Chapter 10

I f a person had asked Abaddon just days ago about Lady Glain, he’d have said there was nothing more than what existed on the surface, and if there was somehow anything more, then he’d no wish to look closer to figure out.

And he’d have been as wrong as every other person who’d ever judged her.

What a fool he’d been.

Sometimes I wonder that it was so easy. I am his daughter, after all. How else to explain how I was able to make myself a woman men wouldn’t consider marrying, and a person other women don’t wish to call friend….

She’d known so much hurt and pain at her father’s hands.

Was it a wonder Glain had shaped herself into a distant figure, one who shut out the rest of the world, and kept people out, and kept herself from feeling?

Abaddon carefully measured his words. “Glain, your father is a cruel bastard who hurt you, your siblings, and your mother. He isn’t a man who’d think about protecting Opal and Flint. The fact that you did means you’re nothing like him,” he said quietly. Her chin quavered, and she dropped her gaze to her gleaming leather boots. Needing her to hear him, to see him, and all the truths he spoke, Abaddon guided her chin up until her gaze met his. “You are nothing like him,” he repeated for a second time, willing her to understand that. To believe it. “In any way.”

And then a lone tear wound down her cheek: a singular fat, crystalline drop that took a meandering path. Followed quickly by another. And another.

Surprise lit Glain’s eyes, and she drew back slightly, touching a finger to one of those tears. “I’m crying,” she whispered. And then, a beautiful, exuberant, fulsome laugh spilled from her lips. “I’m crying,” she said in a joy-tinged echo. Gripping him by the front of his jacket, she brought herself up onto tiptoes to meet his gaze. “I’m crying.”

“Glain?” he asked, concernedly. “Are you all right?”

“I am! Better than I’ve been in so long. I buried away all my emotions and built an armor inside to protect myself, only I forgot how wonderful it is to just feel .”

She laughed all the harder, and the happiness emanating from her person enveloped him in such a warmth and reciprocal joy, he wanted the feeling to continue forever. He wanted to be consumed whole by this nameless sensation, one he’d never, ever felt before.

Then, stepping out of his arms, Glain danced a happy little jig around the now-empty library, laughing all the while as she did, and he found himself joining in. His mirth mixed and melded with hers.

“Come on,” he finally said, taking her gently by the hand, and her merriment ebbed.

“Where are we going?” she puzzled aloud as Abaddon led her back to the library.

He fetched her cloak from the hook and helped her into it.

Abaddon paused only long enough to grab up his thick wool cloak, and toss it around his shoulders, before collecting her fingers once more, and guiding her on.

Glain puzzled her brow. “What are you doing?” She adjusted her stride, hurrying to keep up. “Are you throwing me out?” her query emerged breathless and harried.

His heart tugged. “We,” he gently corrected her. “What are we doing, you mean? And no, I’m not throwing you out. Why would I throw you out?”

Some of the tension eased from her narrow frame, and he felt the way her fingers softened in his. “Because of my father,” she said. “Because I reminded you how powerful he is, and how he would not tolerate me being here in your library. That he would ruin you the same way he did her.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught the way she scrabbled with her lower lip, and Abaddon slowed his steps, ceasing the flight he’d set them on, and he looked squarely at her.

“I’m not afraid of your father, Glain,” he said gently, but with an intentional firmness underlying that pronouncement.

“You should be.” She slipped her fingers from his, and hugged herself in a sad, lonely little embrace, and he mourned that transformation, wanting to bring them back to just moments ago when joy had transformed her. “He is not a good man, Abaddon. He is powerful and uses that power to shape the world, bending it and people to fit his will and…” Her tone grew increasingly frenzied. “And he could destroy your library if he so wished it, and you…he could—”

“Shh,” he said gently, touching a finger against her lips, staying that frantic flow. “I’m not afraid of him,” he repeated. “I’ve dealt with uglier, meaner, more heartless monsters during my days on the streets.”

Her gaze grew stricken. “I didn’t know you lived on the streets,” she whispered. “What you must think of me complaining about my comfortable life as a duke’s d-daughter.” Her voice broke, and she turned her gaze from his.

