Unleash the Curse: An Imnada Brotherhood Novella (2 page)

“Finding me a bride gives my mother something to do besides browbeat the servants and redecorate Coldham . . . again.”

“But is she finding you a woman you can marry or a woman you can love?” Duncallan said quietly.

The crushing, twisting wrench in Sebastian’s chest returned while his headache doubled in strength. How many times had that very question run through his brain in the past six months? How many times had he shoved it as far down as he could without retching? He gave a thin cool smile and consigned his so-called friend to the devil.

“She is finding me a countess.”

*   *   *

Sarah stepped off the bottom stair into Sharrow House’s stone-flagged entry hall. Carpets covered the floor in a riot of color; a table lay piled with books, a discarded pair of gloves, and a bowl of last fall’s dried blossoms; while the air smelled faintly of beeswax and lemon. The house might be down-at-the-heels, but it was comfortable with the cozy touches that made it a home rather than a theater set.

She paused in front of a gilded mirror above the book-laden table, tucking a stray curl into the sleek dark coil of hair atop her head, adjusting the lace fichu at her throat. Her jewel-green gown was simply cut and modestly ornamented, but plain didn’t have to equal dowdy. As she turned, her shawl caught on the gloves, knocking them to the floor. Kneeling to retrieve them, she froze when a deep aristocratic drawl sounded from above her. “May I be of assistance?”

She closed her eyes and grimaced. Blast and bother! Of all the guests to come upon her, why did it have to be him? And why did just hearing his voice make her knees wobble and her innards flutter? Oh well, she’d not cower in her chambers for two weeks. Best to soldier through the initial toe-curling humiliation and move on.

With a fortifying breath, she scooped up the gloves, rising to come almost nose to chest with the last person she’d expected or wanted to see during this respite from her whirlwind existence in London . . . Lord Deane.

His gold-brown eyes widened for a shocked moment, color flooding high across his sharp cheekbones before good breeding reasserted itself, and he offered her a small nod of courtesy. “Miss Haye, I didn’t realize it was you down there.”

She offered him a smile as polished as glass. “My lord, how nice to see you. It’s been . . . two months? three? . . . since we last spoke.” A euphemism not lost on His Lordship, whose jaw tightened while his earlier flush deepened from pink to scarlet. “I thought perhaps you’d left town.”

What a bouncer. She’d known exactly where he’d been all through the autumn. Had even caught a glimpse of him twice; once coming from Carlton House and once on the flagway outside a tobacconist on Bond Street. Both times he’d been in company. And both times his gaze had passed over her as if she’d not existed. Another woman might have been outraged at his cool rebuff. She’d been relieved. The last thing she wanted was a humiliating reminder of that ruinous night.

But now, faced with his familiar lean muscled strength and his well-remembered scent; a mix of leather, brandy, and tobacco smoke, a wanton and wicked craving scorched a path straight to her center and she felt her color rise. No matter how she strove to hold to her indifference, her body still hungered for his touch.

“It’s been six months actually.” His proud stare raked her from scalp to slippers, causing heat to burn her cheeks, though she refused to lower her eyes. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”
Dressed so demurely,
hanging unspoken between them in the cool air of the hall.

She felt a flash of irritation. Did he think because she acted for a living, she’d be attired in beads and ostrich feathers? Perversity made her simper and bat her lashes. “A sop to the country, darling,” she preened in a plummy accent redolent of hunt balls and vast estates. Mimicry had always come easy to her, though after years moving among the upper classes, it barely took any of her talent to conjure the rich intonations of her social betters. Not that it mattered. Speech was a surface fix. To be truly accepted among the
bon ton,
one needed a pedigree that smelled of old money not fresh cod. “I can’t putter among the milkmaids and shepherds in my best velvets and satins, can I?”

“You needn’t have worried. I don’t believe Duncallan invited any to dinner,” Deane answered, a flicker of amusement dancing in his amber eyes.

“No?” Flustered, she dropped into the rounded tones and dropped
h
’s of her old neighborhood as easily as slipping on a pair of comfortable shoes. “Well, what would a girl from the mean alleys of Smart’s Lane and St. Mary’s ’ill know of gentrified country ways? I ain’t been farther away from London than the village of Slough in me ’ole life.”

His brows rose slightly at her thick London accent, but his gaze never wavered, the spark of laughter lingering. “Really? I seem to recall you mentioning a Venetian breakfast in Brighton last summer. Lady Melchior’s terrier fell in the fish pond and it took three footman to rescue the mongrel.”

Her heart seemed to skip a beat or two, her hands twisting the gloves, and for the space between heartbeats, she was surprised into dropping all pretense, removing all masks. “So I did. Funny you should remember.”

