Marissa Day

by The Seduction of Miranda Prosper

  Corwin did not stir.

  Darius sat back, rubbing his palms against his thighs. If Corwin died ...

  I will not let it happen. By all the gods in Heaven and all the daemons in Hell, I will not lose you!

  Slowly, Darius gathered up his broken composure. He needed to be still. He needed his mind to be clear. He breathed the cooling night air deep into his lungs. He was weak. He too had been robbed by Miranda Prosper. Not nearly so much as Corwin, who had placed himself inside her, but more than enough to dim his inner focus. Darius forced himself to concentrate. He closed his mind off from worry, from fear, seeking the place deep within, the reservoir of power at the center of his being.

  Normally, Darius had Corwin to help control the opening of that inner door, as he helped Corwin. To do it by himself was difficult, but not impossible. Darius stretched, he strained, and slowly, oh, so slowly, his inner barriers fell and he felt his power rise.

  Like starlight.

  Like fire.

  Like sunrise breaking over the world.

  It filled him. It buoyed him, pouring wild joy and recklessness into him, lifting him high above the cold clay earth.

  Darius opened his eyes and looked down at Corwin, so still and pale and beautiful. His black hair shimmered against the pillow’s pale silk. Darius laid his hand over Corwin’s heart, bent close and kissed him fully and openly on the mouth.

  At first, there was only the sweetness of the kiss. As far gone as Darius was in the wash of his own power, he cared for nothing else. Slowly, however, Darius realized Corwin did not respond. Darius’s heart pounded. His muscles trembled. He deepened the kiss, focused his power and forced his breath and power into Corwin’s still form.

  Softly, Corwin stirred and groaned against Darius’s mouth. His hand lifted, and dropped back.

  “Corwin?” Darius pulled away and grasped Corwin’s wrist, feeling for the pulse. “Corwin Rathe, open your eyes! Look at me!”

  Corwin drew in a sharp breath. He coughed. Darius gripped his hand hard, and Corwin’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Gods and goddesses,” Corwin breathed. “What happened?”

  Darius dropped back onto his haunches. He pressed Corwin’s warming hand to his forehead, and for a moment could do nothing but breathe. When finally he could speak, Darius told Corwin what he had seen and done.

  “I’m going to kill her,” Darius grated.

  “Stop it, Darius.” Corwin’s hand tightened around his, but with none of his usual strength.

  “She almost killed you!” Darius cried.

  “Whatever happened, it was not her fault. She was an innocent.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Corwin coughed and swallowed, and his head dropped back. Darius barely had time to catch him and lower him to the quilts. “It’s been a while, but I know when I’m with a virgin.”

  “There are other ways to make use of a Catalyst.”

  “Name me a Sorcerer who leaves his Catalyst untested,” Corwin panted. “Darius, you must take me to her. Then, one way or another, we’ll know.”

  Darius’s jaw clenched until he felt the muscles in his cheek twitch. But Corwin was right. If Miranda truly was ignorant of her own nature, at this moment her life was in danger. He thought of her tender, shadowed beauty burning away from the force she now carried within her, and his guts turned over.

  “But what if she is one of theirs?” Darius laid his hand on Corwin’s brow. It was dry now, though he was scarcely any warmer.

  “Then you get away and warn the captain.”

  Fear lanced through Darius, reigniting his harsh anger. “I won’t leave you.”

  “Darius ...”

  “Never,” he declared flatly. “There must be a way other than to put you in such danger. I’ll summon help.”

  Corwin winced, but managed to prop himself up on his elbows. “No time, no time. If she is innocent, she’s dying right now. She’s not going to know what to do with any of the power she’s absorbed.”

  “You keep saying so, but an untried Catalyst would not have been able to drain you, not like this. If it wasn’t Miranda Prosper who did this to you, who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Corwin panted. “Did you check the circle?”

  Darius pulled back. It was not possible. He’d been on watch.

  Except he’d heard a noise, like someone trying to get in at the garden gate, and he’d gone to check. No. It couldn’t be ...

