Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2 (13 page)

Her eyes darted to meet his. “But…it harmed you.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Has no one told you I’m a magician, Isabel?” he asked in a low, seductive tone. “I can make miracles happen, given enough time. Let me touch you.”

She avoided his stare. “You will let me pass then?”

“Of course,” he murmured.

His cock throbbed with excitement as he raised his hand. His fingertips ghosted a breast. For a split second, he knew only the pleasure of firm, succulent flesh. Pain struck him at the same moment that she jerked away from him. She regarded him with sparking dark eyes, and he knew she was angry at his boldness.

Nevertheless, he held up his hand and smiled. His spells had been working. His fingers were reddened, but no blisters rose to the surface.

In time, he would touch her whenever he chose. He would make it happen.

He laughed softly as he watched her rush past him into the crested corridor.

Delraven sat behind a large mahogany table, a long swath of silk heaped before him. She could tell by the way his eyes were trained directly on her when she opened the door to his quarters that he’d sensed her approach, but perhaps hadn’t had sufficient time to try and escape her.

“I tricked your guard to get in here,” she said when she noticed his nostrils flare with what she assumed was anger. He didn’t speak, but remained motionless, the silk poised in his hands.

The silence was so thick that the sound of the door closing behind her went off like a firecracker in her brain. She entered and studied the room, trying to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to walk in unexpectedly on Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven. She suddenly wished that her newest and closest companion, Royal, was there with her to help calm her nerves. Once Margaret had learned that she took comfort in the black wolf’s company, Royal could frequently be found sitting next to the fireplace when she exited the bathroom following her evening shower, her silent, peaceful, watchful companion. He was often there while she ate her solitary dinners in her suite, and afterward, while she read a book, curled up before the roaring fire.

But he wasn’t now. The only other occupant of the room was the male behind the table who watched her with an enigmatic, brooding stare that sent her skin to tingling.

She found herself in a large den, luxurious, but obviously a room for work, not show, Isabel observed as her gaze ran over stacks of books with dozens of pieces of paper sticking out of them as place markers and the maps lining the wall. Her focus tightened on the pile of opalescent cream silk he held, the flames from the fire causing the liquid jewel of fabric to shimmer and beckon, it’s luster every bit as rich as that of a precious pearl.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured as she approached. The metal lamp with an extendable arm that was clamped to the edge of the table looked starkly utilitarian next to the luxurious pile of silk. It cast its light directly on the patch of fabric he held. She touched the folds with gloved fingertips and experienced a longing to feel the sensual fabric with naked hands. “Is it from your factory?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing to it?”

“I’m examining it,” he said after a pause. “Searching for flaws.”

A strange feeling came over her—was it shyness? As a twenty-nine-year-old actress, it wasn’t a sensation she’d experienced often. She kept her head lowered, pretending to study the fabric she fingered, even if every cell in her body did seem hyperaware of the male sitting across the table from her.

“And do you do this for all the swaths of silk you sell?” she asked. Her breath caught when his hands began to move again, stroking the fabric slowly. She kept her face lowered, her long hair draped over her cheek, watching as his long fingers moved in the rich folds.

“No. This is for a royal occasion. When an order comes from Buckingham, I go over every millimeter of multiple swaths myself, searching for flaws. It takes me weeks on end,” he said, his low voice richer and more compelling than the gleaming silk.

“Surely flaws are inherent to the process, part of the beauty of the finished product?” She glanced up when he didn’t respond. Her eyes widened when they met his. She jerked her gaze off him, blushing furiously. Her heart began to thump in her ears.

Dear God, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been prepared to look directly into his bold-featured face or intense eyes.

“You are right, in part,” he said, his fingers still moving in the silk. “But too many flaws ruin the light-play on the fabric, taking away the luminosity. I have tried to train various members of the Literati for the task. They have more acute vision than humans.”

“And?” she asked, a smile tickling at her mouth. “You are not satisfied with their work compared to your own?”

Her fingers stilled when he didn’t immediately speak.

“I can be a bit of a perfectionist,” he said.

“It’s very heavy for a dress, isn’t it?”

