Brimstone Bride. Barbara Hancock J.

Chapter 5

      Turov drove through the darkening vineyard. They were in shadow while the lights of the ATV cut a wavering swath ahead of them, illuminating the path between rows. Only the edges of young greenery were distinct in the light, the rest of the vineyard was only a thousand acres of dark twining mystery around them.

      He didn’t speak again. No doubt he regretted the kiss and was focused on whatever his plans were for the night ahead. Meanwhile, Victoria burned. It wasn’t until he pulled into the pebbled drive as near to her sheltered cottage as the riotous garden allowed that she saw his hands on the wheel.

      The soft garden lights revealed a white-knuckled grip.

      The ATV came to a stop and she was caught in a pause created by the emotion his grip betrayed. He was a dangerous man, but she was a danger to him as well. For seconds, the potential for exploring that danger hung hotly in the cool air between them.

      “Good night, Victoria,” Turov said, his accent thicker with strain.

      His decision to resist prodded her to break temptation’s trance. She tumbled quickly from the vehicle to make up for her telling pause.

      He pulled away almost as soon as her feet hit the ground and her answering “Good night” was lost in the crunch of rock beneath tires. He headed back toward the equipment shed where lights revealed the activity of evening after the vineyard’s busy day. The bustle there only served to make the garden path where she stood seem too deserted and quiet.

      The main house loomed darker than ever now that she’d explored its age and emptiness. She was glad to walk toward the smaller cottage and the welcoming scent of roses.

      But she wasn’t alone.

      She hesitated between one path and another, uncertain which would lead her in the direction she needed to go, and during that hesitation she heard a furtive step. Only one. The other person in the garden had stopped mere seconds after her. They waited somewhere behind her. And waited. The quiet seemed to swell, impregnating the atmosphere with unease. A normal garden visitor would have continued to walk, would have said hello.

      Victoria resumed her walk because she didn’t want to reveal her fear. She acted unconcerned. She tried to move at the same speed. She didn’t look over her shoulder. But she did pause suddenly when she came through the hedge to the cottage’s clearing. Once again, she heard what might be the shuffle of a follower who hurriedly matched her movements, pause for pause.

      She slowly fished the cottage key from her pocket to excuse her stop, then she proceeded to the dimly lit stoop. If she hurried, if she didn’t fumble with the old skeleton key, if the antique latch didn’t drag, maybe she could get inside and lock the door back against whoever was behind her.

      But that plan evaporated when she reached the stone stoop of the cottage. Someone had left something there in a scattered pile. She pulled her phone from her pocket and illuminated the stoop to find a profusion of pale, dried flower petals that a breeze disturbed just enough for her to recognize because she’d seen ones like them in the park in Louisiana. Someone had left a pile of crinkled cherry blossoms for her to find. These had gone to a darker pink as they’d withered and dried.

      She didn’t look over her shoulder. She could feel a malicious presence there. Perhaps a presence brazen enough to have come out of the cover of the hedges to stand boldly in the clearing. If she turned, she might see another monk from the Order of Samuel sent to deliver this threatening message of flower petals.

      “I haven’t forgotten why I’m here. I don’t need the reminder,” she said.

      Still she didn’t turn, but she did kneel and gather up the petals because she had lied—she did need the reminder. She’d been too easily swept up in the dramatic story of Turov’s past, his family, the obsession he had for his vines—a thousand acres of roots when she’d never managed to put down a single one.

      Sybil and Grim hid and protected Michael, but for how long? She could blame the affinity for the distraction from her mission, but she wouldn’t. Turov would be seductive to her, affinity or not. Now that she understood this, she could fight temptation.

      Once she’d gathered the dried petals in the hem of her shirt, the step on the path resumed without subterfuge. This time her stalker moved away from her with loud crunches of gravel on the path. The loud movement seemed a mockery of her fear. She used her key, and if her life had depended on using it quickly she would have died on the stoop. Her fingers were clumsy. She clutched the flower petals in her shirt and unlocked the door at the same time so neither move went well. Dried bits of blossoms fell all around and the latch protested as she clanked and clanked the key, trying to find the sweet spot for the tricky tumblers. Finally, she made it into the cottage and closed the door. She slid the bolt home and leaned against it. But her tension didn’t ease. Because now she knew what she had to do while Turov was away for the evening.

      * * *

      She placed the dried cherry blossoms in a jar on the vanity in her room. She needed the constant reminder. She wasn’t on a luxurious Sonoma vacation where she was free to sympathize with her dark and dangerous host. She had a job to do. She had a son to save. Turov had beheaded the monk who had followed her from Louisiana, but there were more where he came from. The Order had an endless supply of zealots.

      She might never be free, but she had to try.

      For Michael.

      Turov had said he had plans for the evening. Before he kissed her. And the kiss was irrelevant. She had to focus on her mission. He had left the estate. She’d picked over a dinner tray sent from the kitchen while she’d waited and watched. Finally, she saw his low, lean luxury sedan—a vintage one—pull away to be swallowed by the night highway that led to Santa Rosa.

      She wasn’t here to play.

      She’d already changed into black jeans and a dark gray long-sleeve T-shirt to better blend with shadows. She intended to make her way to the sitting room that held the box full of firebird keys and then get back to her cottage before anyone, especially her host, was the wiser.

      The garden was ghostly, lit by a sliver of moon and ambient lanterns turned low at midnight. She tried not to wonder if her stalker still lurked behind bushes that had taken on eerie animal-like shapes in the night. There a hunched antelope leaped and beneath its belly was a man-size black hollow. Here a grotesque ape with arms raised high could easily hide a man behind its enormous back.

      Straight to the sitting room. Straight back.

      The door opened at her touch and her first fear—that of being locked out—faded. The only activity she discerned as she entered the back passage was in the distant kitchen where the cook cleaned and prepped for the next day.

      She held thoughts of Michael close as she hurried to the stairs at the front of the house. She crept up them, unable to prevent the occasional creak. A few lamps had been left on. Their Tiffany shades disbursed the glow in jewel tones that matched the walls and the firebird tea set no one had touched for decades—green, gold, amber, burnt red.

      Victoria tried not the think of love and loss when she made it to the room again. Only then did she risk her cell phone light to penetrate the gloom.

      The book had been moved.

      Somehow she’d known. Maybe it was a daily habit for Turov to come here and flip through its pages. Had he noticed anything amiss? Was it foolish to stage a repeat visit so soon?

      It was too late to back out now. She hurriedly scanned the room to make sure an angry Russian didn’t lie in wait to capture her. Then she bent to open the box and grab the keys. She was too quick. The keys rolled together, making a noise that seemed thunderous in the quiet house. She closed the box and shoved the keys into her pocket.

      A mother would understand.

      She had to pass Mrs. Turov’s photograph on the way out. She was sure the woman who had watched her son burn would have understood why Victoria