He must have realized where they were and what they’d been doing when she’d told him that story. His face tightened, the color draining away. And yet, his gaze intensified as if he searched for something within her eyes. “There is little from that night I don’t recall. You wore a gown of peony red trimmed in lace and had flowers in your hair.”

Sarah eased from his immediate orbit, though it was now painfully clear that while they remained beneath the same roof, she’d be aware of his presence like a crackle along her skin or a tingle in the pit of her stomach. “That’s right. A sweet ensemble, but sadly lacking in either spangles or ostrich feathers.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” he said softly. “This style suits you far better.”

She turned back to the mirror, pretending to fix the string of pearls at her throat while she composed herself against the rush of conflicting emotions churning through her—shame, regret, and anger chief among them, though desire lingered like a bad cold despite her efforts to quash it. “What brings you to Sharrow House? I wouldn’t think this was your type of gathering. A bit too unorthodox for someone of your prestige.”

“How so?”

With a final moistening of her lips and dry swallow, she turned to face him. “
I
was invited.”

For a moment, she could have sworn guilt shadowed his gaze. “Had I known beforehand, I wouldn’t have come.”

“Ouch. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?” She gave away no hint of her feelings beyond a slight pursing of her lips.

“You misunderstand.”

“No, I believe I have a perfect grasp of the situation, but we needn’t let past mistakes spoil the next few days. It’s a large house. We can easily avoid each other, and once we return to London, we need never speak again.”

“What if . . .” His eyes seemed to blaze hot while a rapid pulse beat in the hollow beneath his jaw. “What if I was wrong? What if I no longer want to avoid you?”

And there it was. The slip on the shoulder, the invitation to vice that sooner or later all men offered her. She wasn’t surprised, but she was disappointed. She’d thought Sebastian . . . well, it didn’t matter what she thought, the reality stared at her as if he waited for her to swoon at his feet. She offered a thin smile. “I suppose you’re doomed to disappointment.”

“Sarah, I—” He reached for her arm.

The door opened in a bluster of cold wind and snow. Two men entered the hall, bundled in greatcoats and scarves and hats. Behind them a groom and a footman staggered under a crushing weight of luggage. The tallest of the newcomers removed his hat to run a hand through a mop of inky black curls. “This English weather is bad for my hot Italian blood. I can’t feel my feet. Renee, summon our host and see to our rooms. Make sure the fires are built high. You told me . . .” He paused, spying Sebastian and Sarah, and his eyes lit up, his arms outspread in excitement. “Sarah,
mi amore
! I have arrived! Did you miss me?”

She swallowed, blinked, swallowed again. Abandoning Sebastian, she stepped forward in a shush of skirts. “Christophe, what a lovely surprise.”

2

“Lord Deane, would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me?” Lady Melissa Bracken called from her bench at the pianoforte.

After dinner, the guests had gathered in the drawing room, a drafty cavernous space of creaking floors and peeling plaster frescoes. In daylight, the view from the wall of long windows fronting the rolling park would be spectacular. Tonight, there was only the reflected glow of lit sconces and the shimmer of rain as it beat against the glass.

“My pleasure,” Sebastian answered, glad for any excuse to avoid Sarah, who stood smiling and laughing among a group that included the dashing Prince Christophe and his Italian secretary. Of course, remaining by Lady Melissa’s side held its own risks. She’d sat beside Sebastian at dinner, her vibrant blue eyes almost, but not quite, hiding the usual avaricious gleam he encountered in most unmarried females of his acquaintance, as if they were mentally calculating his annual income.

She offered him a dazzling smile. “Duncallan says we’re to experience a lunar eclipse in a few days. A shame if the weather doesn’t cooperate. We’ll be standing about in mackintoshes and umbrellas staring up at a sky full of clouds.”

“Are you interested in such phenomena?”

Lady Melissa leaned across for the higher keys in an obvious attempt to offer him an expansive view down her dress. “I’ve always had a soft spot for heavenly bodies, my lord.”

His jaw tightened as he offered a quelling nod.

A hint she didn’t take. Sidling closer to him on the bench, she fluttered up at him through her lashes. “It’s exciting to have a real prince among us, don’t you think?”

“Every jumped-up Italian with a few ancestors and a few acres calls himself a prince,” he said as he turned the page.

“You don’t approve of His Highness . . . or is it his paramour you find objectionable?” she asked, a hint of wicked behind her demure tone.

Had everyone known but him? He was a fool to have been taken in by Sarah’s frosty indignation this evening. She was as money-hungry as any of the matchmaking mamas and their insipid daughters, but why settle for an earl when there was a prince to hand? “How long has Miss Haye enjoyed a connection with Prince Christophe?”

Lady Melissa tittered. “Connection, that’s a
genteel
way of putting it. I couldn’t say, but I do know he’s squired her everywhere from dinners and balls to Vauxhall and the opera. He once had the audacity to introduce her to Prinny himself. I heard the Prince Regent was quite taken with her, so much so that he and Christophe almost came to blows.”

