Only For His Lady (The Theodosia Sword Book 1) Read online

  When no discoverers appeared, she breathed again. She continued moving inch by agonizing inch right, onward toward the symbol that had come to represent the reason of her family’s great misfortune, and her hopes for happiness. Theo stilled under the powerful weapon and, for a moment, even the crushing fear of heights to have dogged her all these years slipped away.

  Breath suspended, she reached up on the tip of her toes and brushed her finger along the metal hilt. She didn’t know what she expected. A flash of shining light illuminated by the heavens raining down upon the sword? The ancient whispers of the secrets contained within its metal contours breathed into existence.

  Not this…this…coldness. She cocked her head, studying it. Then, what had she expected of an ancient Roman Gladius? Well, it mattered not what it elicited upon touch, it mattered what it elicited by its presence in her life.

  With that, she reached her fingers for the hilt and then closed around the piece. She pulled.

  Nothing.

  She pulled again and merely served to dislodge a black curl sending it tumbling over her eye. Had the Devil Duke anchored the dratted thing to this spot since his family had purchased it from Ormond and committed that great theft, sixty-two years ago?

  Theo yanked once more and then it loosed free from its spot with such alacrity, she staggered under the enormous weight of the weapon and the suddenness of the movement. She shrieked, her heart dropping into her stomach and released her hold upon the powerful sword. I’m going to die here, in the Devil’s lair. Theo flung her arms open to keep from toppling to the floor.

  Her efforts proved futile. Theo grunted as she sailed over the edge of the sideboard. In her ignoble fall, she took with her a number of decanters and tumblers and landed hard upon the floor, amidst a sea of shattering glass and liquid. She rolled out of the way just as the Theodosia sword came down where her right foot had been. Pain radiated up her hip and sent agony racing up her spine and down her legs.

  This is not worth dying for.

  Stiff with pain, she shoved herself to her feet, shattered crystal cracking under her slippers. “I am not going to die.” Be thrown into Newgate as a thief, yes. Die. No. She leaned over the weapon, eyeing it a moment.

  All the pain and the horrifying terror that she’d be discovered were replaced by the growing sense of victory. She had done it. She, the most unsuspecting of all the Rayne siblings. One brother who’d been lost in battle. Literally, lost. No one had any idea where he’d gone. One brother who spent the better part of his days and nights mourning the loss of a woman, betrothed to one of their enemies. And then, she prone to trouble and mishaps had managed…this!

  With a grin, she bent to retrieve the Theodosia sword. Her smile withered and she winced from the soreness of her recent fall. Hilt in hand she straightened and staggered backwards, dragging the Gladius with her. “Oomph.” She scraped the giant blade along the immaculate hardwood floor.

  Or the once immaculate hardwood floor. Theo paused, halting her retreat. By God, the sword was bloody heavy. What did you expect? A child’s toy? “Certainly not this,” she mumbled.

  She took a moment to study the mess she’d made. The damning evidence shattered about the room. The entire collection of spirits upon the Devil’s sideboard. Another black curl tumbled over her brow. With her free hand, she brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear.

  Herbie was to meet her in the corridor, and even if she somehow managed to drag it from this room undetected, she’d wager the sword and her family’s safe, happy future that the young viscount wouldn’t be able to hoist the weapon.

  The door opened.

  She stared at the plaster wall where the Gladius had once hung. The door opened? Blinkblinkblink.

  “May I help you?” the cool baritone drawled from the doorway.

  The sword slipped from her fingers and she spun around to face the dark, towering, muscle-hewn gentleman who’d caught her notice in the hall. The gentleman who’d been watching her. Ah, yes, it all made sense. Herbie had likely realized they’d require help handling the weapon and he’d sent this stranger—which explained why the man had studied her in the ballroom a short while ago.

  She smiled. “Herbie sent you.” Theodosia motioned to the sword. “Which is splendid. I desperately require assistance.”

  Chapter Three

  Damian took in the empty space above the sideboard, the shattered glass throughout the room, the broadsword lying upon the floor. And then slowly, back to the diminutive, yet well-rounded, armor wearing miss who’d caught his attention in the ballroom.

