Unleash the Curse: An Imnada Brotherhood Novella (5 page)

“Lord Duncallan says these old earthen ruins are spectacular,” he continued. “But I come from Italy. It will take more than few crumbling stones and weathered ditches to impress me.”

He laughed, though Sarah could not bring herself to join in. Not with Sebastian staring at her like a drowning man, hands clenched, body almost rigid with checked emotion.

Christophe curved an arm protectively around her shoulder. She smelled the woodsy cinnamon and cloves scent of his cologne in the woolen folds of his jacket. “Are you well, my love? Is something amiss?” He focused on Sebastian, his voice low, almost a hiss. “Is His Lordship bothering you?”

She offered him a gentle smile. “Don’t be absurd. I was merely recounting the story of Lord Randall and his less than honorable offer of a West Indian love nest.”

Christophe’s eyes lost their menace, though his arm tightened. “A ridiculous little man with no more wit or intelligence than a dull child. He should know when he’s not wanted. Don’t you agree, Lord Deane?”

Without waiting for an answer, Christophe guided Sarah out of the library and toward the waiting carriages. The prince’s secretary, Signore Ventrella, was there to assist them aboard, wincing as he latched the door handle, his hand heavily bandaged.

“Have you hurt yourself, sir?” she asked.

He drew the sleeve of his coat down over his hand. “A slight accident shaving, Miss Haye.”

“Lord Deane seems smitten with you, my love,” the prince addressed Sarah.

She turned to answer. “Jealous, Your Highness?” When she turned to glance once more out the window, Signore Ventrella was gone.

Christophe laughed. “Hardly, but I see I’ll have to hold you close or someone might steal you away.” He leaned over to rest a hand briefly on her knee. “I defend what is mine,
mia
Sarah. His Lordship would do well to remember that.”

“I’m not yours yet,” Sarah answered sternly.

His hand moved from her lap to her cheek, his black eyes like pitch in a face women wept over. “But soon,
mi amore
. Very soon.”

*   *   *

Wind stirred the drapes at the window and curled along the dusty floor while somewhere a shutter banged and creaked, though it wasn’t enough to rouse their wounded guest. A brazier had been lit in the tower room, but the thick stone walls seemed to leach what little warmth it gave off. The February cold frosted Sebastian’s breath and chilled him to the bone, though it did little to cool Lucan’s raging fever. Sweat sheened his chest and damped his hair as he tossed and turned beneath the pile of woolen blankets.

“Naxos . . . naxos katarth theorta . . .”
he mumbled, pain and a hefty dose of laudanum slurring his words, “. . . must warn . . . too late to stop . . .”

Sebastian still didn’t quite believe Duncallan’s startling revelation that this was Lucan . . . the Lucan . . . the thousand-year-old spark from which a genocidal conflagration was born. A man who’d betrayed his friend and his king and watched as Arthur was murdered, bringing to an end the last golden age of Fey-born supremacy. A man who was supposed to have been executed for his crimes a very, very long time ago.

Emotion told Sebastian he should revile such a treacherous monster and ancient enemy of his people. Reason argued that it wasn’t every day one was confronted with a man who’d last walked the earth when magic reigned and the walls between Fey and mortal had not yet been erected.

A damn waste if he’d survived centuries of imprisonment only to die of stab wounds on the road from London.

“. . . the door . . . followed her . . .” Lucan moaned.

A loud thunk in the corridor slammed Sebastian to attention. James had gone with his guests to tour the ruins and Katherine had just left after checking Lucan’s bandages. Was this Lucan’s attacker back for another try? Sebastian reached into his pocket for the double-barreled flintlock secreted there and took up position, eyes riveted to the lifting latch, the spear of widening light on the floor as the door cracked open.

He’d a fleeting impression of dark hair and a shapely body as he dragged the intruder against him, pistol pressed to her head.

“Are you insane, Seb? Put that damned gun away.”

Sarah stumbled as he released her, her breathing coming nearly as fast as his. His flintlock disappeared back in his pocket, though his edgy nerves still twitched and his pulse roared in his ears.

“What the hell are you doing up here?” he growled.

“I remembered where I heard that word
Naxos
,” she answered, straightening her rumpled pelisse. Her cheeks were pink from the cold while her eyes blazed with triumph. “I thought it might be important.”

