Demon's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood) (30 page)

She thought she saw him wince, but it was an expression so quickly replaced by harsh purpose, she couldn’t be sure.

In his agitation, he picked up and put down a porcelain
urn from a sideboard, a Wedgwood jug, a brass candelabra. “You can just chuck it all away without a second thought?”

“Who said it was decided in haste? I’ve had time to think it over. It’s the best thing to do. The
only
thing to do. You know it as well as I.”

She braced herself for effusive arguments, denials, perhaps even a declaration of some sort. It wouldn’t be the first time she had cut off a man’s presumptions with one swift blow. Just the first time she’d done it while her own heart felt like lead in her chest and her head throbbed with the effort. But no declarations followed. Instead, Mac put down the pewter bowl he’d been holding and answered with a simple “If that’s how you wish it to be.”

“It’s the way it must be.” She gripped the arm of the sofa, wishing it were his throat. She had not wanted a scene, but she might have expected a little protest. A dollop of dismay to make her feel less horrible. The man groveled. She held herself aloof. That’s how it was supposed to happen—how these situations had always spun out in the past. Anything different seemed odd and awkward, like ill-fitting clothes. “Besides, I learned the hard way that wishes count for little in this world.”

He did not reply, his silence damning, the way he could not look her in the eyes all the evidence she needed to know she’d chosen right when she chose to cut things off cleanly. Best the cauterizing slice than the slow, seeping wound.

His gaze was dark and unreadable, his face as empty as her own. “I’m happy we cleared matters between us.”

Was that what they’d done?

Then why did Bianca’s thoughts tumble in her head and she retained the distinct urge to slam the nearest heavy object over his thick head?

She smiled though her cheeks ached and her eyes burned. “Clear as crystal.”

*   *   *

She’d dismissed him. Offered him her hand to kiss as regally as if he were a petitioner before the court. With monumental effort, he’d answered her indifference with his own, though in truth he’d wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. Knock her over the head. Drag her kicking and screaming from Deane House and . . . and what? Take her to his meager rooms and ravish her? Send her back to Line Farm, where he could keep her safe? Tie her in a chair and force her to listen to his pleas until she believed him?

The answer would be all of the above. Unfortunately, none of those options, tempting as they were, would inspire her trust or gain her forgiveness. She’d been viciously abused by a man who’d twisted her love for him into a weapon. Who’d used his strength to batter her into submission while wielding his words with surgical precision. Mac would not be accused of doing the same. Not even if it meant walking away and not looking back. He’d told her once that all she had to do was say the word and he’d relent.

He’d hold to that promise no matter the consequences.

Unheeding of his pace as he retraced his steps to the entry hall, he rounded a corner smack into a woman coming the other way. Steadying her with an arm beneath her elbow, he looked down upon a
diminutive beauty with gold-flecked gray eyes, a mouth made for smiling, and Fey-blood magic singing in her veins. It lifted the hair at his neck and vibrated like a struck tuning fork along his bones.

“We should install footmen with whistles to handle the traffic,” she joked as she returned his speculative gaze with one of her own. “Though recently the crowds have been rather thin, so perhaps not.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Your thoughts must have been taken up with Bianca. She does have that effect on people, Captain Flannery.”

“You know me?”

Her smile widened to one of impish mischief. “I do now. But where are you going? You’ve only just arrived. After battling your way past our phalanx of footmen, I expected you to stay for as long as the siege lasted. Lay in supplies. Bring on your sappers.”

“I’ve done enough damage for one day, my lady. My only option now is a graceful and orderly retreat.”

“My, the warlike metaphors are flying this morning, aren’t they?” She laughed. “Well, if you won’t soldier on, perhaps you can leave it to me to scout the terrain.”

He grimaced.

“Too much?” She shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll talk to her. She’s a tough nut. Always has been, but I’ll see what I can do on your behalf.”

