Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (20 page)

"I told you, I was angry. I was thinking that I clearly didn't have very much choice in this and that I was going to be married to someone I didn't even know." He let out a slow breath. "And I knew your father. I wasn't... hopeful of much."

"You thought I was going to be an overbearing troll with a big nose and thick dark brows and piercing eyes that squint a little, didn't you?"

"Are you certain you cannot see a thing? That sounds very much like your father."

"I know his face," she admitted. "It's the only one I remember."

"I was thinking," he said slowly, as if chewing over the words, "that your father is not a very nice man at times. I couldn't imagine his daughter being... well, being you."

"What does that mean?"

"You are not at all like your father."

Cleo resumed her walk, taking slower steps. Sebastian, her fiancé, fell into step, which was possibly the strangest thought she'd ever had to encounter.
My fiancé
. What strange words. They didn't feel real. None of this felt real.

"
Do
you think I'm pretty?" she asked, tilting her head up at him.

This
was a secretive silence, full of a sudden tension between them. She was beginning to like his silences. They told her so much.

"You are not... without your charms."

Cleo burst into laughter. "Do you know, I quite think you've never courted a young lady before, have you?"

"No." The word was bleak and a little cold. "What was required of me was never courtship. I could tell you that you were the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen, but none of it would matter. I have seen beautiful women before and thought them the ugliest monsters I've ever encountered."

What a strange way to refer to it—it
was never courtship
... She felt something akin to a chill run over her skin. "I'm sorry."

"For?" The shadows in his voice fell away.

"You sounded sad," she said. "I hate it when people are sad. There is too much of it in the world."

"It's not sadness, Miss Sinclair. I'm angry." This was a whisper. "I'm very, very angry, and it terrifies me. Sometimes I think it's going to eat me alive."

Cleo's skirts swished in the grass. "You shouldn't be afraid of yourself, Bastian."

"Bastian?"

Cleo hid a small smile. "I like the sound of it. We may as well be familiar. I know it's very fast, considering I only just met you, but then my father did barter me away in marriage to you. And you sound nice. I can trust you."

"Miss Sinclair—"

"Trust me." She deliberately bumped against his arm, swinging her basket happily. "I know these things."

"But you know me not at all. I have done... a great many things that I am not proud of. Indeed, I begin to wonder if there is
anything
to be proud of."

That stalled her. He felt so
right
to her, that it had to be her seer abilities. She'd never been wrong about a person before. "Did you mean to do any of these things?"

"No."

"Then why did you do them?"

"Miss Sinclair, it's not—"

"I won't tell anyone. I am very good at keeping secrets."

They walked along for a few moments.

"My mother, Morgana, is a sorceress. A long time ago, she felt she was wronged, and she has vowed to bring her vengeance upon those who wronged her. I–I—"

"She makes you do bad things, doesn't she?" Cleo whispered. "Why do you not tell her no?"

"I cannot. It's not as easy as making a choice." His voice hardened. "When she wants something, there is very little one can do to stop her. She finds ways to force your hand."

Of that, Cleo could understand a little. "She threatens those who surround you?"

He breathed out a bitter laugh. "Sometimes. When I was twelve, she gave me a gift. It was a Sclavus Collar. She told me to put it on, that it was a great present indeed. So I did."

Cleo sucked in a sharp breath. She'd only once heard of such a thing, a collar that could force incredible pain upon its bearer and turn them to the will of another who wore the matching ring. It made her feel sick. Twelve... Just twelve. A little boy betrayed by his own mother. She didn't even know what to say. "But that is forbidden."

"You do not know my mother. She fears my powers." He echoed that laugh again, a sound full of blood and hate that made her a little uneasy. "She should. If I had one chance, just one, I would cut her down where she stood. What does that make of me? Do you think I am a nice man now?" There was a darkness to his voice that threatened to suck her into prediction. "You would be better off never knowing me."