  Darius leapt to his feet and ran back out into the night air. The moon was still high enough to show him the way back to the arbor. There on the ground he could still see the smudged remains of the protective circle he’d traced, and he could still make out some of the runes he’d laid.

  Enough to tell where they’d been scratched out and retraced.

  Darius’s blood ran cold.

  No. No. My fault. Mine. He’d been taken in by a trick so old and so simple he hadn’t even thought of looking for it.

  Darius scrambled to his feet and ran back to Corwin’s side, not caring what noise he made, not caring that he left the door flapping on its hinges behind him. He didn’t need to say anything to Corwin, who was still up on his elbows; Darius’s stunned and crestfallen expression told the whole story.

  Corwin awkwardly pushed himself up into a sitting position. “There’s much more going on than we knew.” He rested his forearms on his knees. “We have to find her, before she is beyond help.”

  Before you both are. But Darius said nothing, only helped Corwin to his feet. “Where do we begin?”

  “I think we must do a little more housebreaking.” Corwin took two steps forward and staggered.

  But Darius was right beside him. “Lean on me.”

  “Who else is there, Darius?” said Corwin as he laid his arm across Darius’s shoulders. “Who else?”

  Four

  There had never been such a beautiful night. Miranda glided through the arched gateway between the two gardens. Moonlight turned the formal hedges and flower beds into silver sculptures and towers from some fairyland. She tilted up her chin and gazed at the stars as if they were long-lost sisters. It was not possible she should feel so strong, so vital and alive.

  And from such forbidden pleasures.

  But a more unforgiving flame spread beneath her skin. It crept up from the damp soles of her feet inside her ruined stockings and slippers. At first it was easy to ignore, but the closer she came to the house, the more insistent and less wholesome it grew, until it became a terrible itch under her skin. The delight warming her began to melt away in the face of the growing discomfort. Her toe caught on a stone, and Miranda stumbled.

  What is happening to me? Miranda lifted her eyes toward Lady Thayer’s house, and the light seared her eyes.

  She was aware now that there were other people on the garden paths, strolling here and there, couples come out from the party to enjoy the rare, clear London night. Faces she could not quite make out turned toward her as she stumbled again. The stars seemed so distant now, cold and pitiless. Her head felt light, but all her limbs were far too heavy and the itching inside her was quickly turning into real pain.

  “Miranda!”

  Miranda stumbled again, lurched and would have fallen, if her outstretched hand hadn’t found a stone bench. She sat down heavily.

  “Miranda, where on Earth have you been!”

  A silhouette strode purposefully across the sloping lawn. This one she could not mistake. Her mother bore down on her like some dark angel of fury.

  Daphne Quicke stopped in front of her daughter, hands on her hips. Miranda lifted her head to look at her but had to drop her gaze a moment later—which caused her to miss seeing her mother’s disapproving frown waver, for just an instant.

  “Did he hurt you?” Mother asked flatly.

  It took Miranda a moment to understand the sort of question her mother asked. The ballroom, the dance with Corwin Rathe, belonged to a different world from the place of fire and pain she had en
tered. He might have hurt her, but she didn’t know how, because she didn’t understand what was happening.

  “Honestly, Miranda, it’s not that I mind you finally attracting men, but you might have had the sense to be discreet!” Mother took one step closer, and laid a cool hand on Miranda’s forehead. “You’re fevered. Thank heavens. It will provide an acceptable explanation for your appearance.”

  Mother seized Miranda’s wrist and dragged her to her feet. “We’ll go in the side door. I always knew you never listened to me, and now I have my proof. I despair. If I wasn’t there at your birth, I’d wonder if you really are my daughter ...”

  Continuing on this theme, Mother dragged Miranda around the side of the house, her hand clamped on Miranda’s wrist like a manacle. Miranda staggered along in her mother’s wake because she could not do anything else. The light lanced into her eyes and the fire burned through her bones, robbing her of any ability to think.

  “Oh, Perkins, thank heavens!” Mother wrapped her arms around Miranda’s shoulders. “My daughter has taken ill. Send for my carriage at once.”

