"Behold the virgin bride." Jasper stepped up to her, his voice suddenly low. "What a vision of purity, little sister. But you and I know better." The open mockery made no dent in the warm, muzzy world she was inhabiting. In truth, she hardly heard him. He took her arm, placing her hand on his own arm, and they began to walk across the hall as the carefully selected wedding guests fell back… guests who bore the mark of Eden on their skin. Later they would accompany the bridal couple to the crypt in the time-honored rituals of the Congregation.
Louise moved into the shadows at the rear. She knew Jasper expected her to make herself scarce, but a mother was surely entitled to witness her only son's marriage.
The Reverend Elgar Ponsonby stood before a table, his hands nervously caressing the smooth leather binding of a Bible. His clerical linen was limp and slightly spotted. His eyes were unfocused, his breath pure alcohol, it seemed to Crispin, standing beside him as he watched the progress of his bride and his stepfather. Old Elgar was never sober, and only Sir Jasper's purse kept bread and wine on his table.
Jasper removed Chloe's hand from his arm as they reached the table and placed it on Crispin's. As she felt Crispin's hand close over hers, Chloe looked up through the gauzy material of her veil at his face hovering in the air in front of her. Unease filtered through the rosy mists of unthinking. She was being married to Crispin. Jasper had said so and that was what was supposed to happen. But it wasn't supposed to happen. It mustn't be allowed to happen. The passionate conviction thrust through the trance and for a second she was aware of her surroundings, of the people around her. She could smell the woodsmoke from the fireplace, the hot candle wax. Her lips moved beneath the veil as if to form some shout of protest, some screaming appeal to the shapes around her. But nothing would come. And then the moment of lucidity was gone and the warm muzziness had returned. She smiled vaguely and obediently stepped up to the table beside Crispin.
Hugo stood outside the closed door to the crypt. The ghosts seemed to come out to meet him as he postponed the moment when he would take the key from its secret shelf under the lintel, open the door, and go inside, down the shallow flight of stone stairs into the labyrinth of cold, vaulted chambers smelling of earth and mold and the grave.
Samuel stood beside him, patiently waiting. It was late afternoon and a flock of rooks circled noisily overhead before settling in a black cloud onto the gaunt branches of a nearby copse. The sleet had stopped, but the darkening sky was still heavy with snow clouds and the wind raced achingly cold across the moor.
"A bit cheerless, this is," Samuel observed matter-of-factly. "We goin' to stand out 'ere till we turn to stone?"
"I'm sorry," Hugo said. He reached under the lintel and his fingers unerringly found the little slot. It was as if he'd been here yesterday. He pulled out the great brass key and fit it into the lock. The door yawned open onto the darkness and the smell came out and hit him. How was it that once that smell had excited him, had been redolent with the exultant sense of things unknown and forbidden? But only on that last occasion had he gone down into the crypt in full possession of his senses… in full awareness of the evil that the excitement had masked.
Samuel lit the lantern he carried, and together they went inside, Hugo pulling the door to behind them. It was unlikely there were any watchers, but it wasn't worth taking unnecessary risks. He closed his mind to the memories, concentrating only on what had to be done.
"Gawd 'elp us," Samuel muttered as they descended to the crypt. "What kind of an 'ell'ole is this?"
"You may well ask," Hugo said, welcoming Samuel's prosaic commentary. He stood in the vaulted central chamber, holding the lantern high. Everything was in readiness for the night's ceremonies; fresh altar candles planted in the holders around the bier, the torches newly filled with pitch in their sconces on the walls. The bier was spread with a white damask cloth, a thick pillow at its head. On the long, low table against the far wall stood the flagons of wine, the little pots of herbal magic, the clay pipes for the opium.
He stood very still and let it come back to him. He had to face it if he was to overcome it. He closed his eyes and the room filled with the whispering ghosts of ecstasy and laughter. Limbs twined before his internal vision and on his tongue lingered the bitter aftertaste of the little pellets that sent a man into a world of pleasure beyond imagining as he moved between the smooth white thighs Of his partner.
Did Jasper intend giving Chloe the drug before she took her place on the bier? Such an enhancement of pleasure for one normally so passionate would be beyond words…
"Over here." He spun on his heel and strode to a dark hole in the far wall. The lantern illuminated the smaller chamber beyond. Samuel followed him up a rough-hewn flight of steps carved into the wall. At die top they opened onto a narrow stone gallery overlooking the crypt. "I'll be up here," Hugo said quietly, looking down at the bier.
He took a pair of epees from Samuel and rested them carefully against the low rail of the gallery. On the ledge he placed a narrow box containing two dueling pistols. Silently, he checked the other pistol in his belt, ran his finger down the sharp blade of a cutlass before returning it to the sheath resting snug against his thigh.
"Quite a little armory ye've got," Samuel remarked with satisfaction. He knew Hugo's skill with both sword and pistol, just as he knew how cold and clear he was under fire. A one-man army, he would wait in ambush and spring his surprise attack with all the careful calculation of a tried campaigner.
'Take your place outside now," Hugo said, handing him the key. "You saw where to put this?"
"Aye." Samuel took the key and the lantern. "Powerful dark it'll be once I've gone."
"It doesn't matter," Hugo said. "You know what to do?"
"Aye," Samuel repeated as phlegmatically as before. "I'll be off, then."
Hugo sat on the stone floor, resting his back against the wall, watching as the flickering light of the lantern retreated. He heard the dull thud as the door closed behind Samuel and he was alone in the darkness. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind of all but the certainty of success.
"You may kiss the bride," old Elgar mumbled, heaving an audible sigh of relief at the knowledge that he'd somehow muddled successfully through the service.
Crispin slowly lifted Chloe's veil. His face came close to hers, and suddenly she could see him clearly, every feature sharply denned, just as his mouth came down on hers. A nameless terror chased away the warm languor of indifference, and with a dreadful rush of insight she understood what had happened. She pushed against Crispin, her eyes opening wide, her clear gaze fixed on the Reverend Ponsonby behind her husband.
Crispin drew back, aware of the change in her. Her heart thudded with fear and immediately she dropped her gaze and let her arms lie still at her sides.
"It's wearing off," he whispered urgently to his stepfather over Chloe's head.
Jasper took her arm and drew her away from the makeshift altar. Chloe was now aware that what she had perceived through the mists as a crowd was in fact only a small group of men.
"We must give her some more," Crispin was whispering as they moved to the side of the hall.
Jasper caught her chin and lifted it. He gazed fixedly at her face. Chloe fought the awareness from her eyes. It was easier than it might have been since she still seemed to have only a tenuous hold on reality. She only knew that she must prevent having that liquid poured down her throat again.
'Too much will defeat the object," Jasper said quietly. "We don't want her cataleptic. She's not eaten properly for two days and the mixture is much more potent on an empty belly."