CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charlotte
“Of course, Sir Gilead. As you can see, I’m quite well.
Lord Alad left me in a small village while he flew across the country to gather information.
When he returned, this morning, he scooped me up and brought me back here.
Directly.” I recite the tale upon which Mary insists, emphasizing the points that will save my reputation. Presumably.
But Mary was right when she said the two men who know what Alad is don’t think of him as a man.
When last they saw him, he was either a winged giant, a roaring lion, or possessed of a lion body, wings, and human head.
One doesn’t imagine intimate relationships with animals or mountains.
No one would fault me for spending time with a horse or dog, for example, or a favorite hillock.
It's an oversight that works in my favor, though I feel disloyal marking Alad as an animal.
I glance towards the stairs once more from my seat on the couch. There’d been no opportunity to warn him of the fiction we decided to create.
“Of course, we’re grateful Lord Alad had the forethought to position Miss Butters in a village inn before dragging her the length and breadth of England,” Mary adds.
“Ah, tea. Thank you, William. Gentlemen, I hope you appreciate the apple tartes. Cook hordes a secret recipe that contains a variety of spices from the East, even if the recipe is French.” She casts a smile at the footman, who bobs lower than most servants do.
Of course, every male of any category is instantly smitten with Mary. She could ask for a cow’s head and a spoon, and every man in England would rush to bring her what she desired. Alad will likely prove the same.
The thought sits uncomfortably in my belly. I don’t understand why the green of jealousy suddenly paints me so raw. Even when I held a tendre for Sir Gilead, a sentiment which is incomprehensible now, I never wished to wring Mary’s neck out of fear of her perfection.
The gentlemen turn their conversation to the exhibit. “A tarp over ladders, perhaps,” Sir Gilead suggests as concealment for the spot where Alad’s statue used to stand. He sips from his cup with an expression of pleasure. “Perfectly brewed,” he pronounces.
“We have drawings of Lord Alad. We might paint his figure upon the wall, claim the statue was damaged during transport, and whatnot,” Lord Peterson suggests.
“But can it be finished in time?” Sir Gilead worries, before picking up one of Cook’s famed tartes and digging into it with unnatural zeal.
The men have moved past the question of my absence with remarkable alacrity, all thanks to Mary’s fluttering lashes and less-than-veiled suggestions of recrimination.
“Miss Butters, which alternative do you believe Lord Alad would prefer?” Lord Peterson asks me. “After all, you’ve held the most conversation with him.”
Not enough to call him by an honorific, apparently. And when did they begin doing so? “Oh, um, well, I don’t believe I’m qualified to speak for him.”
“Though I would prefer a life-size painting to tarp and ladders,” Mary says.
As the gentlemen refocus upon her, my gaze again travels to the staircase.
This time, I spot a figure emerging from around the bend.
As he descends in quick, certain steps, I note his height and the width of his shoulders beneath a jacket that hugs him too tight.
My heart begins a triple beat as the breath whooshes from my lungs.
No. It can’t be. Can it?
But as he descends the last few steps, Alad smiles at me. I’d know his turn of lips anywhere, even without the cavalcade of curling hair and beard surrounding his mouth.
Lord, he’s handsome. Shaved clean, his face is all angles and indents, sharp thrusts and shadows.
Strong cheekbones rest beneath his slightly tipped eyes.
A stronger dimple cuts his chin. Without the beard, his lips are fuller, his nose’s arch more prominent, and his brows more devastating in their precise arches.
Mary grabs my hand, her gaze obviously trapped as mine is. “Is that Lord Alad?”
Alad enters the room. His expression grows troubled as he notices us staring at him, gape-jawed. I assume Mary is equally as stunned, anyway. Who wouldn’t be?
“Ladies.” He bobs his head before rotating to face the gentlemen who are seated in two chairs opposite the table between us. “Lord Peterson. Sir Gilead.” He bobs again.
When I tear my gaze from the magnificent creature, it’s to find understanding dawning in the gentlemen. Gape-jawed, the lot of us.
I capture my wits first. “Lord Alad. We didn’t realize you could take human form.
” I hold his gaze with my own, begging him to understand and follow my lead.
“Why, instead of dropping me in the village, you might have supped with me at the inn in which I took refuge rather than dashing off to examine the country from the skies.”
His eyes pierce mine before he drawls in his accented, growly voice, “I find it taxing to hold this form, but I didn’t wish to startle Lady Mary’s staff. However, if we’re certain to be free of interruptions, I’d prefer taking my First Form.” He looks from one to the other, seeking permission.
