Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (3 page)

Now, it was his turn to dislike her.

He needed a means to balance the bond and gain some sense of control.

"Thank you," she said to Mrs. Hastings. "Would you care to take a seat, my lord? We have matters to discuss."

My lord
. How strange, but then, technically, he
was
the Earl of Rathbourne now. His cousin, Robert, had been fighting to have him declared
non compos mentis
in the courts, the last he'd been aware. Evidently, the case must have stalled, which was something he would have to see to.

"Do we?" Lucien crossed his arms. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to be offered the honor of being your Shield. You're the last person I ever expected to free me from that hellhole, and there are dozens of men who would kill for an opportunity like this."

"And you're not one of them. I know." A flicker of dark lashes obscured her pretty eyes. "This was your father's doing, not mine. Drake insisted."

"He's not my father."

"Your
sire
insisted," she corrected.

And it was widely rumored that she was his sire's mistress. Perhaps that was why she did not care for him. "Do you always dance to his tune?"

"Drake has earned my respect and my trust, so when he asks me for a favor, I am always pleased to help him."

"My, how this one must have rubbed you the wrong way." Lucien prowled around the room.

"I've had easier missions to contend with, yes." Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you staring at me like that?”

That earned a faint smile from him. He'd give her this, she certainly didn't back down. "Perhaps I'm simply admiring the scenery." It gave him an idea, a way to haul the reins of power out of her hands and into his. "You need me for something."

"Perhaps you should sit and take some tea. We'll discuss matters."

"Unless it's got brandy in it, I'm not interested."

"Somewhat early for hard spirits," she countered, pouring him a cup of steaming brown liquid. "Perhaps lemon would suffice."

In another woman, he would have admired the gall of her. Instead, he sat and watched, rubbing his thumbs over the pleat of his trousers. Touching something helped to anchor him, to stop the overriding morass of sensation that constantly made his mind drift these days, until he wondered if he were truly going mad.

A tabby cat wended its way through her legs, its tail trailing her lavender skirts across the paved floors. Setting her cup on the tea service, Miss Martin reached down and scratched under his chin, eliciting a throaty purr. "Shall we cut to the point, Rathbourne?"

He arched a brow and waited.

"What do you know of the Blade of Altarrh?"

"It's one of three relics." Every sorcerer worth his salt knew that. "They were created by the Prime himself, his ex-wife, Morgana, and friend, the Earl of Tremayne." His mind shied from the memory of what the blade had been created for, and somehow he managed not to lose himself to the sudden narrowing of the room.
Focus on the facts
. "They were created in an attempt to summon and control a Greater Demon."

"It's missing."

Lucien's fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. He breathed out a half-laugh. "Missing?" Suddenly his mind was supplying pieces of the puzzle. "You want my help in finding it."

"Your talents in scrying would be of tremendous assistance," she concurred. "Few have the depths of your ability."

If he could manage to control them. He hadn't wielded his power in over a year. The backlash caused from trying to halt the demon he'd summoned at the bequest of his so-called father... It had scarred more than his body. "Why haven't you used the Prime's pet seer?"

"The relic was removed from a locked and warded case, in the heart of the Prime's mansion. Drake laid the wards himself. There were no signs of a break in to the manor, no strangers sighted in the vicinity—"

"Someone on the inside then." It all made sense now. "Which is why you're using me. How many others are working the case?"

"Only us."

Lucien started. There were men and women available within the order who dabbled in darker arts than he did. Sorcerers called the Sicarii, who policed the occult world, though few knew their true identities. "The Prime is playing his cards very closely to his chest."

At this, Miss Martin stood, crossing restlessly to the windows, looking toward a ruddy glow in the east. "You've been incarcerated for a long time. I forget what little you would know of the world. Come here."

A simple enough request. Lucien unfolded his long length and crossed toward her. For a second, he wondered how brazen she was, leaving him at her back like this, but a glint of those brilliant blue eyes in the window reassured him that she was not quite as trusting as she seemed.

"Yes?" He stopped directly behind her. The spill of her elegant, swagged bustle kept him at a proper distance.

