A simple enough request. Lucien unfolded his long length and crossed toward her. For a second, he wondered how brazen she was, leaving him at her back like this, but a glint of those brilliant blue eyes in the window reassured him that she was not quite as trusting as she seemed.
"Yes?" He stopped directly behind her. The spill of her elegant, swagged bustle kept him at a proper distance.
Close enough, however, for her to turn her head slightly, her shoulders stiffening as she sensed his proximity, his threat. "Do you see that?"
Following her finger, he focused on the ruddy glow hidden behind cloudbank. Sucking in a sharp breath, he stepped forward, forgetting himself. Miss Martin stumbled against the window, her fingers splayed on the glass, and his reflexes being what they were, he found himself holding onto her waist, chivalry not quite as dead as the rest of him.
"The Dawn Star," he whispered. The feel of her tightly bound waist flexed beneath his fingers, the press of whalebone giving some hint of her stays. Despite that, he could sense the heat of her body, the sweetly curved line of her hips.
"Rathbourne," her voice warned.
"How long has it been in the skies?"
"The red comet appeared two days ago."
Little wonder the Prime was so nervous; the comet signified a change of the guard, whether he willed it or not. It had hung in the skies during the end of the reign of three previous Prime's, reappearing every thirty years, or so. Ascension was coming, a new Prime to sit on that carved ebony chair the duke maintained.
"No wonder the bastard's using us. Ascension is coming, the Blade of Altarrh has been stolen by someone he trusts, and most likely, he's facing a mighty tumble himself."
If not death.
Miss Martin pressed her back against the window as she turned. "I am going to do everything in my power to see that doesn't happen."
Anything to protect her lover. "Of course. And I have given my word to help."
Her shoulders slumped in relief. She didn't point out that he was standing far too close to her, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes. "Precisely. Now would you care to sit? I would like to proceed with the binding."
"Not yet." Instead, he reached out to brush a strand of dark, curling hair behind her ears. Miss Martin flinched. Her skin was softer than silk, though perhaps that was only because he'd grown used to roughened, limed walls and coarse canvas shirts.
Colors skittered over her skin, the pastel wash of chalk against a footpath, shimmering wetly. Or at least, that was how he saw it these days. Emotions became colors. The problem was in his mind, he had slowly discovered, not his eyes. Whatever that backlash of power had done to him, it had broken a piece of his mind, and he feared he didn't understand the full extent of it yet.
"Rathbourne." Her voice held the faintest hint of a growl in it. "Don't mistake me for some frivolous bit of muslin. You're in a warded room. I can have you dancing straight back to Bedlam before the hour is out, bound, gagged, and naked, if I wish it."
Bedlam. The threat made his heart kick painfully in his chest, his fingers tightening just a little, leaving small dints in her plump cheek. He'd do anything to remain free of such a place. Anything. Just the thought almost unmanned him.
You're free, he told himself. But for how long? After all, you're of no use to her... Not like this.
Their eyes met.
She could never know.
"You wish to remain free of such a place." Her voice became softer and smokier, though her eyes were still hard little chips of violet ice. "Do not presume to put your hands on me."
"I have no intentions of hurting you." Not physically. Revenge was a far more intricate puzzle. She wouldn't understand how many nights he'd considered how best to destroy her and the Prime. It was the only thing that had kept him sane during those long, silent hours, with not a single word spoken to him, no sign of another human, not even a glimpse of light... Just a plate shoved through his door at rough intervals with gruel slopped across it. He'd thought himself truly mad then. When the people of his bloody fantasies were the only companions he had.
But now...
She seemed softer somehow, far less certain than the cold, battle-warded woman who'd broken into his rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel and surrounded him with a circle of thirteen. He'd been half-blinded then, his skin tight and slick, still stinking of the burning reek of brimstone. Knowing that he'd committed one of the greatest crimes against the Order. A death sentence usually. Barely even a trial. But the Prime had had him dragged before him. Examined him for long, slow moments, as if trying to find some remnants of himself in Lucien's face.
And then he'd turned his back on him and exiled him to Bedlam.
"No?" The wariness never left Miss Martin's eyes, as if she found it difficult to believe he meant her no harm.
"No." I have plans for you. Something far more interesting than anything he'd previously concocted. After all, he was the one who'd learned that death was kind. He stepped away from her, letting her suck in a deep breath. Heat flushed through her cheeks, but she mastered herself as if such a moment had never existed between them.
"I intend to strike my own bargain with you," he told her, returning to the table and picking up his lukewarm tea.
"Bargain?"
