Chapter 2 #2
"Rathbourne." Her voice held the faintest hint of a growl in it. "Don't mistake me for some frivolous bit of muslin. You're in a warded room. I can have you dancing straight back to Bedlam before the hour is out, bound, gagged, and naked, if I wish it."
Bedlam. The threat made his heart kick painfully in his chest, his fingers tightening just a little, leaving small dints in her plump cheek. He'd do anything to remain free of such a place. Anything. Just the thought almost unmanned him.
You're free, he told himself. But for how long? After all, you're of no use to her... Not like this.
Their eyes met.
She could never know.
"You wish to remain free of such a place." Her voice became softer and smokier, though her eyes were still hard little chips of violet ice. "Do not presume to put your hands on me."
"I have no intentions of hurting you." Not physically.
Revenge was a far more intricate puzzle.
She wouldn't understand how many nights he'd considered how best to destroy her and the Prime.
It was the only thing that had kept him sane during those long, silent hours, with not a single word spoken to him, no sign of another human, not even a glimpse of light.
.. Just a plate shoved through his door at rough intervals with gruel slopped across it.
He'd thought himself truly mad then. When the people of his bloody fantasies were the only companions he had.
But now...
She seemed softer somehow, far less certain than the cold, battle-warded woman who'd broken into his rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel and surrounded him with a circle of thirteen.
He'd been half-blinded then, his skin tight and slick, still stinking of the burning reek of brimstone.
Knowing that he'd committed one of the greatest crimes against the Order.
A death sentence usually. Barely even a trial.
But the Prime had had him dragged before him.
Examined him for long, slow moments, as if trying to find some remnants of himself in Lucien's face.
And then he'd turned his back on him and exiled him to Bedlam.
"No?" The wariness never left Miss Martin's eyes, as if she found it difficult to believe he meant her no harm.
"No." I have plans for you. Something far more interesting than anything he'd previously concocted.
After all, he was the one who'd learned that death was kind.
He stepped away from her, letting her suck in a deep breath.
Heat flushed through her cheeks, but she mastered herself as if such a moment had never existed between them.
"I intend to strike my own bargain with you," he told her, returning to the table and picking up his lukewarm tea.
"Bargain?"
"You need me far more than I need you, I think." She'd added the barest hint of sugar, but after so long without, his throat rebelled, and he was forced to swallow it without gagging.
"Debatable."
"You threaten to send me back to Bedlam for the slightest infraction, but how long must I wait until a new Prime sits at the head of the Order?
How long before the comet's appearance fulfils its prophecy?
" He tossed the tea unceremoniously into the pot of the lime tree.
The cat padded toward it, sniffing to see if it were something edible. "Who else can you use, Miss Martin?"
"And would a new Prime see you free of Bedlam?"
His smile told her more than words ever would. He could wait. She couldn't. Eyes narrowing, she crossed her arms. "What do you propose?"
"You need my assistance," he told her, "and I have promised to give it, but there is a difference between grudgingly helping, and doing everything within my means to assist. I can slow your quest to the point of incompetence if I choose, or I can complete it very quickly.
I am very, very good at what I do when I choose to set my mind to a task. "
"Go on." The slant of her eyes told him she was waiting for the axe to fall.
"I will give you my days," he said. "I will obey your every command whilst bonded and serve as your Shield. I will help you to the best of my ability, protect you, and do my best to see the relic swiftly found. But... my dear sorceress..." his voice lowered, "your nights are mine."
For a moment, she looked as if she didn't quite comprehend. Then her eyes widened, her full mouth parting in surprise. Color bloomed in her cheeks, pinks and reds, blending in to each another. "I beg your pardon?"
"You want my cooperation? Then that is my price."
"Getting you out of Bedlam is the price I paid. You swore you would come with me and obey my directives."
"I will obey," he said, leaning back in the chair, as he enjoyed the moment. "I will obey to the very letter of your statements. No more. No less. I'd suggest you choose your words very wisely."
He had her. He saw it in her shocked eyes, in the riot of colors that danced across her skin. Her composure was only skin deep; some hidden well of emotion threatened to spill over her, which made her game for his plans.