Close enough, however, for her to turn her head slightly, her shoulders stiffening as she sensed his proximity, his threat. "Do you see that?"

Following her finger, he focused on the ruddy glow hidden behind cloudbank. Sucking in a sharp breath, he stepped forward, forgetting himself. Miss Martin stumbled against the window, her fingers splayed on the glass, and his reflexes being what they were, he found himself holding onto her waist, chivalry not quite as dead as the rest of him.

"The Dawn Star," he whispered. The feel of her tightly bound waist flexed beneath his fingers, the press of whalebone giving some hint of her stays. Despite that, he could sense the heat of her body, the sweetly curved line of her hips.

"Rathbourne," her voice warned.

"How long has it been in the skies?"

"The red comet appeared two days ago."

Little wonder the Prime was so nervous; the comet signified a change of the guard, whether he willed it or not. It had hung in the skies during the end of the reign of three previous Prime's, reappearing every thirty years, or so. Ascension was coming, a new Prime to sit on that carved ebony chair the duke maintained.

"No wonder the bastard's using us. Ascension is coming, the Blade of Altarrh has been stolen by someone he trusts, and most likely, he's facing a mighty tumble himself."

If not death.

Miss Martin pressed her back against the window as she turned. "I am going to do everything in my power to see that doesn't happen."

Anything to protect her lover. "Of course. And I have given my word to help."

Her shoulders slumped in relief. She didn't point out that he was standing far too close to her, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes. "Precisely. Now would you care to sit? I would like to proceed with the binding."

"Not yet." Instead, he reached out to brush a strand of dark, curling hair behind her ears. Miss Martin flinched. Her skin was softer than silk, though perhaps that was only because he'd grown used to roughened, limed walls and coarse canvas shirts.

Colors skittered over her skin, the pastel wash of chalk against a footpath, shimmering wetly. Or at least, that was how he saw it these days. Emotions became colors. The problem was in his mind, he had slowly discovered, not his eyes. Whatever that backlash of power had done to him, it had broken a piece of his mind, and he feared he didn't understand the full extent of it yet.

"Rathbourne." Her voice held the faintest hint of a growl in it. "Don't mistake me for some frivolous bit of muslin. You're in a warded room. I can have you dancing straight back to Bedlam before the hour is out, bound, gagged, and naked, if I wish it."

Bedlam
. The threat made his heart kick painfully in his chest, his fingers tightening just a little, leaving small dints in her plump cheek. He'd do anything to remain free of such a place. Anything. Just the thought almost unmanned him.

You're free
, he told himself.
But for how long
?
After all, you're of no use to her... Not like this.

Their eyes met.

She could never know.

"You wish to remain free of such a place." Her voice became softer and smokier, though her eyes were still hard little chips of violet ice. "Do not presume to put your hands on me."

"I have no intentions of hurting you." Not physically. Revenge was a far more intricate puzzle. She wouldn't understand how many nights he'd considered how best to destroy her and the Prime. It was the only thing that had kept him sane during those long, silent hours, with not a single word spoken to him, no sign of another human, not even a glimpse of light... Just a plate shoved through his door at rough intervals with gruel slopped across it. He'd thought himself truly mad then. When the people of his bloody fantasies were the only companions he had.

But now...

She seemed softer somehow, far less certain than the cold, battle-warded woman who'd broken into his rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel and surrounded him with a circle of thirteen. He'd been half-blinded then, his skin tight and slick, still stinking of the burning reek of brimstone. Knowing that he'd committed one of the greatest crimes against the Order. A death sentence usually. Barely even a trial. But the Prime had had him dragged before him. Examined him for long, slow moments, as if trying to find some remnants of himself in Lucien's face.

And then he'd turned his back on him and exiled him to Bedlam.

"No?" The wariness never left Miss Martin's eyes, as if she found it difficult to believe he meant her no harm.

