by Bec McMaster
Sebastian cringed internally.
"She was my mother's ally," he said hoarsely, looking across the gardens. "She did nothing more than any other young lad might have dreamed of."
"But you didn't."
"I never had a choice in the matter," he said softly, oh so softly. "They used to have auctions...." He couldn't say any more, but there was one question that was bothering him. "Why are you doing this? I helped kidnap your daughter."
Lucien remained silent. Then a hand clapped on his shoulder and squeezed. "Did I ever tell you about my father?"
"Which one?" he asked. For Lucien was secretly Drake's illegitimate child.
"Lord Rathbourne," Lucien replied. "The earl despised me for most of my life, and it wasn't until recently—a year or so ago—that I finally realized why. Rathbourne claimed he needed my help to perform a great working. He'd neglected me for so many years it never crossed my mind to question him. Or maybe it did, and a part of me didn't care. I wanted to please him.
"And he brought forth this... this sort of metallic link he claimed could increase my powers, and help us to link. There were runes in each link of the metal, and it gave me an odd sensation when I touched it." Lucien released a sharp breath. "A sclavus collar is illegal. It's forbidden to have anything to do with one. We don't speak of them anymore. We tear pages from books that show you how to make one. And it wasn't until I put it around my throat that I even knew what it was."
Sebastian's head jerked toward the other man. "You wore a collar?"
"Out of all of us here, perhaps I alone know what it feels like to be bound to another's bidding." Lucien looked up at the night sky. "The sensation as your will is turned against you.... There's nothing you can do. Nothing you can say. Your body's no longer your own, nor your mind. And it hurts to fight it, fuck it hurts. It felt like every nerve in my body was on fire. There comes a point where you don't think you can survive, and you give in." He glanced down at his feet. "And afterwards you wonder: did I fight hard enough? Did I surrender too early? Did I have anything left to give?"
Sebastian's mouth felt dry.
"You want to know why I can forgive you for your role in Louisa's kidnapping?" Lucien's voice firmed. "It's because I know there's nothing you could have done to have stopped it."
And they weren't merely speaking of Louisa anymore.
Nor were they speaking of Lucien's forgiveness.
* * *
Something was wrong.
Cleo smiled at everybody who greeted her, but she couldn't help craning her neck to try and find Sebastian. The bond between them was fiercely shielded on his end, but she felt as though something had happened to him. Her skin was itchy—not quite Premonition—but more an innate sense of Sebastian's emotions.
Excusing herself, she went to find him, brushing through a pair of dancing sorcerers, and slamming directly into another woman's shoulder.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, as the pair of them staggered apart. "I didn't see you there."
Premonition lit through her like wildfire.
The other woman—wearing black silk from head to toe, with a ruff of black swan feathers around her neckline—sneered a little at her. "Quite all right, considering the circumstances."
"Circumstances?"
"Your husband's in the garden," the woman whispered, leaning close to her. "But I'd give him a few more minutes to regain his composure at least."
With a knowing smirk, the woman withdrew a small compact mirror from her reticule and began to powder her nose.
Cleo blinked at her. Sebastian... in the garden. "Are you trying to hint that you and my husband were having a rendezvous out there?" she asked incredulously.
The woman snapped her compact shut, and gave her a world-weary smile. "Oh, my poor sweet child. Don't take it personally. Men have such appetites—"
"I don't take it personally," Cleo interrupted. "I find the idea ludicrous."
"Ludicrous?"
"You would have to know my husband," Cleo explained politely. "He's not the sort to take a lover, or even to flirt with other woman."
"I do know your husband." The woman brushed past her, as if to go, but paused at the last moment. "Intimately. Perhaps you should thank me. Everything he knows, he learned from me."
And then she was gone, leaving Cleo gaping behind her.
A sliver of unease went through her. He didn't want to touch her, but he'd been with... with this woman?
And then it all suddenly made a perfect sort of sense.
