Touch of Night

by Susan Spencer Paul

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

The Seymour family is one of the oldest and most respected families in England. However, what no one knows is that this family is also magically inclined and it's a secret they intend to keep. Niclas Seymour can sense the thoughts and emotions of others. It was only years ago that he became indirectly responsible for his best friend's death when he told him that his wife was cheating on him and he killed himself. And the law of the magical families is that if blood is shed by magic done then the offender is placed under a blood curse. Niclas has not known true sleep in three years and it is slowly driving him mad. He will do anything to lift the curse and finally be free of it. The only way that can happen is if he does a great deed for a member of his best friend's family. Such an opportunity has eluded him thus far. Then a Miss Julia Linley, also from one of the most respected families--and a distant relative of his friend---needs aide in rescuing her aunt from Niclas' uncle. It seems the man is set on marrying her aunt against her wishes. Not a great deed, but Niclas will take up this challenge on her behalf. What he does not expect when he meets Julia is that just her touch alone has the ability to drown out the voices. He craves her soothing touch, not only for the relief it brings, but for the passion she arouses in him. However, as they travel, an old nemesis appears threatening to expose Niclas and the whole magical society throughout England. And if Julia discovers his dark secrets will he lose her forever?

Release date: April 1, 2007

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

One
LONDON, EARLY APRIL 1817
Dark night. Almost no moon showing through the fog-shrouded haze.
Still. Quiet. Peaceful. Lonely.
Just as Niclas wanted it to be.
Only those souls who haunted such nights were out now: prostitutes, gamblers, drunkards, and thieves. Those who were lost and those who sought respite in the black shadows. Even so, the docks were nearly empty, all saner folk keeping themselves well within taverns and gaming hells, out of the cold, damp darkness. The few whose steps and voices passed within his hearing wisely stayed away from Niclas Seymour's tall, foreboding figure.
The Thames flowed beneath his feet, under the dock where he stood.
Dark. Deep. Slow and steady.
Peaceful, aye.
That was what he sought. Peace. But it was impossible to find, no matter how often or desperately he pursued it.
Peace wasn't meant for people like him, who lived under a curse; it was the blessing of the sinless and pure, and of those who sprang from untainted, earthly bloodlines.
He lifted his gaze toward the hazy stars, barely visible against the night's fog, and tried to remember what it felt like to be at peace. At rest. There had been a time, only a few short years ago, when he had known the feeling well, and had so foolishly taken for granted the happiness it brought to his days.
What wouldn't he give for even a few of those happy hours now? Just a few blessed hours of quiet nothingness. It would be worth every bit of his fortune, and more. But no amount of money could lift the curse that had been laid upon him. Niclas knew that full well. Money, for all the power it wielded on earth, held no value in the spirit realm. The residents who ruled that sphere demanded a far different manner of payment for wrongs done, usually like for like. Suffering for suffering. Loss for loss. Blood for blood. There was always a way, but only if the cursed one could find it.
And there, as the playwright had so aptly stated, was the rub. God alone knew how Niclas had tried and the lengths to which he had gone, but nothing had set him free. A saner man would have given way by now and either accepted fate or put his miserable life to an end, but Niclas, after three years, wasn't anything approaching sane.
Tonight he would put into motion one final attempt, and if it wasn't the answer . . . then, he supposed he would follow the course of so many who had gone before him.
Lowering his gaze, he turned to look across the Thames, where the lights of Mervaille glowed, their reflection shimmering on the dark surface of the slowly undulating water. It was one of the few remaining medieval palaces that still existed along the river, and had been a safe haven in London for generations of Seymours. His cousin Earl Graymar resided there for a part of each year, during the months when Parliament met and while the season was under way.
Mervaille was not the family seat of the Seymours—only Glain Tarran, their domain in Wales, could lay claim to such intense love and devotion—but it was a very close second. It was a well-situated property, beautiful, private, and surrounded by lush gardens and vast green lawns that rolled down to the edge of the Thames. The palace, which at its inception had been only a simple fortress, was built not long after William's appearance in England. The Seymour family had by then been wealthy landowners, but had kept themselves strictly within the borders of Wales, their beloved land. Following the Conqueror's arrival, however, it became expedient for the family to maintain a presence much nearer to the center of both trade and political power. A small measure of monetary persuasion, combined with a somewhat greater amount of magic, had been all the Seymours, or Symwrs, as the family name had then been spelled, needed to secure the valuable land to build Mervaille. It had been dangerous to risk exposure by using their powers, but necessary, for the Symwrs were then a rugged Welsh clan who had for centuries been a stinging thorn in the necks of all occupiers. Without the use of magic, William surely would have hung Baron Symwr rather than gifting him with a rare piece of property.