  “I do not have much time.” Her voice clear like bells recalled his attention. “If you’d be so good as to pick that up,” she pointed to the sword. “I would be tremendously appreciative. I imagine Herbie realized it was entirely too cumbersome for the both of us.”

  Herbie?

  “And he surely realized one of your…” Her cheeks blazed red. “Er…he surely realized you could handle it with a good deal more ease than myself.” Or him, he swore she muttered.

  The lady was no warrior. Why, she was a thief. The lady was stealing. Nay, correction. The lady was not just stealing. She was stealing from him, the Duke of Devlin. People were subservient and simpering around him, and they most certainly did not filch his personal belongings.

  “Hullo?” She waved her hand.

  “Yes?” he asked, closing the door behind him and turning the lock.

  She cocked her head. Apprehension settled on the delicate planes of her face, and then her eyes brightened. “Oh, splendid idea. It is far safer to close the door in case someone happens to come upon us.” The lady lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “Especially the Duke of Devlin. They say he is a horrid, odious beast.”

  They would be right.

  Damian strode over. He should be focused on the fact that some stranger had stolen into his home, invaded his office, and made a proper mess of his sideboard, and…He glanced down at the jagged marks upon his floor.

  The lady’s wide, cornflower blue eyes followed his stare. “Oh, that.”

  Instead of proper outrage, he stood transfixed by the riot of midnight black curls piled atop her head. He didn’t bother to point out that he’d, in fact, not issued any questions or statements.

  “I’m afraid the sword is responsible for that.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you suppose the duke will note the damage to his floor?”

  “I daresay he will,” he drawled.

  The young lady bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, yes I fear you’re right.” She jabbed her finger to the remnants that used to be his collection of brandy and whiskey. “We’d be wise to at least put the space to rights.” She scanned his office and then her eyes lit once more. “I have it!” She bounded across the room, her metal breastplate clanging noisily as she skidded to a stop beside a large urn. The thief held it aloft, as though she’d unearthed James Cook’s treasure and then grunted, staggering back under the weight of it. “Will you carry this for me, sir?”

  Damian stalked over and wordlessly accepted his urn. She raced back to the pile of broken decanters and glasses. “Well, come over. We don’t have much time.”

  He lowered his brows. By God, the chit was ordering him about. Color bloomed on her cheeks as she added, “Please.”

  Damian closed the distance between them. In the course of his nine and twenty years, no one had dared order him about. Not his tutors, his nursemaids. Not his instructors at university. Even his own Mother was wise enough to not issue orders to him.

  The clink of crystal hitting the metal of the urn echoed. “Are you always this quiet?” she asked, pausing to look up from her efforts.

  “Yes.”

  Her lips twitched.

  He narrowed his eyes, and her smile withered. “Oh, I thought you were making light of me.” She returned to her clean up.

  “I do not make light of people.” And people didn’t make light of him.

  She wrinkled her nose
. “What an odd friendship,” Nor did he have friends. “You and Herbie are an unlikely pairing.”

  Who in hell was this Herbie fellow? He ran the name through his mind, the partner to this thief who’d wrestled the great family relic from his wall.

  She paused once again. “Do you intend to help?”

  “Help?” He sent an eyebrow arching up.

  Her color deepened. “I understand you didn’t come to clean the Devil’s den.” Despite himself, his lips twitched. “And of course know it was my fault, however, I’d be grateful if you helped me tidy this, please.” The armor-clad thief expected him to clean?

  Silently, he went to a knee beside her and began picking up shards of glass, setting them into the urn. If a single member of his staff, family, or acquaintance saw him, they’d have him committed to Bedlam. In silence, he and the bold miss picked up shard after shard, in a tight, yet companionable silence. He stole a glance at her as she diligently cleaned his floor, dropping the larger shards into the urn. Feeling his gaze, she stopped and looked up.

  “What?” She was a fearless, unrepentant thing.

  He jerked his chin at her costume. “And what are you supposed to be?”

  “A shepherdess.”

