Unleash the Curse: An Imnada Brotherhood Novella (6 page)

As always, the musky sweet scents of cloves and cinnamon tickled her nose as she slid free of him with a smile. “You know I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Why do you hesitate? Is it to make me jealous? To whet my desire? I could never want you more than I already do. You know that. We were meant for one another. So, say yes and we will announce it to the world and their looks of disdain will become looks of envy.”

Christophe’s flair for the dramatic made arguing futile. If he believed she was his destiny, nothing she said would sway him. Then with a confidence bordering on effrontery, he crossed to her dressing table and flipped open the lid to her jewelry case. Destiny was one thing. Pawing through her possessions was pushing it too far.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “We’re certainly not married yet.”

Ignoring her, he rifled through the contents, laying aside an amber cross, a brooch she’d bought with her first wages, a pair of silver earrings. “Such dribs and drabs, my darling. When you are mine, I shall deck you in jewels.”

“That may be, but until then my things are my own and not to be trifled with.”

“I wish only to see you sparkle as these other women do.”

He poured the bracelet from the small velvet bag in the case’s bottom drawer, palming it in his hand. The charms gleamed in the candlelight, ruby and emerald, sapphire and topaz, opal and tourmaline. For a moment, her vision blurred as a spearing pain burst against her temples. She staggered as the room dipped and swirled, cold biting into her bones despite the roaring fire.

“Wear it tonight, my treasure. You’ll be the most dazzling woman in the room.” Christophe’s words steadied her balance and calmed her headache. He tipped her chin up with a single finger, his expression both supremely confident and strangely confused. “You are a special woman, Miss Sarah Haye. Sometimes I think I would risk eternity to make you my wife.”

Even as he clasped the bracelet around her wrist, she knew she should argue, but Christophe would simply laugh and tease and hear what he wanted to hear. This was both one of his most appealing traits and one of the most aggravating.

“There now,” he said, once more the suave charmer, any brief flicker of doubt extinguished. “It brings a sparkle to your eyes and makes you shine.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “We can go to dinner now and laugh, knowing what sordid ideas are flitting through their heads.”

The bracelet seemed heavier tonight, as if the weight of her decision rested in every gold link and shimmering jewel. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss dinner altogether.”

He laughed, the candlelight carving shadows into the hard angles of his face, turning his angelically handsome face into something dark and almost irresistible. “My man was wrestling with my cravat. What’s your excuse?”

She cleared her throat and sought to put a few more feet between herself and Christophe’s overpowering personality. “I was immersed in a book and lost track of the time.”

His brows rose. “You were reading?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? I may not know French, be able to paint a watercolor, or play the pianoforte like a dainty Society miss, but I’m not completely ignorant.”

“And what has you so enthralled?” He glanced at the pile of books, selecting a volume on Imnada origin theories she’d been unable to decipher much beyond the preface. His expression wavered, a line appearing between his dark brows. “What’s this?”

She snatched it from his grasp. “A book of fairy tales.”

“Oh? And what sorts of tales does it tell?”

It was her turn to shrug and offer a casual wave of her hand. “The usual. Creatures who change into animals. Monsters from foreign worlds. You know the sort of nursery stories I mean.”

“Is this what you think they are? Nursery stories?”

“Of course,” she answered coolly, no hint of her thundering heart revealed in her voice or her manner.

“I’m not believing you,
mia
Sarah.” He stepped close, his eyes unfathomable as he searched her gaze. “I’m thinking you know very well these things are real. For you are one of these nursery stories, too, aren’t you?” He did not wait for her denial. It would be pointless anyway, she saw that now. He knew of the power she possessed. Of the magic she hid from the world. “You are Fey-born, my Sarah. The blood of the Summer Kingdom of Ynys Avalenn flows in your veins.”

Her throat closed around a held breath as her hands crushed the delicate fabric of her skirts. So much for wrinkles. “What do you know of the Other?”

“I read too. Books like the one you hold. And then there are other things I know without needing to read them in a book or learn them from a teacher. Things like this.”

His hand moved from the book to the air just above and to the right of her head. Like a priest offering absolution, his spread fingers poised, his words a mumble that might be prayer or curse for all she knew. “You’re powerful, Sarah. Full of life. Of energy. It’s what drew me to you. And now, I’m ashamed to say that when I am with you I forget who I am . . . what I owe my people . . . what they expect of me . . . You make me yearn for a life I don’t understand.”

