By Desire Bound Read online

  "Roger, where is The Eye of God?" Lavinia was tired of games, tired of waiting. Darcie could see it in her face, in her eyes. The lines were deeper, the cruelty more apparent. She was a woman on the edge of a precipice, struggling not to fall over.

  "She has it." Roger gestured to Darcie. "Give it up, girl. Grab her, Roger." Immediately, he clamped his hands across her shoul­ders, pulling her tightly against him. She kicked him, bit him, stomped on his foot.

  "Oh, she's a one. Look at her—fighting like an ani­mal. She's wreaked enough havoc on this family. I'm tired of her. She took damned long to get the thing. And now—it's mine ..."

  Lavinia reached for her, her fingers clawed; Con jumped, toward the sound of the voice and the threat to Darcie, and knocked her down.

  "Who are you?" he demanded, his harids at her throat. She choked, fighting him with what seemed like su­perhuman strength.

  Boulton wrenched him off of her, and held him back. She made a guttural sound. "This is no son of mine. Roger—tear off her clothes if you have to. / want that stone."

  She backed up against the staircase to watch the me­lee.

  Right under Con's portrait, Darcie noted with one part of her consciousness, as she wrestled with Roger. There was nodding she could use as a weapon. This was

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  a sparsely furnished hallway. Rugs. Paintings. A trestle table covered with a tapestry. A suit of armor. An ax.

  "Darcie . . . !" He was on the floor with her father. ". . . don't. . ."

  "I ... won't . . ." she panted as she shoved Roger, hard, and wrenched away. She ran down the length of the reception hall to the pedestal with the suit of armor.

  "No you don't—" Roger, two steps after her.

  Frantically, she pulled and twisted the long handle of the ax, forcing it free.

  "Stay back!" she commanded, brandishing the thing in his face.

  "Darcie . . ." Roger, conciliatory now.

  She took a quick glance over his shoulder; her father had gotten Con down and he was sitting on him.

  Damn them all.

  "Back up, Roger, or I'll take off your head."

  He raised his hands and stepped backward.

  "If you know anything about our little adventure," she continued conversationally, following him down from the pedestal, "you know I've done a fair amount of ... interesting . . . shall we say? things along the journey. I won't scruple to do what I have to now. So—" she turned to her father in a vicious movement, "get off of Con, or I'll slice you to pieces."

  "Ah, that's my Darcie," her father said, climbing to his feet.

  "Over to the stairs," she ordered, as Con got to his knees. "You traitor. I know which part of him I'd butcher. Are you all right, Con?"

  He nodded. "Are you?"

  "I found a nice medieval weapon just down the hall, Con. Not quite as efficient as a knife, but I see a few parts I could hack off with ease."

  "For God's sake," Lavinia spat. "The thing's as dull

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  as a dish." She advanced toward Darcie. "I want that stone." •

  Darcie held her eyes as she swung. Rounded, dark, vicious eyes like an owl. The Lavinia she had known— and not.

  "Who are you? Why are you so desperate? What do you really want—a baby or the diamond?"

  "I'll have both," Lavinia sneered.

  Darcie shook her head. "Neither. There was no baby ..."

  Lavinia's face changed, transformed into something evil and beyond human. "You lie!" she shrieked, charg­ing toward Darcie.

  Darcie swung, and nicked her shoulder. Lavinia howled: "Leonard—she's your daughter. Get her. . .! Roger— kill her....'"

  They started toward her menacingly, and she swung with all her might. One by one they dropped to the floor. "Darcie ..." Con behind her, listening to the chaos. "You have to cleave the diamond."

  "Oh my God, are you crazy?" She poked the ax at Lavinia who made a movement toward her.

  "Don't touch that diamond," Lavinia screamed. "You're the only one. You have to do it. It's the only way to stop them. She is not my mother."

  She swallowed hard, swinging the ax again as her fa­ther approached.