“Hey now,” he said gruffly. Cupping her cheek and angling her face, he guided her eyes back to his. “There are different kinds of hardships, and what you endured, having a father separate you from your mother, witnessing how he treated her…” Like a goddamned broodmare . Rage spiraled once more, and he took a slow breath, fighting hard for control. When he trusted himself to again speak, without fury shaking his tones, he continued. “You were hurt emotionally by the man who should have done everything in his power to protect you from pain. And that, Glain? That’s no small pain. It’s no less significant because it’s different than the suffering I knew. It’s just as real and profound and hard.”

Her mouth trembled, and a glassy sheen filled her eyes.

A pained groan escaped him. “Don’t cry.”

She blinked wildly. “I don’t c-cry.” And she didn’t. Those tears remained trapped in her eyes. “The d-duke said they are signs of weakness.”

Never more had Abaddon wanted to find a man and thrash him within an inch of his rotted life.

Wordlessly, he tugged Glain into his arms, pressing her slender fame against his chest, and he just held her. He held her as she desperately needed to be held.

She was soft and quiet through that silent embrace.

Only when he felt the tension ebb once more did he free her. “Come,” he said gruffly, catching her by the hand once more, and leading them outside.

A gust of cool winter air stole the air from his lungs and stung his nostrils.

“Where a-are we going?” she asked, her voice trembling from the cold, and her breath stirred a soft cloud of white.

“You’ll see.”

They continued north along the silent, empty London streets covered by the latest dusting of snow, until the cobblestones gave rise to a wooded knoll in the distance.

Glain slowed her steps. “What is this place?” she whispered; her voice filled with a reverent awe.

He stared on at the lands ahead, recalling the same wonderment he’d felt as a boy when he’d first looked upon them. “Finsbury Park. That there,” he pointed to the source of her amazement. “Those are the last remains of the old Hornsey Wood,” he said, leading her onward to that almost mythical forestland, until they stopped before a pair of towering oaks their enormous branches twisted and blanketed in snow, giving them a look of old wizened scepters tasked with watching over this enchanted land.

He untangled their fingers, and instantly felt the loss and coldness which came from that separation.

And yet, she stared transfixed by the winter wonderland around them.

“It is…magnificent,” she whispered, that exhalation inordinately loud in the December quiet. Transfixed, Abaddon drank in the sight of her.

The cold had left her creamy white cheeks stained with endearing cherry red circles. Their walk had loosened the lady’s hood and the winter wind had tugged free several golden tendrils. Those wispy, flyaway strands somehow softened her.

“Magnificent,” he murmured softly.

Her. She was magnificent. Beauty and grace personified. And he wanted nothing more than to erase the sadness from her eyes and chase it away with a smile.

In his life Abaddon had faced any number of dangers. None of them seemed greater than his falling for this woman before him.

Magnificent…

Glain’s heart thumped wildly.

For when Abaddon had spoken in a husky baritone, she could almost believe he was talking about her.

Her gaze locked with his heated one. The intensity of his piercing brown eyes speared her; they robbed her of breath.

Hopelessly, she stared back at him.

Abaddon drifted closer, and her body swayed toward his. Her eyes slid shut, as her mind and soul both replayed their previous embraces, and she longed for another of his kisses, the ones made of magic that drove away all the sadness and misery that had been her life these past thirteen years and filled her with lightness and joy.

The snow crunched under his booted footfall, and even with her eyes closed, she felt him draw nearer, because her body ran so in tune with his, she didn’t need to see him.

He—

Something hit her lightly, right where her heartbeat pounded, and Glain cocked her head, registering that slight chill.

Her eyes flew open, and she looked from the smattering of a shattered snowball upon her chest over to Abaddon.

Abaddon’s eyes which glittered, not with desire, but merriment.

Glain’s brow climbed. “Did you just hit me with—?”

A second snowball hit her square in the chest, leaving more white flakes upon the emerald, green velvet.

“A snowball,” Abaddon drawled, passing another missile he held back and forth between his strong hands, like a juggler she’d once observed at the Royal Circus. “Why, yes, I did.”

This time, she was prepared for it.