As years and ruling families passed, the Symwrs built their proper London estate, establishing a place of power among the very people whom they still stubbornly resisted in Wales. The family gained influence and grew wealthy, first as traders and then by building its own fleet of shipping vessels. Centuries passed, and they learned the art of politics, and how to use their money and friendships to gain safety. Other families like them, who were different and strange to common mortals, began to do the same, and before the day of Cromwell rose they had come together at last to form a bond of union. Seymour, Bowdon, Llandrust, Cadmaran, and others. They lent their various powers and skills for one common cause: to live safely in the world of mere mortals. They called themselves, simply, the Families.
By then Mervaille had been transformed from a simple fortress into an exquisite palace, the Symwr name altered to a more acceptable, Anglicized form, and the barony elevated to an earldom.
And all of it, the wealth, the politics, the rise in power, had taken place from Mervaille.
No, it was not the dwelling the Seymours held most dear, but it was surely the one for which they were most thankful. From Mervaille their kind had gained safety in the very midst of England's greatest city. Its walls enclosed a refuge that only Glain Tarran in Pembrokeshire could equal, for when its gates were shut, mortals could not touch them, and those of magical heritage could fully relax, not having to worry, or even think, about stepping wrong.
It had been three long years since Niclas had known that kind of peace and safety. He had been banned, on that long-ago night when the world had come crashing down on him, from both Mervaille and Glain Tarran. None of the cursed could pass their gates. It was forbidden.
Niclas hadn't realized, at first, just how greatly he would miss the family estates where he had spent so much of his youth, or that he would come to yearn for a presence at the family gatherings that had once made him so impatient, but time had proved him wrong.
How different he was now. How different everything was. He'd taken so much for granted in the happy, easy life he'd once lived. Like Mervaille. Niclas gazed at it with longing and thought of what it would be like to be there, just once more. To drink in its beauty and be at complete rest, free from worrying about being found out by the world.
But it was impossible. Instead, he had to stand here, across the river, and content himself with the sight of his family's estate. And wait for Malachi to come.
It wouldn't be long. The earl would have received his summons by now. Niclas had only to ready himself to lay out his proposal and prepare for the arguments that his cousin would be certain to present. He already knew what they would be; he'd been saying them to himself during the past several days.
A familiar pressure in his temples warned Niclas that someone was approaching. He sensed a series of faint emotions—curiosity, then surprise, then a moment's consideration, and then—Niclas sighed when he discerned it—pleasure. He didn't have to turn around to see the two men who'd seen and decided to rob him. He already knew that they believed they could easily overpower him.
Both their footsteps and their emotions grew more recognizable as they neared, and Niclas, too weary to fight any more this night, said aloud, "Be wise, gentlemen, and leave me in peace."
More surprise, and they fell still. Niclas could feel a touch of fear mingling with their growing excitement and anticipation. He made a tempting target, he knew, despite his superior height and build. His garments, dirtied and torn though they were from several earlier altercations, were the clothes of a gentleman. No amount of dirt or blood could change their fine fabric or cut, nor could a great deal of mud or scuffing hide the make of his expensive boots. And that meant money, jewelry, or at the very least a decent pocket watch. Oh, aye, he was a tempting target, indeed. But it was often thus. This was the fifth time in the past week alone that he'd found himself in such straits, and perhaps the hundredth or more since he'd taken up his nightly wanderings. At some point he would surely run through all of London's knaves and finally be left in peace.
He had tried to dress less conspicuously, but his manservant, Abercraf, had adamantly refused to let him out in public attired in anything less than perfection. Not that Niclas blamed him. The poor fellow had charge of him so infrequently these days that he had to make the most of every opportunity.
"What'd 'e say, Vess?" one of them asked in a bemused tone. "Is it a fight 'e's askin' for?"
"I dunno," the other replied. "I think 'e's drunk. Hey, mister," he addressed Niclas's turned back. "You drunk or some'at?"
Niclas sighed and briefly shut his eyes. God help him, he was weary of this.