"Perhaps." Cleo considered her words. She still couldn't seem to reconcile him as a bad person in her mind. She had met bad people before, those who had hurt her, or demanded visions of her. Those who had blood all over their hands. He was nothing like them. And she had the tenuous feeling that he stood on the dark edge of a cliff. One step in the wrong direction, and he would fall into darkness and shadows he could never climb out of. But if he took a step backward, perhaps he could be saved. And if he could be saved, then she would do it, she vowed deep in her heart.

"If you had the choice to do such things, would you do them?"

"No."

"Then you cannot think yourself responsible for your actions," she told him simply. "If there is no choice available to you, then your ills fall on her shoulders, not yours. You mustn't blame yourself for her deeds. You are but a tool in her hands, Bastian. I–I understand how that feels. My father has used a great many of my visions for his own purposes, and I know that some of the things that I have seen, come to pass because of what he has learned from me. But the truth is, I cannot stop myself from predicting such things. It simply overwhelms me, no matter how much I try to withstand them. So I have decided that he makes the choices to take what he learns and twist it to his advantage. Not me. I won't bear his burdens."

"I don't even know why I'm telling you of this." Sebastian sighed. "I've never told a single person what she does to me. You have something that is beyond beauty, Miss Sinclair," he admitted, and there was a little hint of unease in his voice. "I am starting to think that of the two of you, you are far more dangerous than your father."

"Well, now." Again her cheeks heated. "You are starting to get the hang of it. Young ladies quite like it when devilishly handsome young men tell them they're the dangerous ones. May I ask you a question?"

"I'm not certain what would stop you."

"Well, this one's a little... more... confronting than usual."

"Good God. I'm almost afraid."

Cleo laughed, then let it fade. "Stop it. This is serious."

His silence seemed to acquiesce.

Cleo let out a steady breath. Her heart was galloping along in her chest. "Do you
want
to marry me?"

He was a long time in replying. "No."

Cleo sucked in a sharp breath. "Well, I don't want to marry you either. I've just met you, yet I can already tell that you are rather... grim. You should smile more often." With that she strode ahead of him, reaching into her basket for the small paper bag of breadcrumbs. Three more steps.

Footsteps followed her slowly. He was watching her again, she thought. "I don't have a lot to smile about."

"Neither do I," she replied, throwing a handful of breadcrumbs out in front of her. Ducks came squawking in from left and right, their feathery bodies jostling her skirts. "I'm blind, I'm locked away at this estate like Rapunzel in her tower, I foretell horrible things every day, and sometimes I wake up screaming, because even in my sleep, I cannot escape my predictions." She tilted her head toward him. "I don't have a single thing to smile about some days, but that doesn't stop me. I find things to make myself smile. Like feeding ducks. You cannot remain glum when an entire horde of ducks are dueling to the death at your feet for a tiny morsel of stale bread. Can you hear that?"

The quacking was positively overwhelming.

"Hear what?"

"Their battle cries," she said, her lips softening. "I've even named them. That—" She pointed to her left, "is Sir Eiderdown. He is always particularly strident. I daresay he is assaulting Lord Featherbottom as we speak. It's a little bit Montague and Capulet, you see. They have a
history
."

"I think you're quite correct." His face was tilted away from her, distorting the words. "That is clearly attempted murder."

"Good work," she said. "That was quite amusing. You're getting into the spirit of things now."

More silence. It made her skin itch.

"What are you thinking?" she asked. "I dislike it when people are quiet. I cannot see them, you see, so it is quite rude when they do not let me know what they are thinking."

"I am thinking that I am actually smiling. Also, that you are quite a strange girl."

"Is that an insult, sir?" she asked with a teasing smile. "For I assure you, you are surrounded by my knights. I would hate to see them have to defend my honor. They worship me as the Lady of the Breadcrumbs, you see. They might peck you to death. In the least, they'll ruin your boots."

"I'm fairly certain that's already happened. I think you rather fortunate not to be able to see where we happen to be standing."

There was a distinct odor that one couldn't deny. "Well. Now you've made me worry about where to put my feet."

