Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1) (35 page)

Clothes smoked and burned. Lucien screamed in her ear, and her own hands blistered from magic-burn where they gripped his shoulders. The ground shook beneath them like a bucking horse, and it was all she could do to hold onto him and Louisa through the maelstrom.

“
Open up to me.”
That was Drake's voice in her mind
,
and a familiar trickle of sensation burned in thin gold streamers along her skin.

Ianthe opened herself to him. The bond between Master and Apprentice soared to life within her, a bond that would lie dormant until needed.

Without thinking, Ianthe gave herself over to it, and a new conscience winked into her overcrowded head. Drake would be able to see through her eyes and help her direct her power as best needed.

Energy danced through her effortlessly, and somehow she wove her sorcery into a shining shield that sprung into being around the three of them. The tear of power stopped ripping at her skin, her clothes, her hair... Lucien collapsed over the top of them, panting as if he'd run a race.

Then Drake used her to wield her sorcery in ways she'd never imagined. She could feel him dispersing the blaze of raw matter that had erupted from Sebastian. Not confronting it, but letting it flow through her as he grounded it. Ianthe became nothing but a conduit, an observer, marveling at the delicacy of the weaves Drake wove.

Morgana launched forward, grabbing her son and dragging him to his feet, as if sensing the Prime's presence. She pushed Sebastian toward the trees, and they vanished, his power cutting off so abruptly that Ianthe's skin tingled.

It was over.

It was finally, blessedly over.

“
Who was he?”
Drake asked.

“
He's your son,
” she sent back, slumping onto the ground beneath her lover and her daughter. “
He's the child that Morgana claimed to have destroyed.”

Shock severed the connection. Ianthe could suddenly feel her body again, heavy as a stone. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell into blessed, peaceful darkness.

"
I
S SHE ALIVE
?" Remington demanded.

Lucien swallowed hard, lowering his fingers to the pulse beneath Ianthe's jaw.
Please, please
... There it was. He nodded with relief, kneeling in the grass beside her. His back was blistered where sorcery had burned directly through his coat, and the scent of burned hair made him gag. "Yes. Something happened. I could feel some other presence in her mind."

"Drake," Remington replied. "There's not many people who could do what she just did."

"I'll get her home." Leaning down, Lucien curled his arms gently beneath her and drew her carefully into his arms. Ianthe seemed so small, so light. There was more weight in her skirts than her body it seemed, and it shocked him, for she was such a powerful, confident woman when awake. It didn't seem right.

"Hello there, Louisa," Remington said, kneeling in front of the little girl who clung to Ianthe's skirts. "I'm your aunt's employer, Remington, and this is—"

"Lucien Rathbourne. A... friend of your aunt's," Lucien interrupted. Louisa. His child. Jesus. Their eyes met—hers the same peculiar shade as his own—and Louisa turned into Remington's arms almost bashfully. She slid another long sideways glance at him, as if she sensed something strange about him.

"I'll take Louisa," Remington told him, and their eyes met. Remington saw her eyes too.

Watching Ianthe crumple beneath that blow had struck Lucien like an icy dagger to the heart. He hadn't been able to protect them, nor was he close enough to divert the blow or ward them. The only thing he could do was knock her beneath the flood of raw power and hope that they survived.

Too late. Too slow. Too weak. There was nothing he could have done in that moment, not the way he was, and frustration seared through his veins.

A year ago, he could have protected her. A year ago, his own power could have matched Morgana's, and he might have been able to defeat her. But he was not that man. And as much as he tried to pretend to himself that he would regain his strength, he didn't have the time.

If you hadn't been so arrogant, you could have seen her Healer yesterday. He could have helped you heal yourself. You might have been able to do something, anything, if you had your power
.

Lifting her close against his chest, Lucien breathed in Ianthe's light perfume, reassuring himself that she was whole. He could feel her consciousness beginning to come to the surface through their bond. She would be all right, hopefully. No. He would make certain she was.

There's a reason most sorcerers choose not to bond, my lad
. An old friend had once told him that.