“You’re kind, my lady, but it’s probably for the best.” He bowed and continued on down the corridor, his feet as heavy as his heart.

“The best for whom, Captain Flannery?” Lady Deane called after. “Bianca or yourself?”

19

“Sweeting, is that you lurking about out in the corridor?” Sarah called as Bianca passed the door to one of Deane House’s six spacious public salons. “Come in and have something to eat, my dear. I’ve cake and those little yellow biscuits you love so much, and there’s tea warm in the pot.”

Drat! Just what she hadn’t wanted after a long afternoon spent meeting with Dr. Hove at Kew Gardens. The renowned botanist and plant hunter had been very sympathetic but not at all helpful, and Bianca wanted only to change out of her grubby clothes and settle into a hot bath. Besides, tea and cake with Sarah was like stepping into the confessional: she’d wheedle and pry until Bianca gave in just to stop the onslaught of questions. And at this point she didn’t know what answers she could give that wouldn’t make her sound a few pages short of a full script.

“The cake is plum—your favorite,” Sarah cajoled.

Snagged fair and square, Bianca surrendered to the temptation of plum cake and tea, entering the
salon like Daniel into the lion’s den. Hardly designed for companionable tête-à-têtes, the cavernous space echoed, the gilded, elegant furniture was unwelcoming, and even the allegorical figures cavorting on the painted ceiling seemed to wink down upon all visitors with smug superiority.

She shivered as she took a seat, though a fire blazed in the hearths standing at either end of the room. Perhaps it was the dog-with-a-bone stare Sarah turned on her, an expression that always boded ill. It meant Bianca was in for a lecture or an interrogation—or both.

“I thought you said builders working on the chimneys kept you from going home to Holles Street upon your return to the city.”

“I might have stretched the truth a tiny bit.”

Sarah eyed her as she poured the tea. “So it would seem. So now that your handsome captain has chased you down to declare his undying devotion, what are you waiting for?”

“Your sources have failed you, Sarah. That’s not why he came. We had some unfinished business, now concluded. That’s all.”

Sarah plunked her teacup down with a noisy rattle of the saucer, a motherly scold forming in the creases of her brow and the stubborn lines around her mouth. “ ‘Unfinished business, now concluded’—you make it sound as if he were balancing your accounts. Men don’t come rushing to a woman’s side before breakfast without a very good—and non-businesslike—reason.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared sternly down her nose. “You chased him away, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t chase anyone,” Bianca said, nibbling on a biscuit.

“You did. That’s exactly what happened. Let me guess. You channeled that ‘Gloriana meets Attila the Hun’ personality you’ve perfected and, like any sane man, he ran for the hills.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You do. You’ve been playing that fearsome empress of the world role for as long as I’ve known you, and why not? It works. The men you don’t terrorize outright end up worshipping at your feet like a passel of overawed eunuchs.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Bianca rose with a sudden urge to exchange her tea for something stronger. A double dose of sherry might do it. Ignoring the disapproving stares from countless generations of Sebastian’s forbears, she poured a glass from a sideboard decanter, downing it like a sailor with his daily grog ration.

Sarah observed her over the top of her china cup. “So . . . will you tell me what happened between you and the captain or must I guess?”

The sherry hadn’t helped. Perhaps some cake. Three or four slices ought to do it. “Why should I bother? You seem to have my personal life well in hand.”

Sarah dismissed her waspishness with a wave of her ringed hand. “All I know is that you’ve been stomping about, looking dark as a thundercloud, since you arrived and now you’re swilling sherry like a maiden aunt. If those aren’t the signs of man trouble, I’ll eat my best bonnet.”

Man trouble? That would allow that Mac was a man. But he was so much more than that, and while Bianca had shoved that one simple fact aside, in the
end the truth was undeniable and insurmountable. While he remained trapped within the curse’s power, he would never allow himself to love her. And if he broke free of the dark spell, he would leave her and return to his clan.

Easier and less painful to leave him first.

At least, it was supposed to be.

