by Alexa Egan
“Help me get him up,” Duncallan said. “We need to hide him before he’s discovered.”
“Sorry, old chap. This is going to hurt like the devil.” Sebastian shoved an arm under the Imnada’s prone body. “Right. Now what?”
Duncallan gave a jerk of his head. “I’ll take him to the west tower. No one will think to look there. You stay and make sure there’s no trace left of our presence then send word to Gray. Tell him he needs to come immediately.”
“You can’t just wander the corridors with a naked man.” Sebastian grabbed up a rug from a nearby chair, wrapping it around Lucan’s hips, securing it with a knot and a tug. “If anyone asks, he drank too much and passed out. Hopefully they don’t look too closely.”
Duncallan headed for the door. “Be sure de Coursy gets that letter.”
“Consider it written and delivered.”
Alone, Sebastian sat down, pulling a piece of paper from a drawer, shuffling through a box for a pen and ink. His jangled, jumpy nerves eased as the shadows settled once more over the room, and he rolled his shoulders as he scratched a quick message to Gray.
“You can come out now, Miss Haye,” he said without looking up.
Not a sound.
Folding and sealing the note, he left it on the desk as he rose to stand at the terrace doors. “I know you’re here. I can smell your perfume.”
There followed the rustle of silk, the creak of a floorboard.
“Is there a reason you’re skulking behind the furniture?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the moon-washed park.
“I lost a bauble during the dancing. I came to search for it.”
Her voice boiled up out of the quiet, touching him in places aching and hollow. He pressed a hand to his chest, reminding himself of her squalid relationship with the prince and every other reason she was the last woman in the world he needed in his life. The queer pang passed, and when he spoke, it was as if she meant nothing to him, though the effort left him exhausted. “And found far more than you bargained for.”
“Who is he?”
Sarah came to stand beside him, still dressed in her evening wear, but for a shawl carelessly tossed around her shoulders. Her hair spilled loose down her back in soft brown waves. She might be the last woman in the world he needed, but she was most definitely the only woman in the world he wanted; never more so than right now, when any normal female would be shrieking their hysteria to the skies or blubbering like a leaky waterworks.
“What is he?” she asked as calmly as if she were questioning the menu at dinner.
Breathing slowly, he wrestled his libido to a draw, though he remained acutely aware of the scented warmth of her skin and the way her hair gleamed in the light of the single candle. “A shapechanger. One of the Imnada.”
He felt her body tense with shock, her eyes nearly silver in the dark. “They’re just stories.”
“So we believed for over a thousand years, but you saw him shift as well as I did.”
“Why is he here? And what was he saying? It seemed familiar somehow. Like I’d heard it before.”
“Doubtful. The shapechangers have been in hiding ever since the Other sought to wipe them from the earth in retaliation for King Arthur’s death.”
“You know about the Other?” Her body went rigid as if preparing for flight—or fight.
“I am Other.” He let that sink in for a moment before he ventured to add, “Like you.”
While she no longer looked as if she might flee, she remained wary, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “How did you . . . I mean . . . I suppose Duncallan must have told you. But why would he unless—” Her chin lifted as she met his gaze. “Have you been asking about me?”
Seb offered a shrug. “Does that surprise you?”
“Frankly, yes.”
He gave another shrug and tried to look patiently ambivalent. Difficult to do in a dark room with a beautiful woman, but he thought he pulled it off rather well.
She seemed to accept his interest, or perhaps she simply ignored it as she was very easily ignoring him, for she began pacing back and forth, brows now scrunched in adorable concentration.
“But there was something—” She frowned, tapping a finger to her lips in thought before she rounded on him. “What’s going on, Sebastian? It’s dangerous, isn’t it? You could be hurt like that poor man. You could be killed.”
“Would that bother you very much?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped.
Despite his earlier anger, his lips twitched with the start of a tired smile. “I’ll take that as a yes. I beg you, for safety’s sake, don’t reveal what you saw tonight to anyone.”
