"I do not know," Nicodemus admitted on a sigh. "I have never heard that they can be controlled from a distance, but I suppose it is possible. The question would be who is doing the controlling now?"

"We think it is Jean Claude," Julius said quietly.

"What?" Marzzia gasped, giving up the silence she'd kept through the last part of the conversation. "But you said he was dead."

"He was supposed to be dead five hundred years ago too," Julius pointed out.

"Do not settle on him and forget the other two," his father warned. "They too could control her. You must consider all three as possibly being the threat now."

"But we don't know who the other two are," Julius said with frustration.

"They would have to be people he trusted, who were old and strong like he was."

Julius nodded slowly as he considered who the other two might have been.

"Martine and Lucian are old enough," Nicodemus said thoughtfully.

Julius's head shot up at this comment from his father, and his eyes widened with horror.

"Well, they aren't likely to back up the truth about that time, then," Marcus said dryly.

Marguerite set the phone back in its cradle and dropped back into the desk chair with a groan. The fates were against her. She was sure they must be. It was the only explanation for her continued inability to reach Martine and Lucian. She had approached the desk intending to look for the picture, but then she'd spotted the telephone and decided to try to reach Martine and Lucian again instead. The answering machine had picked up at Lucian's on the second ring. She hadn't bothered to leave a message this time, simply hanging up. Marguerite had then tried Martine. The housekeeper had answered and assured her that yes, indeed, Martine was back from London. Unfortunately, she'd gone out to visit a friend. She shouldn't be out too much longer, though, did she want to leave a message?

Frustrated by these repeated attempts and misses, Marguerite had left the number listed on the phone she was using and asked her to have Martine call her back. With her luck, the number on the phone was probably the wrong one, Marguerite thought. She seemed destined to remain in this limbo of not knowing. It was driving her mad.

She made a face and glanced at the desk before her. It wouldn't surprise her if she tried every drawer and came up empty; it really was one of those days. Shaking her head at her doomsday attitude, Marguerite sat up and reached for the top drawer. She was so positive she wouldn't have any success that when she pulled it open and saw the painting, she just stared at it for several minutes.

There were papers on top of the painting, obscuring most of it, but it was definitely the bottom corner of a painting sticking out. Taking a breath, Marguerite reached for it, pausing when she saw that her hand was trembling. Closing her eyes, she squeezed her fingers into a tight fist, holding it for a moment before releasing it, and then she opened her eyes and lifted the picture out from beneath the papers.

Marguerite dropped back in the seat, her eyes swimming over the image on the canvas with amazement. It was her...and not her. At least not a her she knew. The features were the exact same, the shape and color of her eyes, the shade and wave of her hair, the full, bowed lips, the straight nose...

But this was not the woman she saw in the mirror each morning. That woman could feign a smile with the best of them, but they rarely reached her eyes. Only her children could really make her smile, and then that was only recently. For the last six hundred to almost seven hundred years, the eyes that had met hers in the mirror had been sad and lonely. Neither description fit the Marguerite in the painting.

Her clothes were fifteenth-century wear, a long forest green gown. And the artist had been a true artiste. He'd caught the sparkle of laughter in her eyes and had somehow made happiness radiate from every brushstroke. The woman in the image glowed with love and joy...and she was heavy with child.

"Christian," she breathed, brushing one finger over her swollen stomach in the portrait. He hadn't mentioned this bit of information, but it was now obvious why he'd assumed the woman was his mother.

Her gaze drifted over the image again, this time stopping on her throat. A medal hung there from a chain. It was a gold St. Christopher's medal, portraying a bearded man with a staff in his hand and a bundle on his back. Well done as it was, Marguerite couldn't make out these details in the portrait. She knew because she recalled the medal. She'd worn it every day of her life from the moment her eldest son, Lucern, had given it to her when he was a boy of eighteen. He'd purchased it with his earnings from his first mercenary job and presented it to her on her birthday. She'd never taken it off, not to sleep, to bathe...never. And yet one day she'd noticed it was missing. That was about five hundred years ago. The loss had upset her greatly at the time.

"It's in the drawer."

Marguerite gave a start of surprise and glanced guiltily toward the door as Vita closed it and crossed the room.