“Bianca, dear heart,” Sarah interrupted, “you’re murdering that poor slice of cake. Come and sit down before you maim any more of the food.”

“What?” Serving knife clutched in her fist like a dagger, Bianca looked up from her mangled dessert. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Remind me not to annoy you” was Sarah’s skeptical response.

Bianca sat back in her seat, fortifying herself with another quick dose of sherry and the mutilated remains of her cake.

Sarah turned her attention to her tea, though she shot concerned glances at Bianca between sips. “You can’t just crawl back in your shell, my dear. Not if you want a chance at getting the happy-ever-after. Take it from me: sometimes you have to fight tooth and claw for it.”

“Who says I want to fight for it? Or that it’s worth fighting for?”

“I do. You think marriage to Sebastian hasn’t got me terrified? Or that I wouldn’t shed this gilded monstrosity”—she waved her hand to indicate the salon—“in a heartbeat if I could? You don’t think Seb hasn’t endured a crippling loss of reputation and prominence for marrying a lowly actress? Alone, the two of us were safe. We risked nothing.”

“So why did you marry? You had your career and social standing. He had his.”

“Because we loved one another, you twit. Because we were better together than we were apart. And sometimes that’s all it takes.”

“And sometimes not even love is enough.” Bianca shoved the unfinished cake aside, her throat tight, her mouth dry. “I appreciate the advice, and I know you mean well, but it’s just not . . . even if Mac and I wanted to . . . and our lives allowed us . . .” She gave a rueful chuckle as she twisted her napkin round and round. “Let’s just say it’s not possible, for reasons too complicated to go into. You and Sebastian are simply the exception that proves the rule.” She rose, placing her plate on a side table. “Thank you for the refreshments and the conversation, but I think I’ll return to my rooms.”

“Bianca, dear heart, listen to me—”

“No,” Bianca retorted, refusing to be drawn further into conversation. Her head throbbed and the cake she’d eaten sat like a brick in her stomach. “You don’t and you can’t understand. Not this time.”

Sarah’s normally cheerful gaze turned solemn, her gray eyes sparkling with strange glints of gold. She tilted her head, sizing Bianca up with guilty chagrin. “Sit down, Bianca. You’re not alone, and I understand far more than you could possibly know.”

*   *   *

“Both of you? As in ‘you’ ”—Bianca’s goggle-eyed stare moved from Sebastian to Sarah while her mind raced headlong in a thousand directions—“ ‘
and
her’? As in ‘the two of you’? Together?”

“You make it sound as if we’ve confessed to stealing the crown jewels or kidnapping the prince regent,” Sarah blurted, only slightly shame-faced. “It’s not nearly that exciting, I can assure you.”

“No? Discovering your best friend is a magic-wielding sorceress? I’d say it rates pretty high as a topic of interest with me.”

“Here. This might help.” Sebastian pushed a drink under her nose.

Accepting the glass, Bianca looked up to meet his somber gaze. “And that story you told me, the book you let me borrow, and all the questions—you weren’t trying to finagle information out of me. You already knew the Imnada existed. You knew because you were in league with them.” She tipped the glass to her lips, welcoming the brandy’s warmth, still trying to grasp the whirling thoughts as they passed through her consciousness. “At least I wasn’t wrong. You weren’t involved in Adam’s death. You aren’t the cold-blooded murderer they claimed.”

“I’m glad to know you came to my defense. I only wish you’d approached me sooner. I might have been able to help.”

“Mac didn’t trust you.”

“He still doesn’t, and with good reason if indeed Other are targeting Imnada. But I still don’t see how it can be one of us. Only a handful are aware of their existence. A handful of men and women I would vouch for with my life.”

“Could one of them have changed his mind and decided the only good shifter is a dead shifter?” Bianca asked.

“I thought of that,” Sebastian replied, “but our
group is small, and none among us fits Captain Flannery’s description of your murderous Frenchman.”