“Important enough to almost get yourself killed?” He stepped out of the range of her perfume. Far enough away he wouldn’t be tempted to caress her cheek or slide an arm about her waist. “Important enough to be in a room alone with me? We know how that usually turns out.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“No, but it does. Speaking of which, what did you do with your betrothed?”

She winced, looking slightly sheepish. “I told him I had a headache and had to return to the house, but that’s the answer, you see. It was Christophe.”

Sebastian glanced at Lucan who remained frustratingly inert. “Impossible. The prince was in the drawing room with the other guests all night. He couldn’t have attacked anyone.”

“Christophe didn’t attack Lucan. He’s the one who mentioned the word
Naxos
. A few weeks ago at an ambassadorial dinner. I stumbled on Christophe and his secretary, Signore Ventrella, having a heated conversation. I didn’t catch much, but I did hear Christophe tell Ventrella that Sir Dromon had failed and the Naxos grew impatient.”

Dread shivered up Sebastian’s spine. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing. They saw me. Ventrella bowed and withdrew while Christophe complimented my gown and led me back to the dance floor for another set. I assumed they were speaking of a business dealing and never gave it another thought.”

“Perhaps you misheard them. Or you misunderstood.”

“Or perhaps I actually have a brain in my head and know what I’m talking about.” She pulled a book from her reticule and handed it to him. “
Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage
for the year 1811. There’s only one Sir Dromon that I can find. His surname is Pryor and his seat is in Cornwall at a place called Drakelow.”

Sebastian scanned the entry outlining the Pryor baronetage going back three hundred fifty years to the time of King Henry the Seventh. If you went by the text, Pryor was the last of a mediocre family with small aspirations and few connections. No wife. No issue. And no mention of Naxos. But
Debrett’s
didn’t know the half of it. Nor would Sarah if Sebastian had any say in the matter. It was too dangerous. As was Sir Dromon.

As spiritual leader of the Imnada and head of the Ossine, Sir Dromon Pryor had always wielded considerable authority over the five clans. Since Gray’s banishment, that power had become absolute and his antagonism for de Coursy grown to hatred. Sir Dromon had vowed to bring down the insurrection led by the exiled ducal heir and see every shapechanger involved executed for their treason, as well as to eliminate any Other who knew of the Imnada’s existence.

If the Ossine were involved, events had gone from treacherous to deadly.

“This afternoon I saw Signore Ventrella. He had a bandage wrapped around his hand. Maybe he attacked Lucan. He was in and out of the drawing room last night.”

“Ventrella can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. You think he attacked Lucan and came away with nothing more than a cut on his hand?”

“He might have surprised him. Or he had help. Perhaps whatever these Naxos are, they’re stronger and more powerful than normal humans.”

“Or perhaps the Naxos is simply the name of some exclusive gentleman’s club Sir Dromon sought entry to without success. Whatever it is, it’s not enough to accuse someone of attempted murder,” he reasoned, trying to look disinterested and unimpressed. Anything to turn Sarah from this line of reasoning.

“Why would Lucan be trying to tell us about a gentleman’s club? No, there’s something linking the Naxos to the Imnada. I know it. Maybe we can find a reference among Duncallan’s books. He’s been studying the shapechangers for years.”

“Exactly. So, don’t you think he would have recognized the word as soon as Lucan uttered it?” Sebastian handed the book back. “I appreciate your help, but you need to leave. If anyone catches you sneaking up here, Lucan’s life and all Duncallan and I have been working toward will be put at risk. You would be put at risk.”

“What about Christophe and the Naxos? If the prince is linked to the attack on Lucan, I want to know before I . . . before I become his wife,” she said, smoothing her hands down her skirts, her expression bland as milk.

“His wife.” Sebastian’s hands curled around the windowsill, his gaze focused upon the hills stretching gray and lifeless toward the northern tree-lined ridges, his mind seeing Sarah tumbled and starry-eyed, beckoning her husband to bed.

But he was not that husband. And soon she would be someone else’s wife.

It was time to put that dream away once and for all.

“I can help, Seb.” She lifted her eyes to his, gray as the snow-heavy clouds beyond the window lit with flecks of gold. “We could work together to figure out what happened.”

“‘We’? There is no ‘we,’ as you pointed out earlier today.”

