Touch of Passion (36 page)

“Of course,” he murmured. “I'd certainly not wish to weary or damage the beast. You above all others know how important it is to me that Tylluan suffer as greatly as possible.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, pushing the soup aside and casting her gaze slowly about the room. It was a large, medieval chamber, with but two doors and a few small windows. The doors were on Cadmaran's end of the room, and the windows were too small to fly out of . . . unless she had enough time to transform herself. But transformations required patience and concentration, and if she made the attempt, Cadmaran would strike long before the change was complete.

“Do you know, my love,” he said softly, “I've had reports that perhaps the creature hasn't been performing of late quite to the level we had previously enjoyed.”

“Indeed?” she asked, forcing surprise into her voice. “It seems to be as ravenous in its hunger as ever.”

He sat forward. “Yes, my sweet, but has it been as vigorous in its violence? I have heard, though I could scarce believe it, that not a single incidence of damage has occurred
for several weeks now, though you've taken the beast out quite often.” Slowly, he stood. “Can this be so?”

“Of course it isn't,” she assured him. “How very odd that you should hear such a false report. The creature has done a great deal of damage, just as you wished. Tylluan has been reeling from the harm the
athanc
has inflicted.”

“And yet,” said Lord Llew, slowly moving to push aside his chair, “Lord Tylluan has felt so much at ease that he has departed.”

Desdemona prepared herself for battle. Cadmaran was powerful, but so was she, and he was blind. The additional powers he gained from the castle itself weren't going to make matters any easier, but she was ready for that.

“Departed?” she repeated as he began to traverse the length of the table, running one hand along the bare, gleaming dark wood to find his way. “Has he?”

Perhaps if she waited until Cadmaran was far enough along before moving she might be able to surprise him sufficiently to gain one of the doors. They would be locked, of course, but unlocking them would be a child's trick. Getting out the door before he cast a spell at her would be far more difficult.

“Aye, he's gone to London, to celebrate a betrothal. His brother's betrothal, from the rumors I've heard, to the Earl of Perham's granddaughter.”

The words worked on Desdemona as no spell could have done. The breath caught in her throat, and shock poured over her like ice water.

“Betrothed?” she whispered. “
Dyfed?
”

Cadmaran checked his progress, tilting his head slightly. Too late, Desdemona realized how much she had given away in a single word.

“Ah,” the earl murmured. “So that's what it is.”

Desdemona pushed at the chair, ready to fly, only to discover that she couldn't rise to her feet.

The chair
, she thought with furious realization. He had enchanted the chair to hold her captive. How very clever. Far
more clever than she'd given him credit for being. But it didn't matter.

“Release!” she commanded, and the chair obeyed. She leaped to her feet and scuttled around the side of the table opposite him, knocking aside her wineglass and a candlestick in her haste.

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the chamber, putting out both torches and candles, plunging the chamber into darkness. Chairs came flying out from their places at the table, impeding Desdemona's progress.

She stubbed her toe on one and cursed aloud in the darkness and with a furious motion sent a dozen flames into the air to light her way.

Behind her, Cadmaran chuckled, causing a shiver of apprehension to tingle down her spine. She glanced back and saw that he was standing where he'd earlier been, beside the table, quite far away from her now. Except that now he held a large silver candlestick in his hand.

The sight made Desdemona panic. Her father had sworn that he would never tell another living soul about the one great weakness that could fell her, but she knew very well that money meant more to him than honor. If he'd told Cadmaran . . . she didn't want to think of the possibility.

With another quick motion she sent the chairs back into their places, out of her way, and fled toward the door. Assuming it was locked, she had already commanded it to be open before she reached it. The door flung itself wide with such force that it banged on the wall to which it was hinged. A few more steps and she'd be out.

But Cadmaran sent the door slamming shut again, just as Desdemona reached it, and before she could counter the command he had sent the candlestick flying in her direction. She heard it coming, heard him shout, “Bind!” and knew she'd lost their contest.

Turning, she saw the candlestick coming at her, transforming as it flew, thinning into long, slender ropes of silver. Desdemona made a futile motion to evade them, but the
ropes hit with amazing speed and accuracy, slapping as they struck her and wrapping tightly about her body, pinning her arms and legs so that she fell onto the ground, irrevocably bound.

She lay, panting, weeping, disbelieving that her father had done such a thing. How could he have revealed to Cadmaran, to anyone, the secret weakness that rendered her powerless?

