Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  "Is it the way I touched you?"

  "No." The light struck her fine face as she turned, revealing shadows beneath her eyes. "To be honest, it has nothing to do with you. Your touch is... pleasing. Orgasm simply eludes me at the moment."

  He considered that. "I prefer honesty in all things. If you cannot seek la petite morte, then don't pretend you did."

  "I won't." It was a bare whisper, but her shoulders relaxed, as if some weight had been eased from them.

  "Then I'll continue to seek to wring soft cries of pleasure from you," he murmured, brushing his mouth across the smooth slope of her bare arm as he turned his attention back to her buttons. "I like a challenge, after all."

  And everything about her was challenging. Revenge would be sweet, now that he'd fixed his mind on the method of it. I'm going to steal you away, my dear. Make you crave me, just as much as I crave you... I'll make you forget his name. Forget your loyalties to him...

  The last button popped free and he slid his hands up the curve of her back, separating the gown over her shoulders. Miss Martin made a soft sound in her throat. "Dinner is cooling," she whispered.

  "We shall eat soon," he replied, sliding her sleeve down her slender arm and tugging it over the tips of her fingers. "I'm just making you comfortable."

  Soft light revealed the swell of her breasts thrust up by the pale pink stays she wore. A little tracery of Venetian lace drew his gaze, and then his fingers, absorbing the roughened fibers of the lace. Lucien let his mouth rove across the bare curve of her shoulder, his cock hard and firm beneath her rounded buttocks, as he drew her other sleeve clear.

  She sat in a puddle of skirts, breathing hard. Desire danced over her skin in flushed pinks and reds, and this time he didn't mistake it. The problem then, was clearly not with his skills or her interest in him. Lucien flicked his fingernail beneath the sleeve of her chemise and slipped it from her shoulder, leaving her soft and disheveled.

  "Perhaps you are the meal," he suggested.

  "I'd rather liken myself to dessert," she replied, and her stomach chose that moment to growl fiercely. Miss Martin flushed a becoming pink and pressed her hands to her abdomen.

  Lucien paused, pressing a kiss to her neck. "Eat," he said, reaching past her shoulder and lifting the first tureen to reveal the white soup. "I wouldn't want to compete with your stomach's attentions."

  Miss Martin looked thoroughly out of her depths. "Should I fetch another chair?"

  "No." He rather enjoyed her right where she was.

  "But how shall you—?"

  "I'm not overly hungry," he replied, which was the truth. They'd dined at the Prime's, and he'd only managed a couple of mouthfuls, as delicious as they'd been. At first, the meals had been of better quality and frequent in his incarceration, but during the last two months, after he'd attacked the prison guard, they'd come barely once a day and were little more than gruel. Hunger had been one of the hardest elements to deal with, though his body had grown accustomed. Strange what one could learn to deal with.

  He fed her with his own fork, cutting pieces of the minted lamb and sliding it over her plump lips, then spearing a sliver for himself. The richness of the sauce was delicious, but somewhat overpowering. Lucien contented himself with the bread, breaking pieces of it off with his fingers and ignoring the butter. He'd dreamed of hot buttered rolls when he was in Bedlam, but the last thing he wanted was to upset his stomach. Too used to nothing but gruel and water, or perhaps the hard stones that they called bread, he didn't particularly wish to spend his night writhing in pain.

  Instead, he took his enjoyment in watching her eat. Most gently bred ladies had the appetite of a bird, but Miss Martin evidently enjoyed her meals. Granted, sorcery burned through a lot of an adept's energy, so she would need it.

  Lucien contented himself with stroking the silky texture of her stays and watching her. She finished the lamb and he placed her knife and fork down precisely, as her head lowered. "What's wrong?"

  "I cannot work you out."

  Lucien let his smile show. "Oh?"

  "This hardly seems like revenge." He caught a glint of the blueness of her eyes, smoky and violet-tinged in the near-dark. The type of lower-lashed look that stroked a hot hand through his groin.

  And I am working you out, my dear. Miss Martin was an accomplished flirt, well used to taking the measure of men. She didn't like that she couldn't do so with him.