Concern for her lover, the Prime? Somehow he had the feeling concern would be a different color to what he read now. The greens, blues, and violent indigo that swirled around her were muted and draining. Fear perhaps, if he could put a color to an emotion. Weariness. Desperation.
Hot pink desire.
Lucien stilled, his cods drawing tight. Bloody hell. That was something he'd never expected.
Miss Martin took her seat opposite him. The silence stretched out between them, and she looked slightly shaken, a little tremor in her fingers, the rattle of the saucer as she jarred it.
.. Taking a deep breath, she finally stilled, staring at the gold-rimmed porcelain of her cup before lifting her eyes to his. "Why?"
"Because I want you in my bed."
She sipped her tea in response. "After all that I have done to you, you wish me to believe this isn't motivated by revenge?"
"Partly."
Her eyes narrowed. "I won't allow you to hurt me."
"My dear..." He pushed the sugar bowl closer to her. "What makes you think I have any intentions of harming you?" All of the heat he was feeling filled his voice. "You might even enjoy it."
"Of course. How foolish of me. Why would I ever doubt your intentions?"
Lucien merely smiled. It was easier to converse with her than to deal with the rest of the world.
Some of the overwhelming press of sensation went away, leaving him to deal with only one; the hardening of his cock.
"Make no mistake. I intend to make good use of that sweet little body of yours.
It won't all be kindness. Some of it will be the most delicate kind of cruelty. "
Violet eyes blinked at him over the rim of her cup, as she choked down some more of her tea.
"But I promise you this." He leaned forward and caught her lace-gloved hand. "You will enjoy it. You might even beg me to be a little cruel."
Tea slopped down her wrist, and Miss Martin swore as she jerked her hand away and snatched up her napkin. Lucien went to his knees beside her, plucking the napkin from her hand and using it to soak up the tea stains on her skirts. Their eyes met as she put her cup down.
"So be it." A proud look tipped her chin high. "I can, and have, endured a great many small cruelties over the years. What is one more?"
"Perhaps you might get your case of inks then, to mark the runes on our skin for the bond?" A smile curled over his mouth. "Before we both run out of daylight..."
Where she would pay the price before he earned his service.
Ianthe's heart beat madly in her chest as she slowly unfolded herself onto the stone slab.
The conservatory seemed a distant memory as Rathbourne eased his way around the cellar she'd led him to, lighting the smoky wicks on numerous candelabrum.
Wax dripped down the sides of each candle, creating leering faces.
This was her chamber of sorcery, an enormous magic circle set into the floor in solid silver. The pair of double circles—one inside the other—contained numerous runes, set to keep outside interference at bay so that she could perform her major works.
The last candle flared to life and the circle's energy was suddenly palpable, trembling over her skin and dancing between her thighs. She was trapped in a magic circle with the one man she wanted above all others.
A man whose touch she could only too clearly remember. Ianthe wet her lips. She knew the scent of his body, the satiny glide of skin over each muscle and sinew as he'd buried himself inside her.
And the pain that single act had caused her...
Concentrate. Rathbourne is the means to an end.
"Do you wish to close the circle? Or shall I?
" Rathbourne seemed to be easing back into his skin with every minute, becoming more and more the man she remembered from the hotel.
Bolder and far more arrogant than he'd been as a youth.
He spoke of gentle cruelties now, but he'd known none of them then.
Indeed, he'd been mesmerizingly gentle as he laid her back upon his cloak that night, so long ago.
Kissing her as if he sought to steal the very breath from her, his fingers trailing under her skirts and seeking the heart of her desire.
It had hurt, of course, for she was a virgin, but the hurt of it had soon dissolved, her body wrapping around his as he ground himself into her and whispered shocking, delicious words in her ear.
"If you will," she replied.
Taking the ritual blade, he carefully ran it across his finger, squeezing out several drops of blood onto the first silver circle.
A silvery dome flickered to life, locking them inside.
As his blood dripped over the inner circle, another could be sensed, this time an invisible, but no less dense protection. A dome built to keep magic out.
Rathbourne's eyebrow arched, and he tipped his chin to her. "Exquisite work."
"You expected less?"