, head bent, and allowed his captor to talk. Religious importance, perhaps, but from what the tome said, it went way beyond that. It was a mixture of alchemy and black magic and the power of the devil himself—and with that came the darkness, the greatest gifts one could ever dream of.

“I want to offer you a chance to make your place in the world. I know the name of the three Templars, and their descendants—the Brethren Guardians.”

“How?”

The sound of the laugh chilled him, even as he was intrigued by the very notion of this person knowing anything about his mysterious Templars, and even more, the artifacts.

“I have risen from hell, have seen Death and survived his grip—I have knowledge that you can only begin to guess at.”

“Black,” he gasped, suddenly seeing it quite clearly—remembering the earl’s expression as he talked of his discovery at supper. “Black is one of them—these guardians.”

“Well done, Knighton. Yes. Black is one of them.”

“And Sussex, and Alynwick.”

“Good,” the man named Orpheus said with a laugh. “You have all the pieces you need.”

“What do you want from me?”

“For you to join us.”

“Why?”

“We need your skills, your ability to speak the tongue of the ancients—and the chalice and scroll. And as a gesture of good faith, I will give you this.”

His hands were lifted and a thin metal chain was curled into his palm. His thumb caressed the metal, and swept over something egg shaped and smooth. Heat rose from the metal, and he swore he could hear the seductive siren song of a woman’s voice calling to him.

“The pendant from the Garden of Eden?”

“Indeed. Take it, and in return you will help me.”

“To do what?” he asked with suspicion.

“I need you to discover the scroll that is necessary to decipher the powers behind the pendant and the chalice. Think of it, Knighton, being able to bring this story to light. To take credit for such a monumental find.”

He could hardly believe it, knew he should probably realize it was too good to be true, but the power of knowing he would be the first to expose the Templar story was too enthralling. He knew what he kept hidden in his workroom. Knew what he held in his hand was the monumental piece he needed.

“Have we a deal, Knighton?”

“Yes,” he rasped closing his fist around the pendant.

“Yes.”

“My man will contact you when I am ready for you. Tell no one of this. Most especially do not alert the Brethren Guardians that you know anything about them.”

“No,” he whispered, “no, I won’t.”

“Do not make an enemy of me, Knighton,” his captor said with chilling coldness. “You would not like what I would do to you if I find you have betrayed me.”