  "Don't do it, daughter. What do you know about cut­ting gems? You'll destroy it, the legend of a lifetime." "Darcie . . . you have the power. It's the only way." "Why, Con, why? Who are they?" "They are acolytes of Samael, possessed by the evil. We cannot give them the diamond."

  She groaned. "Con ... I can't. I won't destroy the diamond."

  "You have to, Darcie. It was meant to be."

  "Don't listen, don't do it!" her father shrieked.

  "We have to defeat him. We have to destroy her, she is the most dangerous of them all. We must right the balance, Darcie. Penance must be paid."

  "Yes—" she whispered. "NOOOOOO....'" Lavinia screamed. "Yes!" Con decreed. "This woman—this thing—the shell of the woman I called mother. She is possessed, her body inhabited by the entity Lilidi who walks the earth in the company of Samael, whose stone we destroyed.

  "Lilith, the first wife of Adam, who was condemned for her disobedience, and for her voracious appetite for children and men. It is said, because of this, when she went to heaven to beg for the oil of mercy, she was turned away, and that only when she finds a body to inhabit may she try again. No wonder she was avid for your child, Darcie. The love of a child begs mercy.

  "But now we know: Samael is among us, seeking the diamond. You must cleave it and destroy her forever."

  "DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!"

  Her father, this time—or maybe not . . . who knew what entities were among them—and she couldn't take the chance.

  "I will—I'll destroy it—"

  "Better than this wickedness . . . I'm telling you— even though you know her as my mother ... it is not she—and it must be done ..."

  She backed up toward the table, and they followed her, almost as one body—her father, Roger, Lavinia.

  "He's lying," Lavinia said, reaching out her hand.

  Whoosh. Lavinia jumped back.

  Tears streamed down Darcie's face. "Are you sure, Con?"

  "It was my dream, my quest. I knew there was some-

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  thing—something about Lavinia, and I'm telling you now—you have the power . . . kill the evil—cut the damned diamond!"

  Whoosh—another warning, as Roger lunged toward her.

  Con heard it all, and he couldn't do a thing. Darcie had to believe him. She had to keep them at bay. And she had to achieve a cut.

  God, he would kill to have his eyes back . . .

  Darcie felt his anguish; she had to be strong, for both of them. They were watching her—those eyes, those flaming dark, looking into pools of hell eyes . . .

  Con was right. She had to do it.

  She slipped the stone out of the leather pocket and set it on the table.

  "That's it ... ohhhh—that's it . . ." Lavinia whis­pered, reaching out her hand.

  Whoosh . . . the blade sliced the air, just nicking her hand.

  "Bitch," Lavinia screeched.

  "Oh God. That's it," Boulton muttered. "Like dross before it becomes gold ..."

  Whoosh—she'd kill him too if she had to ...

  Whoosh—Roger jumped backward as she sliced at him.

  She held their eyes. She watched them. They were all looking for the moment, the chance when one—or all of them—could dive for the diamond.

  She had one chance, one choice, no niceties. She didn't have to understand angles or fractures. All she had to know was if Lavinia possessed the diamond, ev­eryone's life would rupture.

  She poised herself, swinging the ax toward them, aim­ing at their necks. Their necks were good—tender, vul­nerable, pulsing widi lifeblood.

  And they knew it. They weren't going to rus
h her. She could do serious harm.

  But it was just in diat moment, when she lifted her arm upward, and before she sliced down—

  And it could pop out from under the pressure of the blade, she thought.

  Then they might get to her . . . and pull her down.

  "I'll hold it," Con said calmly, as he sensed her frenzy.

  Oh God, worse and worse. Con could be killed.

  "Angle it over the table, and I'll stand on one side."

  "You're crazy," she muttered.

  "Do it."

  Do it. She'd been doing it, one way or another, her whole life.

  "All right. Take the stone and position it where you feel comfortable."

  He groped his way to where she was standing. "You don't want your back to them."

  "A good point."

  Whoosh—as they saw this conversation as an opportu­nity to move.