  Hands petting her hips, he slid them lower, bunching up fistfuls of her skirts. Miss Martin sucked in a breath as he dragged her gown up over her head and raised arms, before throwing it across the room.

  "Are you trying to distract me?"

  "Is it working?" he asked.

  A faint smile hovered around her lips, but then it died. "Perhaps." Something sad seemed to flicker in her eyes. "Perhaps I want to be distracted."

  It arrested him, that small sign of loss in her eyes. He felt jubilant, but she was hiding something. "What is it?"

  "Nothing." She shook her head. "Everything. I'm worried about Drake."

  Of course. "He'll earn his just reward, I'm sure."

  The look she shot him was razor sharp. Lucien tapped her on the nose, and she bit his finger. A reminder that she might have submitted, but she wasn't completely under his control.

  And wasn't that just fascinating.

  "You've been a very obedient lover," he replied. "If you behave, then you shall be rewarded."

  Her eyes flashed fire, and Lucien laughed as he resettled her on his lap, reclining in the armchair with his legs stretched out in front of him and Miss Martin's head resting against his shoulder. Gossamer fine petticoats danced around her legs. He seized a fistful, and with a jerk, tore them clear off her.

  A gasp. Then she settled again, her fingers twirling in the lapels of his coat. "You're going to owe me a new wardrobe, Rathbourne."

  "I'll dress you in whatever you like," he murmured, brushing his lips against her breasts. "Just as long as I get to remove it all."

  That earned him a wrathful look. "I'll dress myself, thank you very much."

  Flicking one finger under the edge of her corset, he slid her nipple free and smiled at her. "You're proud and independent." Peaked, rosy flesh met his gaze. Watching her expression, he licked it, then drew it into his mouth.

  "You would do well to remember that," she whispered, but her defiance died as he suckled hard. Ianthe gasped.

  Lucien lathed attention on her breast before turning to the other. Every gasp she gave was just reward. The hand that caught his and began to drag it south made him smile. Then she cupped his fingers over the wet-slick flesh between her thighs.

  "What do you want?" Lucien murmured, trailing kisses up her arm.

  "Touch me."

  "Please," he commanded.

  "Please."

  And so he did. She was incredibly responsive, incredibly wet. A flush of desire swept through him.

  "Fetch another sheathe," he told her, pushing the dinner cart out of the way.

  Clutching her loosened corset to her breasts, she did so. When she returned, Luc caught her fingers and directed her to her knees in between his legs.

  "I like your obedience."

  "Don't presume it will last," she warned.

  Lucien smiled. "I don't." Reaching out, he plucked a handful of pins from her hair. "Put it on me."

  The look she shot him was dangerous. Easing open the flap on his trousers, she curled her pale hands over his cock. Lucien's hand slid through her hair. With gentle pressure, he directed her down until her lips brushed against the tip of his cock.

  "Suck it," he whispered.

  Her tongue darted out. Tasted it. Lucien bit his lip. Watching him the entire time, she lowered her head, her warm, wet mouth curling around his erection and taking him almost to the base.

  Oh, God. Heaven. His eyes rolled back in his head, his hand on the back of her head controlling the depth of her mouth. Miss Martin was no expert, but she was enthusiastic and that c
ounted.

  "Enough," he finally demanded, a shiver running down his spine.

  Those firm hands slid the sheathe down over his cock, and she gave him one last suck, as if to prove that her compliance only stretched so far, before she let him draw her back into his lap.

  Backward.

  White, milky thighs straddled his. Miss Martin glanced back, almost curiously, as if wondering what he meant by this. Lucien pressed her forward, her hands resting on the dining cart as he gently eased his cock between her thighs.

  "And down," he whispered, as she sank back onto him.

  A shiver ran through her spine, and she flexed her hips, settling her hands on her thighs. "You like to take me from behind."

  "I do. There are reasons, of course." He smacked her bottom as she rose.

  Miss Martin jerked up before impaling herself again. Luc rubbed at the reddened mark of his handprint on her round arse, licking his finger and then tracing it down over her smooth skin, teasing at the puckered rosebud there.

