Soulbound

by Kristen Callihan

  “And I’m not going to get any by sitting on my ass,” she muttered, rising to her feet. No, she needed a plan.

  Chapter Eight

  Sin’s insides grew uncomfortably tight as he climbed the wide, red carpeted steps of the theatre. All around him people followed, making their way to their seats while chatting and softly laughing. Anticipation was a palpable hum, thicker tonight, for Londoners loved good gossip, and this performance promised to offer up a tasty meal of it. For Miss Layla Starling, the young, beautiful, and extremely wealthy heiress, was in attendance. With a suitor. Until now, she’d managed to evade the marriage noose. Despite the fact that she was unfortunately American, she’d received a staggering number of offers. And turned down every one.

  Sin did not want to admit to the relief he felt every time he heard of her refusals. Nor did he want to admit to feeling as though his knees were cut out from under him when he thought of Layla finally marrying. Which was unfair of him. Layla deserved to be happy. She deserved to live a rich, full life. And if that included marriage, then so be it. As for him, he could not offer those things. He would never be normal, never be anything but a freak in her world.

  Why then was he following her to the theatre? Irritation was a prickle at the back of his neck as he entered his brother-in-law Archer’s family box and took the seat closest to the rail. In the quiet hush of the luxury box, he let himself watch Layla. She sat in a box opposite him and one tier lower.

  Seeing her sent a pang through his chest. The oval of her face was a cameo against her mahogany hair. He remembered when that hair had hung in snarls, from when they’d climbed trees, bits of leaves caught in the silky mass. He knew she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, like cinnamon over cream. He knew that, when she smiled, she’d reveal a front tooth that was just a bit crooked. And that her eyes would appear forest green, amber gold, or dusky brown, depending upon the light.

  He knew her. Or had. Tonight, she was resplendent in pale pink satin, trimmed with chocolate brown ribbons. Despite her vast wealth, the only adornments she wore were small pearl earbobs and a brown satin ribbon about her slender neck. His fingers itched to touch the nape of her neck where he knew it’d be warm and soft, to tug the ribbon free and set his mouth to the place it had rested.

  Foolish thoughts. He forced his attention to the man at her side, the one sitting so attentively, watching both the gathering crowds and her at the same time. He was older, with black hair and dark eyes. Yet there was an air of timelessness about him, as if he could be in his twenties or in his forties. But it was the “otherness” about him, as if the man stood apart from the rest of the crowd, that bothered Sin.

  Or perhaps it was jealousy. When the man set his gloved hand near Layla’s, Sin’s back teeth met with a click.

  “And who are we staring at?” said a female voice at his ear.

  Sin loathed the muffled yelp that escaped him. He turned his head to properly glare and found the cool, jade eyes of his sister smiling back at him. “I’m purchasing a cowbell for you,” he groused as Lady Miranda Archer settled into the empty seat at his side.

  “You’ll have to discover a way to make her wear it,” said her husband, Lord Benjamin Archer, as he took the seat next to Miranda’s. Amusement lit his pale gaze. “I’d take care. She’s liable to singe off your brows.”

  Both Miranda and Sin snorted as one. Miranda could, in fact, burn a man’s brows off with a thought. But then, so could Sin.

  “What are you two doing here?” Ordinarily, he’d be pleased to see them, but this was his night, and he did not want to share Layla with anyone.

  “Why, I’m certain I don’t know.” Miranda blinked, her eyes wide and innocent, her voice falsely vapid. “Archer, why are we here? I’ve plum forgotten.”

  Archer settled back, crossing one long leg over the other. “I believe it had something to do with attending the theatre, love.”

  “Very amusing,” Sin muttered.

  “So…” Miranda leaned forward, craning her neck in the direction of where Sin had been looking. “What lovely lady has caught your attention, then?”

  “No one.” Sin’s cheeks burned. “And would you please sit back? You’re going to attract attention.” Miranda always attracted attention. Beautiful as she was, it couldn’t be helped.

  Her lips curled in a smile. “Afraid your ladylove might see?”

  “Stop pestering the lad, Miri.”

