Emma was patient, but Alaric’s contradictory behavior was testing even her limits. She was a practical sort and didn’t require words to tell her that he cared for her, enjoyed her company—his actions in this regard spoke clearly. Why, then, was he simultaneously trying to erect a wall between them?
Perhaps he was adjusting to being a husband.
Well, she’d given him five days. That was long enough.
Arriving at the door to his study, she marched in, ready to do battle if necessary to get her answers.
“Good morning, pet.” Rising from his desk, he came to her. The smile that warmed his eyes turned her knees to water. “You look good enough to eat.”
Her wits scattered. Breathlessly, she said, “So do you.”
“I’ve created a monster. Lucky me,” he murmured as he drew her in for his kiss.
The entry of a footman—followed by his hasty apology and retreat—made them come up for air.
“Goodness, what will the servants think of us?” Emma said with a flustered laugh.
“They’ll think I’m a red-blooded Scotsman with an itch for his wife.”
As tempted as Emma was to give into the seductive gleam in his eyes, she knew they had matters to address. She smoothed her skirts and, to distract herself from licentious impulses, wandered a safe distance over to the shelves that covered the far wall of the room.
As she tried to marshal her thoughts and strategy, her gaze caught on an object. Sitting alone on a shelf and encased in a glass box, the Grecian urn looked ancient: its ebony glaze was crackled, one of the two curving handles missing. Nonetheless, the red-brown drawings on its surface remained intact and raised goose pimples on her skin.
She recognized that figure. The soldier with the crested helmet, his anguished expression, those raised fists pounding against the walls of the urn for eternity.
She’d seen that same character depicted in that horrid painting in Alaric’s bedroom.
Intuition flashed: what significance did this suffering soldier have for Alaric? Why did this ravaged figure invade his innermost sanctuaries?
“Who is that?” she said, pointing at the urn. “The man, I mean. He’s the same one in that painting you have in London, isn’t he?”
Silence. For an instant, she thought he might not respond.
“That’s Ares. The Greek God of War,” Alaric said tonelessly. “The painting and urn depict a myth about him.”
Foreboding crept over her. “What is the myth about?”
“According to legend, Ares was born of immaculate conception. His mother, the goddess Hera, conceived him on her own to gain revenge on her unfaithful husband Zeus. Not surprisingly, Zeus felt no kinship toward Ares, who was not of his blood.” Alaric retreated behind his desk, shuffling papers as he continued to tell the story with cool detachment. “After giving birth, Hera’s vengeance was accomplished so she, too, was indifferent to the child. Thus, when Ares one day went missing, neither of his parents noticed—or cared particularly.”
Emma’s throat cinched. “What happened to him?”
“Being a lad, he liked to play with his friends. It happened that he chose his friends poorly.” Alaric shrugged. “He got caught up with a pair of Giants—twins with a nasty sense of humor. For fun, they trapped him in a bronze jar and locked the lid. They held him captive for years, and the isolation almost made him lose his mind.”
She couldn’t bear the bleakness of his tone. She crossed over to him, yet the wintry cast of his eyes warned her not to approach too closely.
Facing him across the desk, she said, “How did Ares get out?”
“Another god ended up freeing him. Ever since that incident, however, Ares was filled with uncontrollable fury and a taste for destruction. He was mindlessly aggressive—it wasn’t for nothing that he became the God of War. Needless to say, the other gods didn’t like him much.”
“He was misunderstood,” Emma said fiercely. “All he needed was love and compassion.”
“He was a bastard—unloved and unwanted.” To her disbelief, Alaric turned back to his papers. “Now if there’s nothing else, I have work to—”
“Why does Ares matter to you?” she said.
Alaric flicked a glance at her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s in your bedchamber, your study. You named your deerhounds after his companions. Surely there must be a reason for it.”
