Soulbound (9 page)

More so when he spoke with rough command. “Come here, then.”

“Now?” She barely kept the question from being a squeak.

His lips curled up at one corner. “That is the general idea, dove.” He raised his hand and held it out to her. “Come,” he said softly. “Do the deed quickly and you’ll have no more cause to dread it.”

“Don’t we need a witness?”

“No. Pledging ourself and leaving proof of the binding will be enough. It was in the old days, so shall it be now. We’ll be needing a bit of your skirts.”

Together, they managed to rip a length of her clothing free. “In gothic books,” she said as Adam helped her tear at the dress, “the heroine always rips her petticoats with such ease.”

“Aye, well, the hero always manages to get neatly shot in the shoulder, so…” He began to shrug but winced. “We’ll use the chains, as well.” He laughed short and without humor. “Seems fitting, does it not, dove?”

She couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Oh, very.”

Adam’s hand clasped Eliza’s more firmly, sensing perhaps her desire to bolt, and began to wind the strip of her dress and a length of chain around their wrists. Eliza could not look away from Adam now. If she did, she might miss something, as though Adam were an illusionist, capable of playing a sleight of hand with her very soul. And yet, he seemed nervous, the pulse at his throat visibly beating, his eyes steady upon their hands, and then on her as if he too feared he’d blink and his hopes would be gone. It was that fear mixed with hope that softened her towards him.

Without thinking about it, she gave his hand a small squeeze.
We do this now. Together.

As if he read her very thoughts, he took a sharp breath, the muscled expanse of his chest visibly lifting, then nodded. “Together, Eliza, we can change our fates.”

S
weat dotted Eliza’s brow and trickled down her back as she made her way to bed. Her knees shook, making each step an effort. Dear God, the blood trailing down Adam’s back, the wet slap of the whip against his flesh. And having to endure him kneeling by her feet.

A shaky breath gusted past her lips. She fretted over what she had to endure, when his plight was so much more dire. And he’d born it nobly, telling her he was
proud
of her quick thinking. Hardly. She was ashamed. And though their relationship had not been based upon kindness, Eliza wanted nothing more than to return to where he was kept and give him some comfort. Even if that comfort was nothing more than staying by his side in the cold darkness.

“You do not fool me, girl.”

Eliza halted so abruptly that her skirts swung forward around her trembling legs.

From out of the shadows, Mellan strolled, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his pin-striped trousers. Such a casual stance for a man whose eyes radiated dark menace. Eliza kept her back to the wall and her attention on him. He was known to strike without warning. Having been on the receiving end of his blows, Eliza had little desire to experience such an attack again.

“I would not presume to fool you, Mellan.” She would. But it was best not to antagonize.

A soft snort left him. “And yet here we are.” Spreading his arms, he smiled. And it chilled her blood. His smile dropped. “Mab might be arrogant enough to believe your little performance, thinking that she has you in line, but make no mistake, Eliza, I know you far too well.”

The soft scuff of his shoe sounded in the hall as he stepped forward, his voice going lower. “You spared the GIM maker’s pain.”

Eliza quailed. And what could she say? Swallowing hard, she held her chin up. “I’ve had enough of violence, which is why I left you.”

“You have developed a fancy for him.”

“I’d rather say that you’ve developed an unhealthy obsession over him.”

Mellan made a noise of amusement. “Clever, having him sit at your feet. But then you always did like having a man pay homage to you.”

Her stomach protested. “I do not recall having received any homage from a man.”

In a blink, he was before her, pressing her against the door to her room with his body. “Shall I give you a demonstration now? See if it stirs any memories?”

Eliza had quite enough of those where he was concerned. And every one of them made her sick with shame. “No. Simply find another girl. There must be plenty who want you.”

“Now, Eliza, where is the fun in having a woman who wants me?” His fae eyes grew dark purple. “I’d much rather break a resistant lass.”

“You did break me, Mellan.” She glared up into his face, even when everything inside of her wanted to run away, to cry like a small child might. “My association with you has brought me nothing but death and sorrow.”

He flashed his black fangs. “You haven’t begun to understand the meaning of sorrow, little girl.” Like a rattler, he struck, his claws digging into her scalp as he clenched her hair. “You’ll do what I say, when I say it. Without question.”

Hadn’t she always? She’d died for this man. Ironic, considering she wanted nothing more than to kill him instead. Well, no more. She’d run away with Adam and find a way to be rid of Mellan.