  He passed a dubious stare over the lady.

  She grinned. “I’m merely teasing.” She waved a particularly jagged piece about and he leaned away from the lethal shard, not entirely sure the lady thief didn’t also intend murder that night. “I’m Joan of Arc.”

  Of course she was. Except, unlike that honorable, gallant defender, this one was, well, dishonorable. “You have me intrigued,” he said on an icy whisper.

  She stilled and picked her head up, with but a handbreadth of space between them. “I do?” And close as they were, he detected the trace of rosemary and sage that clung to her, as though she’d danced through a garden before infiltrating his home.

  Damian paused and captured a black curl that had tumbled over her brow. He tucked it behind her ear and the lady’s breath caught. “I gather you’re stealing the sword.”

  “Broadsword.”

  He looked at her askance.

  “I’m stealing the broadsword.” She frowned. “Well, I am not stealing it.”

  He’d learned long ago to live life in absolutes. Either she was or she wasn’t. There was no shade of in between. “Aren’t you?” What would the lady call her sneaking into a man’s office and filching a family artifact from his wall?

  She bristled with indignation. “I suspect Herbie didn’t take time to explain the situation to you, which is very like him. He was not at all comfortable with this rescue.”

  Rescue?

  She glanced about, searching for interlopers, seeming to forget he’d turned the lock. “The Devil Duke stole it.” Her soft whisper floated up to his ears.

  “I beg your pardon?” he barked. Damian didn’t give a jot about the legend and lore around the sword. He did, on the other hand, care a good deal about her casting aspersions on his family’s actions.

  The lady was either too cracked in the head to detect outrage, or was something of a lackwit, for she failed to show any hint of nervousness. Then, any person who’d steal into his home, all to abscond with his personal property was likely a combination of the two. She nodded emphatically. “Precisely. Stole it. Nicked it.” Purchased it for a significant sum. “Made off with it.” Had it turned over to his care by that Ormond fellow. She paused. “Or his vile ancestors did, anyway.” She looked to the sword, her expression serious, and then raised her eyes to his once more and firmed her jaw. “It is my family’s sword.”

  By God. It could not be. One of them wouldn’t have the audacity to dare enter his home and yet the lady’s knowledge of the history and interest in that weapon made sense. “What is your name?” he demanded. Because only one other family had maintained a claim, an erroneous claim to the revered artifact. And this plump, dark-haired siren was not—

  “Theodosia,” she pointed to the sword. “And that, sir, is the Theodosia sword.”

  Well, Lucifer’s army. It would seem she was.

  A Rayne.

  The laconic, not at all smiling, mostly scowling gentleman certainly didn’t seem the type Herbie would keep company with. And certainly not the type of gentleman the shy, always-nervous, young viscount would best in a wager. Oh, she wasn’t judging the viscount unfairly. She’d sat across from Herbie in a game of whist and faro on a number of scores to know his exact abilities. Yet this man exuded a primal vitality not reserved for the mere mortals of the world such as Herbie, and all others she’d known.

  More than a foot taller than she, the powerful stranger’s muscle-hewn frame bespoke power and strength. Even through the black mask obscuring the stranger’s face, Theo appreciated the hard, chiseled planes of his cheeks. She detected the glint of intelligence in the gentleman’s ice blue eyes and was left to wonder as to what the gentleman would look like with the disguise removed.

  “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?” she asked, returning her attention to the much cleaner, still sloppy floor.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever smile?”

  At his silence, Theodosia picked her head up.

  “No,” he said coolly and then returned to picking up the pieces of the Devil’s brandy decanter.

  “Hmm.” It really wasn’t her business whether the stranger sent by Herbie was smiling or serious or seriously smiling. It mattered that she’d secured the sword, made quite the mess in her wake, and now cleaned said mess. That is what mattered, and yet, unbidden, she lifted her gaze to him once more—hopelessly intrigued.

  It was the masquerade and the thrill of excitement from being here, on the cusp of discovery that accounted for this unexpected interest in….Herbie’s friend. Herbie’s friend, who was, as of now, absent a name.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Of course I have a name,” he gritted out.