"The necklace," she explained, "it's in the drawer as well."

Marguerite glanced down into the drawer and spotted the end of a gold chain sticking out from beneath the papers. Reaching out, she tugged it forward with her finger, and then picked it up.

"You gave that to my brother the day he left to take my sister, Mila, to court. You told him it would bring him back safely to you."

"I thought I lost it," she whispered, peering at the medal.

"I suppose in a way you did," Vita murmured.

They were both silent for a minute, and then Marguerite cleared her throat and said, "Julius said he would show me the painting when we got here, but he was busy with your parents, so I came..."

"Snooping?" Vita suggested, the words softened by a smile. "I'm afraid I would have too. I am not the most patient soul. I come by it naturally. My mother isn't very patient either, though she'll deny it to her death." She made a face. "It is unladylike to be impatient, you understand."

Marguerite smiled wryly and admitted, "Then I am afraid I'm not very ladylike."

"We should get along well, then," Vita said with a laugh. "My parents despair of me. My interests are too masculine; hunting, riding, battle, and the business. They were terribly glad when Julius was born and could take over helping Father to handle family business. They were sure I would come to enjoy more feminine pursuits then."

"And have you?" Marguerite asked.

"No," she admitted with a laugh. "I love business. I think fate cheated me and I was meant to be a boy."

"Business," Marguerite said softly, a memory clicking into place. "Of course, you are the sister who was helping Julius with the business while he was in England."

Vita grimaced, a flicker of anger flashing briefly in her eyes. "Helping with the business? Is that what he called it?" she asked with disgust. "I could build a castle singlehandedly and a man would say I helped out." She heaved a sigh. "Men! You can't live with them and you can't kill them. What can you do?"

Marguerite bit her lip and glanced down at the picture in her hand to hide the sparkle of amusement in her eyes. She'd often heard similar complaints from her daughter and supposed she'd made a few herself.

She sensed Vita leaning over her shoulder to peer at the picture as well. They were both silent for a moment, then Vita said, "Everyone knows about this picture and the necklace in the drawer. It's hard to keep a secret in this family."

"Does Julius know you all know?"

Vita straightened, her expression thoughtful as she considered the question. "I don't think so. At least, no one has said anything to him as far as I know, not in all the five hundred years that he has kept your picture here." She glanced at the portrait again and said sadly, "You were both so happy back then. Julius had always been happy by nature, but...when he found you..." She shook her head. "I have never seen him like that." She gave a little sigh. "It was all so tragic when we thought you'd broken his heart and tried to kill his child."

Marguerite winced at the words.

"Julius changed overnight. There was no more laughter, no more smiles. He was so unhappy. We thought it would ease with time, but it has been five hundred years."

Marguerite swallowed unhappily and made an effort at changing the subject. "Did I know you too?"

"Not well," Vita said, her eyes still examining the picture. "You and Julius were a bit wrapped up in each other at first as is natural. Actually," she gave a laugh and said almost apologetically, "it was kind of sickening at the time. You were constantly making eyes at each other and touching each other. You couldn't stand to be apart. I was half jealous and half appalled to think that I might someday behave like that when I met my lifemate."

Marguerite didn't take offense at the comment. She'd borne witness to her own children's discovery of their lifemates and knew exactly what she was talking about. She had found herself both happy for them in their joy, and at the same time, a touch envious and almost depressed that she didn't have that. It was hard to be alone when there were happy couples around. It made you wonder what was wrong with you.

"But then," Vita continued, "when it all fell apart, I almost found myself wishing for a return of the lovey-dovey business that came before."

"God, he was so in love with you, and so miserable without you. The man moped endlessly." She frowned then glanced at Marguerite and said, "I overheard Julius telling Mother and Father that you don't remember anything from that period. Is that true?"

Marguerite nodded unhappily, her gaze sliding back to the picture as she tried to recall posing for it.

"Nothing at all?" Vita pressed.

"Nothing," Marguerite admitted unhappily.

Vita patted her shoulder. "I'm sure they'll return in time."

"Do you really think so?" she asked, eager to believe that.

"Well, Dante and Tommaso were saying that you named all your dogs Julius."