“My safety . . . or yours?” She left his side to pace the room, a ghostly figure in the moonlight. “Why should I listen to you? Why should I even trust you?”
“Because whatever else you may be, Sarah Haye, you’re no fool.”
She faced him down, pale light silvering her dark hair like a halo, back poker straight and shoulders braced. “Not a fool. Just a common actress with the morals of a high-priced doxy.”
“You weren’t meant to hear that.”
“But you don’t deny that’s what you think.”
He plowed a hand through his hair as he exhaled a long ragged breath. “Gods, Sarah. I don’t know what I think anymore. I haven’t for six bloody long months.”
“If you must know, His Highness and I are to be married,” she pronounced.
Forget pang. This time his heart stopped. He waited for her to laugh at her joke or demand he answer more questions about the injured Imnada. Hell, maybe a few feminine hysterics over spilled blood and naked men would be preferable to the determined set to her chin as she declared her betrothal.
“Prince Christophe proposed last week.” Her expression never changed unless it were a deepening of the color in her cheeks, a hardening of her jaw. “The bracelet was an early wedding gift.”
“You’re marrying that oily gammon merchant?” he said, his voice sounding unnaturally strained.
“Is your shock that I’m marrying? Or that I’m marrying above my station?” She tossed her head. “You wait and see, darling. I’ll be the toast of the Adriatic and eat grapes from silver platters served by men in togas.”
Even set back upon his heels, he recognized her vulgarity for what it was; a subterfuge, a way to divert his attention and carry the conversation back to her advantage. “Why do you do that? Why do you act as though you’re fresh out of the rookery when I’ve seen you moving among the upper ten thousand with the graciousness of a duchess?”
“The ton might let me past their doors, but I’m no more than a dancing monkey dressed up and paraded for their amusement. I’m not really one of them, and they make sure I don’t forget it. As long as I understand my place and live beyond reproach, they indulge me, but step one toe out of line and it would be a far different story.”
“Don’t count me among those who see you that way.”
Her chin lifted in a show of annoyance. “I know now exactly how you see me, Lord Deane. I just heard it from your own mouth.”
“That was a mistake based on . . . poor information and—”
“Your own prejudices.”
“I was going to say jealousy,” he replied, the night chipping away at his restraint.
Her eyes met his, surprise mingling with confusion and perhaps a hint of sadness. Then she turned her gaze to the darkness beyond the windows.
“Does marrying your prince count as breaking the unwritten rules?” he asked after a minute or two had passed in silence.
She shrugged. “Christophe is a foreigner. That places him in the same ranks as lunatics and imbeciles. People like that can’t be held accountable for their actions.”
This sounded like something his mother would say. Just thinking of the dowager countess was enough to remind Sebastian of the list of prospective brides awaiting his inspection. All from high-ranking families. All paragons of maidenly virtu
e. All interchangeable as cogs in a machine. He might as well close his eyes and point a finger.
“I’d no idea your life was such a knife edge,” he said quietly. “Nor how close I came to ruining it.”
Her lashes swept down to hide her expression. “You aren’t at fault. There were two of us in that bed, my lord. But you could have crowed your conquest to the world, and you didn’t.” She lifted her gaze to his, the darkness accentuating the long line of her cheekbones and the strong angle of her jaw. “For that, I owe you my thanks.”
“I don’t make a habit of bandying ladies’ names as notches on my belt.”
“But actresses aren’t considered ladies, and you wouldn’t have been the first man to make claims about my sexual impiety.” A smile tweaked the edge of her mouth. “Only the first to be telling the truth.”
That whisper of humor, that hint of deeper waters running beneath the placid surface of her face made him ache to take her in his arms. More so than any blatant invitation ever could. He wanted to coax that smile to fruition. To revisit the hollow at the base of her throat and skim a hand over the soft curve of her hips. To hear the throaty purr of her voice as she whispered his name. One short night hadn’t been enough time to learn her in the way he desired. A lifetime might not be enough. She had too many secrets, too many sides.
