Love's Sacrifice Read online

  Love’s Sacrifice

  Georgia Le Carre

  This book is specially dedicated to

  all those who have loved Lana and Blake.

  Smashwords Edition

  Editor: http://www.loriheaford.com/

  Proofreader: http://nicolarhead.wix.com/proofreadingservices

  Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Le Carre

  The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9929969-4-9

  You can discover more information about Georgia Le Carre and future releases here.

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  This is your cup—the cup assigned to you from the beginning.

  Nay, my child, I know how much of that dark drink is your own brew.

  —Swami Vivekanander

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  POV

  Synopsis

  One

  Victoria Jane Montgomery

  I wake up in the dark, alone, cold…and restrained: leather belts on my ankles and wrists. My wrist shackles are so tight they are chaffing. I feel groggy and sick and quite frankly scared. I lift my head, look down and see that I am dressed in a hospital gown and robe.

  My head throbs relentlessly, but I widen my eyes despite the blinding pain and cast them at the shadows and shapes around me. As my eyes become accustomed to the darkness I see that I am in a room, empty but for me and the bed I am lying in. There are no windows, only a large metal door with a covered peephole.

  I listen intently. Not a single sound. Even my own breathing seems noiseless. Then: in the distance I hear the grate of a key in a metal lock. A woman wails down a corridor. The sound echoes eerily. A heavy door slams shut with a clanking sound and the impenetrable silence returns.

  I cough. The sound is loud and unnatural in the bare coldness of my surroundings.

  They have cut me away, their own daughter, and abandoned me here, in this mad house. Why did I not expect this? Why am I so surprised? Because I’m NOT mad. There is darkness in my head, but my mind is bright and alive. Razor sharp.

  ‘You’re here for a rest,’ the large, spectacularly ugly nurse said, when two orderlies hauled me into the hospital’s reception area, kicking and screaming. She sounded conciliatory.

  As an answer I bit her like a wild animal. Big mistake. She screamed like a banshee, they stuck a needle into my arm, and I lost that argument. My father stood back, staring, disbelief etched on his horrified face.

  ‘Take me home, please,’ I whispered to him before blackness came to take me. I guess he ignored my plea.

  And now, here I am, in this cold functional cell. Angry tears gather in my eyes and flow down my temples and into my hair. The fury rages until it becomes a sickening, powerless sorrow. I wallow in it until a sound inside the room rouses me.

  My senses on high alert, I jerk my head towards it. It seems to be coming from the left of me. It is too dark to see anything, but it sounds like the flapping of wings. Bats or birds. Adrenaline pumps through my body. Strapped down, I am easy prey for whatever is in the room with me. For the first time in my life I feel terrified. The temperature in the room drops suddenly and an inexplicable freezing cold descends upon me.

  Utterly terrified, I begin to shiver violently.

  I scream when my shackles are suddenly and miraculously loosened. Shocked, I pull my shaking limbs out of them and sit up. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear my blood roaring in my ears. For a moment I think my mind is playing tricks on me, but no—light is slowly filtering into the room, diluting the blackness.

  My pupils are so widely dilated and my retinas so exposed by the blackness that I have to shield my eyes with my hands. The light is coming from what appears to be another entrance—one I had not noticed before. It is covered by floor length, thick red curtains. I drop my feet to the ground. The floor is ice cold, damp and clammy. I stand slowly. The room reeks of old metal. As if in a trance I walk towards the concealed entrance and draw the curtains back. I stand before antique, etched, leaded and stained glass doors. Through the glass I see a full, blood-red moon glowing in an unrelievedly black sky.

  I experience no fear.

  I push open the beautiful doors and enter a stone balcony. It is decorated with gothic friezes and gargoyles, and it is totally alien to, totally at odds with the bare, functional room I have been in. It almost feels as if I have stepped back in time or into a different dimension. The stone is freezing cold on my bare feet and the temperature is that of a winter night. My breath frosts in the wintery air, and yet I feel as warm as a sunned cat.

  There is a sudden crash of thunder and the black sky splits open. As I watch, bright, shining light pours out of the crack. It turns into the shape of a very large bird that flies down. It lands on the balustrade in front of me and becomes utterly motionless. Its silence and stillness are such that it is deathlike.

  I gaze at it, this creature, this presence, with awe. It is the most splendid thing I have ever seen. Brilliantly colored and shimmering, its head is in profile so only one crimson eye is exposed to me. And all of a sudden, with a surge of joy, I understand: I am looking at the all-seeing eye. It is the great one Himself. El! He has taken the form of the phoenix that is on my family’s coat of arms. He has come for me! I have not been deserted.

  You are Victoria Jane Montgomery.

  His voice reverberates inside my brain, piercing, intrusive and shocking. My hands shoot upward to grip either side of my head as I drop to my knees. I experience no pain as my kneecaps strike the stone floor. Only swallowed and possessed from within.