His cold eyes bore into her. “You will never be free of me.” She did not flinch, did not blink, when the sharp edges of his fingernails scraped lightly along her jaw. His voice grew soft, beguiling. A prelude to sin that had her insides turning to stone. “I own you.”

“Apparently the GIM maker has a prior claim on my soul.” The words were out before she thought them through. And she gasped as she realized what she’d said.

Mellan, too, blinked in shock, but was quicker to recover. “So then,” he murmured, “you believe he is your soul mate?”

“No.” She stood taller, bracing her spine when she wanted to cower. “But he does. Mab does. And if you did not, at the very least, fear it might be true, you wouldn’t bother with Adam either.”

Slowly, he chuckled. “Smart girl. When there is a glimmer of belief, there is cause for concern.” He tugged her hair, just enough to make her wince. “Which is why we shall eradicate the situation.”

Eliza’s throat went dry, her voice coming out in a croak. “Eradicate?”

Mellan nodded, not taking his eyes from hers. “You shall destroy the GIM maker.”

“No.” The denial shot out of her with such force that the sound echoed in the dim hallway.

With a snarl, Mellan grasped her hand and squeezed until her bones ground against themselves. “I know you, Eliza. You’ll seek to bargain with Adam, thinking you’ll be free.”

Her breath froze, her heart plummeting to her belly.

“Oh yes, I know,” he went on in a smooth murmur. “And I will let you free him. For he will lead you to a prize I’ve been coveting.” Mellan wrenched her hand up to hold it before her face. “Let him take you, and when I have my prize, you will use this hand of death, the very one you used to kill countless others, and you will take Aodh’s life. Or I will cut that pretty head from your shoulders and place it on my bedroom mantle.”

Vivid. And yet he was not exaggerating; she’d witnessed firsthand how he decorated his lair in Boston. Heaven help her if Mellan realized she was handfasted to Adam. On this, Adam had agreed that the fae prince should not know of it until they were well and gone.

Mellan could clearly see the fear in her eyes, for he nodded. “Now, if you’re a good girl, and do as I say, I shall allow certain liberties once we are wed.” He tilted his head as if considering, his yellow hair sliding in a sheet over his shoulder. “I think I can agree on letting you continue your outings with Mab, and perhaps a trip or two abroad.”

As if her whole life were decided. With him. The pulse at the base of her neck throbbed. Kill Adam and gain some glimpse of freedom. Refuse and die.

“You once told me that my skill would not work against the supernatural.”

“It will not work against me. You aren’t strong enough.” The corners of Mellan’s eyes crinkled in true humor. “Or did you think I’d forgotten how you tried to end me?”

And what a disaster that had been. Her powers simply did not work on Mellan, and he’d made her suffer for days afterward, all the while laughing at her foolishness.

Wisely, she refrained from answering the question. “And yet you think I’m strong enough to attempt Adam?”

“Oh, I most certainly do. Nor is he a true supernatural, but merely a man cursed.”

Eliza had grave doubts. Her power did not work that way. It was shoddy and gun-shy at best. She had terrible control and, until now, Mellan had sent her after weak spirits, men foolish enough to be caught unaware. Adam was neither of those things.

“I am surprised,” Mellan murmured, “that you did not try to do so when he had you chained. Like chattel.”

Hypocrite. Eliza suppressed a glare. “Whatever magic was in that chain dampened my strength.” Nor, Eliza reflected, had she wanted to try. Even then, she could not bring herself to kill. She’d been forced to do it enough as it was.

“But now he is the one chained and weak.” Mellan flashed his fangs. “Easy pickings, Eliza.”

For a moment, Eliza allowed herself to picture the deed, to envision Adam’s golden eyes going lifeless and dull. Whatever he was to her, he did not deserve that. No one did.

Tears burned hot in her eyes but did not fall. They only fell when death was coming. “If Adam is my soul mate, I will not be able to take his soul without destroying my own.”

“Well then,” Mellan said through a creeping smile, “you had better pray that he is not.”

Eliza lay in the dark. The bedding around her was a cloud of silk. Comfortable, perfect, the very luxury she’d often dreamed of. But she could not draw a clean, free breath. She thought of Adam’s flesh, slashed, his blood flowing. She’d done nothing to help him, but watched his torture, as they all did. This was the life she would live? This is what she’d become? A fanciful creature, intent on nothing more than her own pleasure? And now that Mellan had found her, he’d use her as a plaything and then toss her away. After she killed Adam.