What a bloody mess.

CHAPTER 22

C 
LEO HAD thought that the marriage would change things.

She was wrong.

A horribly unforgivable state for someone with the ability to see glimpses of the future, but there it was.

The ceremony in itself was quite nice, though brief, and had more of the air of a transaction than a joining of two people forever. Indeed, Cleo thought her new husband might even be a stranger, someone she'd never met before, for the coldness of his voice and the amount of attention Sebastian gave her. She tried to take his arm in the nave, for she was well outside of her usual boundaries in the church, but Sebastian passed her off to her father without breaking his stride and said he'd join her later that afternoon.

He was off to see if his new boots had arrived.

Her trunks were removed to the house he leased with his mother, and without further ado, Cleo was handed up into the hackney that would take her there.

Alone.

She hadn't left Tremayne Manor since her father had first put the blindfold on her.

When Cleo arrived, the housekeeper, Mrs. Gibbons, gave her a brief tour of the house, then escorted her to her room. "Dinner will be sent up in an hour or two, ma'am."

"Do you think I could take a turn in the garden?" Cleo asked.

There was a slight hesitation. "I think it wise if you rest this afternoon and stay in your room. I'll send a maid up to help you with your gown."

The door closed, and Cleo turned, frustration lancing through her. Curious about her new circumstances, she explored the room, a task that took her all of five minutes. Only the door on the far side of her chambers refused to budge when she tried it: locked, apparently.

"
Where the master stays
," Mrs. Gibbons had said earlier and coughed discreetly.

It took Cleo all of a minute to pick the lock with a hairpin.

Sebastian's chambers were cooler than her own, but there was nothing personal in the room, beyond piles of books, stacked haphazardly, to tell her about the kind of man she was married to. Cleo touched the old leather-bound spines, but she couldn't even see what type of books he read.

Not a single thing owned any hint of personality. Doubt was an unfamiliar emotion. She'd met Sebastian but once, after all... Who was her husband? The man who dwelt in silences and tried not to smile as he escorted her out of the carnage of heavy duck artillery? Or was he the cold man who hadn't hesitated in making a casual threat to her father that morning, as if he was discussing the weather.

Afternoon slowly slid into evening. Cleo dined in her chambers, listening as people came and went. Something was happening. Though her premonition had been willfully silent today—nerves, she suspected, tore her concentration—a sense of heaviness and tension stained the very house. Cleo cracked open the window, only to hear Sebastian reprimand his mother, somewhere below her window.

"I don't care what you do," Morgana snapped. "Just keep her bloody quiet until we get to the cemetery." A horse neighed, and wheels crunched over gravel. "This cannot go wrong, Sebastian. We must retrieve the relic from Miss Martin at all costs. She had best not think to cheat me, or I swear that girl will bear the brunt of it."

"It's all right," Sebastian murmured, and he sounded like
her
Sebastian again. "You'll get to see your mother again very shortly. I promise. Then you'll be safe. You just have to remain silent for a little longer. Can you do that?"

"I'll try," a little girl whispered.

"That's the spirit, Lou."

The sniffling of tears stopped and the din of voices cut off dramatically as the carriage door was closed. It wheeled away as the chill of evening fell, and Cleo was forced to shut the windows.

Well, now. What on earth was going on?

She paced for at least an hour, but there was no sign of her husband's return. Nobody had been up to see to the fire, and supper had been quite forgotten. Much like herself. She was still in her bloody wedding gown, with its stiffened skirts and the lace that dug into her throat.

You thought it would be better
, she told herself, blinking sleepily.
You little fool.
She was cold now and curled up on Sebastian's bed, dragging the cover over herself. Her eyes closed, her breath softening...

Something alerted her to the fact that she wasn't going to be alone for very long—footsteps in the hallway outside. Cleo had a moment where she didn't know where she was and realized she must have fallen asleep at some stage. She sat up with a jerk, the covers tumbling loose around her.

