Shadowbound (The Dark Arts Book 1)

by Bec McMaster

  Not a single thing owned any hint of personality. Doubt was an unfamiliar emotion. She'd met Sebastian but once, after all... Who was her husband? The man who dwelt in silences and tried not to smile as he escorted her out of the carnage of heavy duck artillery? Or was he the cold man who hadn't hesitated in making a casual threat to her father that morning, as if he was discussing the weather.

  Afternoon slowly slid into evening. Cleo dined in her chambers, listening as people came and went. Something was happening. Though her premonition had been willfully silent today—nerves, she suspected, tore her concentration—a sense of heaviness and tension stained the very house. Cleo cracked open the window, only to hear Sebastian reprimand his mother, somewhere below her window.

  "I don't care what you do," Morgana snapped. "Just keep her bloody quiet until we get to the cemetery." A horse neighed, and wheels crunched over gravel. "This cannot go wrong, Sebastian. We must retrieve the relic from Miss Martin at all costs. She had best not think to cheat me, or I swear that girl will bear the brunt of it."

  "It's all right," Sebastian murmured, and he sounded like her Sebastian again. "You'll get to see your mother again very shortly. I promise. Then you'll be safe. You just have to remain silent for a little longer. Can you do that?"

  "I'll try," a little girl whispered.

  "That's the spirit, Lou."

  The sniffling of tears stopped and the din of voices cut off dramatically as the carriage door was closed. It wheeled away as the chill of evening fell, and Cleo was forced to shut the windows.

  Well, now. What on earth was going on?

  She paced for at least an hour, but there was no sign of her husband's return. Nobody had been up to see to the fire, and supper had been quite forgotten. Much like herself. She was still in her bloody wedding gown, with its stiffened skirts and the lace that dug into her throat.

  You thought it would be better, she told herself, blinking sleepily. You little fool. She was cold now and curled up on Sebastian's bed, dragging the cover over herself. Her eyes closed, her breath softening...

  Something alerted her to the fact that she wasn't going to be alone for very long—footsteps in the hallway outside. Cleo had a moment where she didn't know where she was and realized she must have fallen asleep at some stage. She sat up with a jerk, the covers tumbling loose around her.

  The door opened and Sebastian strode in, easily identified by his brisk stride. The scent of his cologne swept around her as Cleo froze. Definitely her husband. Something light hit the floor, possibly his cravat. A button popped, and he paused in front of the liquor cabinet and poured himself something to drink. "Fuck."

  "Long night?" Cleo asked.

  A choked cough sounded; then he cleared his throat and turned. "Miss Sinclair. I... didn't expect you."

  How awkward.

  "I was just... I couldn't get out of my wedding dress." Swallowing her nerves, Cleo tipped her chin up. "And I believe it is Mrs. Montcalm now, is it not? Or perhaps, Madame? Which would you prefer?"

  "I don't particularly give a damn. I suspect it will make little difference."

  Well, two could play at that game. She was starting to regain her mettle. She might not know this house or what was expected of her, but she could learn it. And it had been bloody hours since anyone had paid her the least amount of attention. "Then I shall be Mrs. Montcalm. It suits me. Do you need help undressing?" She slid off the bed and crossed slowly toward him, running through a map of the room in her mind.

  Sebastian sidestepped her and went straight to the liquor cabinet. "No, I don't."

  That felt uncomfortably like dismissal. "I'm only trying to do my wifely duties."

  "Your wifely duties are not required," he replied, though his voice roughened toward the end there. Fabric rustled. He sounded as though he was wrestling with his coat. "Nor will they be."

  "None of them?" she replied innocently. "But, sir, I'm quite willing to perform—"

  "None of them." The coat hit the floor, and he slammed the crystal stopper back into the liquor decanter.

  "Well, unfortunately, I do require help undressing." She turned around, presenting her back to him, and dragged the soft curls that tumbled down her back over her shoulder. "I cannot reach all of the buttons."

  Silence. Sebastian swallowed, then set the glass tumbler aside. "You should have rang for the maid."

