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He leaned back, extending his legs far in front of him. “The god of doors and locks.”
“They have a god?”
“And a goddess, as a matter of fact.”
“Tell me.” The whisper was full of anticipation, and he turned to look at her, finding her warm brown gaze spellbound.
He couldn’t help his smile. “All the times I’ve tried to tempt you, Felicity Faircloth, and all I had to do was tell you about the god of locks.”
“You’ve done quite well tempting me without that, but I should like to hear anyway.”
Devil’s heart pounded at her honesty, and it was an exercise in control to stay where he was. “He had two faces. One always saw the future, the other always the past. There wasn’t a secret in the world that could be kept from him, because he knew the inside and the outside. The beginning and the end. His omniscience made him the most powerful of the gods, rivaling Jupiter himself.”
She was leaning toward him, and his gaze flickered to the place where her skin, freckled in the sun, rose up from the silk of her dress. The bodice was pulled tight with the angle of her body, and Devil was only a man, after all; he lingered there, watching her breasts strain for freedom. It was beautiful, but nothing like the look in her eyes as she repeated her request. “Tell me.”
The words made him feel like a king. He wanted to tell her stories for the rest of time, to entertain her, to linger in her presence and learn the ones that fascinated her . . . the ones that struck to the very core of who she was, his beautiful lockpick.
Not his.
He put the thought aside and continued. “But seeing the future and the past is as much curse as a gift, you see, and for every beautiful beginning, he also saw the painful end. And this was Janus’s devastation, because he could see death in life, and tragedy in love.”
“How awful,” Felicity whispered in his ear from too far away.
“He did not sleep. Did not eat. He found pleasure in no one and nothing, as he spent all his time—an eternity of time—guarding the past, warding against the inevitable future. Where other gods rivaled and battled for access to each others’ power, none warred with Janus . . . they saw the pain he suffered and steered far clear of it.”
She leaned forward, that dress pulling even more, tempting even more—like the future that could be seen and not warded against. “I imagine he was not a cheerful deity.”
He gave a little bark of laughter. “He was not.” Her eyes widened and she sat up. “What is it?”
“Nothing, only you laugh so rarely.” She paused. “And I like it.”
His cheeks warmed. Like he was a goddamn boy. He cleared his throat. “At any rate. Janus could see the future, and knew it brought only tragedy. Except there was one thing he could not see. A thing he could not predict.”
Her brown eyes twinkled. “A woman.”
“What makes you say that?”
She waved a hand in the air. “It’s always a woman if it’s unpredictable. We’re changeable like the weather, did you not know? Unlike men who always act with clear and logical purpose.” She ended with a dry harrumph.
He inclined his head. “It was a woman.”
“Ah. You see?”
“Would you like me to tell you the story or not?”
She leaned back against the bench, cradling her face in her hand. “Yes, please.”
“Her name was Cardea. And he could not see her coming, but once she was there, he saw her in bright, vivid color. And hers was the greatest beauty he had ever known.”
“Aren’t they always the greatest beauty, these unpredictable women?”
“You think you are so smart, Felicity Faircloth.”
She grinned. “Am I not?”
“Not in this case, because, you see, no one else could see her beauty. She was plain and uninteresting to the rest of the gods. She’d been made so before birth, as punishment to her mother, who had crossed Juno. And so the daughter was punished with mediocrity.”
“Well, I certainly can understand that,” she said quietly, and it occurred to Devil she had not meant for him to hear the words. He wouldn’t have, if not for the bench.
“But she was not plain. And she was not uninteresting. She was beautiful beyond measure, and Janus could see it. He could see the beginning of her and the end of her. And in her, he saw something he had never allowed himself to see.”
Her full lips opened on a tiny inhale. He had her. “What did he see?”
“The present.” He would have stayed there, forever, on that bench, imprisoned by her rapt attention. “He’d never cared for it before. Not until she arrived.”
Not until she showed him what it could be.
“What happened?”
“They married, and on the consummation of their marriage, Janus, the god with two faces, became the god with three. But only Cardea saw the third face—it was for her alone, the face that experienced happiness and joy and goodness and love and peace. The face that saw the present. Only Cardea was gifted a look at the god in his full, glorious form. As only Janus was gifted a look at his goddess in the same way.”
“She unlocked him,” Felicity whispered, and the words threatened to bring Devil to his knees.
He nodded. “She was his key.” The words came like wheels on gravel. “And because she had gifted him the present, he gave her what he could of the past and future, of beginnings and ends. The Romans worshipped Janus for the first month of the year, but by his will, they honored Cardea on the first day of every month—the end of what had been, the beginning of what was to come.”
“And then? What became of them?”
“They reveled in each other,” he replied. “Gloried in having finally found the other being in all the world who could see them for who they were. They are never apart—Janus, forever the god of the lock, Cardea, forever the goddess of the hinge. And the Earth keeps turning.”
She slid toward him for just a moment, just until she realized what she was doing—that she shouldn’t be moving. That it wasn’t proper. Not that anything between them had ever been proper.
He wanted her near him. Touching him. This bench was a torture device. “Did you like the kiss?”
He shouldn’t have asked it, but she replied nonetheless. “Which one?”
He raised a brow. “I know you liked the one we shared.”
“Such modesty.”
“It’s not conceit. You liked it.” He paused. “And so did I.” She inhaled sharply, and he heard it as well as saw it, the way she straightened. Perhaps it was the ease of whispering, but he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a beautiful blush?”
Red crept to her cheeks. “No.”
“You do—it makes me think of summer berries and sweet cream.”
She looked down at her lap. “You shouldn’t—”
“It makes me wonder what I can’t see that has gone pink. It makes me wonder if all that pink tastes as sweet as it looks.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“I know your lips are sweet—your nipples, too. Did you know they are the same
color? That pretty pink perfection.”
Her cheeks were flaming. “Stop,” she whispered, and he could swear he heard the sound of her breathing along their secret stone pathway.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you think we offend the bench?” She gave a little laugh, and he went hard at the sound, so close and with her so impossibly far away. “Because I imagine that when this bench was gifted to the lady of the house, her lover sat on the far end and said much worse.”
She looked to him then, and he saw the heat in her gaze. The curiosity. Felicity wanted to hear worse.
Better.
“Shall I tell you what I imagine he said?” he asked.
She nodded. Barely. But enough. And, miraculously, she didn’t look away. She wanted to hear more, and she wanted to hear it from him.
“I imagine he told her that he built this place inside this web of hedgerows so that no one would see. Because, you see, Felicity Fairest, it’s not enough that we can whisper and not be heard . . . because you reveal everything you think and feel on your beautiful, open face.”
She lifted one hand to a cheek, and he continued his soft litany. “I imagine the lady’s lover adored the way her emotions played across her face—the way her lips fell open like temptation incarnate. I imagine he marveled at the pink of them, wondering at the way they matched the perfect tips of her round breasts, and the pink perfection of somewhere else entirely.” She gasped, her eyes flying to his. He smirked. “I see you are not as innocent of thought as you would like others to believe, love.”
“You should stop.”
“Probably,” he replied. “But would you prefer I continue?”
“Yes.”
Christ, that word alone, the glory of it, rioted through him. He wanted to hear it from her again and again as he talked and touched and kissed. He wanted it as her fingers scraped through his hair, as they clutched his shoulders, as they directed his mouth wherever she wanted him to go.
He made to rise, to go to her and continue with his hands and his lips, but she stayed him. “Devil.” He met her gaze. “You lied to me.”
A hundred times. A thousand. “About what?”
“Marwick was never going to singe his wings.”
“No.” Not that Devil would have let it get that far. Not once he realized how hot she burned.