"It was never about making love, Cleo. All they ever wanted from me was fucking."
His mother had sold him to others for the night, and he'd hinted that there'd been nothing he could do about it. The heat drained out of her face. "That bitch," she whispered. For she'd bet her entire life the woman had been one of Morgana's friends, and Sebastian's tormentors.
And now he was out there in the gardens alone, and that uneasy feeling she'd been having for the past half hour suddenly made sense. Despite the way he'd locked her out of his mind, his emotions had been leaking through his shields. That was what made her skin itch.
Whatever the strange woman might claim, Sebastian wasn't recovering from an interlude. He was violently angry, and.... She felt a mix of a half dozen other emotions; guilt, rage, some horrible, twisting emotion that made her stomach want to roil.
She had to find him.
Cleo pushed through the doors, standing on the terrace and staring out into the night. Lantern-light warmed the garden, but there were a dozen pockets of darkness. Closing her eyes, she felt for him.
There.
And not alone, either.
Scurrying down onto the gravel path, she headed for the fountain where Sebastian and Lord Rathbourne were deep in conversation.
"Ah." Rathbourne spotted her first, a sure sign her husband was emotionally compromised. "I think your lovely wife has come to call, and I'm sure you'd prefer her company to mine."
Sebastian looked over his shoulder, and she was struck by the sharp lines of his face. In the pale moonlight, his eyes looked like black holes. Empty of even a single emotion, though she could feel them through the bond.
Muted now. Not quite as furious. Not quite as murderous. Whatever he'd been speaking about with Rathbourne, it had calmed him a little.
Rathbourne excused himself, giving her a faint nod, and she saw the warning in his eyes as he moved past her, heading back to the ball to give the pair of them a little privacy. Proceed with caution, his eyes said.
Cleo waited until he was out of earshot, and then moved closer, the wind stirring her skirts.
"I'm sorry," Sebastian said, in a hollow voice. "I find I'm not very good company tonight. You should go back to the ball. It's your first one. I wouldn't want you to miss it."
Cleo rested a hand lightly on his sleeve, and he stilled. "I couldn't go back," she said. "I wouldn't enjoy a moment of it, knowing you were out here, and that she'd hurt you."
"She?" He looked dangerous tonight, the moonlight reflecting silver in his eyes.
But she'd never been frightened. This was her Sebastian. Despite everything, he'd never scared her, and though he might not love her, he'd protected her against her father and his mother. He'd sacrificed himself for her, when his mother kidnapped her.
"I had a moment with a certain woman," Cleo admitted. "Looked like she'd massacred a black swan for tonight's event. She tried to tell me the pair of you had a passionate interlude out here."
Rage blanked his expression. He took an unconscious step toward the house, but Cleo lifted her hand and pressed her fingertips to his cheek. "She hurt you," she whispered. "Somehow. I could feel it through the bond."
"Cleo." He stepped away from her touch, flinching a little. He didn't like to be touched sometimes, and now was clearly one of them. "What did Lady Beaumont say to you? You do know I'd never—"
"I know," she replied dryly, trying to ignore the little rejection. It wasn't personal. He was upset; overwrought over something th
e woman had said or done. "It seemed a desperate, grasping ploy. I assumed you'd humiliated her, and she wanted to gain back her confidence by trying to trick me into thinking my husband was having an affair. I felt a little sorry for her, to be honest."
"You shouldn't," he said bleakly.
"I know, but...." Cleo toyed with her gloved fingers. "What sort of person lies about such a thing? I have to assume she's a terribly sad woman, with nothing in her life—"
"She's not. She's the sort of woman who'd lie to amuse herself, or to crush your dreams, or simply because she thought it might be some form of retaliation against me. She's a cruel bitch who deserves everything she gets. And the very fact you can feel even the slightest shred of sympathy for her only highlights your good qualities."
"You knew her."
"I don't want to talk about it."