  “Yes, madame. Mellon, help the lady. Lace, send for Miss Prosper’s maid.”

  Those were the last words she understood for some time. Miranda felt as if she had been removed into a private space of pain. There was no time, barely any sensation of movement, only the endless fire in her sinews and skin. She had just enough awareness to feel herself lifted into the carriage. Sometime later, she recognized rocking and jouncing as the conveyance rolled over the London streets’ ruts and cobbles.

  Miranda’s lungs began to burn, and she could not catch her breath. Other hands raised her up, supporting her. She wheezed and shivered as they helped her climb the stairs. Conversation went on around her, but she could make little sense of it.

  “Will madame wish to send for the doctor?”

  “Oh, I don’t think there will be any need at present. A warm bed, a night’s rest, and I am sure she will be right as rain.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  The door closed and Miranda shivered beneath her blankets. The silk nightgown in which she had been dressed provided no comfort. The cold gave way once more to fire, and with the fire came a vision like a flash of lightning. She saw two men staggering through the dark streets, leaning together, struggling even as she struggled.

  Miranda.

  Miranda twisted her head sideways, trying to bury her face in the pillows to shut out the visions and the voice.

  Miranda, can you hear me?

  “Stop it,” she begged. Her throat burned; her vitals burned; her very soul burned. “Please, make it stop!”

  I want to, Miranda, but I can’t find you. Say my name, Miranda. Say it!

  “Corwin,” she croaked. Corwin!

  Another vision lanced through her. She saw him, saw them, standing in the mews behind the house, staring up at her window. Darius had his arms wrapped around Corwin. Corwin dug his hand into his side, like a man trying to stop the pain of his own wound.

  “You’ll kill yourself trying to ghostwalk up there,” Darius muttered.

  Corwin shook his head hard. “There’s no other way fast enough.”

  Miranda heard other voices, these much closer.

  “Miss Prosper! Oh, do wake up, Miss Prosper!”

  “I don’t like this. She’s in a real delirium now.”

  “Should we fetch her mother?”

  “Madame Bitch? Not likely. Get round to Dr. Harrington’s. Sharp, now!”

  “Madame won’t like it.”

  “I’ll take the blame if it comes to that. Go!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A rough hand touched Miranda’s forehead. Miranda recognized it as belonging to Louise, her maid. But Louise was not whom Miranda needed, and Miranda tried to shake her off, but she could scarcely move. The terrible light was devouring her from the inside.

  “What on Earth!” cried Louise.

  A cold wind wafted over Miranda’s face. She shivered violently and struggled to lift her head. The burning within blurred her eyesight, but she saw two tall men being faced down by stout Louise.

  Corwin? Darius?

  Yes, Miranda. We are here.

  “Get out of here!” cried Louise. “Get out of here at once, you shameless things, or I’ll rouse the house!”

  Faintly, beyond the fire, Miranda felt a prickling across her skin that was both new and intimately familiar.

  One of the shadowed forms moved closer. “Get away from her!” snapped Louise, and she darted forward, but the other man—Darius, Miranda was now sure—blocked her path.

  “You will find the girl and tell her there’s no need for the doctor. The fever has broken, and Miss Prosper has asked to be left to rest. You will check in on her again in the morning. Go now.”

  Louise swayed on her feet. “Yes, sir,” she said, her words slurring badly.

  “You will be saving her life. This is the only way to save her life.”

  “Yes, sir.” Louise’s tone had changed, growing brisk and efficient. She bustled out the door and shut it firmly behind herself.

  Miranda dropped back onto the pillow. The tide of pain dragged her under, threatening to drown her.

  “Corwin,” she whispered. “I’m burning alive.”

  “Shhh, shhh, Miranda.” She felt the mattress dip and she was aware of a warmth and human presence beside her. “It’s all right. You’ve just drunk a wine that is too strong for you.” A man’s hand stroked her cheek. Corwin! But there was something wrong. His hand was cold and weak. Miranda forced open her eyes, but she could see nothing of him but shadow.