  Good man, Archer. He, at least, understood discretion. But then Sin caught Archer’s evil smile.

  “It’s clear,” the bastard said, “that he’s near wetting himself with worry. And I’d hate having to explain the spoilt upholstery to the management.”

  “Arse.” Sin turned his attention to the empty stage. “The both of you are unmitigated arses.”

  Miranda elbowed him softly. “Miss Starling is quite fetching, is she not?”

  Sin lurched upright, and Miranda smiled. “Oh, come now, your study of her was fairly obvious, dearest.”

  “Miss Starling?” Perhaps he could play the ignorant buffoon.

  Apparently not. Miranda gave him a chiding look. “All of London is talking about the young heiress. The richest girl in the land, who has the audacity to be an American.” Her smile grew teasing.

  “Nothing the ton loves more than a wealthy anomaly,” Archer added with a certain dryness.

  Miranda gave him a little kiss on his cheek. “Never fear, Ben. You’ll always be London’s most infamous moneybag.”

  Archer rolled his eyes, but wrapped an arm about her slim shoulders, tucking her closer to his side. Sin was grateful for the distraction, hoping they’d become engrossed in each other, as they tended to do, and forget about him. No such luck graced him. Miranda turned her too-keen attention back to him.

  “I do not blame you for noticing her, brother. Miss Starling is quiet lovely.” She gave him a saucy look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve developed a tendré.”

  Gods, but he could feel himself blushing. Damn it all to hell. The air unnaturally heated as his power threatened to slip his control, and he took a calming breath. “I know her, is all.” He cleared his throat. “Or knew her. Long ago.”

  “Then go speak to her,” Miranda urged. “You are too isolated as it is. Make friends, Sin.” Concern marred her smooth brow. “You know I speak from experience when I tell you that cutting yourself off from the world won’t help.”

  It was a known fact that on every third Sunday, in Mab’s household, three-quarters of the staff had the day to themselves. It was also known that Cook made a cherry trifle for those unfortunate few who must remain behind. It would be simple enough, then, for Eliza to sneak into the kitchens and give the trifle a liberal soaking of opium syrup. There was a risk that the staff might imbue too much and not fall asleep but perish, but given that many in Mab’s employ were of fae blood, Eliza did not believe – or rather she fervently hoped – it would not kill them.

  More difficult, however, was finding a means of escape. Hope came by way of the spirits seller who made a monthly visit to the house to deliver ale and mead. Eliza took the risk to speak to him.

  “You shall be called back here,” she told him, “because the barrels you are delivering now shall meet with an unfortunate accident.”

  When the driver, a crabby, grizzled man of an indeterminate age, scowled, she spoke on before he could protest. “It shall be done. However, you stand to earn one hundred pounds if you help me with a delicate matter.”

  Still frowning, the man scratched the back of his head, sending his cap over one eye. “An’ what’s to be done when the mistress of the house puts the blame on me? I’ll be expected to pay for them ‘faulty’ barrels. An’ I want no trouble.” Despite his protests, his expression that said he could be persuaded.

  “One hundred pounds on top of your expenses.” Eliza shrugged. “Or I could simply damage the barrels and leave it at that. I doubt anyone in the house would believe the blame lies upon m
y shoulders.”

  The man harrumphed. “Mad chit, you are.” But he was listening.

  It was a plan filled with pitfalls and holes. Everything could go wrong, but Eliza was taking that chance. Mellan had helped. No, he’d not open the doors for her; Mab would not know his part in things. But he’d given her Mab’s key to the chains that bound Adam to the cellar wall and then taken Mab out for the day.

  Eliza hated that she must put her faith in Mellan’s promise that he’d keep Mab away and that she had to believe the one man who had every reason to crush her beneath his boot.

  Mellan’s eyes had borne into her. Do not fail me, Eliza. And do not think for a moment that you can cross me and live.

  Now, when escape was upon her, Eliza’s palms were so sweaty that it took her three tries, her hand slipping from the key, to turn the lock on Adam’s cell door. He lifted his head, his eyes a dull copper color in the dingy light, but he made no move to rise.