  "I did. They must have been busy," she lied. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  The distance between them remained the same. Cleo waited, her head tilted to the side, so that she could hear him better. Every hair along her skin lifted. Her bodice felt too tight.

  With a muttered curse, Sebastian stalked toward her. "Here," he said, and gave a roughened tug to the top two buttons, clearly intending to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible. The buttons were soft pearl and tightly hooked. One scattered to the floor and clattered away. Sebastian cursed again. He had to slow down. Had to work them more gently. Breath whispered across the back of her shoulders, and his roughened fingers danced occasionally against her bare skin, igniting her senses.

  Perhaps this had not been a good idea. She felt like she stood on the precipice of a cliff, preparing to leap into water when she didn't know the depth... even as a part of her desperately wanted to make that leap. Every brush of his fingers felt like lightning, striking through her veins.

  Heart hammering, Cleo bit her lip and tilted her head forward. Agitation made her skin feel flushed, her body restless. She had to say something. "Had your boots arrived?"

  "What?" He was remarkably stiff on his right side, almost as if he favored that hand.

  "Your boots. The ones you were so set on acquiring after the ceremony. I thought they must be quite grand indeed to send you chasing after them at such a time."

  Sebastian's hands set to work again. He was fumbling quite badly now, wrestling with her buttons. "Yes."

  Liar. Her lips pressed together.

  "There," he said.

  The gown slipped forward, clinging to the edges of her shoulders. Cleo hesitated. "My corset?"

  If anything, the silence grew even more strained. "Cleo." His breathing was heavier now.

  "I cannot remove it myself," Cleo admitted quietly.

  Once again Sebastian came to her aid. He tugged her laces undone roughly with his left hand, his right pressed lightly against her spine.

  It was torture. And she had done it to herself.

  With a sigh, he stepped away from her. "There." Her silken robe was pressed into her hands, and then he turned and shuffled back toward the liquor.

  Cleo stared blindly after him, want kindling along her nerves. It was clear that she'd been dismissed. Her entire body trembled. She didn't quite know what to do. Well, at least she could remove her dress now. She set about undoing her tapes and loosened her corset until everything collapsed around her feet, leaving her in only her thin chemise. Heat scalded her cheeks. He had his back to her, she knew it.

  Was she so insignificant?

  Cleo dressed swiftly in her nightgown, using her robe for discretion. Not that she needed it, she thought. Afterward, she stood there with her chemise fisted in her hands. Sebastian had stoked the fire. It crackled behind her, and he turned to the decanter again, judging by his footsteps. "You should return to your own room."

  "I can't."

  "I'm tired, Cleo. I don't want you in here."

  Well, that was blunt. Cleo's cheeks burned. "I stumbled into the maid when she was bringing me dinner. She dropped the teapot all over my bed. She thought I'd best sleep here, and they'll try and air it in the morning."

  She was met with another one of his precious silences, as if he was fighting to sort her words out in his head. "You cannot stay here."

  "We are married, are we not? I know you don't wish to consummate the marriage, but I'm certain you'll be able to restrain yourself, and it's a large bed. You'll barely know I'm in it."

  "I'll sleep on the trundle," he g
rowled. A muttered curse caught her ear. Then he upended the liquor decanter, the scent of brandy flavoring the air.

  "Seven hours married, and you've already turned to drink," she murmured. "This bodes well."

  Fabric shifted and she almost suspected that Sebastian hissed under his breath. "Cleo, I'm hellish tired. I cannot argue with you tonight."

  "Were we arguing?"

  "Please. Just...don't. Don't push me tonight." For the first time, he sounded exactly as he claimed. Exhausted.

  She could smell something now too. Spirits mixed with... Blood? Desire washed away from her as her mind replayed the past few minutes in her head. His stiffness, the muttered curses, the wince as he tugged at her laces... "Are you hurt?"

  "I'm fine." It sounded like he had something in his mouth, and as glass clinked, she realized it was the top of the decanter. With a grunt, he tore a piece of fabric, and something slithered over his skin.

  "You are hurt. Why didn't you say something?"

  "It's nothing."