Slowly, he turned to survey the men standing before him, and wasn't in the least surprised by what he found. They were markedly similar to the hundreds he'd faced down in the past three years: tough, thin, dirty. Their emotions were the same, too. Hungry, nervous, hopeful, a little giddy, and a good deal afraid. He gazed at them solemnly for a long moment, then said again, quietly, "Leave me in peace."
The shorter man licked his lips and, making two fists, took a step forward.
"Give us your purse, m'lord, and we'll do just that. There's no need for any trouble, is there?"
"No," Niclas agreed, "there isn't. But that decision is in your hands. It would be best and wisest for all concerned if you'd simply go your way now."
They stared at him.
"Stop gabbing and give us your purse," said the taller—and meaner—of the two. "We aren't 'ere to talk."
"I know that well enough," Niclas said with a small, unavoidable laugh. He didn't mean to taunt them, but it did amuse him to think of anyone with even a small measure of intellect wishing to attempt conversation with such unschooled ruffians. Certainly not he, who had once been famed for his ability with words. The sudden memory filled him with another stab of that painful and so familiar longing for all that he'd lost.
But he didn't have the luxury of wallowing in sorrow just now, for his would-be assailants were emanating far more fear than nerve, and that never boded well for wise decision-making.
"I am not going to give you my purse," he told them, "or anything else. I also do not wish to harm you. Come now," he said reasonably, "you're tired and a little drunk. One of you is worried about a woman, perhaps your girl?" He looked from one to the other and saw the shorter man's mouth drop open. "You're both wondering whether you can truly best me, and afraid that you can't. You're thinking of what you'll do if your friend is hurt and can't run away—and have decided to abandon him to his fate if that should be the case."
Niclas wasn't entirely certain of all the details, but he'd felt their emotions well enough to guess. It was sufficiently close to cause panic in both. That, at least, he felt quite fully.
"I don't want to harm you," he said once more. "But I promise that I can easily overpower you both. Go now," he advised, "before you do anything foolish and regrettable."
They almost did. Niclas could feel the indecision, especially in the taller one. Unfortunately, the shorter one possessed a great deal of pride and stubbornness. Niclas knew he'd made up his mind even before he pulled out the knife hidden beneath his ragged waistcoat.
" 'E might have a gun, Vess," the taller one warned.
Vess smiled, revealing gaps where teeth had once been. "Nah, 'e don't. 'E would've pulled it already. Wouldn't you, m'lord?"
Niclas was beginning to grow irate. Malachi would arrive at any moment, and dealing with him successfully would require every bit of mental acuity Niclas possessed. And God knew, it was far better for him to diffuse the situation than to let his cousin do so. If Earl Graymar stuck his nose into the matter one of these silly fools might inadvertently be harmed.
"I apologize," he said, moving forward with that suddenness that always seemed to take mere mortals by surprise; it certainly took his would-be assailants by surprise, for the one named Vess nearly dropped his knife. "But I haven't the time to entertain you any longer."
It was done quickly, with no harm to either of the men. Vess lunged at him with the knife, but Niclas easily turned aside and, before the fellow could even lift his arm up for another attempt, had twisted the weapon from his hand and thrown it to the ground. The taller one moved as if to leap on Niclas's back but, like his partner, couldn't match either the speed of Niclas's movements or his superior strength. Before either of them could divine what was happening he had them aloft, one in each hand, held by the front of their shirts. They struggled and shouted and cursed until Niclas gave each a hard, thorough shake, and then they fell still, more, he suspected, from shock than fear.
"You're much lighter than I expected," Niclas said, looking from one to the other. "Far easier to lift than the last few fellows who attempted to empty my pockets. I hope," he added severely, "that you will appreciate how often I am forced to endure such nonsense."
Vess attempted to curse at him again, but stuttered too much for the words to make sense. Still, Niclas understood his meaning very well and shook him again until his head wobbled on his short neck.
"Now, what shall I do with you?" Niclas turned about contemplatively, the men dangling from his hands. "Shall I toss you into the river? Take you to the nearest tavern and display you like shot pigeons to your fellows? Or should I simply knock your empty skulls together and be done with it?"
"My choice would be the river," said a voice from the shadows. "Only think what an entertaining splash they would make. Much better than the stones we used to throw when we were boys."
Niclas lowered his gaze to see his cousin, the earl of Graymar, walking slowly toward them.
"I do apologize," said the earl in his most gentlemanly manner as he came nearer, his light-colored hair easily visible in the dark of night. "I hope I'm not interrupting something important. I only came because I thought you wanted to see me."