  “Are you here to help me die?” she whispered.

  “No, dearest.” He was panting now. “We are here to help you live.”

  “Save your strength, Corwin,” said Darius gruffly. The mattress dipped again as Darius sat on her other side.

  “You have taken something Corwin needs, Miranda Prosper,” Darius said. “You must give it back.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You must touch him, Miranda.”

  The thought made her stomach clench, and for a moment she thought she would vomit. “No. I can’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to turn her face away.

  The mattress shifted again, and Miranda was aware of Darius lying down behind her.

  “Look at him,” commanded Darius, reaching around to cup her chin and lift it so her face was angled toward Corwin in front of her. Darius’s breath was warm and strangely gentle against her ear and his hand firm and strong as he held her. “Look at him with me, Miranda.”

  Darius pressed himself behind her. Her nightgown made only the thinnest of barriers between them. She could feel every inch of his naked body against her: his chest, his thighs, his cock. She felt his heart hammering. His hand glided down her arm, making the cloth slide against her skin, and slowly, his living warmth began to seep into her. All these sensations seemed to cause Miranda’s internal strength to stir. She found she could bear her pain more easily. She could open her eyes to look at Corwin.

  Corwin sprawled on the bed, as pale as marble and almost as still. She could take in all of him with her freshly cleared gaze, as if he were a sculptor’s masterpiece—so beautiful, so perfectly masculine, and at the same time so weakened that it was plainly all he could do to raise his eyes toward her.

  “Touch him, Miranda,” whispered Darius in her ear.

  “I can’t.” Fire burned beneath Miranda’s skin, seeking exit through her pores. “I’ll hurt him.”

  “No. Not this time. I’ll help you.”

  Gently but irresistibly, Darius lifted her hand. He laid Miranda’s palm against Corwin’s and folded their fingers together. Miranda shook as their skin made contact, but Darius held her—held them—in place, his strong hand covering their two weak ones, and the burning tide within her ebbed further yet.

  “That’s it,” murmured Darius. “Open yourself to him, Miranda. To us. Let the fire inside you flow f
ree.”

  “It will kill him.”

  “No, Miranda. It will heal him. Trust me.”

  Darius lifted her palm away from Corwin’s and glided it up Corwin’s arm, making her stroke the sick man’s chilled flesh. Something ethereal reached from Darius into her, nestling itself inside her. She could feel Darius’s strength, not just in his grip, or in his cock—which was growing hard where it pressed against the small of her silk-clad back—but in spirit somehow. Where Darius’s strength entered, the fire Miranda had imbibed drained away from her heart. It flowed into her veins, down her arms to her hands, to her palms and fingertips.

  Darius took her other hand and laid it on Corwin’s right arm. Embracing her with his hard-muscled arms, Darius sat himself and her up and leaned her over Corwin’s pale form. His chest pressed against her back, his hands continued to move hers, showing her how to touch Corwin; how she should caress his shoulders and stroke his chest, gently chafing his nipples with her palms. Darius breathed deeply and slowly, and the rhythm of his breathing crept into Miranda, until she found her breath matching with his. With each intake of air, she felt the fire leave her, to be replaced with the twined scents of the men—scents of night air, sweat, musk and something more.

  Darius moved their hands lower, stroking Corwin’s hard, flat abdomen. Corwin sighed. He stretched and he shifted. Darius moved her hands up to stroke Corwin’s shoulders again, then down once more to rest her palm over Corwin’s heart.

  Corwin was still pale, but the terrible haunted look had left his eyes, replaced by the bright spark she had seen there before. She could feel both of their rhythms now—Darius’s breath and his heart at her back, Corwin’s heart beneath her hands. It seemed that those unique rhythms synchronized and merged with her own, becoming one pulsation strong enough to surround the flames, to seize them and change them.

  Darius lifted both her hands away from Corwin’s chest. Miranda whimpered; she could not help it. She did not want to leave off touching Corwin. She felt Darius’s mouth smile against her cheek as he lowered her hands to Corwin’s cock.