The Traveler: Bella's Tale

Song of the Darkkin



                        “Keshilii, Seers of Stars and Hidden Songs, Weaver of Spirit.”

                  “Aquasai, Songs of the Ocean and Heart of the Seas, Weaver of Water.”

              “Flamandari, Voices of Flame and Light within the Shadow, Weaver of Fire.”

              “Zephyrendi, Wings of the Wind and Whispers of the Breeze, Weaver of Air.”

                  “Lethizangi, Artists of Granite and Molten Stone, Weaver of Earth.”

                                  “Zabooku, blessed by the pure, loved by all.”





















Chapter One



February 2nd, 1815

Bellewolf House

Grosvenor Square, London





         A blaze of golden lights flickered erratically across the square, kissing the long lines of carriages as they disgorged their burdens at the steps of Bellewolf House, where a masquerade held by the elusive Marquis of Bellewolf was the event of the night.  Nearly all of the five hundred guests invited to the fete, given in honor of his little sister’s twentieth birthday had come, including Tristan Alexander Tremaine, Viscount Ettlesworth, Lord Bellewolf’s closest friend.

         As he made his way up the graceful stone steps of Bellewolf House, Tristan cast a questioning glance to the lady at his side, wondering for the hundredth time that day how things had come to such a pass.  It was hard to believe that Andrew’s darling little sister Kitty was already twenty.  It seemed like only yesterday the strawberry-blonde imp was tagging after them, attempting to keep up with every outrageous stunt they could think of at least that was the case until she found a friend of her own.

         Tristan’s brow furrowed even further.  Kitty’s friend was also Andrew’s ward in the care of Lady Emmaline, the Dowager Countess of Taverton.  Lady Isabella Miri Moncreiffe was the only child of an Austrian ambassador, who along with her mother was killed in a brutal highway robbery when Isabella was only five.  It had been whispered throughout the ton that little Isabella had witnessed the event.  Ever since her come out season, three years earlier, she had been an enigma and a constant source of puzzlement for the gentlemen of the ton, many of who had tried to snare the aloof little heiress, but like the purple mists that swallowed the moors, she was just as intangible and elusive.

         At little more than five feet in height she was easy to overlook in a crowded ballroom, unless one knew she was there.  Once seen, her image was forever seared into memory, never to be forgotten.  It was from this unique ability that her enigmatic reputation a rose.  Though small of stature and very slight of frame, she was a breathtakingly lovely young lady with features so pure and perfect they looked as though the slightest breeze would shatter them.  This coupled with her father’s dramatic coloring, ebony hair with hidden hints of blue fire and gardenia fair skin, made people catch their breath when she entered a room. 

It was her eyes, however, that were her most outstanding feature.  The rare, ever changing silver of sunlight across crystal waters.  Sometimes they smoldered with hidden fire, gleamed with the undulating blue of the seas, delved into the mossy secrets of the deep forest, or mirrored the stars themselves.  Always brilliant and amorphous, they were the eyes of a creature only the heavens had seen.  They were the weapon that had once pierced the seemingly stone heart of the brooding Ettlesworth with a single glance.  They were the source of the harsh ache that gnawed at his true heart and hidden soul.

With one glance, Bella had brought the beast concealed beneath Tristan’s polished exterior to his knees.  Now Tristan found himself in the middle of a horrific modern day retelling of a classic fairytale.  There was little doubt in his mind that this version would end happily.  It had been his great misfortune to be trapped into an engagement with Lady Angelica Sinclair, the Earl of Taverton’s youngest daughter, thanks to the meddling helpfulness of his mother.  Five minutes alone with Lady Angelica during the Cherrington house party in December had changed everything.  Since that fateful day, his world had fallen into shadow.  Any chance he held of mending the rift between Bella and himself had been shattered.

The difference between Bella and Lady Angelica was like night and day.  Where Bella was tiny and pixie like, Angelica was blessed with the Sinclair height and stature.  Many had likened her to the Greek goddesses of old.  Where Bella’s hair was as dark and shimmering as a raven’s wing, Angelica’s was so pale blonde it was nearly white in some lights.  The only similarity between the two ladies was the fairness of their skin; both women’s complexions rivaled the snowy gardenia blossoms. 

The differences, however, continued to accumulate in Tristan’s mind.  Bella’s fragile features had been said to make poets weep, while Angelica was possessed of her maternal grandmother’s cold, classic features.  Bella, even when she was motionless, was infused with a warmth and vitality that only added another layer of mystery.  A subtle power hovered about her, singing a deep, secret song only he and others like him could hear.  Angelica was the embodiment of silence, cool and still as marble.  Her eyes were as the flat, icy gray of the North Sea in winter.  Stone, harsh, gray, and unmoving, comprised her soul.  Bella’s burned with the whispered songs of the stars, every nuance reflected in her magnificent eyes.

Tristan was at his wits end for a way to end his farce of an engagement with his honor and pride intact.  It was this question that brought him to the Bellewolf masquerade with the hope that his old friends and allies could help him find a solution.  The breach between himself and Bella was tearing his heart apart.  For three years, he had stayed away seeking out the haunts and history of his kinth and kin.  He had taken his own version of the Grand Tour, tracing the footsteps of the Ladies and members of the Gregorian.  The footsteps carried him right back to where he started.  Heartache and England.  Always, the trail returned to her, the girl of mist and shadows.