Malachi Seymour was slender and tall, lithe and elegant as a cat, yet strong, too, in unsuspected ways, just as Niclas and other Seymours were. His long, silvery white hair was tied back in a neat tail at the nape of his neck, causing his sharp, elfin features to stand out even more starkly by contrast. Like Niclas, he was dressed in almost unrelieved black, tempered only by the white of linen shirts and cravats. Unlike Niclas's, the earl's clothes were exactingly neat and clean. Not that it mattered. Regardless of what Niclas might wear, or how tidy he might keep himself, he could never match his cousin's perfection.
"I believe I'm the one who should apologize," Niclas said, and lowered Vess and his gasping friend to the ground. "I should have dealt with these fellows more quickly, but my nights are long and I must fill them with such amusements as I find. Go on," he said to his assailants, releasing them. "Console yourselves with the thought that as I'm no longer without aid, you necessarily had to leave me unmolested."
Within moments he and Malachi were alone, the sound of Vess's and his partner's frantic footsteps quickly fading into the night's mist.
"That," said Malachi, "was most unwise. They'll spend the rest of the night regaling their comrades with tales of your supernatural powers. You seem determined to end your days on the gallows or, worse, burned upon the stake as some of our more unfortunate ancestors were. They couldn't resist using their powers in public, either."
He lifted one gloved hand palm up, upon which a small flame suddenly appeared. Moving closer, he surveyed Niclas's attire with an expression of polite disdain. "You're filthy," he stated. "How long have you been out this time?"
"It's good to know that you follow your own advice so well, cousin. For pity's sake, put your blasted fire away. If the night watch should see—"
"Why? Is he coming?" Malachi asked. "Is anyone coming? I assume you'd give me warning far before any individual could make his—or her—way into view."
Niclas scowled. "No. We're quite alone as far as I can tell. Unless there's a Seymour or Cadmaran or anyone of our ilk lurking about. But if there were, you'd know of it."
The fire disappeared and Malachi tugged on his glove to rid it of creases. "We're quite safe from intrusions of that sort, I promise you. There isn't a Cadmaran anywhere near London, thank God. If there were, I'd be rather more occupied with them at the moment than with you. How long have you been out?"
Occupied. Aye, that he would be, Niclas thought. Malachi wasn't only the head of the Seymour family, but the most powerful wizard in Europe, as well. More than that, he was the Dewin Mawr, the recognized leader of the Families. As such, Malachi's life consisted of one burdensome responsibility after another. There had been a time when Niclas had helped him to shoulder those responsibilities, but that was before the curse, in those nearly forgotten days when his mind had been strong and his thoughts clear, and when his own powers had been so readily controlled.
"How long?" Malachi prompted.
Niclas sighed and ran a hand through his thick, unkempt hair.
"I don't know. Four days, perhaps."
Malachi raised one slender blond eyebrow. "You've stopped keeping track?"
"There's no reason to do so," Niclas replied. "Time is all the same for me now."
"You must make it different," Malachi said sternly. "I've told you time and again how vital it is for you to continue to mark your days and nights. You risk insanity, otherwise."
Niclas uttered a mirthless laugh and turned to pace back toward the water's edge.
"Risk," he repeated. "I believe we're nearly beyond that, cousin."
Earl Graymar followed him until they stood side by side at the dock's railing. "Have you taken that potion I gave you?"
"It was as useless as the rest," Niclas told him. "Everything is useless. Malachi," he said more softly, staring down at the water. "I'm beginning to think that nothing will ever make a difference. Perhaps the curse can't be lifted."
Malachi set a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You mustn't let yourself give way to despair, cfender. There is always a remedy for blood curses, even one so difficult as yours. We have only to find the way."
"I used to believe that," Niclas said. "I don't anymore. But I'm desperate, and foolish." He glanced into his cousin's face, so filled with concern. "I want to make one more try."
"Niclas—"
"Only one, Malachi, and then I'll stop. You've already divined what I'm going to ask of you."
The earl of Graymar straightened, his expression troubled.
"I'm sorry, Niclas. I would allow almost anything to help you be rid of the curse, but I cannot let you use a complete innocent for your own purposes. Miss Linley trusts me to lend her my aid in solving a difficult problem, not to put her in company with a man who can scarce control his behavior from moment to moment."
