Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2 (14 page)

A silence stretched between them. Isabel shut her eyes briefly and felt the burn. She’d heard his misery, she’d felt it in her bones, in her throbbing heart. She walked toward him and looked up into his face.

“Wouldn’t you, even without the mandate?”

“What do you mean? Wouldn’t I what?”

“Even if this mandate didn’t exist in your blood, wouldn’t you try and control Morshiel?”

“You may as well ask me how a human would behave if the sun ceased to rise every day. I have no idea.
This
is my reality.”

She reached to touch him on the arm, her awareness of his suffering, his loneliness, making her forget he was Lord Delraven, a man she barely knew.

And yet…she did know him. She
did
.

It pained her when he moved back, avoiding her touch, but then the ache was gone. She blinked and glanced around the room, feeling slightly disoriented. She recalled all the details of their former conversation, but as bizarre as the topic had been, it didn’t overwhelm her. The news he’d given her was not common, of course, but given the already strange circumstances, it seemed…digestible.

“I’m afraid my answer remains the same, Isabel. I will not play Marc Antony.”

She lowered her head, trying to hide her disappointment. “It’s all right. I hadn’t really expected that you would.”

“But since you have gone to the trouble of tricking my guard, and since you hold the script in your hands…”

“Yes?” she asked breathlessly, looking up when he paused. He wore a small smile. The sight of it nearly devastated her. Her frozen heart began to beat again erratically.

“I would be honored to practice your lines with you…if you think it would help matters.”

“It would help me tremendously, Lord Delraven.”

“I thought I had asked you to call me Blaise.”

She laughed as she tried to flatten out the rolled script, suddenly feeling ridiculously lighthearted. “Not that I recall. You have not let me near you since I’ve arrived.”

“Well, do. Please,” he said after a pregnant pause. “Here, give me the script. I have heard from Margaret that you speak the lines like you were born knowing them. I will look like a fool attempting them with you,” he grumbled under his breath.

“You won’t. And Blaise?”

“Yes?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers.

“You should not believe everything Usan tells you. You do have a soul.”

He opened his mouth—to contradict her, she was sure. He seemed to reconsider, however, reminding her of an adult who realized he was being idiotic for arguing with a child.

Never mind. She would teach him. Eventually. If he continued to allow her near him, that is. She wouldn’t think of what would happen if he didn’t. She couldn’t bear to consider the possibility at the moment.

He opened the script.

“Where shall we start?” he asked, looking a bit anxious at the prospect. She smiled.

“At the beginning, of course. She inhaled, as if she breathed the role into her from the fire-warmed air. It didn’t work. She was still Isabel Lanscourt, utterly captivated by the beautiful, hard male creature that stood before her.

“
If it be love indeed, tell me how much
,” she began.

“
There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d
,” he replied haltingly.

She stepped toward him.

“
I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved
,” she said, imperious and soft at once, a queen relishing being conquered.

He glanced up from the page and met her stare, firelight leaping in his eyes.

“
Then must though needs find out new heaven, new earth
,” he said, his voice a rough caress.

Isabel lost track of time as they brought words to life—words written by a hand that had long ago become dust, but whose voice was as immortal as any in history. Blaise was as wrong in saying he wasn’t an actor as he was in saying he possessed no soul. Even though he made it clear he was merely reading the lines to help her practice, she was stirred by his deep, rough, resonant voice.

She glanced around in disappointment when the spell was broken by a knock at the door.

“Here you are! I thought I’d lost you,” Margaret said when she opened the door and saw Isabel standing there. She glanced anxiously at Blaise and back to Isabel. “How in the world did you get in here?”

“I have my ways.” She gave a sunny smile, which Blaise returned with a wry glance. Her buoyant heart slipped a little, however, when he closed the script with an air of finality and handed it to her.

“I have little doubt of it. But I can be distracted—however pleasantly—from work for only so long.”

“Keep it. I will need to practice again tomorrow,” she added when he arched two raven-dark brows.

“Surely you should practice with whoever has the part,” he said, walking behind his desk and sitting down. He tossed the script onto the blotter.