"No."
I have plans for you.
Something far more interesting than anything he'd previously concocted. After all, he was the one who'd learned that death was kind. He stepped away from her, letting her suck in a deep breath. Heat flushed through her cheeks, but she mastered herself as if such a moment had never existed between them.

"I intend to strike my own bargain with you," he told her, returning to the table and picking up his lukewarm tea.

"Bargain?"

"You need me far more than I need you, I think." She'd added the barest hint of sugar, but after so long without, his throat rebelled, and he was forced to swallow it without gagging.

"Debatable."

"You threaten to send me back to Bedlam for the slightest infraction, but how long must I wait until a new Prime sits at the head of the Order? How long before the comet's appearance fulfils its prophecy?" He tossed the tea unceremoniously into the pot of the lime tree. The cat padded toward it, sniffing to see if it were something edible. "Who else can you use, Miss Martin?"

"And would a new Prime see you free of Bedlam?"

His smile told her more than words ever would. He could wait. She couldn't. Eyes narrowing, she crossed her arms. "What do you propose?"

"You need my assistance," he told her, "and I have promised to give it, but there is a difference between grudgingly helping, and doing everything within my means to assist. I can slow your quest to the point of incompetence if I choose, or I can complete it very quickly. I am very, very good at what I do when I choose to set my mind to a task."

"Go on." The slant of her eyes told him she was waiting for the axe to fall.

"I will give you my days," he said. "I will obey your every command whilst bonded and serve as your Shield. I will help you to the best of my ability, protect you, and do my best to see the relic swiftly found. But... my dear sorceress..." his voice lowered, "your nights are mine."

For a moment, she looked as if she didn't quite comprehend. Then her eyes widened, her full mouth parting in surprise. Color bloomed in her cheeks, pinks and reds, blending in to each another. "I beg your pardon?"

"You want my cooperation? Then that is my price."

"Getting you out of Bedlam is the price I paid. You swore you would come with me and obey my directives."

"I will obey," he said, leaning back in the chair, as he enjoyed the moment. "I will obey to the very letter of your statements. No more. No less. I'd suggest you choose your words very wisely."

He had her. He saw it in her shocked eyes, in the riot of colors that danced across her skin. Her composure was only skin deep; some hidden well of emotion threatened to spill over her, which made her game for his plans.

Concern for her lover, the Prime? Somehow he had the feeling concern would be a different color to what he read now. The greens, blues, and violent indigo that swirled around her were muted and draining. Fear perhaps, if he could put a color to an emotion. Weariness. Desperation.

Hot pink desire.

Lucien stilled, his cods drawing tight.
Bloody hell
. That was something he'd never expected.

Miss Martin took her seat opposite him. The silence stretched out between them, and she looked slightly shaken, a little tremor in her fingers, the rattle of the saucer as she jarred it... Taking a deep breath, she finally stilled, staring at the gold-rimmed porcelain of her cup before lifting her eyes to his. "Why?"

"Because I want you in my bed."

She sipped her tea in response. "After all that I have done to you, you wish me to believe this isn't motivated by revenge?"

"Partly."

Her eyes narrowed. "I won't allow you to hurt me."

"My dear..." He pushed the sugar bowl closer to her. "What makes you think I have any intentions of harming you?" All of the heat he was feeling filled his voice. "You might even enjoy it."

"Of course. How foolish of me. Why would I ever doubt your intentions?"

Lucien merely smiled. It was easier to converse with her than to deal with the rest of the world. Some of the overwhelming press of sensation went away, leaving him to deal with only one; the hardening of his cock. "Make no mistake. I intend to make good use of that sweet little body of yours. It won't all be kindness. Some of it will be the most delicate kind of cruelty."

Violet eyes blinked at him over the rim of her cup, as she choked down some more of her tea.

"But I promise you this." He leaned forward and caught her lace-gloved hand. "You will enjoy it. You might even beg me to be a little cruel."

Tea slopped down her wrist, and Miss Martin swore as she jerked her hand away and snatched up her napkin. Lucien went to his knees beside her, plucking the napkin from her hand and using it to soak up the tea stains on her skirts. Their eyes met as she put her cup down.