Niclas faced his powerful cousin head-on, all his weariness and desperation driving him.
"You think I'll hurt her? Or cause her distress? You know very well I won't. I realize that of late I've been, perhaps, rather erratic—"
"Perhaps?"
"Very well," Niclas admitted, "I've not been entirely stable for some time. I understand your concerns. But I'd never harm a woman, certainly not one who might hold the key to my redemption. Only think a moment and consider. She's his cousin—"
"Very distant," Malachi put in. "It's likely the relationship is far too minor to serve the purpose, even if you should shed blood on her behalf, which I pray won't be the case."
"The Linleys were Drew's relatives, regardless how distant," Niclas argued. "If I can avenge his death by performing a valuable service for them, I might end this torment. And," he added, moving quickly to face Malachi as he turned away, "our own uncle is the cause of their distress, which may add even greater weight to the deed in the eyes of the guardians. If I can be the instrument that will solve the trouble—only consider, cousin, the effort it would require to force Uncle Ffinian to give way—then it might suffice."
Lord Graymar shook his head. "I can't . . . Niclas, you know very well that I can't take the risk. If you had followed my instructions and taken the potions or even performed the exercises I asked you to do—"
"Chants and meditations," Niclas muttered dismissively. "They were useless."
"If you had done them as I asked," Malachi repeated, "they would have at least helped you maintain a more even temper. Instead, you choose to wander aimlessly for days on end, fighting and getting into all manner of trouble, creating the worst kind of rumors, which I'm forced to answer as best I can for those members of society who—"
"Society," Niclas repeated tightly. "I hope you tell them all to go straight to—"
"Blazes, yes, I know," said the earl. He closed his eyes and appeared to pray for patience, then looked at Niclas and sighed. "There was a time, cfender, when you understood what it means to our kind to keep the world from becoming too curious, and how vital it is for all of us to behave circumspectly. You even used to help me keep our wilder relatives in line. Do you remember?"
Niclas set fingers to his forehead and rubbed at the seemingly ever-present ache that throbbed behind his eyes, striving to put his exhausted thoughts in order.
"Of course I remember. If I didn't, I'd not want to have that life back as much as I do. I apologize if I've been the cause of more trouble for you, cousin. God alone knows you have enough with the rest of our mad family. How you've kept your sanity all these years I'll never know. But isn't that all the more reason why you should give me this chance?"
Lord Graymar regarded him for a silent moment, a chill breeze causing his elegant greatcoat to flap about his slender figure. "Do you even remember Julia Linley from those days before you were cursed?"
Niclas hadn't been expecting that. The question brought him up short.
"No," he replied slowly, though he couldn't be entirely certain that he spoke the truth, for his mind was so muddled, and his memory had failed him more than once in the past three years. "Did I know her? Were we introduced?"
"I don't believe you ever were," the earl said. "She wasn't of any particular consequence in those days, save for her family's name. But you were quite the opposite, Niclas. You were one of the most admired gentlemen of the ton, and justly famed for your intellect and wit, to say nothing of your elegance in dress and manner. It's extremely likely that Miss Linley will remember you as . . . well, as you were then. If I were to ask her now to consider your escort in place of mine, she would surely expect that you would at least give the appearance of a gentleman, if not behave like one. Were you to present yourself to her in your present state, you'd terrify the poor woman."
Niclas looked down at himself. His clothes were muddy and torn, but looked respectable, he thought. And his appearance certainly hadn't frightened away the various fellows who'd attempted to rob him in the past several days.
"It's not as bad as that, is it?" he asked. "I shall have Abercraf give me a proper shave and trim before I go to meet her."
"Cfender," Malachi said gently, opening his palm to reintroduce the flame, which flickered violently in the night's breeze. "Forgive me for saying so, but you look very much like a man who hasn't slept in three years."
Niclas's gaze riveted to his cousin's, illumined in the light of the flame.
"As that is precisely what I am, I doubt that can be of any surprise."
The earl's expression was sympathetic. "That's true, but I don't believe the explanation will go far with anyone outside the family. And that includes Miss Linley. You will have to do more than simply take a bath and change your clothes."