His pupils seemed to dilate so that there was only a deep emptiness fringed by thick dark lashes. His lips curved into a full sensuous smile as he dropped his hand to thread his fingers with hers, the ancient gold of the bracelet soft and warm as butter against her skin, the charms seeming to glow in the candlelight. A flop of ebony curls fell across his forehead, giving him an oddly boyish look despite the solemnity of his expression.

“Only the most powerful magic could do such a thing,” he said, his voice like velvet.

“I can persuade an audience they’ve stepped into the story they’re watching on the stage until they forget the crowds and the noise and the world beyond. That’s the art of a great actress. Not a great sorceress.”

“You make these humans believe in things that aren’t there and places that don’t exist. That is influence, power born of your blood. I know of such power, and I believe in things that don’t exist . . . like beings from other worlds and monsters who change shape. That’s what makes us perfect together.”

“I . . .” She could drown in those eyes and the promises they held. A glittering future. A pampered existence. A life of luxury and beauty. A life so far from the filthy crime-ridden lanes and squalid back alleys off Billingsgate market that it might as well be on the moon.

“Should I be jealous,
mia
Sarah? Is there someone who already holds a piece of your heart? Someone you yearn for though you know he is not right for you?”

“What?” She shook off the delicious hum of melting limbs and soft words. “No . . . there’s no one.”

His smile widened, but the warmth leached from his face or perhaps it was her own misgivings making it seem as if he’d distanced himself. “Is it Lord Deane? I see how he watches you, how he pushes himself at you.”

“His Lordship means nothing. I simply need time to think. My independence is precious. I’m loath to give it up without due consideration.”

His face looked heartbreakingly sad. “Of course, Sarah. But I’m afraid your time . . . and mine . . . is running out.”

4

The guests were all at cards. Tables had been prepared in a set of comfortable rooms with a buffet arranged for those who wanted refreshments between hands. Outside, snow swirled in a gale north wind that backed in the chimneys, now and then sending smoke rolling thin and high over the intent faces as they played. Sarah used one of these blasts of sooty air as an excuse to rise from her place across from Katherine and plead a few moments to refresh herself. Sebastian looked up, but she refused to meet his gaze. Christophe, too, followed her progress as she wended her way between tables. She offered him a pleasant smile before slipping out the door and up the stairs.

He would not leave his game. Not while he was ahead in the betting. She had time.

Upstairs, the sconces guttered and dripped and the floors creaked with every footfall, but she ignored her misgivings and continued past her bedchamber, around the corner, up the next set of stairs, before pausing outside the door to Christophe’s apartments. Her hand shook only a little as she lifted the latch and stepped inside. The room was larger than hers with fine appointments and an enormous tester bed draped in damask. A doorway opposite led into a comfortable dressing room complete with writing desk, leather armchair, and a handsome cabinet of leather-bound volumes. The whole place smelled of Christophe; a combination of cloves and cinnamon, brandy and tobacco.

A fire blazed in the hearth, but the light it cast was too dim for her purpose. Summoning the mage energy she was born with, she whispered a quick household spell, setting flame to wick. Taking up the candle, she passed into the dressing room. Knowing she had only a few precious moments, she began at the desk. Drawers yielded little beyond writing paper, pens, and bottles of ink. A journal looked promising, but it held only laundry lists and menu suggestions from the mistress of Sharrow House circa 1802. Perhaps as Christophe’s secretary, Signore Ventrella kept all correspondence with him. A search of his room might be next if nothing of interest turned up here.

She moved on to the enormous walnut armoire. Clothing for every occasion including a coronation, but not a shred of incriminating evidence and no mention of the Naxos, Sir Dromon Pryor, or the Imnada.

Momentarily stymied, she stood with hands on hips in the middle of the room, huffing a stray curl from her forehead. Were her suspicions unfounded? Had she misheard the conversation between Signore Ventrella and Christophe? Was she letting her actress’s imagination run away with her?

No, she refused to believe she could have been so far off the mark, especially after Christophe’s behavior earlier this evening. Cold shivered up her spine as she recalled the way the prince had stared into her eyes as if he were sifting through her brain. She’d once thought that intensity blazingly romantic. Under the current circumstances, it just seemed sinister and stoked her fears higher.