“The director hasn’t assigned the part yet,” she said.

“And who is the director?” Blaise asked.

“Isabel is,” Margaret said from across the room where she was fussily fluffing a pillow on the couch.

“You told Margaret I may choose the cast and crew, and I’m a woman of many talents,” Isabel told Blaise when he gave her a questioning look.

Then, it happened. Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, smiled. If she hadn’t been utterly his prisoner before, Isabel became it completely in that moment.

“I have little doubt of that, either,” he said.

“So I can return tomorrow? To practice the lines until I decide on someone for the part of Marc Antony? It’s a very big decision, you know.”

Something fluttered in her belly when he frowned and hesitated as he picked up his pen.

“Very well. But leave me now,” he said gruffly. He began writing and didn’t look up, but Isabel refused to allow her mood to be dampened. She’d been uncertain of her mission in seeking out Lord Delraven today, but there could be little doubt she’d succeeded in it, nonetheless. She winked at a dumbfounded-looking Margaret before she followed her out of the room.

Chapter Eight

Isabel paced nervously in front of the fireplace when they finished the scene.

“Why do you become so agitated after rehearsing your lines?” Blaise asked, his eyes glued to her profile. A light sheen of sweat shone on her forehead and cheeks, and her lips were flushed dark pink. He was toning out her vitessence from his sight at the moment, finding he became too easily overwhelmed by her vibrant aura. Besides, the physical manifestation of her soul was enough to enthrall him.

“It’s this scene that has me worked up. I can’t seem to get it right,” she replied edgily.

“You get it perfectly.”

She paused in her pacing and blinked, meeting his stare.

“Would you like some wine to calm yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

Her gloved hand brushed against his when he handed her the glass a moment later. She went still before she brought the goblet to her lips, watching him over the rim. He watched her for a few stretched seconds, their gazes locked. His body responded to her of its own accord, as it always did. He was a fool to allow these afternoons spent in her presence, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself any more than he could prevent going to her bed at night.

This was magic beyond his rendering…beyond his understanding.

In the midst of preparing himself to resist Isabel’s enthrallment of his senses, something occurred which truly distracted him.

“What is it?” Isabel asked, sensing his diverted attention.

“It’s Saint,” he said brusquely, hearing his brother request a meeting in his mind by means of telepathic communication. He moved over to his desk, set down his wine and pressed some buttons on his computer. Once, he and his brothers had communicated solely through telepathy, but even the Sevliss princes were not immune to modern technology.

“Saint is one of the Sevliss…the one you speak of who lives in Chicago?” Isabel asked.

“That’s right,” Blaise replied.

“Would you like me to leave while you speak to him?”

He met her stare. “No,” he replied honestly before he could censor himself. She smiled. Difficult not to be foolish, when her smile was his reward.

A few seconds later, Saint’s image filled his computer screen. He sat within a familiar den at Whitby, hundreds of books lining the wall behind him. Saint’s sharp blue eyes immediately landed on Isabel, who stood next to where Blaise sat on the chair.

“This is Isabel Lanscourt, the woman I’ve told you about,” Blaise said. “Isabel, meet Saint Sevliss.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Isabel said. Blaise glanced into her face when he heard her breathlessness. She stared raptly at Saint’s image on the screen. He supposed most women would look at Saint in just such a fashion, but he didn’t relish seeing Isabel do it.

“The pleasure is mine,” Saint returned, nodding his head, his gaze glued to Isabel just as hers was to him. His face was somber, but his blue eyes gleamed with admiration. “The rumor of your beauty preceded you, but it was vastly underestimated.”

Isabel laughed. “If it came from Blaise, I’m surprised it was mentioned at all.”

Saint looked faintly amused by this. Blaise cleared his throat loudly.

“What is it, Saint?” he asked.

“I have news. I hope you will understand the importance of it,” Saint said, pinning Blaise with his stare.

“Why don’t you just
tell
me the importance of it?” he demanded, frustrated by yet another example of Saint’s new tendency for puzzle-speak. He was becoming as much of an enigma to Blaise as the Magian themselves.

