Ianthe's heart beat madly in her chest as she slowly unfolded herself onto the stone slab. The conservatory seemed a distant memory as Rathbourne eased his way around the cellar she'd led him to, lighting the smoky wicks on numerous candelabrum. Wax dripped down the sides of each candle, creating leering faces.
This was her chamber of sorcery, an enormous magic circle set into the floor in solid silver. The pair of double circles—one inside the other—contained numerous runes, set to keep outside interference at bay so that she could perform her major works.
The last candle flared to life and the circle's energy was suddenly palpable, trembling over her skin and dancing between her thighs. She was trapped in a magic circle with the one man she wanted above all others.
A man whose touch she could only too clearly remember. Ianthe wet her lips. She knew the scent of his body, the satiny glide of skin over each muscle and sinew as he'd buried himself inside her.
And the pain that single act had caused her...
Concentrate. Rathbourne is the means to an end.
"Do you wish to close the circle? Or shall I?" Rathbourne seemed to be easing back into his skin with every minute, becoming more and more the man she remembered from the hotel. Bolder and far more arrogant than he'd been as a youth. He spoke of gentle cruelties now, but he'd known none of them then. Indeed, he'd been mesmerizingly gentle as he laid her back upon his cloak that night, so long ago. Kissing her as if he sought to steal the very breath from her, his fingers trailing under her skirts and seeking the heart of her desire. It had hurt, of course, for she was a virgin, but the hurt of it had soon dissolved, her body wrapping around his as he ground himself into her and whispered shocking, delicious words in her ear.
"If you will," she replied.
Taking the ritual blade, he carefully ran it across his finger, squeezing out several drops of blood onto the first silver circle. A silvery dome flickered to life, locking them inside. As his blood dripped over the inner circle, another could be sensed, this time an invisible, but no less dense protection. A dome built to keep magic out.
Rathbourne's eyebrow arched, and he tipped his chin to her. "Exquisite work."
"You expected less?"
Toying with the knife, he circled her, eyes gleaming hotly amber. "No. It reminds me of the Prime's work."
"It’s an echo. Since he was my master."
"In all matters," Rathbourne murmured.
The remark stung, though she knew it was commonly believed rumor. After all, how could a healthy young woman such as she not have a lover, when her lack of marriage, career choice, and decision to live alone marked her clearly as someone of lesser morals?
It didn't matter what he thought of her. Only that she found the people who wanted the relic. For a moment, she almost felt ill, the prick of tears threatening.
Rathbourne's slow circling had stopped. "The thought upsets you."
"What?" Ianthe turned her head to the side to look up at him. Perhaps some part of the man who'd once been her lover still existed.
Or perhaps she was looking too hard for an ally that didn't exist.
"We haven't got all day." Ianthe turned her face away. "Make your blasted marks, and let us finish this. The trail is growing colder by the minute."
Rathbourne knelt on the edge of the stone slab. "So be it." Reaching out, he plucked at the buttons of her high-necked dress.
The touch was shockingly intimate, and her fingers caught his, trying to knock them aside. "I can manage."
Rathbourne held up his hands. "Merely trying to hurry the task along."
Swallowing hard, she managed to undo her gown all the way to the top of her breasts. Rathbourne reached out and flicked the collar open, baring her décolletage. Those lazy, lion's eyes warmed as he looked his fill. Cold air pricked her naked skin, reminding her that she wore little more than her chemise and stays beneath her dress. Breath quickening, she stared up at the ceiling overhead, trying to ignore the heat of his presence. It had been like this ever since the day he stalked into Drake's ballroom and presumed to seek an introduction with her.
As if he hadn't been the man who'd claimed her virginity, all those years ago.
"Blood to bind," he whispered, and the sharp coppery scent of blood filled the room as he cut his finger again and let his blood well into the small lead bowl she used for that purpose. "Saliva, for the breath of life." Running his finger inside his mouth, he sucked hard on the cut. "Ink to mark the flesh."
Spitting on the block of ink, he rubbed his bloodied finger through it, and Ianthe felt the first small stirrings of magic tighten inside her. She stifled the urge to squirm restlessly. An inability to focus was the mark of a mere acolyte.
Not even Drake would deny that you've enough to unsettle any mind... Rathbourne himself, the relic and... the debt of guilt and grief.
Tears pricked her eyes. Don't think of that now.
"Hecarrh cairedh mi caratha..." Soft, whispering words so excellently nuanced that they had to be his personal Words of Power.