A clock sounded the half hour. She needed to get back downstairs before her absence was remarked upon. In a final flash of an idea, she turned her attention to an ornate enameled traveling case beside his bed. Flipping open the lid, she found watches and fobs, jeweled tie pins and expensive rings and trinkets of every metal, including silver. Christophe wasn’t Other. But if what Sebastian said about the Imnada and silver was true, he wasn’t a shapechanger, either.

So what did that leave? And why was she very afraid she wasn’t going to like the answer?

She lifted out the case’s upper tray to sift through the jumble of treasure below. A small ormolu box held eight glass vials containing a greasy viscous liquid. Perfume of some kind? She unscrewed one of the caps and sniffed. A thick rancid odor stung her nose and brought tears to her eyes. Definitely not a scent she’d want to dab behind her ears unless she sought to attract maggots.

She quickly returned the cap and placed the vial back among its companions before searching every nook and cranny of the case, even the lining. It was loose in one corner, and she shoved her fingers into the narrow gap between the fabric and the outer wood. Yes, there was something. A cold rounded metal edge. Grooved indentations. She pulled the object out to find herself holding a gold notched disk about four inches in diameter with odd symbols etched into the face. An ancient coin? A medallion without a chain?

A sound in the corridor shot her heart into her throat. In a panic, she fumbled to replace the shelf and close the lid of the jewelry case. Only afterward did she realize she still held the gold disk. Damn. It was too late to put it back now. She’d have to take it with her and hope for a chance to sneak in tomorrow and return it. She dropped it into her reticule then snuffed her candle, placing it back on the desk where she’d found it. Scanning the room one last time to be certain she’d left no other obvious traces of her visit, she cracked the door, sliding back into the corridor. She’d barely taken two steps before she skidded to a halt as Sebastian rounded the landing.

“I’ve gotten a bit turned around . . .” she started to say in an embarrassed attempt to explain her presence.

He merely grabbed her arm and dragged her farther down the hall.

“What are you doing? Let me go,” she stammered, stumbling on her hem as he frog-marched her forward with a bruising grip on her upper arm.

Sebastian pulled her into an empty bedchamber and closed the door silently behind him, an ear to the panel.

She wrenched away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He closed the space with one ground-eating stride, put a hand over her mouth. His voice when it came was warm and soft against her ear, though his tone was as sharp and precise as a cutthroat’s dagger. “Shut up and listen, Sarah. The prince is right behind me.”

*   *   *

She sat on the edge of Sebastian’s bed, her arms hugging her body as if she were cold . . . or afraid. But was she afraid of him or of the current dancing in the air between them? Would it always be like this? Would he always feel this crazy charge jolting every nerve whenever he was within twenty feet of her? Would her marriage change that? Would his? Or would there always be this horrible gut-seizing temptation when he spied her across a room or across a street?

“I don’t know what Christophe is, but he’s not human,” Sarah said.

“So you thought you’d just root through his unmentionables, hoping to discover what nature of creature he might be? Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded, the strain of not touching her stretching his already taut nerves to the snapping point. “I told you to leave it alone, Sarah. I told you not to get involved.”

Her chin gave a slight jerk, but otherwise she appeared calm. Even relaxed enough to drop her hands into her lap, though she continued to fumble with the strap of her reticule. “I just told you what he said to me. Something’s wrong, Seb. I must know what it is.”

His heart leapt at her use of his nickname, but otherwise he made no sign he’d noticed her slip. “How would you have explained yourself if he’d caught you? Did you think of that?”

“I wouldn’t have had to explain anything.” She rose from the bed and walked toward him, hips swaying provocatively, eyes dreamy and soft, a sly smile curving her full lips. “Men are all the same. None would question finding a woman in their bedchamber. They’d be too busy congratulating themselves on their good fortune.”

He folded his arms over his chest. Easier to keep himself from reaching for her. Though whether he wanted to embrace her or throttle her was still under debate. “And after the congratulating was over? What then, Cleopatra? He’d have expected more than a wink and a smile.”

“Perhaps, but you forget I have a talent to make people see what I want them to see, believe what I want them to believe. I’d have found a way to persuade Christophe to let me leave. And he would have done so, thinking it was all his idea.”

The very air seemed to shimmer with expectation, her sultry intoxicating scent reminding him of hot summer days and even hotter summer nights. He yearned to touch the soft curve of her cheek, trace the strong line of her jaw, and draw the combs from her thick dark hair.