  Now he was at the head of the table, between them and the stone.

  "That's good, Con."

  He balanced it on the tapestry cloth. "I'm ready."

  I'm not . . .

  She couldn 't swing from full high—they 'd get her first. It had to be a short, sharp, emphatic swing, right to its heart.

  Her hands were icy cold, her heart pounding. She poked at her father as he started to move.

  "You know, maybe I ought to practice this—get a little twist in there where I could kill someone who tries to get in my way."

  Her father froze.

  "That's better—daddy."

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  Now .

  She chewed her lip. Con stood there like a statue, his hand balancing the stone. One chance. One swing.

  She held out the ax so that the blade touched the stone. Thank God the thing was big.

  She turned to look at them. They cursed her to hell. She lifted the instrument and chopped it down on the biggest, most legendary diamond in the world— Lavinia screamed as the blade connected— And she cracked it— Roger roared— And she pounded it— Her father moaned. And she split it in two . . .

  Liquid spumed out—great globs of thick clear liq­uid—she heard Lavinia scream, and she looked at Con, and the liquid was all over his face, and the way he was staring at her, and she could tell—he could see.

  And Lavinia howling . . . shrivelling before their very eyes into a sharp-beaked gull, and then transforming into an owl, a vulture—swooping up into the air sud­denly to attack Roger.

  Roger! Pushing at the thing, beating it away, and it flapping its wings, shrieking, screaming, biting him with its beak and suddenly, there was an explosion and— nothingness.

  And both of them—gone. Everyone else—frozen in place. Con, dumbfounded; Darcie, transfixed. Her father, utterly bewildered.

  And then her father moved. He leapt for the table and grabbed one piece of the diamond. And then he sprinted for the door.

  He never made it. The liquid enveloped him like lava,

  foaming out from the center of the diamond, and ad­hering to his skin.

  He died on the spot.

  Darcie couldn't look. She looked at Con. Con with his merciful eyes.

  Blessed be . . . meant to be—

  Alone with the diamond and all it had wrought.

  It looked like two halves of a broken stone. No luster. No sparkle. Nothing to distinguish it from a rock on the sand.

  And this had been The Eye of God. And now that it was sundered, the balance would be maintained.

  "How did you know—all of that, about the posses­sion, and the oil of mercy?"

  "The oil of mercy is legendary; I've studied the lore of every culture in search of clues to the whereabouts of the diamond. There had to be a link to Samael to ex­plain why she was so desperate for the diamond. It meant something for her. Not just the riches from split­ting it up. Something deeper.

  "Some property of the diamond was essential to her. And then something about her obsessiveness about the child struck a chord. I remembered the legend of Lilith's demand at heaven's gate. And the old story about Samael accompanying her. We had to know what was contained in the diamond, Darcie. We had to make things right."

  "Your eyes are healed. Nothing could be more right," she said.

  He nodded. "And the enemy vanquished. The judg­ment is: from this day forth, he who had been blind, now can he see. And that which must be done, will be done. The power was yours, Darcie. The evil is dis­persed, but now there can be remedy. We will split The

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  Eye of God, into as many pieces as we can, and we'll gift it where its power will counteract the evil. Penance must be paid, Darcie. That is all we can do."

  After all that, she thought. And in the end, the cost was too great. The diamond would be cleaved because penance must be paid.

  And greed and cupidity rebuked and gnien into the service of good.

  Epilogue

  Kisses. All he could think about was kisses.

  Darcie's kisses.

  And diamonds. He was drowning in diamonds since he had taken back Pengellis-Becarre. His return caused a sensation. Everybody wanted to see, to touch, to hear Con Pengellis who had returned from the dead.

  Con, who only wanted to see, touch and hear Darcie. God, he wanted Darcie. There wasn't a waking moment he wasn't thinking about Darcie, and the quest, and all the luxurious hours of their lovemaking.

  Darcie!

  And where was Darcie? Darcie was living the life of a profligate wealthy widow in the Mayfair Hotel.