Ettlesworth was startled out of his musing by Andrew’s cheerful greeting; somehow in the last several minutes, Angelica had managed to propel him into the ballroom.  Tristan absently saluted his friend, while Lady Angelica offered a frosty, insincere smile, before catching sight of several of her bosom bows and moving off.  The Viscount remained behind, bowing deeply to the young lady before him.  Lady Katherine Violet Sedgwick was the image of her maternal grandmother, with her fey beauty, shining strawberry blonde curls, unusual sherry colored eyes, and laughing disposition.  A golden child always shining.

At five feet four inches in height she always stood above Bella, whose quiet intelligence was the perfect foil for her friend’s more impish demeanor.  As Tristan claimed Kitty’s hand for the waltz that had just begun, he was once again lost in thought comparing the differences between Kitty and Bella.    Kitty, whose smile was always at the ready, encompassing anyone who drew near.  There were very few who had ever seen Bella’s true smile, those who had were gifted with a tiny sliver of pure, unadulterated joy.  She kept a soft and alluring one for members of the ton, but it rarely reached her eyes.

Tristan knew the scars of her past manifested themselves both mentally and physically.  It was those selfsame scars that had driven the wedge between them in the first place.  The first time he had seen the four thin lines stretching across her back was the first time he looked deep into the soul that mirrored his own.  It had been April of 1812.  Fredrick Benjamin Oliver Fitzwilliam Cherrington, the Duke of Afton, another close friend of Andrew and Tristan, had invited their families to Cherry Bloom Court for a week long house party in an attempt to relieve the monotony of the Season.  The party had promised the perfect opportunity for Tristan to further his budding courtship with the elusive Bella.

Tristan, at twenty-six and head over ears in love for the first and only time in his life, had persuaded Bella to take a turn about the Bloom Court gardens with him.  Talon, her huge shaggy lurcher and constant shadow, trailed in their wake.  The spring weather capricious as always, went from misty sunshine to a squall in mere moments.  Within moments they had both been soaked through.  Neither had cared as they sought shelter in an empty cottage.  Knowing it would be sometime before the storm would ease enough for them to return to the Court, the Viscount set about starting a fire in the cold hearth.

While Tristan was thusly occupied, Bella had gone through the single large cabinet in search of blankets.  She found two and a small canister of tea.  Knowing it was better than nothing, she delivered her booty to Tristan, who accepted them with heartfelt thanks.  Handing one of the blankets to Isabella, the Viscount divested himself of his soaked garments, stripping down to just his shirt and breeches.  The fire he had laid crackled to life as he stooped to stand his boots in front of the comforting heat.

As he rose, he remembered glancing at Bella and seeing the shining veil that seemed to have settled over her.  For the first time since meeting her more than a decade before, Tristan saw her as she would have and should have been, had it not been for the slaughter of her parents.  Peace and joy were an intrinsic part of her nature that had never been allowed to flourish; instead it had been hidden beneath years of lingering sadness and recurrent nightmares.  Her true heart was finally beginning to surface from beneath the layers of scars.

The nightmares were a part of Bella’s life Tristan would never be able to forget no matter how hard he tried.  They had haunted her for as long as he could remember.  The dreams had actually been responsible for their first meeting in late December 1799.  Tristan, age eleven at the time, had been down from Eton on holiday, but because of an outbreak of influenza at his parents’ estate just after Christmas he had been sent to spend the remainder of his vacation with his paternal great aunt, Lady Emmaline Sinclair the Dowager Countess of Taverton.  No one had warned him about the young ward his aunt had acquired on her return from a visit to Cedarwood Grange.

The night had been frigid enough to crack the bones of anyone daring to venture out.  The stripling lord, unable to sleep, had snuck downstairs to the library in search of an adventure story to help him while away the deepest hours of the night.  Little did he know that his life was about to become one of the stories he loved so well.  Having found a collection of Greek mythology to pass the time, Tristan settled into his favorite chair near the crackling fire.  The stirring escapades of the legendary heroes did much to divert his mind and ignite his imagination.

As the candles guttered in their sockets, Tristan began to drift in and out of sleep, the dream world and reality blurring together in a strange panorama of sights and sounds.  Perseus chased Medusa across the fireplace mantle, while Pegasus soared around the frescoed ceiling.  Fauns and sprites skipped and flitted across the shadowed corners of the room.  The eerie Fates peeped out from behind the curtains and Prometheus’s eagle screeched around the chimney floos.  The screech became a shriek while swelled to a blood curdling scream that yanked, the young Viscount out of his surreal world, back to the land of the waking.  Those screams seared across his mind and called to a part of him he hadn’t known he possessed.

His book hit the floor with a thump as he leapt to his feet, intent on finding the source of the screams.  Tristan’s slippered feet were silent on the polished floor boards as he hurtled out of the library and up the main staircase.  Rushing down the east corridor, he knew he was going in the right direction.  He slowed his headlong pace for a moment to reassess his search.  Grinding to a halt, he listened intently.  The screaming continued, but they weren’t coming from the second floor, they were originating from the third floor, one level above him. 