  ‘Master,’ I whisper from my prone position.

  Your bloodline and heritage are pristine and privileged… A gift.

  I turn my awed gaze up to the unblinking ruby stare that has seen it all. The ruby eye becomes darker and darker until it is a black hole that I am traveling inside. Thousands of years of the sublime and the profane open up to me like a blood-sodden flower.

  The air leaves my lungs.

  And ancient knowledge pours from the great bird like lava from a mountain. With it comes the knowing that this place will not contain me one moment longer than I decree. This is not a place of purgatory, but a sanctuary where I may lay my plans and grow to unimaginable heights. I see now that I am the chosen one. My brother has been and a
lways will be weak. I will be the head of the Montgomery dynasty. I will bring chaos. I have been chosen to do so.

  Then the great bird opens its magnificent wings and flies away, and I am back in bed, restrained, my heart racing.

  But transformed, illuminated and imaginably powerful.

  I smile.

  I am one of the chosen ones.

  My only sin was to love and love too well. It was a mistake. I see that now. I wasted myself on him. Still, I have learned from it so it was a useful mistake. This place will not be the end of me. Never again will they stick a needle in me. I will affect submissive docility. I will beat them at their own game. I notice that they have cut my elegant nails to the quick. No matter. I will beat them at their own game. I am NOT mad. I don’t belong within these walls. This is only the temporary seat of my power. From here I will destroy the man who tried to destroy me.

  Blake Law Barrington—you thought you could put me out like trash, and someone would come along and remove me from your life… Foolish man. I know a secret, a secret so explosive that it will turn to dust the very foundations of the life you have built. I will have my revenge.

  With a single, brutal blow I will bring you to your fucking knees.

  Two

  Lana Barrington

  No matter what has happened. No matter what you have done. No matter what you will do. I will always love you. I swear it.

  —Defiance, C. J. Redwine

  He turns towards me. In the firelight he is impossibly chiseled, his eyes light and piercing, a hint of mystery about the corners of his mouth. We are on the first leg of our honeymoon, in the middle of the desert. Blake hired an old-fashioned camel caravan because he wanted us to mimic the ancient journeys of the silk road.

  I stare at his beauty, memorizing it for the days when we will be old, feeble and sitting on a swing waiting for our grandchildren to come around, and they will be many.

  ‘I want another child,’ I tell him.

  He reaches for me, his eyes suddenly dark and unfathomable. ‘Not yet, Lana. We will have them, as many as you desire, boys and girls, but for a little while let me have you and Sorab to myself. I have never been so happy. Just for a year I wish for nothing more than only the three of us. Our little family.’

  I smile at him. ‘One year?’

  He nods, as hopeful as a child.

  I laugh. ‘OK.’

  He pours tequila into two glasses. Shakes salt on the sides of our fists. It is strange drinking tequila in the desert. I look up at the night sky. Slow magic. The stars are shining like white-flamed candles in a pitch-black background, and there are so many shooting stars they seem to be raining down on us.

  ‘Besides,’ he adds. ‘I want you to be able to do everything you ever wanted to, go where you haven’t, see what you haven’t, and experience it all. You will be pregnant when you’re twenty-three, and four, and five, for as many times as you desire.’

  ‘I only want three,’ I protest with a laugh. And then my voice becomes serious. ‘But I want to adopt a couple, too.’

  He raises an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to change a child’s life,’ I explain. ‘To take it away from a situation where it could never prosper and give it everything I am able to.’

  ‘The house is certainly big enough’.

  ‘Thank you, my darling.’ I lean forward and kiss him chastely on his cheek. My mouth lingers. He moves so it is his mouth on my cheek.

  ‘The last time,’ he says softly against my cheek, ‘I missed everything. This time I want it all. I want to see your belly grow big with our child, your ankles swell up, and I want to be there when his or her head shows, and you are screaming blue murder. I want to wake up at ungodly hours and watch you feed them.’

  ‘Stop, you’re putting me off.’

  He takes my hand gently. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  The fire crackles. I move back and gaze at the hawk-like noses of the cameleers gathered around another fire a few yards away, to listen to an old man with a narrow, deeply wrinkled face tell stories. His voice is a hoarse whisper. The long sleeves of his gray tunic rise in a sweeping dramatic movement to point at some boulders in the distance. I wonder what tale he is weaving for them.

  He strokes his beard, his eyes shining in the light, and the circle of men, squatting on their heels, lean forward eagerly, thrusting their heads out like lizards. I turn toward Blake. In the firelight he is watching me.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘‘When I saw you standing at the edge of the dance floor in your ruined dress, looking so lost and fragile, I felt like someone had stabbed me right in the heart. And yet you were more dignified and beautiful in your disgrace than any well-bred, stiff upper lip royalty.’

  I shake my head; the memory is fresh and hurtful. ‘No, I wasn’t brave at all. I wanted to run away. I was so embarrassed. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. All those people gawking at me, some secretly pleased, others pitying. I honestly thought our wedding was totally ruined.’