  "Nothing, my foot!" Cleo hurried toward him, hands outstretched. "Here, let me help—"

  Her hands met his half-opened shirt. Hard muscle flinched beneath her fingers. His stomach. Then her wrists were captured, and Sebastian held her politely away from his body. "I can manage."

  Now that she was thinking again, and not sidetracked by the feel of his hands on her buttons, she could scent a faint burning scent. "You only have two hands. Let me help you, Sebastian. I feel terrible for forcing you to assist with my gown when you're injured."

  If he'd been in the right frame of mind, she thought that he might have kept arguing. Instead he sighed and sank down onto the stool by the vanity. That's when she knew he was exhausted. "I was shot."

  "Shot?"

  The bottle upended. He swallowed. "The bullet went right through me. It's fine. Most of the bleeding's stopped."

  "Where?"

  Sebastian caught her hands and directed them to his shoulder. "Right through here."

  Her hands slid over the bulk of a bandage. He'd been trying to wrap it around his neck and shoulder, without much success. Cleo pushed his shirt collar out of the way, inspecting the job with her fingers. "Has someone seen to it?"

  "I cleaned it with alcohol and cauterized it earlier." His head slumped forward.

  "That's hardly proper treatment. I'll send for a doctor—"

  Sebastian caught her wrist as she turned for the door. "No."

  "But—"

  "No," he said again with force. "No doctors, no surgeons. Just help me put this bloody bandage on, and all I'll need is sleep."

  "What about infection?" she whispered.

  "It will be fine."

  Cleo swallowed. "I could cast a small healing ward over it. It might not seal the skin, now you've cauterized it, but it might help with the degree of healing."

  "Thought your talents ran to Divination?"

  "They do. I've reached the Fourth Level, however. I know the minor Healing Arts, though I'm certainly no adept."

  The offer sat there as he considered it.

  "Don't you trust me?"

  "I trust you." Sebastian barked a laugh, which swiftly fell silent. "I'm just not used to such offers. I keep searching to find your angle, but then I remind myself who I'm dealing with. You're not like my mother, or any of her acquaintances."

  "I should certainly hope I'm not. Why didn't she heal you?"

  "Because I disobeyed her."

  What kind of woman let her son hurt like this? "Hold still. I have to touch you." She lifted her hands and pressed them over his wound as she pushed the bandage aside. Sebastian tensed, the skin flushed with heat.

  Power welled through her as Cleo opened herself up, drawing heat from the fire, from his skin, from deep inside her... From everything that surrounded her. It felt like she was a flower, finally blooming. The world fell away, all of the cold, harsh realities of it, and her senses grew stronger.

  Suddenly his heartbeat thumped through his chest like a drum. Cleo could sense the tension within him, as if he watched her blindfolded face, and smell the faint burnt tang of sorcery that clung to his clothes. He'd expended a great deal of power today.

  "You should be careful. You have the scent of overexertion all over you. If you use too much sorcery, Bastian, you might burn yourself out."

  At that, she released the ward with a soft power word, and Sebastian gasped as a cool tingle slid across his skin. Beneath her touch, the wound burned like menthol, a strange hot-cold beneath her hand, as her magic sank itself into that fevered skin. She was left touching smooth skin, newly reknit, and only faintly throbbing with heat now. By morning, he should have healed completely.

  "Thank you," Sebastian said gruffly.

  "You should have told me sooner. How did this happen?"

  Silence again, broken only by the sound of him swallowing. Liquid swished as he lowered the bottle. "Don't ask, Cleo. One of Morgana's schemes."

  "And the girl?"

  His head shifted as she felt him look up. "How did you—?" Then he grunted. "Did you See it?"

  "No. I'm not myself today. I can't seem to grasp my precognition through the distraction. I overheard Morgana speaking in the courtyard, however." She pressed her hands to her thighs as she knelt in front of him. "There. We're all done. You should come to bed."

  "Cleo."

  "I promise I won't ravish you."

  "I should stay on the trundle in my dressing closet."

  That wouldn't do. She couldn't chase him from his own bed in such a condition, and she'd been telling the truth: Hers was drenched, a ridiculous ploy she hadn't thought through all the way. "Will your mother not think that unusual? She might... wonder if my presence bothered you."