Ducking down a small side corridor Tristan found the servants stair leading to the upper story.  Small sconces cast undulating patterns across the worn surface of the steps as, the stripling lord began his climb toward the source of the screams that had started to crescendo once more.  Silent on slippered feet from his numerous nighttime ramblings, he consumed the distance between the call and its source.  The door at the top of the flight swung open on silent hinges as he turned the handle.

The gloom of the third floor corridor was intense, broken here and there by the guttering flames of the widely spaced wall sconces.  At the very end of the corridor, coming from the suite that consumed the entire end of the east wing, Tristan discovered the source of the bloodcurdling cries.  An icy hand closed around his heart as reached for the door knob.  The polished brass was warm and bright beneath his hand, at odds with the chill that skated up and down his spine.  Screwing his youthful courage to the sticking point he eased the heavy mahogany panel open and peered inside.

A fire burned on the grate in the sitting room and candles flashed and flickered in the wall brackets, but there was no living creature in sight.  Two more doors gave off of the massive sitting room that bisected the latter third of the east wing.  One Tristan knew lead to a dressing room and bathing chamber, while the other opened into the huge bedchamber and study.  It had been designed to provide a haven for an invalid daughter of the fourth Earl of Taverton.  The Lady Rebecca hadn’t lived to see its completion.  The rooms had been largely forgotten about until the tenure of the seventh Countess of Taverton.  She had made the restoration of the East Wing a pet project.  It had been among the last parts of Taver House to be renovated.

No expense was spared in returning the historic wing to its original glory.  The furnishings were a vibrant reflection of the hidden depths and secret fire of the Taverton clan and others like them.  Sumptuous woods and jewel toned fabrics captured and refracted the thin light of the candles and fire, creating an atmosphere that beckoned and teased the senses.  The dream world Tristan had so recently abandoned seemed to return.  He had stepped straight into the heart of one of the mystery stories he loved so well.  The screaming began to ease as Tristan moved toward the door leading to the bedroom and study; the only sign of any occupancy in the room was a narrow sliver of light glimmering beneath the doorframe.

A shadow flickered across the skinny band of light and the sound of toe nails clicking on the floor boards intruded on the sudden silence.  There was definitely something in the other room and it definitely wasn’t human.  Tristan pushed the door open and yelped in surprise as something warm and wet connected with his fingers.  The heavy panel smacked into something sizeable as it continued to swing inward.  Burning silver eyes and a huge wiry mountain swallowed up the light.  The only sound issuing forth from either startled party was a whispered sigh of relief from Tristan.  It was only a dog, a massive one, albeit, but just a dog nonetheless.

Ascertaining that the newcomer wasn’t a threat, the oversize beast stepped back, allowing the boy into the room.  Another pair of burning silver eyes locked with his; these eyes, unlike those of the dog, were all molten metal and feral glow.  They were a window into another world, one that was savage and untamed.  This was the creature that called to his hidden heart, stirred the soul of his sleeping beast.  As their gazes locked, like recognized like and just as quickly as it appeared, the untamed eyes were gone replaced by the terrified gaze of a young girl.  Her shadowed heart fled, instinct still held sway.

The shaggy mountain of a canine that had greeted him now circled around behind him and gave him an encouraging shove with a well placed nose in the small of his back.  Tristan stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his feet as he made it past the doorway.  Pulling himself up with all the eleven year old dignity he could muster, he executed a neat bow before the child cowering on the bed. 

His carroty red hair glowed like a beacon in the bright firelight cast by the hearth and numerous candles and lamps.  His brilliant blue eyes gleamed, stolen pieces of the northern glaciers.  The smattering of freckles across his nose and the bane of his existence, gave him a mischievous air that put him in high esteem with his school mates.  His appearance was that of a windblown elf, which immediately put the little girl at ease.  She released the death grip on her knees and looked at him with hooded silver eyes.

Tristan bowed once more and dug his slippered toes into the lush Axminster carpet done in tones of blue, green, and yellow.  Clearing his throat with an effort he sought to find his voice as his pounding heart assumed a more normal rhythm.  His words were little more than a whisper as he spoke.  “I heard your call in the library.  Is everything all right?”

A slight nod from the quivering child.

“I’m Tristan.”

“Bella.”  The little girl whispered.

Tristan smiled.  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Bella.”  With a quick glance at the furry behemoth, the young viscount found his next subject.  “What’s the name of your friend?”

Bella lowered her knees and perked up as Tristan acknowledged her pet.  “Talon is the name he bears, as his father before him.  He is the last of my family.”  She spoke perfect English, but there was a subtle accent to her speech, he didn’t recognize.  She wasn’t from these shores.

The stripling lord, being a bright and curious child, asked the inevitable question.  “What happened to them?”

