Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords 3)

Valentine wasn’t sure if Dariell had returned to hide in the window seat, and so all he could do was sit in the darkness and imagine the sheer terror coursing through her veins.

It was a mistake.

He should never have insisted she partake in this charade.

Valentine smacked the floor with the heel of his boot again out of frustration. The crafty sneak might be tormenting Drake or Juliet though he could not imagine Cassiel staying with them for long. Most men struggled to breathe beneath Drake’s penetrating stare.

The creak of the boards on the landing sent Valentine’s pulse racing. Fear had nothing to do with the sudden rush of blood. Vengeance burned now. He would play Cassiel’s game. Allow the mystic to think he had the upper hand.

Valentine remained seated in the chair positioned in the middle of the room.

The hinges on the bedchamber door groaned as Cassiel entered.

“You grow impatient for a message, my lord,” he said, closing the door and coming to sit on the edge of the bed opposite Valentine. “Do you have an item of jewellery, a watch or fob I may hold for a moment? Personal effects help to establish a connection.”

Having already given Maguire his watch, Valentine would be damned before he gave this thief his seal ring. He wondered what his mother had given. The diamond ring she had worn since her wedding had borne witness to many sleepless nights, many traumatic days. Valentine pulled his most recent purchase—a sapphire pin—free from his cravat and handed it to Mr Cassiel.

Cassiel inclined his head.

“You are a man of many secrets, Lord Valentine,” the mystic said in the pathetic voice he used to sound superior.

“As are most men,” Valentine retorted.

Didn’t everyone have something in their past of which they were ashamed?

Didn’t everyone carry guilt over a failed relationship?

The mystic clutched the cravat pin and closed his eyes.

Silence pervaded every corner of the room.

The stillness grew heavier until Valentine felt the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders. An icy chill touched his cheek. Men like Cassiel knew how to taunt and tease the mind.

The mystic started muttering, mumbling. A hum resonated in his throat like the morbid murmurs of the dying.

They were nought but theatrical tricks. Tricks meant to weaken the constitution.

“You were a boy when it started,” Cassiel said, his tone soft, slow, though his eyes remained closed. “Too young to understand.”

“To understand what?” The sickening feeling came upon him, the same curdling sensation in his stomach whenever he thought about his father.

“That it was his illness that spoke to you. That his violent temper had nothing to do with a lack of love.”

Bloody hell!

Valentine considered jumping to his feet and telling this devil of a creature what he thought of his parlour games. But something kept him rooted to the chair. The little boy inside him needed to hear more in the hope one word—sorry—might bring an end to his torment.

“Children often have an immature view of the world, a view moulded by their relationship with their parents.” The logic of the statement brought temporary relief from the anxiety settling in his chest. “I was lucky enough to have a parent brimming with integrity, a parent I respect and admire.”

Honora was strong, dependable, loved with all her heart. His father was unbalanced, irresponsible, too lost in the failings of his mind to appreciate love.

“But despite the light, darkness stalks you like an ominous shadow in the distance,” Cassiel said.

“Is it not the same for us all?”

Cassiel’s eyes sprung open. For a moment, they held the crazed look he had seen when his father’s mood turned sour, when his actions proved irrational, when no one knew what the hell he would do next.

“Your mother has suffered greatly.”