  Her fingernails dug into her thighs as she gasped, the muscle in her thighs rippling as she lifted.

  "Down," he whispered, and she impaled herself twice, each exquisite muscle clenching around him.

  "Rathbourne!" Her body shuddered, little pinpricks of gooseflesh erupting up her bare arms.

  All you have to do is say no. But she didn't, rising again slowly, then increasing the pace.

  Hot and clearly flustered, she raked her hands down her face as she rode him, moaning a little as he worked her with hands and cock. The tension in her body tightened.

  "Touch yourself," he demanded, hand curling over her hip as he thrust up into her, feeling his balls clench hard up into his body. Fuck. He'd meant to stay aloof, to enjoy her surrender, but it was becoming harder to keep his mind clear. Harder to think at all. Lucien threw his head back, his lip curling in a silent snarl as she slid gentle fingers down between her thighs. Perhaps her own touch would stimulate her. She moaned, her body tightening as she sank her other hand into her hair and she cried out, her upthrusts slowing, slowing, body quivering...

  Then she shook her head, curling her fist in the hem of her chemise instead. "I can't."

  Frustration edged through her tone.

  "It will happen," he assured her.

  He couldn't restrain himself any longer, mouth falling open, as she wilted forward. Catching her hips in both hands, he drove himself up into her. Miss Martin caught at the table, scattering plates and silverware in her desperate fingers as she clung to the edge. He let go of control, let himself drown in her, and it was the sweetest moment ever. Waves of pleasure washed over him as he spilled himself within her.

  It seemed like forever until the world stopped spinning. Lucien let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding and eased from her body. Miss Martin threatened to slide off his lap, but he caught her and dragged her back against his chest and rumpled coat.

  Picking up her fingers, he pressed a gentle kiss there. "You, Miss Martin, are exquisite." Turning her hand in his, he placed a deeper kiss in her palm. Sleepy-lashed eyes looked up at him.

  Beautiful eyes.

  For a moment, his head lifted and she lowered her face up to his. Those tempting, utterly delectable lips were barely an inch away when he realized what he was doing.

  Luc drew back and her eyes opened wide. He forced himself to smile. "Ready to lose our bet?"

  Realization dawned. Miss Martin sat up in his lap. "And here I thought you ready to succumb."

  Picking her up, he carried her toward the bed and spilled her onto the covers. Ianthe tumbled onto her back in a mess of her chemise and stockings, with her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and just the right expression on her face. "Do you know, Rathbourne, I think I rather enjoy your style of revenge."

  Part of him was tempted to tip her onto her back and kneel over her again, to lick the sweat off her skin and rip all those pretty little bits of silk off her body. He wanted her to come.

  Patience. He had plenty of nights to unwrap this delicious present, and he needed sleep. He could already feel the long stretch of the day sinking into his bones like lead, the use of his long-denied magic draining him.

  One couldn't appreciate a woman like this when his hands were starting to tremble.

  Reaching out, Lucien pinched the candle out by her bedside. Miss Martin leaned back on her hands with her knees knocking together and her feet splayed, eyeing him as if she were mentally undressing him.

  His abdomen hardened. No one was ever going to see the mess the demon had made of his body; it was bad enough letting them catch glimpses of his madness.

  "Dream of me." He turned, starting toward the door, but not before he caught a glimpse of her mouth dropping open.

  "Where are you going?" she called.

  Bending to snatch his cravat off the floor, Lucien didn't pause. "To my bed chambers. You didn't think I was actually going to sleep here, did you?"

  * * *

  IT WAS PROBABLY for the best that Rathbourne hadn't stayed.

  Seconds ticked into minutes and slowly began to stretch into hours. Ianthe tossed and turned, trying to keep her mind off matters, but it was no use. Here in the warm, silent dark, she had nothing to occupy her busy mind. Nothing to distract herself with. It wasn't so bad during the day, when she could do something, anything, to try and get her daughter back... But at night? All she could think about was Louisa. What was her little girl doing? Was Louisa hungry? Cold? Was she hurt?

  They'd sent her a letter that first day:

  DEAR AUNT IANTHE,

  I am having such a wonderful time on my holiday.

