"Absolutely," he told her, resting his head on the same pillow she shared. "I'm not walking into that heavily baited statement unarmed, especially considering that you could tie me in knots right now, and there's not a damned thing I could do to stop you."
"Oh, ha," she said drolly, then her amusement faded. "You were the first man that I lay with," Ianthe whispered. "Almost ten years ago now."
For a second, he thought he'd heard her wrong.
"What? I'm fairly certain that we've never..." Are you? asked a rather pertinent part of his brain, and a half dozen faces sprang to mind, none of them hers...
Ianthe cleared her throat. "I was seventeen. I don't know how old you were. It was the Summer Solstice of 1884, and the Rites were being held at Lady Haringay's Brighton home..."
Instantly, Lucien was assailed by memories; a sultry summer breeze, a garden party with pretty lights strung all through the trees, and her. Gowned in gossamer white with a filigreed gold mask and an aura of nervousness. He'd been drawn to her like a magnet. They'd danced, smiled, kissed... all with barely a word between them. Until Lucien had taken her by the hand and led her from the grove, just as the solstice rites began.
"You were my mystery lady?"
"I'm glad those are the precise terms you used."
A smile caught him by surprise. "I drank rather a lot that night. I didn't realize your hair was so dark." His gaze lowered. "And forgive me for being indelicate, but I'm fairly certain you didn't have those back then..."
Ianthe tucked the sheet closer around her breasts primly. "I wasn't finished growing. I was only seventeen."
"Hmm." Lucien tugged at the sheet. "I might have to refresh my memory."
"Lucien!"
The word was muffled by the sheets, which he'd burrowed his face into. Ianthe shoved him aside, and he went, with a laugh, which quickly turned into a frown.
"Is that why you barely gave me the time of day when I was formally introduced to you?"
"It was a shock to see you again," she admitted, "and it was quite clear that whilst I knew who you were, you had no recollection... of what lay between us."
Kneeling over her, he looked down. "All this time, I've wondered what the bloody hell I ever did to you. You hated me."
"It wasn't hate." She scowled back at him, then swallowed. "You've always been woven into my life, Lucien," she whispered. "It feels like I can never escape you, like we were... destined to find each other again."
"You sound as though that's a bad thing." His heart skipped a beat. "Is it?"
"No." Her eyes were pools of shadow as all of the humor vanished from this moment, leaving behind those sad watercolors that danced over her skin.
Secrets. They lay between them, and he knew it.
He finally understood that yellow-green emotion that flashed over her face sometimes, for he could feel it within him now as their bond strengthened. There had always been sadness and pain and fear... But he had never understood the other emotion, the one he couldn't quite place. Until now.
Guilt.
It had been there on her face when he first tried to scry for the Blade in Drake's home; it was there every time she said the Prime's name, and now, when she told him they'd been lovers before...
The thought struck him like a cascade, unleashing others—her unnatural patience regarding the relic, as if she was waiting for something, her nightmares, her lack of action regarding this hunt...
Only someone whom Drake trusted could have stolen the Relic. Someone who knew Drake's wards, such as... an apprentice.
Someone whom no one would ever suspect.
Shock lanced through him. No. No, it couldn't be.
But it all made sense.
That was when he knew who the thief was.
Chapter Eighteen