  Sebastian stayed stubbornly silent.

  "I promise I will stay on my side of the bed. I won't bite. Unless you snore. Do you snore?"

  "Not that I'm aware of." He heaved himself to his feet. "Do you honestly think you're fooling me?"

  "No, not at all." Sebastian shifted, so she added quietly, "Do you honestly think you're fooling me?"

  This earned her a long minute of silence. She counted, letting her heart beat out the seconds.

  "Very well then. We wouldn't want my mother to think there was anything unusual between us." A glass clinked against the dresser beside the bed. Then he began to undo his shirt.

  The pop of each button made her chest tighten with nerves. She didn't know why. Cleo crossed to the bed, feeling somewhat flustered. It was one thing to think of wifely duties, quite another to listen to the stealthy glide of linen and cotton as her husband undressed himself. Her imagination was a vivid thing, after all, and she had seen enough in her visions to have some idea of what husbands did to their wives. She'd always thought the idea a somewhat gruesome one. It had been like watching a duel—the heavy thrust and pull of flesh, the subjugation of the female, the grimace of emotion on their faces.

  Her cheeks were burning. She'd always thought she would force herself to endure such a thing, if she ever married, but she'd never thought she'd feel like this: all nerves, all breathy anticipation, her body almost leaping out of her skin.

  And, if she were honest, there was a lush heaviness between her thighs that made her feel rather uncertain.

  "Ah," Sebastian murmured with a hint of heat to his voice. Some manner of clothing hit the floor, making her throat tighten. "Now I realize what will finally subdue my wife. You're very quiet, my dear."

  "I don't like that word," Cleo whispered with a blush.

  She could hear him thinking his words through. "Subdue?" The word sounded somewhat muffled, as if he dragged something over his head. Then he moved to his belt.

  Cleo swallowed. Hard. Her nightgown felt like a thin barrier. Even now her nipples strained the fabric.

  "I don't like that word very much either." He sighed, and then his trousers hit the floor. More material rustled. His nightshirt, perhaps. The bed dipped as he sat on the edge of it. Silence br
ewed again between them.

  "I'm not going to touch you, Cleo." It was a hushed confession, as if he felt her nerves.

  "It would be all right, if you wished to." She thought he'd be gentle with her.

  "Perhaps I do not wish to?" And then he dragged the covers over himself, leaving her feeling very much alone again.

  Cleo lay down, dragging the covers over herself. Perhaps I do not wish to. Her mind could conjure a thousand reasons why he might not want her. Moving slowly, she swallowed the lump in her throat. That was enough of that. She was not going to give into any of those horrid thoughts. She'd had enough of them when her father couldn't be bothered dining with her, or gave her but a brusque kiss on the forehead as he came and went, always on some business that was more important than she.

  It felt strange to have another person in the bed with her, especially one so much heavier. The mattress dipped, and she was fighting not to roll into him. That would probably send him straight out of bed. Crossing some lines required a careful military campaign, not a full-on assault, and after what he'd said, she wasn't certain she wanted to wage such a campaign anymore. All of the day's hopes were dying a small death in the middle of her chest.

  "That wasn't a very nice thing to say," Cleo whispered.

  Sebastian rolled over, his breath whispering against her face. "I—"

  "But then, I think that's exactly how you want me to feel. After all, I'm very used to not being wanted."

  Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath.

  Cleo rolled away, curling her hands into the blankets, her abdomen locking tight with a great deal of suppressed emotion. None of this was going the way she'd thought it would. Her eyes pricked with tears. "Do you know, I was so happy this morning? I thought my life was going to change. I don't expect you to love me. I don't expect you to even wish to be around me all the time, but please, do not be cruel. I know I am just an insignificant blind girl who you never wished to marry, but I didn't particularly want to marry you either. You were nice to me the other day, but I just wanted to escape. The worst thing you could ever do to me would be to lock me away here and not give a damn. So I won't hope for love, I won't, but if you could just care, just a little, that would be enough for me."