"Yes, I have," Marguerite realized. In all this excitement and upset it hadn't occurred that she'd named her dogs Julius, every one, over several centuries. It was a lot of dogs.

"And dogs are faithful and loyal and give love freely much like my brother," she pointed out and then nodded. "I think you must have memories still in there somewhere. Perhaps they're just locked away where you can't reach them at present."

Marguerite hoped that was true. Not that it would make much difference to her feelings. She had fallen in love with the man all over again and now that she had seen the portrait, she was quite sure what he'd said was true. Jean Claude had somehow wiped her memory, made her leave Julius, and tried to make her have her own child killed.

Thank God for the maid, Magda, Marguerite thought and then frowned as she recalled she had apparently murdered the poor woman for failing her.

"He was really angry about that," Vita commented, and when Marguerite glanced at her with wide eyes, she said, "I'm sorry. It's rude to read you, I know, but he is my little brother and I wouldn't want to see him hurt again. He was crushed when you returned to your husband the last time. You aren't going to do that again, are you?"

"Jean Claude is dead," Marguerite said, but wondered if it was true.

"Yes, well, he was supposed to be dead the last time too," Vita pointed out.

"So I've been told," she murmured, beginning to fret. Jean Claude was dead. He had to be.

"So, you wouldn't return to him if it turned out he was still alive?" Vita pressed and then added quickly, "It is just that I know what Julius can be like in a fury and while he was heartbroken for himself, he was furious about Christian. But he isn't naturally cruel, so if he was a bit mean to you when the two of you first met again in England-"

"He wasn't," Marguerite assured her quickly, but thought he would have had every right to be.

"Good." Vita nodded and turned away. "I should go see if they're done talking yet. We were on our way to the office to discuss a project I want the company to bid on when Father insisted on stopping here to see if Julius was back yet."

Marguerite waited until the door had closed behind the woman and then peered down at the portrait and necklace in her hands. Her gaze slid over the woman in the image and she thought to herself that she could be that woman again...glowing with love and happiness. The possibility made her heart ache with yearning.

And then her gaze slid to the St. Christopher's medal and Marguerite thought that she'd been right when she'd given it to Julius. It was going to bring him back safely to her, because it convinced her more than the portrait that he'd told the truth. The medal had meant a great deal to her. She wouldn't have given it to just anyone, and she'd never taken it off. Giving it to someone she loved and who was heading out on a journey was the only reason she would have willingly taken it off. St. Christopher was the patron saint of travelers, or at least he had been back then. He had been decanonized during the late twentieth century she knew.

But Marguerite had no problem believing she'd taken it off and placed it around the neck of the man who had made her as happy as the woman in the portrait.

Now she just had to tell him that.

Closing her hand around the necklace, she slid the painting back into its spot under the papers, then closed the drawer and stood up. Marguerite hurried for the door, slipped into the hall and was rushing back toward the stairs when she nearly crashed into Tiny and Christian coming around the corner from the opposite direction.

"Marguerite!" Tiny looked relieved to see her as he caught her arms to steady her. "We were worried when we couldn't find you in your room. You were supposed to wait for us."

"Yes, I know, but I-" She shook her head, unwilling to take the time explaining. Instead she glanced to Christian. "Where is your father?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "We were going to look for him if we couldn't find you. His luggage is missing from the hall. Maybe he took it up to his room after my grandparents left."

Nodding, Marguerite tried to move around them, but Tiny held on.

"Wait a minute. What about the tour Christian was supposed to give us? I've talked him into showing us the portrait."

"I've seen it," she admitted. "It's lovely. Go take a look. I have to talk to Julius."

Breaking free then, Marguerite hurried upstairs and along the hall to her room. She slid inside, crossed to the connecting bathroom and hurried through it to the door to his room and then paused, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

What should she say? Marguerite stood, biting her lip and simply staring at the door for a moment, then let her breath out on a small tsk of annoyance. She believed him. The painting and necklace had convinced her. Surely that was a good thing and what he wanted?

Everything will be all right, Marguerite assured herself and reached for the doorknob. She would know what to say as soon as she saw him.

Fifteen.