When the gentlemen nod in unison, as if their heads are mounted on the same stick, Alad smiles again. “Excellent.” Faster than I can blink, he transforms into his lion body. He towers over Lord Peterson and Sir Gilead when they stumble to their feet.
“Pardon, Char.Lot,” he adds, his gaze sweeping the tattered shreds of clothing lying all around him.
I suspect the wardrobe used to belong to the duke. He won’t miss the items.
“You speak English?” Lord Peterson begins to circle Alad, who sinks down upon his haunches. “Er—do you mind?” He pauses beside him.
“It’s unwise to move behind a trained warrior, and I was taught to protect the people of Uruk.
Disappearing from my view will raise my hackles,” Alad warns.
And indeed, his hide ripples. His claws extend from between his paws like thrown knives, tearing into the remnants of clothing beneath him, as well as the fine rug.
“Though most of the time, I can control my instincts.” He sends me another quick glance.
Heat pools low in my belly at the hint of menace in his tone.
“Quite.” Lord Peterson swallows as Sir Gilead grabs his arm and drags him back to their seats. The two sink as if attached to boulders. “How did you learn our tongue?”
“On my journey across your country, I listened. I also discovered books.” Not by word or action does he deviate from the story I wish him to tell, even though he doesn’t know it. But he’s also not lying.
I begin to relax. Perhaps ruin might be evaded once again.
“But so quickly?” Sir Gilead asks.
“Yes. Lady Mary, might I beg a cup of whatever you’re drinking? I tried drinking the flowing water from the taps, but it tasted foul.”
“London water is not as pure as that found in the country,” I agree as Mary pours for him. “The water from the taps is best used for bathing. Boiling is required should you wish to drink it.”
“Happily, tea is made with boiled water.” She extends the cup to him.
Alad transforms his front two legs into arms and hands to accept the offering. Bringing the brew to his lips, he takes a small sip of the scalding liquid, seemingly unconcerned that we all stare at him.
A wince quickly follows as he swallows.
“It is brewed strong so sugar and cream will not render it undrinkable.” I extend my hand for the cup, which he willingly gives me. After adding the sweetener and milk, I hand it back to him.
After his next sip, he smiles. “Much better, though I don’t recognize the taste.”
We sit in companionable silence, watching Alad drink tea and eat the apple tartes in a surprisingly delicate manner.
“The pastry reminds me of a treat we have in Uruk made of apples, apricots, and cardamom. I particularly enjoyed it with cream whipped from the dairy cattle.”
“You had cream? Cattle?” Lord Peterson sits forward.
“Dairy is an important staple for us. After The Flood, milking farms were quickly established. A people can survive on cheese and milk, at least until crops might be planted and livestock raised.”
“The Flood?” It’s Sir Gilead’s opportunity to sit forward. “As in Noah’s flood?”
Alad tilts his head and deposits his cup and saucer on the table. “Utnapishtim and his boat survived the destructive deluge and carried the seed of every animal, plus two of each type most important to civilization. Such occurred roughly eight thousand years before my time.”
“Remarkable. You mean, of course, the Utnapishtim who is mentioned in The Epic?” Sir Gilead crosses one leg over the other and sits back in his chair. He wears a look I can’t place, though I’ve seen it before on merchants seeking to make an auspicious bargain. Odd, to see it on him now.
“Gil’s story, yes. Char.Lot mentioned it.”
Lord Peterson nods. “If Gil is short for Gilgamesh. He goes in search of immortality and finds Utnapishtim.”
“Which is ridiculous. Gil is as immortal as I am. He wouldn’t care about finding it elsewhere.”
“Perhaps you’d care to read the tale for yourself?
” Lord Peterson asks. “Our translations may be incorrect, and many of the characters are missing. Some fifty-thousand shards were recombined to create the twelve tablets that comprise The Epic. However, only some two thousand of the approximate three thousand five hundred we estimate have been discovered, leaving room for error.”
Alad glances at me. A small smile finds his lips before he winks at me.
A sudden rush of something I can’t name dances through me. He’s so strong. So certain. So… unafraid. I have to restrain my fingers from reaching out and touching him. I want nothing more than to crawl between his legs and nuzzle into the fur of his belly. I could even kiss down to where his…
“You could bring a nuanced interpretation to our understanding, Lord Alad,” Sir Gilead says, seemingly oblivious to our interchange. “But first, I must know, how did you come to be encased in stone for thousands of years?”