Though the thought tantalized with possibilities, all of them ending in tossed skirts, lowered breeches, and unbridled passion. A hard angry knot seemed to lodge in his chest, sucking the air from his lungs. He wanted to touch her, loosen the tight coil of her hair until it spilled over her shoulders and down her back. His hands became fists as the knot threatened to choke him. Wanting had nothing to do with it. He needed to keep her safe and away from Sir Dromon Pryor. Sebastian knew nothing of this mysterious Naxos, but Pryor’s menace was very real.

“Do you know how much I’d love to tell you Christophe is involved? But I can’t. Marry your prince, Sarah. Marry him and be happy, but leave the Naxos to me.”

*   *   *

“Miss Sarah, why are you still here? The dinner gong sounded ten minutes ago.” Hester entered the bedchamber, last night’s evening gown slung over her arm, a sewing basket gripped in her hand.

“Did it? Oh bother!” Sarah looked up from her reading, head aching with obscure scholarly Imnada references she could barely decipher. So much for her boast to Sebastian. She could barely puzzle her way through a few hundred pages. Whatever the Naxos were, the Imnada had done a good job of erasing any trace of them.

Almost relieved to lay aside her task, she marked her place and rose with a lazy stretch. “I’m famished.”

Hester groaned, eyes snapping. “Look what you’ve done to the back of your gown. Wrinkles from waist to hem. A fine figure you’ll make downstairs with all those lords and ladies.”

Sarah checked herself in the cheval mirror, frowning at the rumpled creases marring the delicate lilac satin and silver lace. “Perhaps they won’t notice.”

“The gentlemen might not, but the ladies surely will.” Hester put down her load and set to fussing. “If you insist on dressing prim as a minister’s wife while you’re here, the least you can do is dress like a fashionable minister’s wife.” She straightened, folding her arms with a satisfied tilt of her head. “There now. The worst is fixed. The rest you can disguise with some subtle staging. Stand close to the walls. Or sit quick so none can see your back.” She grabbed up her work basket.

“Where are you headed?” Sarah asked.

“Not sure what you got up to last night, but this hem’s nigh ripped to shreds. I’m taking it to the housekeeper’s room to mend. Light’s better there.”

“So’s the gossip, I’d wager.”

“Have to find out what’s what somehow, don’t I?” Hester chuckled as she left the bedchamber. “Now get a move on or you’ll miss the soup course.”

What gossip would Hester discover among the Sharrow House servants? Did they know of Lucan and the existence of the Imnada? Would they pass along tales, or would loyalty to James and Katherine keep them silent? She brushed off her worries as useless. Lucan and the Imnada weren’t her problem. She needed to focus on the connection between the mysterious Naxos and Prince Christophe . . . if there was one.

As she draped a silk shawl across her shoulders, she continued to turn over the conversation between Signore Ventrella and Christophe. What on earth could an Italian prince have in common with a Cornish baronet? Perhaps she needed to look at other connections to see where they led. There was Lucan. She knew nothing beyond the fact that he was a shapechanger. Not even his surname. But Duncallan had mentioned someone else. He’d told Sebastian to send a note to Gray de Coursy. And Gray de Coursy was well known to all of London.

What did the Ghost Earl have to do with the Imnada? Was he a shapechanger? The idea should have been ludicrous, but after last night she ruled nothing out, no matter how insane it sounded. She grabbed up her
Debrett’s
from the bottom of the pile, leafed through the index until she found it—Morieux, family name of de Coursy. Turning to the page, she skimmed the entry, her eyes widening as they settled on the family’s longstanding seat of power in . . . Cornwall. Coincidence? She didn’t believe it for a second.

“You are late, too, my dove?” Prince Christophe leaned against the door frame, the starched white of his linen accentuating the olive tone of his skin, an enormous ruby tucked into the folds of his cravat. “Wonderful. We will arrive together and give them much to speculate about.”

She closed the
Debrett’s
and placed it back among the stack on her table. “They already do, thanks to your letting everyone know about the bracelet you gave me. This will only add to their assumptions.”

Christophe entered her bedchamber, taking her hand and kissing the underside of her wrist, mischief dancing in his gaze as he glanced at her bed. “Let them assume. We’re to be wed. There’s nothing to offend about that.”