  “Dear God,” she muttered as she took stock of him, “what did she do to you this time?”

  He was black and blue, more slashed than whole. He grunted as he made an effort to sit. “Another productive visit.”

  Eliza shook, the key clinking as she slipped it into the lock that attached his chains to the cellar wall. Damnation, but she’d expected him to be in better shape than this. The moment the chains clattered to the floor, Adam took a deep breath, his wide chest lifting. He rubbed his wrists, still bound by the cuffs and the heavy lengths of chain attached to them. Flushed and fevered, he gazed up at her. Every fear within her came to a standstill. She forgot to breathe. Why was it this man affected her thusly? How could he heat her blood and make her heart stutter with merely a look? Worse, why did she want to hold him close and tell him how sorry she was that theirs was a relationship that would never come to pass?

  “What is it?” he rasped through dry lips.

  Eliza licked her own. She could hardly admit that she was meant to kill him. “Nothing.” Her voice sounded raw, cracked. “I’ve brought you some clothing.” A grimace twisted her face, for Eliza had not been able to provide very good ones; she’d had to pick through the footmen’s limited off-duty clothing.

  She managed to gather up a cotton work shirt that had faded to a dull grey color and a pair of horrible red, black, and yellow plaid trousers. Boots were harder to find. The only size she thought might fit being a mismatched set, one with an appallingly large hole in the sole. Never mind, they’d get him a proper pair later.

  He eyed her selection now without comment and then reached past the undergarments to pick up the trousers. He proceeded to tug them on, gritting his teeth as he moved. His struggles made the muscled plane of his abdomen bunch and his cock slide along his strong thighs… Eliza forced herself not to watch.

  “Help me with my shirt,” he ordered, his eyes averted.

  His short tone did not annoy her, for it had to be difficult asking for assistance, and with a certain degree of gentleness, she eased the paper-thin rag over his head. The thing smelled of cabbage and soot. Eliza did not want to contemplate what little beasties might be hiding amongst its folds.

  Adam gritted his teeth and pushed his arms through the sleeves, the bulk of the chains he wore making the process unwieldy. By the time they were finished, Eliza buttoning up the collar with deft hands, a sweat bathed his skin.

  Shaking inwardly with sympathy, she lifted his arm over her head to settle around her shoulders. The cold chains hit her arm, a marked contrast to the warmth of his skin beneath the thin shirt.

  “We haven’t much time,” she said. “Can you stand?”

  “I’ll crawl if I have to.” But he managed to lurch to his feet, dragging his broken leg along as she walked them out of the cell. It was slow going, the chains clattering, his body leaning onto hers.

  “Remember the knot?” he managed to say.

  “Yes, I’ve got it.” Eliza pulled the length of her gown they’d used to handfast from her pocket. Adam had tied the silk into an intricate Celtic knot. A symbol of their joining. They’d leave it here now to send a message. Eliza had grave doubts that Mellan would honor their handfasting. But she had to try, nor could she now explain to Adam that Mellan was privy to their escape. Such a mess.

  Before she could drop the knot, Adam took the thing and rubbed it across his bloody brow.

  “So they know you are mine,” he said, making her flush.

  “Lean your bad hip against me,” she ground out, dreading the walk up the stairs. He had a foot in height on her and, even in his emaciated state, was a great deal heavier than she was. There was no help for it. Either they made it out or they would suffer.

  Servants lay pell-mell around the house, their slumberous snores breaking up the eerie silence. Adam glanced at them as she shuffled him along, and his full, split lip quirked. “Devious, Miss May.”

  “Necessary, Mr…” Eliza trailed off, realizing she did not know his last name or if he even possessed one.

  “Once upon a time,” he rasped, “I was called Aodh MacNiall. But that man has long been dead to the world.”

  They said no more; it was clear that talking drained his strength. At the back of the kitchens, Mr. Albright, the driver, set down a barrel of mead before looking around in a frantic manner. When he glanced back at Eliza and Adam, tilted drunkenly at her side, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. She supposed seeing over six feet of bloody and battered and chained male would do that to a person.