Her first kill had been accidental. She’d been young and terrified, alone in the world after her grandfather had died. Easy prey for predators. And when she’d walked back from the market one day, her once-kind neighbor had cornered her in the alleyway behind their row houses. Even now she remembered the stink of his breath and the grip of his sweaty hands, and it filled her with a queasy revulsion. She’d screamed then. That strange, ugly, odd scream, her hand rising to grasp his chest. And he’d simply died before her eyes.

Eliza hadn’t felt relief, only a bone-deep terror. And then Mellan had appeared, as always, moving from dark shadows into the light.

“Dear girl, you’re frightened.” He’d stroked her cheeks with a tender hand, this lovely, strange man. “When you should rejoice. You did this. You have the power to walk amongst the foulest creatures and never fear again.”

How seductive it sounded back then. Come live with Mellan, be one of his crew, and all she had to do were some little favors for him.

Eliza tossed in her bed, her stomach roiling. She hated herself for agreeing those first few times. And then, when her soul grew black with the grime of her sins, Eliza had told him no more. And he’d made her pay.

He’d beaten her and ground her will into dust. For so long.

Her whole life, she’d felt a bit like a cork in a vast sea, men’s expectations batting her here and there. She did not mind going where the winds took her but she wanted a sail, oars, and rudders. She wanted a say. And she was damn well through with being under the thumb of another’s will. The truth slammed into her like a rogue wave; if she wanted a say, she needed power.

“And I’m not going to get any by sitting on my ass,” she muttered, rising to her feet. No, she needed a plan.

S
in’s insides grew uncomfortably tight as he climbed the wide, red carpeted steps of the theatre. All around him people followed, making their way to their seats while chatting and softly laughing. Anticipation was a palpable hum, thicker tonight, for Londoners loved good gossip, and this performance promised to offer up a tasty meal of it. For Miss Layla Starling, the young, beautiful, and extremely wealthy heiress, was in attendance. With a suitor. Until now, she’d managed to evade the marriage noose. Despite the fact that she was unfortunately American, she’d received a staggering number of offers. And turned down every one.

Sin did not want to admit to the relief he felt every time he heard of her refusals. Nor did he want to admit to feeling as though his knees were cut out from under him when he thought of Layla finally marrying. Which was unfair of him. Layla deserved to be happy. She deserved to live a rich, full life. And if that included marriage, then so be it. As for him, he could not offer those things. He would never be normal, never be anything but a freak in her world.

Why then was he following her to the theatre? Irritation was a prickle at the back of his neck as he entered his brother-in-law Archer’s family box and took the seat closest to the rail. In the quiet hush of the luxury box, he let himself watch Layla. She sat in a box opposite him and one tier lower.

Seeing her sent a pang through his chest. The oval of her face was a cameo against her mahogany hair. He remembered when that hair had hung in snarls, from when they’d climbed trees, bits of leaves caught in the silky mass. He knew she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, like cinnamon over cream. He knew that, when she smiled, she’d reveal a front tooth that was just a bit crooked. And that her eyes would appear forest green, amber gold, or dusky brown, depending upon the light.

He knew
her.
Or had. Tonight, she was resplendent in pale pink satin, trimmed with chocolate brown ribbons. Despite her vast wealth, the only adornments she wore were small pearl earbobs and a brown satin ribbon about her slender neck. His fingers itched to touch the nape of her neck where he knew it’d be warm and soft, to tug the ribbon free and set his mouth to the place it had rested.

Foolish thoughts. He forced his attention to the man at her side, the one sitting so attentively, watching both the gathering crowds and her at the same time. He was older, with black hair and dark eyes. Yet there was an air of timelessness about him, as if he could be in his twenties or in his forties. But it was the “otherness” about him, as if the man stood apart from the rest of the crowd, that bothered Sin.

Or perhaps it was jealousy. When the man set his gloved hand near Layla’s, Sin’s back teeth met with a click.

“And who are we staring at?” said a female voice at his ear.

Sin loathed the muffled yelp that escaped him. He turned his head to properly glare and found the cool, jade eyes of his sister smiling back at him. “I’m purchasing a cowbell for you,” he groused as Lady Miranda Archer settled into the empty seat at his side.

“You’ll have to discover a way to make her wear it,” said her husband, Lord Benjamin Archer, as he took the seat next to Miranda’s. Amusement lit his pale gaze. “I’d take care. She’s liable to singe off your brows.”

Both Miranda and Sin snorted as one. Miranda could, in fact, burn a man’s brows off with a thought. But then, so could Sin.