“Prince Christophe is a lucky man, Miss Haye.” So lucky, Sebastian had the irrational and uncharacteristic urge to beat the shit out of the smarmy bastard.
“He is, isn’t he?” Her eyes glittered strangely in the half light of his candle. “But you never answered my question, Lord Deane.”
“What do you want me to say? A crown will suit you very well.”
“That’s not the question I meant. Why should I trust you?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” The shape of her cheek, the arch of her brows, the fullness of her lips; they pressed themselves like spring flowers in his heart. Before she could stop him, before he could think better of it, he pulled her close, searching her eyes for any hint that she remembered that long ago night as anything more than a mistake. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
He brushed his thumb over her lips, before lowering his head to hers in a kiss. She didn’t pull away or slap his face. Not even a squeak of protest. He felt his cock stir, the blood hot in his veins, as she welcomed him with a soft gasping sigh. Emboldened, he delved deeper, taking freely of the sweet honey warmth of her mouth. His tongue slid against hers, her quick gasping breath shooting fire straight from his head to his groin. Gods, but he wanted her. On the couch. On the carpet. Hell, on a bloody table would suffice. He was already hard, the friction as she pressed against him enough to leave him breathless.
“Does your prince make you feel like this?” he asked, rough with arousal and a maddening desire. “Does he tempt you to forget the rules? Do you lose control when you’re with him?”
A question he could well ask himself about Sarah. He was not an impetuous man, not a man who lost his head or spoke before thinking. Yet five minutes with her and a lifetime of discipline and willpower deserted him. Responsibility, duty, and family fell away to be replaced by desire and an aching hunger that needed to be sated lest he explode.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, eyes closed, hair tumbled loose over her shoulders, and tiny urgent moans coming from her parted lips. Reluctantly, he abandoned her kiss-swollen lips to trace a line down her throat, letting her shawl drop to the floor, shoving her gown down far enough to expose her breasts, the nipples puckered taut.
“This is wrong, Seb,” she whimpered even as she skimmed the bulging fall of his breeches.
“As wrong as the last time?” Another instance of hands and lips and silken flesh. Fevered words and reckless action.
Her laughter came soft and sweet. “We were drunk last time.”
“Not that drunk.”
He lowered his head to take one rosy aureole in his mouth, swirling the soft dusky flesh, teasing it until she moaned, her body swaying closer as he suckled.
“But the prince . . .” she murmured, though any protest was muted by the way her hand slid beneath his waistband to brush provocatively against his shaft until he hissed with pleasure.
“Is not here.”
Sebastian backed her against a high cabinet, lifting her onto the polished surface, dragging her skirts up her thighs to reveal her ribboned stockings. He kissed her deeply, the sweet sherry taste of her dragging him toward the edge, his hands teasing and then sliding into the slick wet heat between her legs, stroking the sensitive bud until she tremored against his fingers.
She arched off the table into his gentle assault, head thrown back to reveal the long white column of her throat.
And froze.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, body rigid. “Someone’s coming,” she hissed in his ear, her voice shaking.
“Be silent and don’t move. No matter what,” he said, stepping between her legs, his arms wrapping tight about her waist.
“They’ll see us.” He felt her growing frantic, the rapid beat of her heart, the fear and shame shuddering through her where once she’d burned with desire.
“They’ll see nothing I don’t want them to see.” He held her close as the spell he wove moved out along his bloodstream, mage energy wrapping the two of them in shadowy folds.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek, making him ache with unspent lust. He clenched his teeth and focused on manipulating the tangled strands of magic into a cohesive perception of a dark empty space, scattered furniture, rain-streaked windows.
“Hiding in plain sight,” he murmured.