“What a setback for diplomatic relations that would have been,” Sebastian muttered, snatching a port from a passing footman and slugging it back as if it were a shot of whisky. Too bad it didn’t carry the same kick.

Lady Melissa’s fingers raced over the keys, her cheek curved toward him. “Did you see the bracelet on her arm? Signore Ventrella, the prince’s secretary, told me it was a gift from His Highness. Supposed to be a family heirloom going back centuries.”

Sebastian welcomed the anger chewing its way up his throat. It left little room for disappointment or regret. Thank the gods, the prince had arrived before he’d completely humiliated himself with a syrupy declaration. The idea was laughable now. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like laughing. “The horrid trinket resembles something won from a stall at Bartholomew Fair.”

Lady Melissa nodded her agreement while scooting closer. “A prince in one’s bed must be quite a coup for one of her kind.”

The port Sebastian had swallowed crawled back up his throat, and he wanted to be sick.

As if she knew they spoke of her, Sarah looked over. Her eyes locked with Seb’s, and it was as though a lightning charge passed between them. That cold fist tightened once more around his heart, and his breathing came sharp and angry. A flicker of some unfathomable expression floated across Sarah’s features then she turned away and the moment passed. But the next time Seb felt a gaze upon him, it was Prince Christophe, his glowering death-stare more than clear.

“My lord?” Lady Melissa prodded with a playful glance, her hands poised for the next chord as she motioned toward the sheet music.

His attention dragged back to the flirtatious girl beside him and away from the vibrant woman who enraged and enticed in equal measure, Sebastian signaled for the footman to bring him another port and turned the page.

*   *   *

Sarah remembered having the bracelet at dinner—the blasted thing kept sliding into her soup and catching in her napkin. She remembered having the bracelet later in the drawing room—Christophe made an enormous spectacle of raising her hand to kiss it, her head swimming dangerously as the stone charms flashed in the candlelight. After that—she couldn’t remember.

Blast! The clasp must have come loose again.

If only she’d refused to wear it, but once Christophe discovered she’d brought it with her, he badgered until she relented. Hester hadn’t been pleased, but Sarah mollified her maid with the assurance she’d only agreed on the condition that Christophe told no one it had been his gift. That would be their little secret. He’d chuckled and tapped her chin, a conspiratorial twinkle in his velvet black eyes.

Now she’d gone and lost the ugly thing.

Blast and bother!

She searched once more through the tiny reticule she’d been carrying. Empty. She checked her shawl in case it had become snagged in the fabric. No sign of it. She searched her bedchamber including under the mattress and behind the dressing table. Nothing.

She could ring for a housemaid to search, but that would mean everyone learning of her loss by breakfast. What would Christophe do if he discovered she’d mislaid his family’s greatest treasure? Would he think she’d stolen it? Where a lady of quality might be forgiven, a low-born actress would be suspected. A shudder raced up her spine. No, far better to look herself. It must have fallen off in the drawing room. She’d not been anywhere else all evening. Perhaps it had happened during the dancing. She’d been passed from Christophe to Duncallan to his cousin Mr. Farraday to the vicar and back again in a sweep of laughter and music and bright conversation.

It had all been lovely until she’d glanced over at the pianoforte to find Lord Deane staring at her, jaw clamped, brows low over eyes hot as twin suns. No wonder she hadn’t noticed when the great weight of the bracelet had slid from her wrist. She’d been unaware of anything but the intensity of Deane’s golden stare and her body’s traitorous reaction. She shook off both the memories flushing her skin and the scandalous ideas forming in her head to focus on the missing bracelet.

She would sneak back down to the drawing room for a thorough hunt. If it had fallen off there, surely it would be easy to spot. It wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Sliding her feet back into her slippers and dragging a heavy shawl over the wisp of her evening gown, she took up her candle. Lifted the latch on her door and entered the shadowy passage beyond.

Head down, she hurried to the drawing room as a clock chimed the hour in four dolorous tones. The rain of earlier had passed. Silver light washed the room in dappled shadows. She placed her candle on a table and, beginning at the corner closest to the terrace windows, slowly swept her gaze back and forth over the floor.

An eternity later, she blew out a frustrated breath. Perhaps it had been kicked under a couch or a cabinet. The room was littered with furniture; a million places a piece of jewelry might hide. Point of fact, she could say there was only one place in the entire room it couldn’t be—the pianoforte. She’d not gone within twenty paces of it the whole evening.

Steeling her mind to the enormity of her task, she took up her candle and dropped to her knees before the nearest couch. Holding the candle before her, she swept her other hand underneath. Plenty of dust, a lost button, a shilling, and a crumbling cork from a wine bottle, but no bracelet. Drat it all to hell!