Bella’s gaze went dark as her eyes dilated to the size of pie plates.  “The Dark One took them.  Talon fought, saved me.  Only me…”  She didn’t get any further as the dam holding her tears at bay for the last fortnight finally gave way.  Tristan dropped all pretenses and did the only thing he could.  He gathered her close and let her cry.  She sobbed; the tears and pain choking any sound she might have attempted to make.  She wept for her loss, for the pain of her family, for the secret that was now hers and hers alone to keep.

That night Bella dropped her barriers and let Tristan in to her shadowed heart, like clinging to like.  She cried herself out, falling asleep in the warm circle of his skinny arms.  Talon, approving of his charge’s new friend, leapt onto the bed and curled around Bella’s other side.  For the first time since the murder of her parents, she slept through the night without waking in the middle of a living nightmare with the breath of the Dark One on her neck.

The Dowager Countess of Taverton found them together the next morning when neither of them showed up for breakfast.  She never revealed her discovery of their first meeting, knowing that it was more than mere chance that brought them together.

Talon lifted his massive head at the sound of the Countess’s approach, but didn’t stir for fear of disturbing Bella’s sleep.  Tristan shuffled slightly and pulled his little sleeping companion closer.  He fought the brilliant sunshine that penetrated the heavy draperies, but the touch of his aunt’s hand upon his shoulder, he could not ignore.  He opened his eyes and lifted his sleep tousled head.

Lady Emmaline smiled at him.  “What are you doing in here?” she queried gently.

“I couldn’t sleep last night so I went to the library to find a book.  I heard her crying.”  Tristan replied as he dropped to the floor.  His eyes grew pensive.  “She needed me.  The scream was more than just a scream; it was a call to some hidden part of me I never knew I had.”

It was now Lady Emmaline’s look that grew thoughtful as she led him from the room, allowing Bella and Talon to continue sleeping.  “Tristan, has anyone ever explained your family history to you?”

The young Viscount shook his head.  “You know the lay of the land in that direction.  My parents had a massive falling out shortly after I was born.  Mother lives here in London year round while Father remains at Nettlehurst when he isn’t traveling.  I’ve learned the names of all my infamous, or rather dearth infamous relatives.  There is no one on either side that even had the potential to standout.”

Tristan’s expressive brows furrowed a talent he inherited from his father.  “Why is it so important?”

His aunt merely shook her head as they retraced their steps.  “It isn’t.  I was merely curious, but unless I miss my guess, you will be the one to set your mundane family history aflame.”  She chuckled as she added, “Especially with hair like yours.”

The stripling lord, always sensitive, especially about his hair, flushed and looked away before he regained his powers of speech.  “How did Bella come to be here?”

The Dowager sobered abruptly.  “Isabella is here because I’m all the family she has left here in England.  Her parents were killed several weeks ago in a horrific highway robbery.  Bella and that mountain, she calls Talon, were the sole survivors of the attack.  Unfortunately, she witnessed the slaughter of her parents that night.  There hasn’t been a silent night in this house since. 

The demons of that attack entrenched their claws and plague her at every turn.  I just hope her parents’ sacrifice hasn’t been in vain.  Only time will tell how deep the physical and mental scars of her ordeal will be.  She was set upon by an ancient darkness that has been known to make grown men weep.  Her line is one of the greatest and also one of the most tragic; it’s the reason she is the last of them.

In blood and fire, the Moncreiffes fought and died to protect their lands and people.  The war with Napoleon was the final straw for the family.  With their lands and people dwindling, Count Hector Moncreiffe, seeing the parasitic spread of the French army under the Terror’s control, began to liquidate his family’s assets before the French could seize them.  Five of his younger brothers went to war, never to return.  His father succumbed to the grief of his unparalleled loss.  Hector was all he had left.

Count Moncreiffe stepped into his father’s place soon after his passing and became an ambassador for Austria to England.  On one of his numerous trips he met and married, Arabella Amesworthy who named me Isabella’s godmother.  A little more than a fortnight ago, returning from Cedarwood Grange, I came upon Talon, standing in the middle of the road.  What followed is something I long to forget, but never will.  Dunnings found the count and countess dead in a clearing not far from the edge of the road.  The screaming you heard last night has become a constant reminder of the pain Bella now carries.  Only time will tell if she has the strength of mind and character to take up the legacy her parents left behind.”

Tristan’s aunt drew to a halt in front of his room as she finished speaking.  Crouching down to his level, she looked him squarely in the eyes.  “What I have just told you is to be kept secret at all cost, Tristan.  There are many who have given life and limb to protect Bella and the other children like you.  There are just as many who seek to do you harm.

You answered the call of a friend in dire need and broke through a barrier no one else could breech.  From that moment on you became Bella’s friend and guardian.  Never, ever forget that.  Never betray that trust.  Should you do so, everything we have sought to protect and defend will be at risk.  Wander where you will and follow whatever dreams beckon, but remember that duty and honor will always call you home.”

Lady Emmaline’s words had become a cadence in his mind over the ensuing years, a code and honor he struggled to uphold.  Upon his return to Eton at the start of the next term, Tristan’s serious demeanor suddenly became a marked contrast to his mischievous appearance and bright hair.  Several of his instructors sent letters to both his parents detailing their concerns.  Neither the Earl of Nettlesworth nor his estranged countess gave the matter much thought.  Both merely took it as a sign their son was growing up. 