And there was just enough hint of pleading in his voice to make her bite her tongue. Sympathy vanished. If Lady Beaumont had been one of the women who forced him into her bed with the sclavus collar.... Sebastian was right. Some people didn't deserve sympathy.
And it made sense why he didn't want her to touch him right now. She tucked her hands inside the crooks of her elbows. "If you ever do, then you know I will listen. But for now... why don't we take some time away from the ball?"
"Are you certain you're not going to miss it?"
"There'll be other balls."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. And it's not the same without you. You seem to think all I care for is the ball, but I wanted to share it with you. This way," Cleo whispered, holding her hand out to him. This time he let her take it, and she led him toward the shadowy gardens, relief flooding through her. Maybe she could make him forget what had happened, just for a moment. "I know you'd never been here at Lord Rathbourne's manor, until the other day. I want to show you something. I think you'll like it."
* * *
Julia Camden, Lady Beaumont, circled the ballroom once more, gathering a glass of champagne and pausing by one of the french doors. A pair of figures rippled through the gardens outside; one stark and imposing, carved of shadows, and the other an insipid girl in a ball gown that overwhelmed her insignificant figure.
Julia smiled and brushed her earring, bringing the glittering bracelet she wore up to her mouth, and the spell that lingered there. "They're in the gardens. I doubt he'll return to the ballroom anytime soon, especially now he knows I'm here. I'd suggest you move quickly."
She glided along the wall of french doors, heading for the entrance. She had no intention of greeting that bitch who called herself Prime. It was time to take her leave. Setting the empty glass on a side table, Julia glanced once more at the ballroom: all the glittering lights, the laughter, the gloating smiles of the Prime and her two companions as they greeted some pompous lord or other....
The Prime's smile would soon fade.
Julia sent the footman for her cloak, her gaze alighting on a small glass globe she'd deposited behind a picture frame earlier in the night. There were over a dozen scattered through the house, tiny glowing strands of spell craft glimmering in the light every now and then within them. Lady Rathbourne's static wards shimmered over the manor like a cloak of spider silk, but there were ways to pierce them.
"Give me five minutes to get clear," she whispered once more to her bracelet, smiling at the footman as she tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "Then I'll fire the spell and bring the wards down."
Julia swung her cloak over her shoulder, and gathering her skirts, she strode down the front steps of the house, heading for her carriage. She couldn't wait until Morgana brought her son to heel, because then Julia would get the chance to remind him of everything they'd once shared.
She almost shivered in anticipation.
Chapter 12
THE NIGHT AIR smelled of jasmine and roses.
Cleo led him to a walled garden, tucked near the end of the house. Near enough to still see the lights from the ballroom, and hear the sweet notes of the string quartet, but just far enough away that he felt like he could catch his breath again. Regain his equilibrium.
"I used to come here," she admitted, "whenever I needed to think."
He brushed his fingers against the long-dead bud of a rose. Somebody had neglected to snip the old growth away. The bushes were wild and overgrown, clearly lacking any sort of restraining hand, but he liked the way it felt like they protected the walls, as if to guard this little garden against the outside world. "It's beautiful."
"It reminded me of you." Her voice sounded wistful. "I kept thinking how much you'd enjoy it here. I imagined what it would be like if we rescued Drake, and your mother and the demon were vanquished, and all of us had a chance to catch our breaths. I know you barely know your father, but I thought... it would be nice to get to know him."
She was speaking of a future in which they were married in truth. Playing happy families, and spending time with his brothers and their wives.
"After the last month," he said, instead, "I was hoping to have some time away from the others once this is all done." If it was done. If they all survived.
Cleo glanced up from beneath her lashes. "Others? Or Bishop?"
He sighed, and scuffed the back of his hair. "It's been an intense month."
"He wants to teach you."