  Cousin Sebastian is teaching me about his roses. He likes roses, he says, but he won't let me touch them. I like the red ones. He does not do tea parties very well, either. Not like you do. He says the cups are too small for his hand, and he is very bad at charades. And I miss Sir Egmont and Hilary. It's not the same without them. And mama and papa and you. And Tubby.

  Sebastian said I must write to you. I don't know why because it's your turn to visit in a week, isn't it? You always visit on the last weekend of the month.

  I hope I am home by then. I miss mama. Sebastian says we will see. He said it depends upon you, so hurry up and come take me home! I want to see Tubby again. He'll have grown so much!

  Love,

  Louisa

  THE TEARS CAME THEN, the ones that she fought all day to hold back. The words were Louisa's. She just hoped her daughter was as oblivious as she seemed. She mustn't have been there when they killed Jacob and Elsa. That was some small measure of peace, at least.

  There was no use crying; that wouldn't bring her daughter back to her, but Ianthe succumbed in a fast storm that left her face hot and flushed against her damp pillow. She curled Louisa's small, ragged bear, Hilary, against her chest and fought to conquer her breathing.

  What was she going to do?

  She couldn't go to the Prime. She'd been warned away from doing such a thing, and didn't dare, not with her daughter's life at stake, but this... waiting... was doing her head in. She'd spent the first three days following Louisa's abduction doing everything she could think of to find her. She'd tried to scry her whereabouts, she'd haunted London, hunting for traces of the little girl, spent a small fortune hiring men to hunt for her, searched for this Sebastian... and then she'd finally collapsed when it became clear that she had pushed herself past the brink of exhaustion. Thus had come the second part of her plan—to do as Louisa's abductors asked and steal the Blade for them.

  At least now that Drake had given her the task of finding the 'thief,' she could make subtle moves without fear that the nameless, faceless kidnappers who had her daughter would punish her for it. If they did threaten her again, then she could claim that she'd been forced to cover her own tracks.

  Or were they nameless?

  Morgana de Wynter. A name she knew well, but a woman she'd never met. Morgana was a dangerous foe, but at least if Morgan
a was behind this, then Ianthe had an enemy to aim for.

  And Ianthe could be dangerous herself when need be. When she thought of it, a tidal wave of rage swept over her, threatening to drown her. She was barely a mother, but if they thought for one second that they weren't facing an enraged mother bear with her stolen cub, then they would regret it.

  Rage was better than grief. Action was better than sitting around, waiting incessantly. And tomorrow, she would begin tracking this new thread of information, teasing at it to carefully discover if Morgana was the one who held Louisa.

  Tomorrow, she told herself and let her swollen eyelids flutter closed. She needed sleep, or she'd be worse than useless.

  CHAPTER 7

  'Sir Geoffrey Mellors, a sorcerer during the Georgian era wrote of his belief that for every sorcerer, there was another out there in the world—the missing half of their soul—and that, if the two should ever meet, it would be a glorious joining, a union of two equals. Lovers whose hearts beat as one and who shared the same breath, till death did they part.'

  - LADY EBERHARDT'S transcription on Soul-bond's

  THE NEXT MORNING, they breakfasted swiftly at the dinner table. Miss Martin wore a day gown of burgundy velvet that covered her from throat to toes, and yet was somehow dangerously sensual. The color suited her dark hair and pale skin, and frequently drew Lucien's gaze. Silence lingered, broken only by the swish of that velvet and the metallic ting of knives and forks. It sounded somewhat like someone was fencing, and from the swift dart of stealthy glances between them, Lucien wondered if it were them and if silence had become the weapon of choice.

  Only, this time the silence was filled with all kinds of wicked imaginings, at least on his behalf. With every smooth glide of her hands, he could see her body surrendering beneath him, her willowy limbs supple and fluid as he fucked her. As she bowed her head to eat, the long line of her nape showed, a submissive posture that reminded him of others. Lucien's blood burned, but her distracted gaze as she stared across the table at nothing, told him he was alone in such imaginings.

  His brows drew together. Now that he was looking at her—truly looking, not just admiring—he had to note that her eyes were slightly swollen.