“I will just give you the news,” Saint replied, his mouth set in a grim line. “One of my finest Iniskium warriors—Isi—is going to be flying into London tomorrow evening.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Blaise said with a bark of laughter. What Saint stated was impossible. As an Iniskium warrior, Isi was one of Saint’s followers, similar to how the Literati were tied to Blaise. Saint and Blaise had both embraced their bands of followers, making them what they were, sharing with them their unique power. The Magian had used their magic, however, to restrict each prince to a given territory. Blaise had never seen Saint, Issac, Adrian, Celino or Galen in person, even if he did know them intimately. The same was true of each princes’ followers. They could not leave the princes’ territory, bound as they were by Magian magic.

So Saint saying that Isi was coming to London made as much sense as the sun starting to revolve around the earth.

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Blaise accused when Saint regarded him with a bland expression.

“I’m not mad. Isi is coming to London.” He quickly relayed the details of Isi’s flight. “Will you take him into Sanctuary?”

“Of course, but tell me what’s happening, Saint,” Blaise roared, suddenly sick of his brother’s uncooperativeness. “First, you contact me and predict the presence of that powerful crystal. Next, you speak as if you already knew Isabel would be there in that tunnel.” He sensed Isabel stirring next to him, but he was too irritated to pause. “Now you’re telling me that an Iniskium warrior, bound to the central regions of the United States of America, is going to be flying into London! What impossibilities will you tell me next?”

“That is all,” Saint snapped, seeming just as irritated as Blaise. He shifted restlessly in his chair, as if he desired action and was being forced to sit still.

“Kavya is keeping you from talking, isn’t he?” Blaise demanded, referring to Saint’s Magian overlord.

Saint gave him a frustrated glance and looked away.

“I knew it. Damn that Magian. Is Usan behind your silence as well?”

Saint just shook his head, wearing a profound expression of frustration.

Blaise released the caught air in his lungs. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. “I see they have their spell on your throat and mind.”

“I’m sending you Isi. Take him in, Blaise. Trust me, and hear what he says,” Saint said in a gravelly voice. His unusual, slanted blue eyes seemed to send out a plea for understanding. A woman’s hand suddenly appeared on Saint’s shoulder, massaging him, but before Blaise could see who soothed his brother, the screen went blank.

He blinked. Who had the woman been? He had never known Saint to invite a female into his working den at Whitby. He had never seen or sensed anyone with him when they communicated in the past—

He rose out of his shock with a jolt when Isabel placed her hand on his shoulder, just as the woman had to Saint on the screen.

“Are you all right, Blaise?”

He looked up at her, caught off guard by the bizarre communication with Saint and now her stirring touch. He stood abruptly and moved before the fire, where he began to pace. When he noticed Isabel still stood where he’d left her, and the bewildered expression on her face, he tried to convey his unrest to her as best he could in words. He sighed in residual frustration several minutes later.

“My only consolation is that if Isi truly can travel outside the bounds of Saint’s territory, then Saint will have sent him to speak to me. Perhaps Isi will provide me with some of the secrets of why our world is changing…why that crystal appeared—”

“And why I was with it?” Isabel asked in a low, throaty voice.

He paused in his pacing, his mouth still open. Isabel had stepped nearer to him. He became hyperaware of the pulse at her throat.

“Perhaps,” he replied warily.

She took another step closer. He felt her gaze on his cheek like a touch. “You’re upset,” she said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows slightly in a “Who wouldn’t be upset?” gesture. She inhaled, as if for courage, and he couldn’t stop his gaze from flickering down over her shapely breasts.

“Aubrey told me yesterday that you tend to starve yourself at times, weaken yourself by not taking vitessence.”

He blinked as a shock jolted through him for the second time in minutes. Damn Aubrey. He’d been very specific with the Literati about how much they revealed to Isabel. He’d made it clear, for instance, that he didn’t want Isabel to understand their shape-shifting nature, recollecting all too well how repulsed Elysse was by his wolf-self. It had been a different century, and legends and fears associated with the werewolf had clung heavily in the Italian countryside where Elysse had grown up.