A breeze ruffled the hair at the back of her neck and snuffed her candle. So much for seeing. She started to rise from her crouch to hunt for steel and flint when a deep male voice broke the silence.

“According to Lucan’s note, he should be here any time. I wish I knew what brought him north. Last I heard he was in London.”

Duncallan.

“What kind of guest drags a man from his bed at four in the morning?”

Deane.

Triple blast! Surprisingly, neither of them lit a candle. Instead they hunkered in the dark like thieves . . . or like people with something to hide. She hunched farther down between the couch and a card table as booted legs passed by her hiding place.

“The kind that has enemies. Why are you so grumpy? Did I interrupt a lover’s tryst?” Duncallan asked. “I know you’re seeking a wife, but not sure my cousin is quite your style. Melissa’s a bit mercenary, even for you.”

“Don’t worry,” Deane answered “I’m well used to handling the machinations of scheming females. Besides, as long as a prince sleeps under your roof, I fall far down the matrimonial ladder.”

Sarah could stand up now and explain her presence or . . .

“Only until the ladies realize they haven’t a chance while Sarah’s around. The poor devil can’t take his eyes off her.” Duncallan chuckled.

Trapped, her heart drummed loud enough for the entire house to hear, her hands crushing the fabric of her gown. Did they have to have this discussion here of all places? Her knees were going numb and all the dust was making her nose itch.

“Poor devil, my ass,” Deane growled. “The man probably has mistresses strung across the continent. I’d assumed Miss Haye had better sense, but I suppose when there are jewels like that bracelet on offer, no woman is immune. I only hope she’s not disappointed in her choice of protectors.”

How on earth did he know about the bracelet? And how dare he insinuate she’d taken Christophe to bed as if she were a common trollop? She’d a good mind to leap from behind the couch and tell him of Christophe’s marriage proposal. That would wipe the condescending tone from his voice, now wouldn’t it?

“I’m sure you misjudge the situation, Seb. Sarah’s not that kind of woman.”

Her stomach clenched as she waited for Sebastian to dispute Duncallan’s assertion with every lascivious detail from their catastrophic interlude. Instead he gave a gruff snort of laughter. “I hadn’t thought so. Perhaps that’s what bothers me most. That I was wrong about her. You know tonight when I saw her, I almost . . .” He sighed.

“You almost what?”

“It doesn’t matter now, and dreams rarely stand the test of daylight. Probably a good thing.”

She shimmied toward the end of the couch, peeking around one satinwood leg. Duncallan stood at the doors leading out to the terrace, peering through the glass into the night while Sebastian perched upon the arm of a nearby chair.

Just then, a shape loomed up out of the night, throwing black across the moonlit floors of the drawing room. Duncallan leapt to the door, opening it on a blast of cold February air. “What the devil . . . ?”

An enormous beast stumbled and fell into the room, turning its great shaggy head in Sarah’s direction. She froze as its nostrils flared wide, its great liquid black eyes focused on her hiding place. A scream died in her throat as her breath tangled in her lungs.

She expected shouts, calls for help, for rifles, for rope. What she heard was, “Quick! Bring him in.”

“Close the door. It’s cold as hell outside.”

“He’s hurt. Light a damned candle. I can’t see a blasted thing.”

“Lucan? Can you hear me? Who did this?”

Deane knelt by the creature’s side, a hand resting in the fur of its back. “He’s bleeding, Seb. Someone’s driven a blade deep. More than once.”

Terror battered Sarah’s insides as she gazed on the hulking, bearlike monster shuddering great heaving breaths from a mouth full of razored teeth. As if that sight weren’t enough to rivet her in place, a haze rose up around the animal, enveloping it in a red-gold shimmer like sun off sand. With each passing moment, the glow grew stronger until it lit the room and the heat became a hot, swirling wind. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her neck to mingle with the cold splash of fear shivering her shoulders.

Sebastian and Duncallan backed away while within the rushing twist of color, light, and magic, muscles warped and bones twisted. Where once was fur appeared a broad chest of sun-bronzed skin. Instead of short clawed paws, she saw long muscled limbs. And in place of the stumpy snout and tearing teeth was a rough-hewn face, severe and beautiful and taut with pain.

Startled, she sucked in a quick shocked breath, her head connecting with the edge of the couch.

She blinked . . . and blinked again.

But the vision remained the same.

It was a man.

A very perfect and very naked man.

*   *   *

Sebastian swung his gaze over the dark reaches of the room. He could have sworn he’d heard something . . . a gasp, a sigh. What the hell was Sarah doing here?

“We have to stanch the bleeding.” Duncallan stripped off his shirt and pressed it against the deep slash on the man’s back. But it would take half a dozen shirts to cover all the wounds upon his bleeding body.