The door opened and Sebastian strode in, easily identified by his brisk stride. The scent of his cologne swept around her as Cleo froze. Definitely her husband. Something light hit the floor, possibly his cravat. A button popped, and he paused in front of the liquor cabinet and poured himself something to drink. "
Fuck
."

"Long night?" Cleo asked.

A choked cough sounded; then he cleared his throat and turned. "Miss Sinclair. I... didn't expect you."

How awkward.

"I was just... I couldn't get out of my wedding dress." Swallowing her nerves, Cleo tipped her chin up. "And I believe it is Mrs. Montcalm now, is it not? Or perhaps, Madame? Which would you prefer?"

"I don't particularly give a damn. I suspect it will make little difference."

Well, two could play at that game. She was starting to regain her mettle. She might not know this house or what was expected of her, but she could learn it. And it had been bloody hours since anyone had paid her the least amount of attention. "Then I shall be Mrs. Montcalm. It suits me. Do you need help undressing?" She slid off the bed and crossed slowly toward him, running through a map of the room in her mind.

Sebastian sidestepped her and went straight to the liquor cabinet. "No, I don't."

That felt uncomfortably like dismissal. "I'm only trying to do my wifely duties."

"Your wifely duties are not required," he replied, though his voice roughened toward the end there. Fabric rustled. He sounded as though he was wrestling with his coat. "Nor will they be."

"None of them?" she replied innocently. "But, sir, I'm quite willing to perform—"

"None of them." The coat hit the floor, and he slammed the crystal stopper back into the liquor decanter.

"Well, unfortunately, I
do
require help undressing." She turned around, presenting her back to him, and dragged the soft curls that tumbled down her back over her shoulder. "I cannot reach all of the buttons."

Silence. Sebastian swallowed, then set the glass tumbler aside. "You should have rang for the maid."

"I did. They must have been busy," she lied. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

The distance between them remained the same. Cleo waited, her head tilted to the side, so that she could hear him better. Every hair along her skin lifted. Her bodice felt too tight.

With a muttered curse, Sebastian stalked toward her. "Here," he said, and gave a roughened tug to the top two buttons, clearly intending to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible. The buttons were soft pearl and tightly hooked. One scattered to the floor and clattered away. Sebastian cursed again. He had to slow down. Had to work them more gently. Breath whispered across the back of her shoulders, and his roughened fingers danced occasionally against her bare skin, igniting her senses.

Perhaps this had not been a good idea. She felt like she stood on the precipice of a cliff, preparing to leap into water when she didn't know the depth... even as a part of her desperately wanted to make that leap. Every brush of his fingers felt like lightning, striking through her veins.

Heart hammering, Cleo bit her lip and tilted her head forward. Agitation made her skin feel flushed, her body restless. She had to say something. "Had your boots arrived?"

"What?" He was remarkably stiff on his right side, almost as if he favored that hand.

"Your boots. The ones you were so set on acquiring after the ceremony. I thought they must be quite grand indeed to send you chasing after them at such a time."

Sebastian's hands set to work again. He was fumbling quite badly now, wrestling with her buttons. "Yes."

Liar
. Her lips pressed together.

"There," he said.

The gown slipped forward, clinging to the edges of her shoulders. Cleo hesitated. "My corset?"

If anything, the silence grew even more strained. "Cleo." His breathing was heavier now.

"I cannot remove it myself," Cleo admitted quietly.

Once again Sebastian came to her aid. He tugged her laces undone roughly with his left hand, his right pressed lightly against her spine.

It was torture. And she had done it to herself.

With a sigh, he stepped away from her. "There." Her silken robe was pressed into her hands, and then he turned and shuffled back toward the liquor.

Cleo stared blindly after him, want kindling along her nerves. It was clear that she'd been dismissed. Her entire body trembled. She didn't quite know what to do. Well, at least she could remove her dress now. She set about undoing her tapes and loosened her corset until everything collapsed around her feet, leaving her in only her thin chemise. Heat scalded her cheeks. He had his back to her, she knew it.