  I press my fingers to his lips. ‘But then you came and caught me up in your eyes and swept me into that dance. And suddenly, it was as if I was in a beautiful dream. I forgot everyone else—no one and nothing mattered, except you and me and our love for each other.’

  ‘Because no one and nothing matters except you and me and Sorab.’

  ‘And Billie and Jack,’ I add impishly.

  He remains serious. ‘And all our other children when they come along.’

  I take his serious tone. ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

  He looks away from me, and stares unseeing into the leaping fire close to us. ‘After you left with Billie I went to see her. I was so furious I wanted to kill her. I had to clench my hands into hard fists and hold them tight against my sides when I saw her, but almost instantly, I realized that something was very wrong with her. I had become an obsession. She was mad in a way I had never suspected. She didn’t need to be punched, she needed psychiatric help. So I called her father and he agreed to commit her to an asylum.’ He turns back to face me and looks deeply into my eyes. His voice is strong and edged with some deep emotion. ‘She will never bother you again.’

  ‘What about when she comes out?’

  ‘She won’t come out until she is diagnosed as well again. The tests she will have to pass are very rigorous and mean continuous observation over a long period. It will be impossible for her or anyone to fool the panel of psychiatrists. And I will be kept abreast of all her development.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’ I pause. ‘Blake, how safe is Sorab?’

  He frowns. ‘From her?’

  ‘No, not from her. Just generally.’

  ‘He is very safe. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Even the president of America is not so safe that he can’t be assassinated.’

  ‘The president of America is assassinated if and when his controllers decide he is no longer a good puppet for them. Otherwise, he is impossible to assassinate.’

  ‘My mother once told me a king is always killed by his courtiers.’

  ‘That’s true, too. Only they know the weakest spot to strike.’

  ‘Who are your courtiers?’

  ‘Why are you so afraid?’

  ‘Because you are.’

  He jerks his head in surprise, but I carry on.

  ‘I feel your fear all the time. I feel it in the constant surveillance we are subjected to, in your voice, in your body. Who are we being protected from, Blake?’

  ‘No one. I’m just a very thorough and cautious man. I don’t trust anyone and I would rather be safe than sorry. Now tell me.’ He smiles. ‘Is this the kind of conversation a girl has with her husband on her honeymoon?’

  I laugh. It’s a nervous twitter, but it seems enough for him.

  ‘What happened to the panties with the lacy bits and the new techniques from London, you little minx?’

  I stand. ‘Come into my tent in five minutes and I�
�ll show you.’ Then I turn and walk away, purposely swaying my hips in an exaggerated manner, so the robes swing tantalizingly around my body. At the tent entrance I turn to look at him. He is a silhouette, watching. And, for some reason, tense.

  Slightly confused, I enter the tent, and stand for a moment behind the tent flap. I love Blake with all my heart, but his secrets are like a chasm between us. I get that he is trying to protect Sorab and me, but it pains me terribly to know that I have been deemed unsuitable to share his burdens.

  For a moment, I close my eyes and give myself a talking to. This is your honeymoon, Lana Barrington. Are you going to spoil it? No, I’m not. I’m going to remember tonight as one of the best times of my life. I open my eyes and look anew at the magic that surrounds me. It is as if we have gone back in time. I note the wood stove, the cheap artificial carpets, the oil burning brass lamps, the antique wind-up gramophone, and the low bed, its orange silk sheets strewn with rose petals: our marriage bed. The smiling boy, Abdul, has done this.

  It is a sweet touch.

  The illusion is so perfect it is almost impossible to think that another world with Internet access, and automobiles, and TVs, and all manner of modern conveniences, exists. Strange, but I almost prefer this, this uncivilized existence. Meager and brutal, but real and honest.

  Perhaps, in an odd sort of way, I have already nearly exhausted the trappings of wealth. I no longer care if my handbag has a Chanel logo on it. In fact, by a strange reversal I see the fake Chanel bag as the intelligent choice. The owners of the fake bags are the smart ones. They have understood a logic that the rest of us have been blinded to by clever marketing. Why pay seven thousand pounds for a bag you can get for twenty-five at the market? Especially since some of the fakes are so good the difference cannot be seen by the naked eye. A great con indeed.

  My eyes return to the gramophone and my lips widen with pleasure. Blake remembered. I told him my grandfather had had one similar to this. I walk towards it. It is made of wood and it smells of lemon oil. I stroke the lovingly polished wood. I know exactly how to work it. Beside it there are new needles in a plastic bag. I take one out, and, carefully unscrewing the thumbscrew, insert the flat end of the needle into the hole. Cautiously, I screw it back on, as my grandfather stands over my left shoulder, saying in his gravelly voice, ‘Be very, very careful, Azizam, the thumbscrew can be anywhere from sixty to a hundred years old.’