"A nap would help, I'm certain," Niclas snapped, "but I doubt it would be possible." He began to pace again. "It's been three years since I was able to lay my head on a pillow and close my eyes and escape into slumber. Three years without rest or respite or peace." Turning, he met his cousin's unhappy gaze. "I wander the streets without marking time," he said angrily, flinging out a hand, "and take your wretched potions and try to exhaust myself with fights and drink. But nothing helps. My mind is sick with weariness, and the powers that I once held in complete control now burst out unleashed. Every emotion felt by common mortals is flung at me like a knife, and when I'm in a crowd it's as if they're all shouting at once. I'm going mad," he said, then forcibly stopped and shut his eyes tightly, struggling to regain his precarious balance. "I'm going mad, day by day," he said more slowly, "and you don't seem to give a damn. You won't even give me this last chance to redeem myself."
Almost before the final words were out of his mouth, Niclas was cringing at the bitterness and childishness of his tone, at the pained expression on his cousin's face, and was wishing he could wash the words away. But bitterness and anger, he had learned, came part and parcel with the curse that had been laid upon him.
"I'm sorry," he said before Malachi could speak, turning away toward the river again. He thought briefly of flinging himself in, and wondered whether his cousin wouldn't find the splash not only entertaining but a great relief. "I have no right to speak to you in such a manner. There is no one to blame but myself for all that's happened. I'm sorry, Malachi."
The light from the flame went out. There was a moment of silence, and then he heard his cousin's slow footsteps. Niclas appreciated the warning, for Malachi had the power to walk in complete silence when he wished. The comforting hand upon his shoulder, however, came as a surprise.
"You were not entirely at fault," the earl said. "Drew played a part, and his faithless wife, as well. You, at least, meant to be of help."
"It doesn't matter." Niclas shook his head. "Drew still died because of me."
"He killed himself because the wife he loved was unfaithful," Malachi countered, giving him a shake. "That was no fault of yours."
"I was the one who told him," Niclas retorted angrily. "I knew what her thoughts were and broke every rule of our kind by telling him. To this moment I don't know why I thought that he would receive the news with anything but despair. Drew loved her so."
"And that was why you told him," said Malachi. "You feel the emotions of others, but you can't predict how they'll behave. The love that Drew felt for Lucilla was so powerful that it drowned out all other emotions. You had no idea that he would kill himself, rather than simply take his wife in hand and put an end to her affairs, as he should have done. She loved him, too, did she not?"
Niclas nodded. "The affairs were nothing to Lucilla. Merely a way to pass the hours while Drew was fixed on Parliament. She would have stopped if he'd shown the least vexation. I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn't listen beyond the facts of her betrayal. He didn't realize that there was so much more to the problem."
Malachi sighed. "Mere mortals often find it difficult to understand the complexities of such matters. You mustn't blame yourself too harshly. It might very well have turned out as it did, regardless."
"And it might not. The curse is proof of my wrongdoing. The guardians never lay them upon our kind without good cause. But this curse—to never know slumber or be at complete rest! Death would have been kinder."
"Death is not a curse, but a release," Malachi reminded him gently. "But I understand very well what you mean by the words. I, too, was surprised at the manner in which your punishment was laid upon you, and the difficulty we've had in finding the way in which the debt might be paid. I suppose . . ."
Niclas lifted his head.
"I'll do whatever you ask, Malachi. Give me this chance, I beg it of you."
Lord Graymar gazed at him thoughtfully, his blue eyes glittering in the darkness as if lit by some inner fire.
"You would have to take protection, in whatever form I determine is best. No arguments."
Niclas's heart began pounding loudly in his ears. He straightened.
"Of course."
"And you'll require a mount," Malachi went on. "I mean no insult to your very fine cattle, but I want you to take Enoch."
Niclas blinked at that. Enoch was descended from a long line of fabled and magical steeds which only those who were dewin rode. The beasts did not suffer the touch of those who possessed lesser magic.
"No one but you has ever ridden him," Niclas said. "He'd kill me before letting me sit astride him."
"He will not do it for your sake, but for mine," Malachi informed him. "And you will be exceedingly glad to have him on your journey, if you indeed undertake it."
"I mean to do so," said Niclas.
"Aye, and that you do," said the earl. "But you must meet the last requirement first, and that will be a task almost as difficult as facing down our uncle Ffinian."
"What is it?"
"You must convince Lady Eunice that you are a better choice than I am to escort her niece to Wales and rescue her sister from our uncle's clutches."
Niclas frowned darkly. "Lady Eunice," he repeated. "She'll be stubborn, but Linleys are famous for that—"
"Lady Eunice sets the standard for stubbornness," Malachi murmured. "She glories in her reputati