The young viscount’s friends, however, knew better.  Tristan told them of his encounter with Bella.  The somber lordling, worried that Bella would be lonely in London once he returned to school voiced his fears to his friends.  Andrew, the newly inherited Marquis of Bellewolf, and one of Ettlesworth’s best friends even though he was three forms ahead, hit upon a scheme that would work to their mutual advantage.  The Marquis had a little sister nearly the same age as Lady Emmaline’s new ward; the boys alerted the Dowager to the fact and arranged the introduction between Bella and Kitty.  The rest was history until the spring of 1812.

Ladies Isabella and Katherine made their debut that year and took the ton by storm.  The pair was a study of opposites, which made them all the more popular, Kitty a glimmering, golden child, Bella a somber, raven headed pixie.  Kitty’s bright personality and ready laughter drew men of all sorts, mostly younger gentlemen of a similar age, while Bella’s dramatic coloring and quiet intelligence attracted gentlemen of a different kind.  She drew the rakes and Corinthians that relished a challenge.  The fresh faced youths and officers that flocked to Kitty were often at a lost when it came to approaching her mirror gazed counterpart.

The only ones who really managed to handle Bella were Kitty’s elder brother, Andrew and his best friend Freddie, the Duke of Afton.  Both gentlemen were viewed by many of the ton as the older brothers Bella never possessed.  With them, the shimmering quicksilver eyes briefly lost their hooded appearance and brightened.  Her ghostly smile would appear, barely visible in her eyes.  It was with them, she had learned to dance and laugh again, but not even Andrew and Freddie could penetrate the walls she had erected around her true heart and soul.  There was only one, who could and would break through that shield.

Tristan, after having engineered the meeting between Bella and Kitty, disappeared from the circles frequented by the girls as they passed from childhood into adulthood.  The viscount lost himself in his studies, chasing his elusive and somewhat dry family history, seeking the truth behind his great aunt’s cryptic words.  What he uncovered about Tremaine family and the Nettlesworth title led him deep into the heart of a secret that had been lost for generations.  The ancient fire that once glowed like a beacon among the Tremaines finally began to flicker back to life; the viscount’s brilliant hair was proof enough of that.  So thus it was, while Bella and Kitty forged a friendship and path through the ton, Tristan’s time was consumed by crumbling documents and musty books in dead languages.

When he was finally forced away from his self imposed exile of study, the Viscount Ettlesworth was taken by surprise with the world that greeted him after more than thirteen years scholarly pursuits.  His old classmates had changed from gawky children into a collection of dashing blades and suave wolves on the prowl.  It was at a familiar and unsettling forum, the youthful lord was to discover the favorite prey of these refined hunters.

Tristan dove headlong into the heart of the tons’ frivolous round of merriment at Almack’s the Wednesday before Bella and Kitty’s presentation ball.  The invitation that arrived at his lodgings in Jermyn Street had come as a surprise, but recognizing his aunt’s elegant script, he read the missive.  The Dowager’s note was short and to the point.  It was bereft of the usual flowery considerations that often accompanied such a request and did much to pique his interest.  It read:

         

         

Tristan,

         

You once stood as a champion and defender to a child, who looked into your soul.  The child is gone, but she remains.  The shadows of the past loom large around her, taking her deeper into the screams of the night.  I know you don’t dance attendance on anyone, which is why I send this note, merely asking you to call.  The answers you have been seeking in your studies are within your grasp, all you need to do is find your reflection.

         

                                                                               Yours respectfully,

                                                                                         Lady Emmaline



Ettlesworth’s keen mind went winging back to the holiday break of 1799 and the start of everything.  He looked back on the terror of a little girl’s horrific nightmares and silver eyes that flashed and glowed like twin mirrors, the eyes that pierce straight through everything to the deepest recesses of his heart and soul.  She had made him see himself for what he really was; she held the key to the beast he kept locked away beneath his polished exterior.  It was a creature that embraced the dark and hunted in the shadows, looking for the source of a child’s blind terror.

Tristan made his first formal appearance among the ton at Almack’s the following Wednesday, accompanied by his friends the Duke of Afton and the Marquis of Bellewolf.  Kitty and Bella were attending with the Dowager Countess of Taverton.  A wave of silence engulfed the slightly shabby rooms as the three young lords were announced.  Afton, tall and lethal with ebony hair and eyes, Bellewolf all  golden glory and amber eyes, much like his younger sister, and Ettlesworth quiet steely strength, bright hair and icy eyes that burned with secrets. 

Afton and Bellewolf both topped Tristan in stature, passing the six foot mark, while the Viscount stood just shy of the mark at five feet eleven inches, but what Ettlesworth lacked in inches he more than made up for with his mind.  Freely acknowledged as the brightest of the trio, the Viscount was more of an enigma than his taller, better known counterparts.  He held himself aloof, his face a painfully handsome, austere mask of stone.  At twenty-three, he carried an air of secrets and shadows about him like a shield; it was a barrier none of his cronies had ever really attempted to breech.  There were whispers of dark dealings during his tour of the Continent the previous year, but those who really knew Tristan knew there was no truth behind rumors.

