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 Morgana 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 Eight
'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.
As if she'd spent half the night in tears.
A gut-wrenching blow, for when he'd left her, she'd been utterly ravished. What could have moved her to tears? Had he hurt her? He'd not been gentle, but his reading of the situation at the time had told him that she'd liked it.
"Did you sleep well?"
Miss Martin took up her teacup in both hands, meeting his eyes over the rim of it. "I snatched a few hours."
Which told him nothing. "You look tired... I didn't hurt you?"
That brought her full attention to bear upon him. She blinked in surprise, then a faint, weary smile curved over her pretty mouth. "Would it bother you if you had?"
"I'm not in the habit of abusing the fairer sex. Of course it would bother me."
They stared at each other, her gaze curious and faintly wondering, and his defensive.
Miss Martin gave him a respectful tilt of the head. "My exhaustion has nothing to do with you, Rathbourne. My mind is busy at the moment. Too much to dwell upon. It keeps me from sleep. Your demands are but a welcome distraction, a chance to forget... for a moment."
Sadness painted a pale, milky blue across her face, like a watercolor that swiftly dissolved. She shook her head, as if setting herself to rights. "But enough of that. I have been thinking about yesterday afternoon and the events at Lady Eberhardt's mansion."
"Yes?" He poured himself some tea, wondering where she was going with this.
"You didn't use your power, Lucien, except for that one act of Expression."
Lucien. It was the first time she'd called him that. The word was somewhat... intimate, but then he supposed that last night had been infinitely more so. The rest of her words, however, bothered him. "It's been a long year, Ianthe" —he too could use her name— "and my strength had waned. There is little energy to be gained in the cold stone walls of the isolation ward or in meager fuel supplies."
"Good." Her eyes sparkled. "Last night between us should have restored your power reserves then. It's the least I could do." She gestured toward his clean plate, where he'd buttered his toast lightly and smeared the faintest hint of jam across it, as compared to her breakfast of beefsteak, fried ham, and eggs. Sorcerers often ate heartily. "Would you care for another helping? I desire you strong and whole."