  Theodosia pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Of course you do—”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  Humph. Well, he was the surly sort-indeed. Then, she eyed him contemplatively. Considering he now braved the Devil’s displeasure and Newgate to help her, a stranger, retrieve her family’s sword spoke volumes of the man. It also occurred to her the anxiety he himself must be feeling. After all, the Theodosia sword was nothing to him, and yet everything to her. “Forgive me, you must fear the Devil, as well.”

  He stilled and gave her a probing stare.

  Theo stole a glance about. “The Devil.” One never knew where demons lurked. One such as the duke likely found little pleasure in inane amusements such as a masquerade and could very well now be seeking out his lair.

  His eyes narrowed and she patted him on the hand. “You needn’t fear. Your secret is safe with me. I’d no sooner confess your part in this retrieval to the Duke of Devlin than I would dance with the devil at midnight.”

  “My secret, you say?” The first hint of droll humor underscored that question.

  She frowned. “Very well. I do see your point. My secret. I merely referred to your service.” Theo returned her attention to the pile of glass and the tiny slivers that remained. Concern turned in her belly. “It is hopeless, isn’t it?” At his questioning look, she slashed her hand at the mess she’d made of the situation. The entire point of her well-thought out mission had been to retrieve the broadsword, replace it with her own, and leave no hint of anything amiss. “A ruthless, self-absorbed man such as the duke would not have likely deigned to pick up his head to note anything amiss.” He arched a single dark brow. “With the sword,” she explained. Really, for the keenness of his ice blue stare, the fellow did seem to be having difficulty following along. “Perhaps one day, years later he might have noted something amiss, but now with this.” Theo looked at the barren sideboard. “Why, he’ll notice this.”

  “Undoubtedly,” the stranger said dryly.

  She pursed her lips. Theo appreciated his help. She truly did.
Yet, he needn’t find such humor in the entire situation. With a resigned sigh, Theo shoved to her feet and dusted her palms together. “We must leave the remainder.” She’d already been gone too long from the festivities. She’d secured the sword and now it was time to make her retreat.

  The dark stranger unfurled to his full, towering height and Theo really should be thinking of escape and the victory of having the weapon in hand, and yet…she swallowed hard. She inched her gaze up, up, ever upwards, from the broad wall of his powerfully muscled chest to the square jaw and the sharp planes of his chiseled cheeks not obscured by that dark mask and then she settled her eyes on his. Hard, unrelenting, and curiously devoid of emotion, his stare penetrated her in a way that quelled all thoughts of flight. With his midnight black attire, black domino, and dark, unfashionably long hair, he cut a terrifying figure and she wondered, not for the first time, at his costume selection. After all, one always feared what they didn’t know. At her stare, the gentleman winged another brow upward. “Who are you?” she blurted. At her own audacity, heat slapped her cheeks, and she gestured to his dark attire. “I am Joan of Arc, and you are—”

  With long, powerful fingers, he freed the mask concealing his identity and tossed the thin fabric aside. “The Devil Duke.”

  Even with only half of his face presented her, her breath caught at the glorious perfection of the man. The chiseled perfection of his aquiline cheeks would have inspired envy in one of those marble masterpieces crafted by Michelangelo. She’d never been one to be stricken silent by a handsome gentleman and so she forced words past dry lips. “I daresay if you’re to arrive as the Devil, you’d be requiring that nasty, wicked scar he’s rumored to possess.”

  The gentleman shifted, presenting the full of his face. Her heart thumped a wildly erratic rhythm. In full, he was even more glorious…and she blinked, and then went on tiptoe peering up at the wicked scar that ran from the corner of his eye, bisecting his cheek, and ending at the slight cleft above his lips. “Why, you have even applied a false scar.” Theodosia frowned. That wasn’t well done of the man. She might herself despise the Duke of Devlin and his entire family but she would never be so cruel as to mock a man’s disfigurement. Then, with a boldness inspired by secret identities and the cover provided by the masquerade, she touched her fingertips to the mark upon his face.