The tales did, however, add to his reputation of mystery, fueling his popularity with the ladies.  From the moment he entered Almack’s, the Season’s crop of debutantes and many of the more experienced ladies were atwitter with excitement and expectation.  Tristan’s guarded expression hardened as he passed from one group of featherheaded females to another as he made his way across the room to greet the hostesses, all of whom watched him with interest.  The Viscount made his bows to Lady Jersey and the stickler Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, while keeping a weathered eye out for his aunt and her charges.

Lady Jersey noticed his wandering gaze and preoccupation.  “Who are you looking for, or should I say looking to avoid?”

Tristan’s smile was brief but sincere as he replied.  “I promised my aunt, the Dowager Countess I would met her here tonight, but I have yet to see her.”

Sally Jersey’s smile widened.  “First time away from your wretched books and already on the prowl.  Maybe there is more to these rumors than we thought.  I hope there is, merely for the sake of the society.”

Ettlesworth’s smile flashed in the candlelight, allowing the predator beneath his savagely perfect features to surface for a moment.  “If that’s the case, then I’m sure you’ll endeavor to help me locate my quarry.”  Sally Jersey blinked, stunned into momentary silence by the Viscount’s sudden transformation.

A wicked idea blossomed in her somewhat frivolous mind; of all the gentlemen that had passed through the sacred portals of her beloved Almack’s, Viscount Ettlesworth had been the first and only one to throw her off her stride.  He was a conundrum just like the Dowager’s young charge, Lady Isabella.  It would be entertaining to see what those two made of each other. 

Lady Jersey returned Ettlesworth’s taunting smile and looped her arm companionably through his, the clumps of flighty debutantes and their hunting mothers parted before them like the sea beneath a galleon under full sail.  Sally knew the Dowager and her popular charges had arrived just a few minutes before the Viscount and his friends; she had seen the ladies disappear in the direction of the refreshment tables.  She was in luck; all three ladies were near the table, grouped around the chair of an elderly gentleman, Lord Breckenridge, the Marquis of Fleehedge.

Merging effortlessly with the group, Sally Jersey cast a beaming smile at the ladies; Kitty and Bella curtsied, the Dowager and Lord Breckenridge merely nodded.  Bella, who practiced the court graces taught to her by her late father, was slower to rise from her curtsey than Kitty, because of this she heard Lady Jersey’s introduction of the Viscount Ettlesworth before she laid eyes upon him. 

The title at first, didn’t register, until she rose to face the newcomers.  Her raven dark head slowly lifted.  Glacier blue locked with shielded silver as Ettlesworth gathered Isabella’s small hand in his and raised it to his lips.  The electricity passing between the two was tangible as Lady Jersey set back, surveying her handiwork.

For the first time, since her debut Lady Isabella’s eyes lost their guarded appearance; the fire that had lain dark and dormant in her soul since the death of her parents flared to life.  She knew these eyes that pierced thorough her barricades, the ice that burned.  A smile, the likes of which Almack’s would never forget, lit Bella’s achingly beautiful features from within.  Her porcelain skin took on a fey glow, dimming the shine of the other ladies present.  For once tiny Bella took center stage, overshadowing the taller, more stately members of the ton.  Everything about her took on a whole new dimension of light and radiance.

In her simple gown of white satin and silver gauze, Isabella looked as if she had stepped from the night.  Her mother’s diamond stars held her short dusky curls in place and glimmered in the candlelight.  Even through her elbow length gloves, she could feel the heat of Ettlesworth’s hand as he kissed her fingers.  A rosy glow crept up her thin cheeks staining the faerie bright skin.  The world around her seemed to dim as a tide of foreign emotions and something more elusive swept through her heart and soul.  Sparks of lavender, burnished gold, and white, erupted from her finger tips and swirled around her as the lilting strains of a waltz sounded.  With a dreamy gaze at Sally Jersey, Bella instinctively waited for the patroness’ approval.

Tristan’s brow arched in silent query.  Lady Jersey saw the sparks flying between the two and knew her assumption had been correct.  Smiling like the cat that nabbed a particularly juicy canary, Sally Jersey nodded to the pair.  Without further preamble, the young Viscount swept the enigmatic little Bella onto the sparely populated dance floor.  All eyes were fastened on the graceful pair as the rest of the world fell away, leaving Tristan and Bella in a realm of ancient song and forgotten magics.  A moonlit glow seemed to engulf the two as they swirled in time to the haunting melody.  The Dowager Countess of Taverton saw it and nearly laughed aloud, knowing exactly what was causing the fey lights to play tricks on the eyes of the rest of the ton.

The whispers from astonished onlookers filtered across the room.  Those who knew Bella and Tristan well could only smile.

“Looks like the Tremaine flame has finally been rekindled, he thawed the little ice princess,” one turban dowager commented.

Her hatchet faced companion turned to her with a malicious smile.  “With hair that bright, what else could you expect?”

“Not much,” the turbaned lady replied, “given the unmitigating bore he has for a father and his featherheaded female of a mother.”