A light flared and died in the corridor. Footsteps shuffled and a bolt shot home. But no one entered the drawing room, and after a few moments Sebastian let the magic fade.
But so, too, had the moment.
Sarah pulled away to stand, fixing her gown, plucking her shawl from the floor to wrap it around her once again. Eyes averted. Limbs shaky and stiff. She tried to laugh but it was a dull, defeated attempt. “You were right, my lord. I can’t trust you.”
“Sarah . . .” he began, though beyond her name, he’d no idea of what to say. An apology seemed ludicrous under the circumstances Besides, he wasn’t sorry. Not by a long shot.
Her eyes lifted to his and his body’s heat froze to ice with the empty look she turned on him. “But I can’t trust myself, either,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Good night, my lord.”
She unbent long enough to touch his cheek in a fleeting caress before abandoning him adrift and alone on a floor that seemed to tilt and shift beneath his feet.
And stupid bastard that he was, he let her leave.
Again.
3
“Thank the gods,” Sarah said, snatching up the bracelet from the tray on her dressing table. “Where did you find it?”
Hester brushed Sarah’s hair, her narrow face pinched and unsympathetic. “A maid brought it up this morning. You’d best put the horrid thing somewhere safe before you lose it again and have to explain to that prince of yours. Not a good way to begin a marriage, I’m thinking.” She offered her a pointed look. “Nor is turning up downstairs with a love bite on your neck.”
Sarah’s hand touched the bruise below her left ear. “How do you know Christophe didn’t give it to me?”
“Did he?”
Sarah placed the bracelet in her jewelry case and didn’t respond.
“That’s what I thought. Care to tell old Hester what’s going on?”
“No.”
That was the last thing Sarah wanted. Instead, she would push last night to the back of her mind. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Behave as if she’d not a care in the world or a guilty secret buried in her heart. Only this time, she couldn’t put an entire city’s population between herself and Sebastian. She’d have to face him, make small talk and smile, and pretend one smoldering stare didn’t turn her into a puddle of warm jelly. She
could do it. She was an actress. If she couldn’t pretend to an indifference she didn’t feel, she might as well put away her greasepaint and crawl back to her father’s two leaky rooms with her tail between her legs.
“Suit yourself.” Hester sniffed, continuing her work with combs and crimper while Sarah set to the business of covering the mark with powder and brush. A few practiced strokes and the visible sign of her weakness vanished beneath a layer of makeup. If only she could obliterate the memory so easily.
What had she been thinking? First she’d misled Sebastian about her betrothal. Then she’d thrown herself at him like the trollop he’d assumed she was. In the years since she’d left home, she’d spurned every improper advance from the men who hung about backstage on nights she performed and haunted her drawing room the mornings after. So what was it about Sebastian, a man who’d made his low opinion of her very clear, that made her lose every ounce of self-control? It was as if her body were betraying her. Showing her what could be hers every night if she wished it. Sebastian in her bed, the ecstasy of his touch, the fire in his kiss. All she had to do was give up all she believed about herself. Surrender to the world’s assumptions, to his assumptions.
She couldn’t do it.
Sebastian might make her stomach dance and her skin tingle, but Christophe offered a respectable marriage and a secure future. She’d be a fool to throw that away for the temporary happiness that would come from being Sebastian’s mistress. And, as he’d so rightly claimed, she was no fool.
Tucking the last comb in place, Hester stepped back, and Sarah, equilibrium restored, rose to pull on her gloves. A traveling party was headed up onto the moors to tour an ancient burial mound. Sarah looked forward to the trip, if for no other reason than it would offer her precious hours away from the house and away from Sebastian. The less time she spent in his company, the better.
Hester shushed Sarah toward the door with a parting warning. “Be careful, girl. A storm’s brewing. I’d hate for you to get caught up in it.”
Sarah glanced out the window at the blue sky, naked trees dancing in a brisk wind. “The weather’s lovely.”