"Where do you want to go?" he asked, sounding suddenly closer.

She jumped. "You are very quiet, sir. And to the folly. I like to sit in the sunshine—well, what there is of it—and soak up the heat. Summer is my favorite season."

He cleared his throat. "Would you— Would you mind?"

"Would I mind what?"

He tugged at the edge of her basket, encouraging her to take a step forward. Cleo lost the breadcrumbs, grabbing hold of the basket handle with both hands. The ducks erupted in a flurry of battle as Sebastian steered her to safety.

"No, I don't mind," she admitted. It was a little bit of a whisper, if she were being honest.

"I shouldn't have said what I said earlier."

"Which part?" Her heart started to beat just a little faster.

"That I didn't wish to marry you."

There wasn't much to say to that, but she tried. "Oh."

"There could be worse things—"

"I bet you charm all of the ladies with that tongue."

Another thoughtful silence. "That wasn't really what I meant to say either."

"You mean to say that you didn't particularly intend to marry, and you're not very happy about the situation. But having met me, you think you're quite a lucky fellow now and you can barely contain yourself, and would like to ravish me, right here. Of course, that wouldn't be very gentlemanly, so you are restraining yourself."

"Something like that." There was that hint of warmth again, as if he were smiling. She ached to see it. His voice softened. "Do you ever feel as though you're not in control of your life?"

"All of the time. And why do you make such serious turns in conversation? I was actually attempting to see if I could pry a laugh out of you. I think I am this close to it." She held up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

"I think you
could
make me laugh." Sebastian sighed, and took two steps up into the folly.

Cleo followed him, feeling the cool shade plunge over her. She moved to her favorite spot, a sunny little space where she could sit on the stone rail. Tilting her head back, she let the sunlight drench her. Its warmth was delicious, and apart from Duck Waterloo, the afternoon was peaceful. "Do you know, I never understood the interest in men like Rochester or Heathcliff."

Sebastian leaned against the folly rail at her side, his weight shifting it. "You're trying to form some sort of correlation between them and me? Sorry, no mad wives in my attic. I don't own an attic."

"Actually, I was almost thinking that I understand it now. Brooding men are rather interesting." She turned her face. He was very close to her.

So close that she could touch him if she wanted to...

A breathless feeling caught hold of her. Did she dare? She had been unusually bold today, but this was taking a rather large step over the line drawn in the sand between them.

And if you don't take that step?
Her life stretched out before her, full of its usual monotony. Cleo was so weary of being trapped in her glass tower, as if coming into contact with the rest of the world would destroy her. She was not some brittle, precious object. She was a young woman, one of flesh and blood, who yearned to be touched, to explore beyond these walls, to learn what the world out there held. She wanted to be kissed. Just once.

Very well, then.

Cleo took a step, finding the lip of the stone edging of the folly. She stepped up on it, grabbing a handful of her skirts, and pointed somewhere toward the lake. "Look!"

Instinct made him turn to look, the edge of his sleeve shifting beneath her hesitant glove. He hadn't even noticed she was touching him, until he realized she could not have possibly seen anything on the lake.

Cleo reached up and pressed her lips to his as he turned back, guided by the startled intake of his breath when he realized what she was doing. Too late. Their lips met, and she leaned forward, forcing him to catch her or let her fall on her face.

Her hands met the abrupt wall of his chest. His mouth was still beneath hers, his breath hot and uneven against her own lips. If not for the thundering beat of his heart beneath her palms, she would have thought him particularly unmoved.

He was not unmoved.

Not even close to it.

Good lord, he was tall. He was also quite warm, his gloved hands catching her sleeves, and holding her there. With an unsteady breath, he lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers. "Cleo," he whispered, "what are you doing?"

Tension suffused him, and he slowly drew back.

"I believe it's called kissing, though I've only come across partial fragments of such a thing in my novels, and Mrs. Pendlebury will never give me the more exciting details. She just harrumphs and clears her throat and says, 'Now that's enough of that.' I have to bribe one of the maids into reading those bits to me."