Julius laid his suitcase on the bed, and began to unpack with a sense of relief. He was glad to be home, he was glad to have Marguerite here with him, and he was glad that he'd managed to convince his parents to leave and not interfere. It was a good day.

Smiling at his own thoughts, Julius began tossing dirty clothes into a hamper in his dressing room, and setting what still clean clothes were left on the shelves. He'd promised to keep his parents informed as to what was happening and what he learned. The problem was he didn't really know where to go from here. His main concern was to keep Marguerite safe. Beyond that he wasn't sure what to do. He needed to find out who was behind the attacks in London and York. His instincts told him it was that damned Jean Claude. The man had stolen his happiness more than five hundred years ago, and Julius was sure he was trying to steal it again. But his father had warned him not to focus on Jean Claude and ignore the possibility of another being behind the attack. So he had to try to find out who it was.

If the incident where Marguerite had been controlled was connected to the other two attacks, then the person behind these assaults had to be one of the three people who performed the three-on-one on her. His father thought the most likely suspects were Martine and Lucian. That was a problem. Marguerite was supposed to call one or both of them for back-up proof of his claims, but if they were involved, they weren't likely to back him up. They'd hide it. He supposed that would be proof that they were involved, but it was also likely to make Marguerite decide he was lying and leave.

Julius wasn't sure of the motive for the attacks either. Jean Claude hadn't tried to kill her back then, but had taken her back like a toy he'd abandoned and then regained interest only when he saw someone else playing happily with it. What reason would the man have to want her dead? As far as Julius could tell, the other two involved wouldn't have any motive at all...unless it had something to do with the past and the fact that she was snooping into it now. Did someone want the past to stay buried? Or did they want to keep him and Marguerite apart? Or perhaps both?

These were all things Julius had to sort out and he hadn't a clue how to go about it. He wasn't even sure how to find out for certain whether Jean Claude was dead or not. The only thing he could think was to have someone dig up his grave, although that wouldn't prove anything if he was a pile of ashes.

Julius sighed with frustration and returned to his suitcase for another stack of clothes, his concerns turning to the more immediate problem of keeping Marguerite from calling Martine and Lucian.

The click of his door opening made him pause and glance about, his eyebrows flying up when he saw Marguerite standing in the door of the bathroom between his room and the one she occupied. They then lowered with concern when he saw her stark expression.

"Marguerite? Are you all right?" he asked, laying the clothes back in the suitcase and starting toward her with concern.

"I was in your study," she announced. "I saw the painting."

He waited, uncertain what was coming next.

"Did I tell you where I got this?"

Julius shifted his gaze to the chain she dangled from her fingers. The St. Christopher's medal. His muscles slowly relaxed.

"Did I?" Marguerite asked, starting slowly forward.

"Your son," he said, "it meant a great deal to you because of that. You said you never took it off, but when I left with Marcus to take Mila to court, it was our first time apart. You took it off and asked me to wear it to ensure I returned safely to you."

Julius saw a tear slip out from under her lashes and frowned. Moving forward, he placed a finger beneath her chin and urged her face up. When she opened her eyes, he told her, "I took it off when I brought Christian back to Italy, and I threw it out the window in a fury."

Her eyes widened slightly at the claim and he admitted, "Which was foolish, because it took me two nights of crawling around in the grass with a candle to find it again." Her lips began to spread in a smile and he shrugged. "I couldn't throw it away. I felt like it was throwing us away and I guess I hoped it would bring us safely back together again someday as you promised."

"And it has," Marguerite whispered and leaned up to kiss him.

She believed him, Julius realized with relief. The necklace and portrait had been proof enough for her and Marguerite trusted him. He let his breath out on a silent prayer of thanks to God and slid his arms around this precious woman. He had gamboled through life until he'd met her the first time, enjoying all it had to offer, but never really fully experiencing any of it until meeting her. With Marguerite the nights had sparkled, and life had seemed filled with endless possibilities. And when he'd lost her, all that light and sparkle and possibility had seeped away, leaving life a sepia silent film. But he had her back now, and he'd never let her go, Julius thought...and then they both stilled as a knock sounded at the door.

"Ignore it," he murmured, drawing her toward the bed and pushing the suitcase off.