"He wants to use me to get his—our—father back." Sebastian circled the garden, suddenly impatient. "I know you want a family, Cleo, but I don't want you to expect too much. Lord and Lady Rathbourne haven't forgiven me, not entirely, though they're polite enough, and I'm sure Verity and Bishop will be relieved to have their house to themselves again."
She seated herself patiently on the stone bench. "I'm not quite certain which one of us you're trying to convince."
He looked at her sharply.
"It seems your shield isn't quite as impermeable as you'd like to believe," she pointed out, and he tested it immediately. Cleo smiled a little sadly, as if she'd expected it. "Your emotions have been trickling through tonight, though I think I'm more in tune with them than you are."
Sebastian stared at her. "What do you mean?"
"If you expect the worst, then you can't ever be disappointed, can you?"
His nostrils flared. Devil take her. "I'm not the one lost in dreams that will never happen," he said sharply. "You don't know the world. You've been sheltered and locked away, and say what you will about your father, but he kept you protected, Cleo. You might have seen horrible things in your Visions, but you've never lived them."
What else had she sensed through their bond? What would she say if she knew about his ticket to Manhattan? He looked away. Tell her.
But he didn't.
It.... It wasn't the right time.
And he wasn't entirely certain if he'd made that decision. The ticket represented a possibility.
A choice, when he'd had so few of them.
Cleo took an uneasy breath. "Is it wrong to want to live in hope? Is it wrong to trust, and believe that things can be better? That there is a home here for me? For us?"
"Us?" he said hoarsely.
And their eyes met.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. More than she could ever know. He squeezed his eyes shut. I can't give you what you want. I know that. "We come from two different worlds."
She turned away, her face stricken for a moment. And he felt like the lowest bastard who ever walked the earth.
The cool air made her shiver. Sebastian dragged his coat off, and slid it around her shoulders, his hands resting there.
Cleo looked up in surprise.
"It seems I'm not the only one who's having trouble keeping their emotions to themselves," he murmured. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"I brought you here because I thought you'd like the roses." Her eyes suddenly glimmered, and she blinked a visible tear away. "I just wanted to make you happy."
He drew her into his arms, his hand cradling the base of her skull. "You do."
&nb
sp; And it was a shock to realize the words were true. He drew back and gazed down into her face. "It is beautiful. And thank you. For bringing me here, and for... trying." His mouth twisted. "I ruin everything."
"I should have known better. She hurt you, and you weren't in the right mood—"
"That's not an excuse."
"Yes, but—"
"No." He turned toward her, and breathed out slowly. "It's no excuse. I don't know how to manage you. I don't know how to be a husband. And I don't want to hurt you, but it feels like every time we're in the same room, I inevitably do."
"At least you're willing to be in the same room with me now."
"It wasn't you I was hiding from."
"Now who's the liar?"
Sebastian stepped closer, capturing the lapels of the coat she had over her shoulders. His knuckles brushed together, and he tugged her a little closer, until her skirts pressed against his trousers. "When you speak of dreams it's hard for me, because I've never dared dream. And I can see it. What you speak of." His voice grew heavy with longing that even he heard. "It's like a snow globe, filled with a beautiful scene I can't quite touch, and it fills me with fear, for what if I drop the globe? What if I smash the dream?" His thumb skated over her cheek, as he searched her gaze, hoping she understood what he was trying to say.
"You won't drop the globe." Cleo brushed her cheek against his hand. "I trust you... more than you trust yourself."
He breathed out a laugh. "I ruined your night."
"Lady Beaumont ruined my night," she said, a little fiercely. "And I have a very great desire to have words with her over that."
"Don't," he warned. "She's not the type of woman who'd stop at mere words."
"When I used that particular statement, it wasn't exactly what I meant."
Cleo had always been a warrior when it came to him. "When did you become so fierce?"
"When I realized I had something to fight for. Why don't we start the night over again?" she suggested.
"How do we do that?"
Cleo looked up at the stars. "You tell me I look beautiful. Indeed, you're quite welcome to tell me such a thing every day if you feel like it."