The Dowager Countess of Taverton heard the despairing remarks about the Earl and Countess of Nettlesworth many times before, but she would be damned if she just stood by and let the old bats have their say about her nephew and her ward.  With a brittle smile pinned in place she pounced on the snake tongued old tabbies.  “You’re quite right about my nephew’s parents, but as you so clearly pointed out, young Ettlesworth isn’t anything like his sire.”

The turbaned ladies’ heads swiveled around like owls at the sudden sound of Emmaline’s voice.  “What do you mean?” the hatchet faced woman queried.

Lady Emmaline smiled easily.  “Surely you jest.  You must know that Ettlesworth is my nephew and a great favorite of mine.  Fortunately for him he takes after his paternal grandfather.  Cedric Tremaine, the tenth Earl of Nettlesworth was a legend in his day; you can’t tell me you don’t remember Cedric the Charmer, really Harriet.  How could you have forgotten the gentleman you practically threw yourself at three Seasons running?”

Harriet Marlowe, the hatchet-faced companion of the turbaned dowager, flushed an unbecoming shade of red that clashed horribly with her puce gown, while her employer the Dowager Viscountess of Worthing turned an interested gaze up at the regal Lady Emmaline.  “Cedric the Charmer was Ettlesworth’s grandfather?  I never would have made the connection.  As I recall the charming rogue ended up having to flee to the continent to escape the wrath of old Baron Montigue.”

Lady Worthing chuckled as she recalled the old scandal.  “Refused to marry Montigue’s pudding faced chit after she corned him at a houseparty and claimed he seduced her.”  Shaking her graying curls, she continued.  “Knew there wasn’t an ounce of truth in the whole situation, Ceddie had much better taste than Dina Montigue.  His antics were sorely missed when he fled.”

Harriet Marlowe’s pinched face went white with fury.  “Miss Dina Montigue was my mother’s cousin.  Tremaine ruined her and drug my family’s name through the mud.”

Lady Taverton and Lady Worthing ignored the irate, Miss Marlowe and continued with their conversation.  Lady Emmaline nodded in the direction of her redheaded nephew.  “Ceddie fled rather than face an eternity of Dina Montigue across the breakfast cups.  Just goes to show what good sense he had.  He met and married my youngest sister Abigail a couple years later.  Neither of them ever returned to England again, not even to visit.”

The Dowager’s eyes grew misty.  “Ceddie bought an estate in Germany for Abby.  She had always loved the mountains and there was nothing Cedric wouldn’t do for her.  I visited the place several times before the Terror; it was easy to see why Abby stayed.”

Lady Worthing’s impressive brows shot upward.  “It was a love match, then?”

Lady Taverton nodded; her eye suspiciously moist.  “That it was.  They had thirty good years together before the fire.  It destroyed their home and claimed both their lives.”     

Lady Worthing’s own dark eyes grew wet.  “I remember Lady Abby, how bright and kind she was.  It’s her son that’s the current earl.”  Lady Emmaline nodded, her jaw tightening.

The Viscountess shook her head in disbelief.  “It’s hard to believe that odious little man is Abby and Cedric’s son.”

The Countess heaved a pained sigh.  “I know.  He returned to England alone after the blaze and married Miss Lorraine Dennette, a pretty enough chit, but a bigger ninnyhammer you will never find.  Tristan is their only child.” 

With a heartfelt chuckle she added.  “If it weren’t for Tristan, I would be half inclined to say Abby played Cedric false.”

The Dowager Lady Worthing shook her head.  “Never Abby.  She was as faithful and true as they came.  Harold Tremaine just ended up with the worst of the Randolph blood.  You have your mother to thank for that.”

Lady Emmaline grimaced.  “She was as dull as ditchwater, bless her soul.  Luckily we all took after father’s side.”

Lady Worthing laughed.  “That you did Em, all ten of you, thanks be to that.  The Holloways have always left their stamp on the ton.  You’re just carrying on the tradition.”

“So young Ettlesworth is your nephew?”  The turbaned Lady Worthing continued.

The Dowager Countess of Taverton nodded.  “He is and as I said before, a great favorite of mine, although I don’t see him quiet as often as I would like.”

Lady Worthing’s brow arched in query again.  “How is it that out of all the relations you have among the ton that reclusive Ettlesworth, whom you admit you rarely see, manages to steal that honor?”

Lady Emmaline abandoned all attempts to hide the tears that gathered anew.  “He is the echo of Cedric’s wry humor and boundless courage and Abby’s loving nature.  He did something no one else has ever been able to do?”

The Dowager of Worthing scooted to the edge of her seat, motioning for Emmaline to continue.  Lady Taverton’s voice cracked as she looked out at the glorious pair whirling across the nearly empty floor.  “He brought peace and hope back to my Bella.  He drove away the monster that sought to destroy her as it did her parents.”

The elderly Marquis of Fleehedge, who had been listening to Lady Emmaline’s conversation, discreetly cleared his throat, garnering a glare from Lady Worthing and a guilty start from Lady Taverton.  “Now is not the time for that, my dear.”  Lord Breckenridge whispered kindly.  “Plenty of time for reminiscing when there are fewer ears listening.”  He added with a significant glance at the chair most recently occupied by the irate Miss Harriet Marlowe.