Duncallan had claimed she was Other. Was she using her Fey-born power now? Was that what this mesmerizing siren call was that drowned out the last sensible thought in his head until all he desired was a pair of long legs wrapped about his waist and a moan from those full red lips? He closed his eyes as if he might wipe her from his mind, but still the images burned, need coursing like fire through his body.

“Stop it,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Just stop.”

“Stop what?”

He pressed a fist to his forehead as he heaved a deep shaky breath. “Damn it, stop making me feel what I don’t want to feel. Stop working your bloody magic on me.”

She stiffened and shook her head. “I’m not.” Her brows snapped low in a furious glare. “You think that’s what happened that night, don’t you? Why you and I . . .”

She stood a mere arm’s length away, her sober gown with its maidenly neckline and long fitted sleeves far from the diaphanous silks and rich velvets she wore in London, and yet it only seemed to heighten his anticipation. He pictured the luscious curves and creamy skin lying hidden beneath the staid layers. He recalled the fierce joy and sensual abandon beneath the unruffled façade. Every drop of blood in his body fled southward, leaving him giddy and reckless, drunk with desire as if he’d downed a jeroboam of champagne.

“What kind of woman do you take me for?” Her gaze flashed with both hurt and anger. “I don’t need magic to dazzle a man . . . and that includes the great and powerful Earl of Deane.”

“Then how
do
you explain it . . . explain us? Because I sure as hell don’t understand. Nothing makes sense. Not how I felt then . . . not how I feel now . . .”

“How
do
you feel?” she asked, and though she never moved, the same flickering zing of electricity as before crackled the air between them.

Before he surrendered to the urges singeing his mind, he swung away. Crossed to the window to look down upon the park. Tomorrow an eclipse would blot it from the sky, but tonight the moon rode above the trees to the west, full and silver as a coin. “I’ll inform Duncallan of your suspicions. We’ll make some discreet inquiries about Prince Christophe and his secretary. Will that keep you from rifling the man’s rooms again?”

He heard the rustle of silk and felt the drift of her perfume across his face. A hand touched his sleeve. “Seb.” She did it again, but this time he knew it had not been a mistake. She had done it deliberately. A single syllable but it tore at his heart.

“You’re playing with fire, Sarah,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the moon as if that might save him from himself.

“I’m not afraid of Christophe.”

He could take it no longer. He turned to face her, jaw clenched as he gritted out the words. “I’m not talking about Christophe.”

Her lips pursed to a small bow, her gaze darkening. Her chest rose and fell in a series of quick breaths and a tremor ran beneath her skin, but she did not step away or offer a laugh to turn aside his assertion.

“We’re alone, Sarah, and it’s neither afternoon nor is there a household to intrude on our privacy.” He paused. “Or you can come to your senses again and leave.”

He saw her throat working, her downcast lashes fluttering against the white of her cheeks as she composed herself. Then she met his stare with one equally as candid, a flash of gold against the stormy gray of her eyes. “It’s the hour,” she said, her voice low and solemn as a promise.

He cupped her face, her blush hot against his palm. “And the situation.”

He slid his other hand around her waist, her body swaying toward him as if he’d tugged an invisible cord.

“And the moon,” she said raggedly. “Definitely the moon.”

They came together in the dark, their lips brushing tentatively at first, then as the moments elapsed and his control evaporated, he ventured deeper with more urgency, his hand gliding lower on her back, his other pressed against her rib cage, where he felt her breaths coming faster, her body trembling wherever his fingers traveled. His own body was ablaze, both with the power of the moment and the realization of his feelings. He’d not revealed them to her, but in his heart, he understood them as if they had been burned there with a brand. She could not marry Christophe. She could not marry anyone.

Not anyone but him.

He smiled as he kissed her, possessively, protectively. As if his future depended on it as he now knew it did. He could not envision his life moving forward without her at his side . . . and in his bed.

She threaded her hands into his hair, wound them behind his neck, dragging him closer, nearer, as if she wished nothing between them. He would oblige.

It took but a few subtle movements and a slow melting turn to drop them onto the bed, wound together as if to break free for even long enough to disrobe might shatter their sudden abandon. Instead she popped the fall of his breeches and shoved them down over his hips even as she kissed him with increasing sensual hunger. He dragged her skirts to her waist as his tongue danced and dove within the sweet heat of her mouth. There was no time for soft words or slow explorations. Instead the force that carried them this far, carried them over.