“For a dress, yes,” he murmured. “But this isn’t for a dress. It’s for a royal marriage.” Her hands tingled in the gloves, as though his stroking fingers gave off a charge and it came to her through the conduit of the lush fabric.

“Silk is a good generator of electricity,” he said.

She glanced up, cautious this time, but unable to resist looking into his face. Had he read her thoughts? His small smile seemed to indicate he had. She glanced away uneasily.

“If the fabric isn’t for a dress, what is it for?”

“It is for the royal bed. This will be made into sheets, Isabel.”

The fabric fell through her fingers heedlessly at the sound of him saying her name in his hoarse, accented voice. It had struck a chord of memory in her. She searched wildly to retrieve the memory, but the ephemeral threads had disappeared. For a moment, her lungs seemed collapsed, unable to fill with air.

She abruptly turned away from him, overwhelmed by longing.

“What are you carrying?” he asked from behind her as she walked toward the hearth.

She glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. She blinked in shock when she saw he stood just feet away. He’d come to her with paranormal quickness. What was he talking about? She noticed he looked at her hand. She clutched at the rolled-up script. Remembering why she’d sought him out gave her a renewed sense of purpose, flimsy though her excuse for seeing him was.

“I’ve come to ask you to be in the play.”

“I am no actor.”

“None of the Literati are, except for Titurino, who tells me he used to tread the boards in Rome long ago, to make money for his paints,” she said with a smile. She sobered when she noticed his fire-lit eyes. He was dressed as casually as she, in jeans and a simple gray T-shirt, but he looked elegant somehow…a noble savage.

“Thank you, for sponsoring the play for my benefit. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”

“I thought it would please you, and help to occupy your time. When you are ready, say the word and I will bring you an audience, as well. You may choose whoever you’d like to attend.”

“Lester Dee?” she asked smoothly, referring to the professor who had brought her to England.

He kept his face impassive. “If that is your wish. We can come to terms on the matter.”

She smiled. “The Queen?”

“That one I can answer for more confidently. Consider it done.”

She shook her head slowly. “The funny thing is, I believe you. I would believe anything of you, at this point.”

“I’m sorry to have to keep you here,” he said.

She swallowed and examined the smooth mahogany mantel of the fireplace. “I’m not as angry about that as I once was. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know.”

She jerked her head up and pinned him with her stare. “You
do
know,” she whispered feelingly.

He regarded her, a silent enigma, every bit as eerily still as Royal became at times as he watched her.

Her cheek felt hot when she turned it back to the flames. What had caused that outburst of emotion? She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. At times, she was filled with energy and purpose, almost manic-like…desperate. At others, a strange malaise overcame her, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

The one thing that had remained a constant since coming to Sanctuary was her odd desire to seek out Lord Delraven.

She inhaled unevenly, trying to gather herself.

“Will you be my Marc Antony?” she asked throatily. Dread filtered into her awareness as she waited for his refusal. Of course he wouldn’t do it, a man such as him. Still…she’d felt compelled to ask him.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked instead of answering her. “Water? Wine?”

She shook her head, raising her eyes to the painting above the carved mantel.

“Who is she?” she asked after a moment, referring to the beautiful woman in the portrait wearing topaz silk and ermine, and what appeared to be diamonds sewn into the fabric of her dress. A small, delicate diadem sparkled in her light brown hair. Her blue eyes were so clear, her gaze so intelligent, it was as if she actually looked directly at them over the span of centuries.

“Her name is Elysse de Gennere. She was a princess once…long ago.”

“Was she the one you saved from agents of the Spanish crown? The one who ended up marrying the English prince and—”

She stopped herself abruptly when she recalled the sad ending to the story. She continued to stare at Elysse de Gennere, although all her attention was on Blaise behind her. Emotion once again swelled thick in her throat and chest.

“Yes. She is the one.”

“Did you make that dress for her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love her?” she asked softly.

“The soulless cannot love.”

She turned slowly. The vision of him filled her.

“The soulless do not feel torment, either. You do.” When he said nothing, she stepped toward him. “Who told you that you have no soul?”