“What are you two doing here?” Ordinarily, he’d be pleased to see them, but this was his night, and he did not want to share Layla with anyone.

“Why, I’m certain I don’t know.” Miranda blinked, her eyes wide and innocent, her voice falsely vapid. “Archer, why are we here? I’ve plum forgotten.”

Archer settled back, crossing one long leg over the other. “I believe it had something to do with attending the theatre, love.”

“Very amusing,” Sin muttered.

“So…” Miranda leaned forward, craning her neck in the direction of where Sin had been looking. “What lovely lady has caught your attention, then?”

“No one.” Sin’s cheeks burned. “And would you please sit back? You’re going to attract attention.” Miranda always attracted attention. Beautiful as she was, it couldn’t be helped.

Her lips curled in a smile. “Afraid your ladylove might see?”

“Stop pestering the lad, Miri.”

Good man, Archer. He, at least, understood discretion. But then Sin caught Archer’s evil smile.

“It’s clear,” the bastard said, “that he’s near wetting himself with worry. And I’d hate having to explain the spoilt upholstery to the management.”

“Arse.” Sin turned his attention to the empty stage. “The both of you are unmitigated arses.”

Miranda elbowed him softly. “Miss Starling is quite fetching, is she not?”

Sin lurched upright, and Miranda smiled. “Oh, come now, your study of her was fairly obvious, dearest.”

“Miss Starling?” Perhaps he could play the ignorant buffoon.

Apparently not. Miranda gave him a chiding look. “All of London is talking about the young heiress. The richest girl in the land, who has the audacity to be an American.” Her smile grew teasing.

“Nothing the ton loves more than a wealthy anomaly,” Archer added with a certain dryness.

Miranda gave him a little kiss on his cheek. “Never fear, Ben. You’ll always be London’s most infamous moneybag.”

Archer rolled his eyes, but wrapped an arm about her slim shoulders, tucking her closer to his side. Sin was grateful for the distraction, hoping they’d become engrossed in each other, as they tended to do, and forget about him. No such luck graced him. Miranda turned her too-keen attention back to him.

“I do not blame you for noticing her, brother. Miss Starling is quiet lovely.” She gave him a saucy look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve developed a tendré.”

Gods, but he could feel himself blushing. Damn it all to hell. The air unnaturally heated as his power threatened to slip his control, and he took a calming breath. “I know her, is all.” He cleared his throat. “Or knew her. Long ago.”

“Then go speak to her,” Miranda urged. “You are too isolated as it is. Make friends, Sin.” Concern marred her smooth brow. “You know I speak from experience when I tell you that cutting yourself off from the world won’t help.”

It was a known fact that on every third Sunday, in Mab’s household, three-quarters of the staff had the day to themselves. It was also known that Cook made a cherry trifle for those unfortunate few who must remain behind. It would be simple enough, then, for Eliza to sneak into the kitchens and give the trifle a liberal soaking of opium syrup. There was a risk that the staff might imbue too much and not fall asleep but perish, but given that many in Mab’s employ were of fae blood, Eliza did not believe – or rather she fervently hoped – it would not kill them.

More difficult, however, was finding a means of escape. Hope came by way of the spirits seller who made a monthly visit to the house to deliver ale and mead. Eliza took the risk to speak to him.

“You shall be called back here,” she told him, “because the barrels you are delivering now shall meet with an unfortunate accident.”

When the driver, a crabby, grizzled man of an indeterminate age, scowled, she spoke on before he could protest. “It shall be done. However, you stand to earn one hundred pounds if you help me with a delicate matter.”

Still frowning, the man scratched the back of his head, sending his cap over one eye. “An’ what’s to be done when the mistress of the house puts the blame on me? I’ll be expected to pay for them ‘faulty’ barrels. An’ I want no trouble.” Despite his protests, his expression that said he could be persuaded.

“One hundred pounds on top of your expenses.” Eliza shrugged. “Or I could simply damage the barrels and leave it at that. I doubt anyone in the house would believe the blame lies upon my shoulders.”

The man harrumphed. “Mad chit, you are.” But he was listening.

It was a plan filled with pitfalls and holes. Everything could go wrong, but Eliza was taking that chance. Mellan had helped. No, he’d not open the doors for her; Mab would not know his part in things. But he’d given her Mab’s key to the chains that bound Adam to the cellar wall and then taken Mab out for the day.

