Lord of Ice by Gaelen Foley Read Free Book Online

in Birmingham. He decided to pay him a visit. There could be no harm in that. He quickly doffed his dusty traveling clothes and dressed in his uniform, deliberately leaving his dress sword and pistol behind. Though he felt rather naked going out at night in a strange city without his weapons, the world would be safer if he did not bring them. His mood improving at the thought of seeing old Georgie again, he jogged down the stairs and asked the concierge for directions to the local barracks, then set out on foot, heading east through the city.
    As instructed, he made his way to Cole’s Hill and down Belmont Row. 'Sblood, he seemed to pass a wench on every street corner, he thought, each one prettier than the last, murmuring soft invitations to him as he marched by, trying to lure him off the straight and narrow. He kept his stare ahead in staunch resolution. Turning right onto Duddeston Street, he saw the barracks and breathed a sigh of relief to have escaped the sirens’ calls.
    When he went in, the junior officers on duty greeted him joyously and made much of him. His cheeks flushed at their praise. Gruffly he asked for Morris.
    “He’s gone down to the Pavilion to watch the show,” the subaltern said.
    “The Pavilion?” Damien asked.
    “An amphitheater down the road. The circuit company comes in once a month. Only blasted thing there is to do around here.”
    “Aye, but they’ve got the prettiest dancing girls in the county,” the other sergeant added with a grin.
    Damien stared at him. He swallowed hard. “Dancing girls?”
    “Aye, Colonel. I can send a lad down there to fetch Colonel Morris for you.”
    “No, I, ah, think I’ll go look for him myself,” Damien said gingerly, already heading for the door. “Got nothing else to do.”
    “Enjoy, my lord!” they called after him, laughing, winking at each other knowingly.
    A few minutes later, Damien bought his painted wooden token at the door and walked into the bright, noisy, chaotic Pavilion Theater, blinking against the light from the three large chandeliers that burned brightly above. Underfoot, a layer of straw had been thrown down to soak up the mud and melting snow from the audience’s shoes. It rustled under Damien’s boots as he stalked into the mobbed theater. At Bayley House, he had grown unaccustomed to so much color and clamor. It put him on edge.
    He stood in the aisle with his back to the stage, scanning the double-tiered horseshoe of seats for his friend. He had hoped to pick Morris out easily by his uniform, but a full third of the audience were soldiers in red coats. With a distracted frown, he searched the sea of faces, brushing off an ale seller, quite indifferent to the exploits of the cape-and-dagger hero in the Gothic musical playing out on stage. Indifferent, that was, until he heard the voice.
    Her voice.
    No shrill soprano, the woman’s voice was a sensuous alto that brimmed with velvet warmth. Its rich, smoky timbre captured his senses and made him go still. From his vantage point, he saw the calming effect it had on the mob, as well. Intrigued, he turned around, saw the singer, and dropped his jaw.
    His mouth watered; his eyes glazed over; his gaze swept the young beauty’s tall, statuesque form. Damn, he thought, she was all . . . luscious curves. He had a vague impression of luxuriant, chocolate-brown hair cascading down her back, but was so enthralled with her skimpy costume, abundant breasts, and robust hips that it was at least two or three full minutes before his lustful stare traveled up to her face.
    He felt his heart skip a beat. Good God. Heart-stoppingly lovely, she was, an angel’s face to match that golden voice. Roses on snow, he thought. Ruby lips, creamy skin, sparkling emerald eyes. The bold beauty appeared to be in her early twenties. He scrambled to borrow a program from the fellow next to him and found the name of the actress playing the heroine in The Venetian Outlaw . Staring at her, he handed the