“Usan. The Magian who watches over me.”

“Magian?”

He inhaled and walked over to his desk where he picked up a small obsidian sculpture of a horse in full gallop. He studied it intently, as if he’d never seen it in his life.

“We know very little about the Magian, my brothers and I. They form a council of sorts and monitor our lives. For the most part, they are invisible to us. They tell us little about our purpose. They watch us, though…study us. They are similar to us in genetic make-up, but they possess souls. They were our creators.”

“You know the man who created you?” she asked, stunned by this strange news.

He hesitated, but then set down the horse with a brisk bang. “I’m a monster,” he said quietly in a richly accented voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not like you. I came into consciousness in this form,” he said, sweeping his hand before him. “If I was ever a child, I don’t recall it. Usan was there, in the beginning, but he speaks in riddles—or refuses to give me answers point blank. I was not left unsupervised and at the mercy of my parasitic nature, as were some of my brothers. Usan taught me how to control my hunger from the beginning. I am thankful to him for that, if nothing else. Adrian, Isaac and Saint suffered unbearably with the knowledge of their unregulated bloodlust, left as they were to survive without understanding how to control their nature.”

“You are different. You have control.”

His eyes flickered in the shadowed room and a shiver coursed through her. “I have failed in controlling myself in the past. It is unwise to consider me anything close to human, Isabel.”

“I know that,” she defended. “I’m not that much of a fool. I can see with my own eyes that you’re different, and even if I couldn’t, I’d truly be an idiot if I lived in Sanctuary for eight days and didn’t know I lived among…supernatural creatures. Because you are different does not equate with being a monster.” She stepped toward him, her stance aggressive because she could see clearly he underestimated her opinion on the matter. “What proof have you that you’re a monster?” she demanded.

“Morshiel and I were created in a laboratory by Usan,” he stated flatly.

“That is no proof of monstrosity. Haven’t you heard of test-tube babies?”

He gave her a dark look. “Test-tube babies possess one hundred percent human DNA. I don’t, although I do possess some,” he added under his breath. “Usan is a great scientist—or alchemist, as he calls himself. It is a sort of scientist and magician, melded, in the far-off land from where he comes. Usan fashioned me from a human with certain inhuman abilities, along with elements of his own DNA. And Usan is not from this planet.”

“Oh, I see. So you’re a monster because you have alien genes?” she asked without missing a beat. Her cheeks were burning hot now, but she couldn’t have said whether they did so because of anger or passion. It was as if she’d been blinded somehow emotionally when it came to him. She felt—she felt greatly—but she couldn’t comprehend her intense emotions.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit of a backward attitude?” she challenged. For some reason, she felt it was of utmost importance to assure him that she wasn’t disgusted by his revelation.

“
Backward
?” he growled. His stunned look gave her a small measure of satisfaction in the midst of her bewilderment. She sensed it wasn’t easy to unsettle Blaise Sevliss.

“Yes. Surely you’re not so provincial as to think you’re a monster because you have alien genes. Hardly anybody in this day and age truly believes Earth possesses the only life in the universe,” she said more blithely than she felt. “So—where do Usan and the Magian come from? And what are they doing here?”

He shook his head slowly, still looking a bit flummoxed. “I don’t know. I’ve told you what Usan has revealed to me over the years. The Magian tell my brothers and I little.”

“When you mention brothers, do you mean there are more than Morshiel and you?”

“No, Morshiel is my clone. He’s no brother to me,” Blaise replied. He must have heard the harshness of his tone because he quieted when he continued. “I refer to the five others, whom the Magian have designated Sevliss princes. We are spread out in cities across the globe. Once, there were seven of us, before Shin was killed by his clone. Each of us is watched over by a different Magian. We speculate about our overlords, but as I’ve said, we know little. We are nothing to them in power. They are elusive. We cannot locate them. They must contact us, and they do so infrequently. It is Usan who set the mandate in my blood to control Morshiel. I keep my clone in check because I must. I could as easily stop trying to control Morshiel’s bloodlust as I could cease to take vitessence and end my existence.”