  “Jaysus. You didn’t say nothing about…” The driver swallowed hard and shook his head. “Hurry up, then.” Sweat peppered his grubby brow and he wiped at it with a dingy rag. “First sign o’ trouble and I’m off. Blunt or no.” He did not dare look upon Adam, as if doing so would somehow make him more accountable. “Get him in the cart, lass, afore someone sees.” The driver hurried off to finish his delivery.

  The small trip out of the house and to the waiting cart felt endless. Eliza’s back was so tight that she feared a sudden movement might make it crack. The vivid image of them taking a tumble and sprawling on the pavers flashed in her mind before she pushed it away, and, bending her knees to take more of Adam’s weight, she gave his long, unwieldy frame a desperate shove. Coupled with his own, albeit weak, efforts, the man fell into the cart, only to lie prone and panting just inside of the cart door.

  Sweat ran down her spine and over her brow as she roughly pushed his legs farther into the cavern of the cart. Good gravy, he was heavy. Wiping an arm across her forehead, she hopped in behind him, having to crawl over his body to get fully inside. Once there, she tugged on his hips and shoulders, edging him along. Adam’s eyes fluttered open, thin slits of pale amber. With a grunt, he heaved himself along, trying to help her. She did not want to think about the noise they were making or the time that had elapsed.

  Nausea churned in her belly, threatening to rise up her throat. She couldn’t think about getting caught. She would not.

  “Lie still,” she whispered in his ear when he attempted to move again. Thankfully, he did so immediately, though Eliza suspected that he’d simply run out of strength. Hunched against the side of the cart, he shivered, his mouth pinched, his knees drawn up to his chest. Damn it, but he was far too injured for her liking. They ought to have waited until he’d healed further.

  “Shit,” she hissed under her breath. With quick movements, she hunched over him and heaved a barrel in front of him, blocking his upper body from view. Another barrel had to be moved to hide his legs. By the time she was finished, the world around them was a dark cocoon and her arms burned with exertion. She could only be thankful that the big, wooden barrels were empty of mead or ale.

  On a suppressed sigh, she pulled off her cloak, draped it over Adam, and then sat back next to him. Her pulse knocked against her throat, her heartbeat visible at her breast. Every inch of her ached. Fear had her body twitching with the urge to run. They were barely covered from view. Anything could go wrong. Mab could decide to return and pay a visi
t to Adam.

  Eliza ground her teeth together. Stop thinking. Now.

  Footsteps echoed out in the courtyard, followed by a man’s voice. “Then it’ll be next month, sir?” The driver.

  “Best to make it two weeks,” came the butler’s voice. He must have returned early, which meant he’d soon find the staff drugged. “We’ve been going through mead like washing water, this incident aside.”

  “You’ll be hearin’ no complaint’s from the likes o’ me.” The two shared a chuckle. Too close to the cart.

  Eliza tensed so hard that she shook. At her side, Adam stirred. Immediately, she put a quelling hand upon his sweaty shoulder. She kept it there, feeling the blood seep through the shirt and willing him still as a single set of footsteps grew louder. The cart shook as the driver heaved an empty barrel into the back of the cart.

  The barrels next to Adam’s body were pushed hard against him as the driver adjusted his load. Though Adam hadn’t opened his eyes, nor made a sound, pain pinched his features. Eliza’s hold gentled, trying to soothe, even though a sick, dreadful terror had her by the throat.

  She held her breath as the driver secured his haul with ropes, going about his work as though he hadn’t a care in the world. She wondered if he saw them hiding or if he’d done his best to cover them further. She dared not look. But the interior of the cart grew darker, the air heavy and muted.

  Moments seemed to drag on endlessly in which the driver fussed about and then walked away. Silence stretched, broken only by her thundering heartbeat. And then suddenly they were moving. Eliza dared not breathe a sigh of relief; she’d save that for when they were well and truly clear of this house.

  But as the minutes rolled on, she allowed herself to rest against the high slat-board wall of the delivery cart. Beside her, Adam dozed, his brows drawn and his complexion pale. She’d have to wake him; she didn’t know where to go. But there was time yet.