With a breathless laugh, she dove out of the way just as he launched that snowball at her, diving for cover behind a tree. “You dastard.” Her breathless laugh took the teeth from her words. “You cannot just go abou—eek—” She ducked behind the enormous trunk. His latest snowball struck the center of the tree with a sharp thwack .

“Are you coming out?”

“That depends,” she called.

“On?”

“On whether or not you intend to stop pelting me with snow.”

“Fine,” he vowed.

Lifting her chin, Glain stepped out from behind her cover.

Thwack.

A third missile struck her in the shoulder, drawing a gasp from her lips, as she ducked behind the enormous, gnarled trunk once more.

“Abaddon Grimoire, did you just…lie to me?” she charged.

“All is fair in love and war, darling.”

Even as she knew he referred to the latter, her heart raced all the more. “I don’t throw snowballs.”

“That’s a shame.”

She wrinkled her nose. “And why is that?”

“Because it means you’re going to find yourself trammeled with snowballs, then,” he drawled, his voice drifting closer, confirming he was nearer.

And this time, her heart beat hard for altogether different reasons. With a delicious joy stealing through her, she dove quickly from her hiding spot and headed for another nearby oak.

This time, Abaddon’s snowball sailed ineffectually over her shoulder, as she dropped behind the trunk of the tree. “Duke’s daughters do not have snowball fights,” she called in her haughtiest tones, even as she squatted and silently as possible assembled a snowball. The skill came back to her as if a lifetime hadn’t passed since she’d last played so in the snow with her mother.

“Seems you’re at a disadvantage, then, darling,” he teased.

Surging to her feet, she charged forward.

Abaddon’s eyes flared with surprise, and she delighted in that moment of shock.

She tossed her snowballs in quick succession knocking the hat square from his head so that remnants of the projectile rained down on his dark hair, and shoulders, and pelted him square in his chest.

He glanced down and stared silently for a long while at the mark made on the black wool fabric of his cloak, then slowly he picked his gaze up. “Oh, this is war, Glain Carmichael.”

With a breathless laugh, she dashed off, taking shelter behind another tree.

And as she and Abaddon raced about like two children, playing in the snow, time melted away, and Glain surrendered fully to the moment—until he caught her with another snowball to her chest.

Breathless with laughter, she collapsed on her back. The cold of the frigid snow penetrated her garments, but she didn’t care. She felt only this great, full joy so very powerful within her.

And it was because of this man.

She angled her head and studied him as he joined her on the ground. Their shoulders touched. Their hips kissed.

“This was s-splendid,” she said softly.

“Yes.” His eyes locked briefly with hers, before he closed them. “It was.”

And once more, even as she knew he was talking about the moment they’d shared, it felt so very much like he spoke of her.

With his eyes closed as they were, she studied him. She’d never known anyone like him. A man who dealt in books, and didn’t seek to stifle what a woman read, but rather who encouraged her to expand her mind and grow…and who also played as freely as a child in the snow.

She loved him for it.

She…loved him.

Glain froze. Her heart ceased to beat.

Loved him? What was this? She couldn’t love him. It wasn’t possible. She knew him but a handful of days. He was practically a stranger.

He was also a stranger who’d challenged her more than she’d ever been challenged in her nineteen years. He was someone with whom she’d shared more of herself than anyone. He listened to her and spoke with her and encouraged her to read and be free in her thoughts and with her opinions.

And you’re just confusing your appreciation with him for something more…

That’s all it was. She sought to reassure herself of that.

Abaddon’s quiet voice slashed through her frenzied musings. “What is it?”

She gasped and looked over to find his hooded stare upon her. “Nothing,” she blurted. “I…it is nothing. I was just thinking.” About the fact that I’m falling head over toes in love with you. “How did you find this place?” She’d wondered this since they’d first come upon the park, and also the topic felt far safer to discuss than her burgeoning feelings for him.

He flipped onto his side. Propping himself up on an elbow, Abaddon rested his cheek in his hand so he could face her. “I discovered it by chance when I was a boy, picking pockets. I’d snagged a purse, and the gentleman noticed and called for the constable. I never ran as fast in all my life. I ran through the streets and kept on running until my lungs hurt and my legs were numb. And when I stopped…” With his spare hand, he gestured to the area around them. “I reached this place.”