Eliza hated that she must put her faith in Mellan’s promise that he’d keep Mab away and that she had to believe the one man who had every reason to crush her beneath his boot.

Mellan’s eyes had borne into her.
Do not fail me, Eliza. And do not think for a moment that you can cross me and live.

Now, when escape was upon her, Eliza’s palms were so sweaty that it took her three tries, her hand slipping from the key, to turn the lock on Adam’s cell door. He lifted his head, his eyes a dull copper color in the dingy light, but he made no move to rise.

“Dear God,” she muttered as she took stock of him, “what did she do to you this time?”

He was black and blue, more slashed than whole. He grunted as he made an effort to sit. “Another productive visit.”

Eliza shook, the key clinking as she slipped it into the lock that attached his chains to the cellar wall. Damnation, but she’d expected him to be in better shape than this. The moment the chains clattered to the floor, Adam took a deep breath, his wide chest lifting. He rubbed his wrists, still bound by the cuffs and the heavy lengths of chain attached to them. Flushed and fevered, he gazed up at her. Every fear within her came to a standstill. She forgot to breathe. Why was it this man affected her thusly? How could he heat her blood and make her heart stutter with merely a look? Worse, why did she want to hold him close and tell him how sorry she was that theirs was a relationship that would never come to pass?

“What is it?” he rasped through dry lips.

Eliza licked her own. She could hardly admit that she was meant to kill him. “Nothing.” Her voice sounded raw, cracked. “I’ve brought you some clothing.” A grimace twisted her face, for Eliza had not been able to provide very good ones; she’d had to pick through the footmen’s limited off-duty clothing.

She managed to gather up a cotton work shirt that had faded to a dull grey color and a pair of horrible red, black, and yellow plaid trousers. Boots were harder to find. The only size she thought might fit being a mismatched set, one with an appallingly large hole in the sole. Never mind, they’d get him a proper pair later.

He eyed her selection now without comment and then reached past the undergarments to pick up the trousers. He proceeded to tug them on, gritting his teeth as he moved. His struggles made the muscled plane of his abdomen bunch and his cock slide along his strong thighs… Eliza forced herself not to watch.

“Help me with my shirt,” he ordered, his eyes averted.

His short tone did not annoy her, for it had to be difficult asking for assistance, and with a certain degree of gentleness, she eased the paper-thin rag over his head. The thing smelled of cabbage and soot. Eliza did not want to contemplate what little beasties might be hiding amongst its folds.

Adam gritted his teeth and pushed his arms through the sleeves, the bulk of the chains he wore making the process unwieldy. By the time they were finished, Eliza buttoning up the collar with deft hands, a sweat bathed his skin.

Shaking inwardly with sympathy, she lifted his arm over her head to settle around her shoulders. The cold chains hit her arm, a marked contrast to the warmth of his skin beneath the thin shirt.

“We haven’t much time,” she said. “Can you stand?”

“I’ll crawl if I have to.” But he managed to lurch to his feet, dragging his broken leg along as she walked them out of the cell. It was slow going, the chains clattering, his body leaning onto hers.

“Remember the knot?” he managed to say.

“Yes, I’ve got it.” Eliza pulled the length of her gown they’d used to handfast from her pocket. Adam had tied the silk into an intricate Celtic knot. A symbol of their joining. They’d leave it here now to send a message. Eliza had grave doubts that Mellan would honor their handfasting. But she had to try, nor could she now explain to Adam that Mellan was privy to their escape. Such a mess.

Before she could drop the knot, Adam took the thing and rubbed it across his bloody brow.

“So they know you are mine,” he said, making her flush.

“Lean your bad hip against me,” she ground out, dreading the walk up the stairs. He had a foot in height on her and, even in his emaciated state, was a great deal heavier than she was. There was no help for it. Either they made it out or they would suffer.

Servants lay pell-mell around the house, their slumberous snores breaking up the eerie silence. Adam glanced at them as she shuffled him along, and his full, split lip quirked. “Devious, Miss May.”

“Necessary, Mr…” Eliza trailed off, realizing she did not know his last name or if he even possessed one.

“Once upon a time,” he rasped, “I was called Aodh MacNiall. But that man has long been dead to the world.”

They said no more; it was clear that talking drained his strength. At the back of the kitchens, Mr. Albright, the driver, set down a barrel of mead before looking around in a frantic manner. When he glanced back at Eliza and Adam, tilted drunkenly at her side, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. She supposed seeing over six feet of bloody and battered and chained male would do that to a person.