Lady Emmaline nodded and gathered her composure.  Leaning down, she kissed her old friend’s check and whispered a single word in his ear.  “Gregorian.”

Lord Breckenridge nearly choked on his wine.



Lost in the world of their own song, Tristan and Bella were completely oblivious to the verification of the Viscount’s pedigree going on behind them or of the shocked stare of Lord Breckenridge following them through the graceful whirls of their dance.  Emotion and magic hung about them like a mantle as their eyes met and locked for the first time in more than a decade.  There was no hint of the haunted pain in Bella’s eyes this time as they burned deep into Tristan’s icy ones.  There was only yearning, a need that she had never known before.  The frozen walls she had erected to protect her heart from another lethal blow cracked as her soul began to soar.  The scarred mark across her back began to shine as brightly as her eyes.  Ice and fire warred in her blood as her hidden spirit sought to gain the stars.  He had found her.

Tristan’s glacial blue eyes flashed in the candlelight, shifting effortlessly from icy darkness to molten gold as she gazed up at him, all star shine and moon shadow.  It took every last ounce of restraint he possessed not to throw back his head and voice his joy to the heavens as he held her in his arms.  His aunt had been right, thirteen years of hunting through crumbling manuscripts and moldering books had been for naught.  Dry histories from long dead monks and twisted depictions of the Taboo faded from memory as torrent of true Darkkin glory engulfed him.  Images of glowing hide, thrumming wing, liquid smoke, and deadly talon scorched their path across his mind and senses.  Burning blood and searing air skittered over his nerves and set him aglow.  She was his.

Gregorian and Lady together for the first time in more than fifteen centuries, fingertip to finger tip, untamed soul to savage heart.  His teeth flashed in a feral smile that chilled the blood of the onlookers and ignited the ancient flame of Bella’s true heart.  Every edict of society and artifice that had been drilled into her from her first breath fell away as she closed the scant foot of open air between them, allowing her barriers to cinder in the heat emanating from his broad chest and pounding heart.  Every step she took, every dip and twirl of the intricate dance was lighter than air, as though she were high among the glory of the olden skies instead of waltzing across the marble floors of Almack’s with the whole of the ton watching.  Bella pulled her gaze away from Tristan’s wild golden eyes and snuggled her head securely in the curve of his should, closing her eyes in pleasure as a wave of security and total rightness enveloped her.

The dark, intoxicating weave of the song continued as Tristan bowed his head, burying his nose in Bella’s dusky, sweet smelling curls, silently giving thanks to the powers that had protected her the night the Dark One had come.  A single tear traced its way down his cheek and dropped onto her dark hair; that single tear took on a radiance more brilliant than any gem ever found.  It was a lone beacon of pure joy, so rare and fleeting only the other Darkkin present could sense it.  It removed all doubt in the minds of the Assemblage that Bella was unfit to complete the task her parents had begun.

The mark on her back branded her as one of the five Ladies, but the slaughter of her parents nearly destroyed her soul.  Every pair of eyes in the ballroom was fixed upon the serpentine path Tristan charted across the floor with Bella.  The members of the Assemblage, most of who were in attendance tonight, gawked after the breathtaking pair and knew their doubts about the Lady Emmaline’s ward had been for naught.  They had seen the proof with their own eyes. 

No Darkkin with a shattered soul could make another Darkkin weep with joy as Lady Isabella made Lord Ettlesworth do, nor would she have been able to make that single tear shine brighter than any star.  Only a Darkkin heart pure, wild, and whole could accomplish such a feat.

The gentlemen of the Assemblage glance at the numerous ladies gathered about them and knew they were seeing the merest glimpse of the power their smaller, slighter counterparts could wield over them.  Each member of the ancient council raised his head to the skies and gave silent thanks to the powers that had given them all such a precious gift.  A truemate pair, known as a Gealinia, was commonly found among the Darkkin; they were the few among the ton who married strictly for love.  There was, however, something that went deeper than the Gealinia bond; it was Qvaishini, the bond of soulmate and bloodsong. 

It was a bond that had been seen only twice in the history of the Darkkin since the passing of the Ladies and crumbling of the Gregorian.  The Qvaishini was a bond that went so deep it was rumored to transcend time and space; it was the bond that was said to exist between the Seer of Stars and her dead truemate.  It was whispered that upon his death the bloodsong bond, sundered her heart, shattered her wings, and decimated her soul leaving her unable to fly and join him among the stars.  She plunged from the grace of the ancient kin, landing among the stones. 

The songs of this world encompassed her, hiding her true face and form in the fragile shell of a mortal child.  Her song and soul were destroyed in the fall, but the songs of Earth, Air, Water, Fire, and Spirit continued to sing  to her, telling her secrets, their glory, and the treasure that lay hidden deep and dormant.  Rich metals and precious stones leapt from the earth to greet her glory.  Fortune always blessed her, kissing away the darkness of her fall.  Slowly her strength returned, healing soul, song, wing and talon.  The voice of the world changed and war erupted threatening to destroy her fragile realm.  Stand and fight, she told the people who had claimed her as their own.  The mountains ran red with blood.