  Darcie said, they had to wait. How would it look, if he were living with his brother's widow?

  Very biblical of Darcie. It tied right in with everything. He really appreciated her concern for his character and morals.

  He really did.

  Was there ever a woman like Darcie?

  He sat at his desk and looked over papers, and bud­gets, and drawings of new faceted cuts, and all he wanted to do was deck Darcie from head to foot in dia­monds. He wanted to deck Darcie altogether.

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  He played the perfectly proper suitor, willing to wait.

  He hated waiting, and he cursed the day he ever made Darcie wait. She knew just how to use it like a club and he had taught her how.

  Of course, that didn't stop her from attending a whirl­wind of events. He read about them now and again in the gossip columns because he wasn't allowed within a block of her. Not good form, said Darcie, pursuing your dead brother's wife in public.

  He wanted to pursue something else, but even that was denied to him. He couldn't make the rules now. She could—and did—deny him everything.

  And he wasn 't sure how long he would put up with it, but it did add spice to things—-for now.

  And in the meantime, while he was waiting, he put his time to excellent use—when he wasn't daydreaming about Darcie. He was planning their wedding—al­though she didn't know about that part yet. He was designing her ring—but she didn't know about that either.

  And he was constructing their life—but he hadn't gotten around to mentioning it.

  He planned to inundate her with diamonds. It was the only proper gift for a heroine.

  But he was annoyed to see he was not the only one who thought that about her. There was Darcie, her pho­tograph in the paper, the lovely widow Pengellis, the story said, enj'oying the races on the arm of the Earl of Fotherington.

  That got his juices up.

  He called on Darcie the next day.

  "Con, you cannotvisit me like this. It's not good form. I've been learning all about good form. There are rules, you know."

  "I remember rules," he muttered. "I'm coming in."

  "This isn't right," she fumed. "I'm trying very hard to live down all those stories that circulated about me after you announced your return and Roger's death. I have the Pengellis name t
o maintain now."

  "And you're doing a right and proper job of it too, Darcie. At the theater last week. At the races Saturday. Church on Sunday. And all on the arms of three differ­ent men. My brother, if he hadn't been such a swine, would be turning in his grave. Besides which, I'm tired of waiting."

  "Oh, but Con—people just won't understand about your brother's wife. Those are the rules." "I'm sick to death of rules and waiting." She considered this for a moment "Oh. Well. All right. Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?" "Who the hell is the Earl of Fotherington?" ''A very nice man," she said earnestly. "He'd love to get married and set up his nursery . . ."

  "Oh? Is he lined up behind your other paramours? Or are you keeping them all waiting?"

  "Of course he doesn't have to wait. He's not my brother-in-law."

  "Darcie—I swear ..."

  "But Con, I don't understand why you're so annoyed. What do you have to do with the Earl, or anyone else? I mean, you know I can take care of myself. And now there's money, and time, and . .." her voice trailed off. He looked into her deep blue eyes, and he saw the eyes of a gambler who knew when to cut her losses. And that was just what she had been doing with him, and it struck him like a blow to the gut. This was no game. "Are you jealous, Con?" she asked. "I will kill the man who gets hard because of you. How about that, Darcie?"

  "How about you?" she asked challengingly.

  "Why don't you see?"

  She held his eyes and bit her lip. She didn't know what he wanted from her now. She had thought that now he had reclaimed his life, he would want to stay as far away as possible from the Darcie who had destroyed his family. He wouldn't want an adventuress who was out for what she could get. He wouldn't want someone he knew too well.

  Now that he was the Honorable Connack Pegellis, Bart., he would want a lady, born to his social set.

  And then she had thought if she made herself into the kind of woman he would pursue, he might come for her—eventually.

  The problem was, it had taken too damned long, and she had just been on the cusp of giving up on him altogether.

  She wanted him so badly. If she touched him, she would set off a conflagration. She'd go to a place from which she'd never come back.