A wistful grin tugged at his hard lips, softening him in a way she’d never before seen him, and also in a way she’d have not thought possible. The sight of that smile did the strangest things to her heart’s rhythm.

“I thought for a moment, I’d run so fast I’d carried myself back to some long-lost time, where trees grew, and grass covered the earth…”

The image he painted was so strong, so vivid, she could practically see a younger, smaller version of Abaddon Grimoire in her mind. She imagined him as he’d been. And she hated so much for him that his life had been filled with such strife and uncertainty that he’d been reduced to picking pockets in order to survive.

Abaddon shifted closer, drawing her back from her own thoughts, and returning her to this present moment with him. “But then as I headed closer, I noticed a tavern, and well, then I knew I was stuck still in regular old England.”

Her gaze went to the inviting smoke emanating from the chimney. There were people inside that large, stone establishment. She should be concerned with the possibility of discovery and yet…she couldn’t care.

For just like that, she was reminded all over again how very shallow she and her entire existence had been, of the comforts she’d enjoyed while he had struggled so. Glain turned onto her side, matching his movements so they faced one another.

She moved her eyes over the chiseled planes of his beloved face, lingering her attention on the faint crescent moon scar at the upper portion of his right cheek, and the faint stubble that formed a day’s worth of growth on his unshaved cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Abaddon,” she said softly, suddenly wishing she had noticed people before him, and not because of him.

Abaddon shrugged. “I survived.”

“But that doesn’t mean it was easy to do so. And people of privilege, people like myself had a responsibility to notice and do something. Instead, they…I…we, remained oblivious to your suffering.”

“You had your own suffering to contend with, Glain,” he murmured, running a finger along her chilled cheek.

Only his touch, was warm, and the heat of that slight caress chased away the cold.

Her lashes fluttered, as she leaned in, just as he did.

They froze, their mouths separated by nothing more than a hairsbreadth. Reality fought them both for a foothold.

“I’ve done any number of dangerous things in my life, but somehow this need to be with you, Glain,” he said quietly. “This seems like the greatest danger I’ve ever faced.”

She dampened her mouth. “Because I’m a duke’s daughter.” She well understood those reservations, that fear.

He ran his thumb over her lower lip, as was his way, in a touch she’d forever associate with this man.

“On the contrary, darling. Because I want you,” he said bluntly, drawing a gasp from her lips. “And I know nothing good could ever come of it for either of us.” He leaned close, and she leaned nearer, so close she felt the warm sough of his breath fan her lips. “But even so, I’m hopeless to stop—”

Glain kissed the remainder of the words from his lips.

He stilled for a moment, and then he met her kiss in kind.

His lips moved in time to hers, devouring that flesh, and then parting them, he slipped his tongue inside.

A desperate whimper escaped her as he kissed her like a man who wished to consume, and she ached to be consumed by him.

He rolled onto his back and drew her atop him, trading the chill of the frozen earth floor for the warmth of his heavily muscled chest. They never broke contact with their mouths, their kiss a fiery conflagration, a violent explosion of passion and hunger.

He lightly nipped at the tip of that flesh, and she suckled him in return.

Abaddon groaned and their bodies pressed as close as they were, she felt that rumble all the way through her.

And there was no winter cold.

Had there ever been cold of any kind? There was only this all-consuming, glorious heat that she felt low in her belly and wickedly between her legs where warmth pooled.

His tongue tangled with hers in a dance far more wicked than any waltz she’d danced.

Glain gripped the front of his cloak, wanting to crawl inside him.

She’d never be cold again. Not after this man. Not after this embrace. She was destined to be forever warm in—

Something cold and wet landed hard on her back, and she grunted.

Abaddon rolled her out of the way, just as another branch overhead shook, raining down a sizeable amount of snow.

They stared at the now bare branches responsible for that interruption, and Abaddon chuckled. “Come,” he said, jumping fluidly to his feet. He stretched a hand out, tugging her up. “I have to get you back before you freeze.”

Only, as she allowed him to lead her along, back through Finsbury Park, she found she wouldn’t mind risking that cold just to be with him a moment longer.