“ ‘Silver ropes to bind the witch, to make her scream and howl and twitch,' ” Cadmaran said softly as he slowly felt his way toward her. “ ‘And when we've set her on the fire, we'll dance about the funeral pyre.' That was once part of a children's rhyme, was it not, my love? Quite long ago, admittedly. The use of silver cords is such a rare and ancient enchantment for capturing a sorceress that I had thought it lost to our kind. But, then, you're not ordinary in any regard, are you, my sweet? You're like the
athanc
, only touched by the old, near-forgotten spells.”

“Don't pretend to own a wisdom that we both know you don't possess,” she told him hotly. “My father told you. Do you intend to hold me captive like this forever?”

Cadmaran knelt on one knee beside her, patting along her prone body to find her face. When she tried to bite him he chuckled with fresh amusement.

“When did you fall in love with Lord Tylluan's brother, Desdemona? It must have been during your wanderings, for he never came to visit us. How foolish you are. Was it his prettiness that charmed you? It could not have been his powers, for he has none. Not that I mind you taking lesser wizards for lovers, darling. You shall find me the most understanding of husbands in that manner, after we've wed. With the exception of any Seymours. But I don't believe we'll have this lack of understanding again in the future, once you've come to your senses. As to Dyfed Seymour, it appears he'll no longer be available to you, if the rumors that I've heard are true.”

“Don't speak of him!”

“No?” Cadmaran asked, stroking her hair, ignoring her attempts to avoid his touch. “Because he's to marry another? But surely you didn't think he would ever marry you, pet. Seymours don't bind themselves to those with dark magic. I must have misunderstood. I thought you merely meant to use him for pleasure, but this appears to be something of far deeper feeling. At least on your part. Dyfed has clearly found another that he prefers far more.”

“
Don't speak of him!
”

And then Cadmaran made the mistake of laughing again.

Desdemona had never been good at being at anyone's mercy, though it had happened so seldom in her life, and only because of her father, that she could count the events on one hand. She had been spoiled and cosseted and treated even from childhood as someone both fearsome and dangerous. What was more, she had never been abandoned by anyone she loved, save her father, and had never loved someone as she loved Dyfed. The humiliation of being tied up like an animal was terrible and the fear of knowing that she was helpless against Cadmaran was terrible, but the pain of knowing that she might lose Dyfed to another was unbearable.

The pain welled up and mixed with the fury and fear, and Desdemona opened her mouth and emitted a wrathful sound that would have given an Irish banshee pause. It was an unearthly scream that shook the entire chamber, causing the tapestries to lose their moorings and dangle at odd angles and plates, cups, and candlesticks to clatter about on the table. The crystal glasses out of which they'd been drinking shattered altogether.

She screamed and writhed against her bonds until her body ached and her voice was raw. And all the while Cadmaran's laughter filled her ears, and visions of Dyfed in the arms of another twisted through her heart. The pain became unbearable and she wept, and then, at last, exhausted, she lay still and silent.

Cadmaran petted her hair again and said, “There, now. You've worn yourself out, and need to rest. I've prepared a
special chamber for you to reside in until you've come to your senses and remembered who you are, and who it is you belong to. It is a dark and quiet place, my dear, where you shall be able to reflect upon your deviousness in complete peace. I feel quite certain that it won't take long for you to repent your many sins.”

“The beast,” she whispered. “You can't manage it without me.”

“I don't mean to,” he told her. “The
athanc
will have free rein to do as it pleases now, and without a mistress to guide it”—he smiled widely—“I fully expect that it will.”

She was fast asleep, Kian realized as he gazed down at Loris's still form. Deeply, wearily slumbering. He had hoped she might yet be awake, but she'd clearly gotten out of the habit of waiting for someone—for Liw—to come to her at night. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to wake her.

He wasn't even supposed to be here. Malachi had delivered Kian to his town house but an hour past and informed him that they would be coming soon—Dyfed, Niclas, and Malachi himself—to discuss all that they'd discovered. There was so little time to accomplish so very much that sneaking into Lord Perham's grand town house not only was dangerous but also could risk defeating the very reason for Kian's presence in London.

But he'd had to come, despite the small amount of time he had, despite the danger. He'd heard her calling him—her
unoliaeth
—these many nights. Across the distance her heart had reached toward him, until Kian had felt nearly maddened with a matching desire.

The moon, shining through the tall window through which he'd come, cast light across her slumbering form.

She was more beautiful than his memories had told him. Her hair had been cut, but to delightful effect. The gold in her tresses glowed beneath the moonlight, causing the soft mass of curls that fell loose about her shoulders to look like satin. Slowly, silently, he bent and took one gleaming curl between two fingers, rubbing. It was cool and soft and light—so much lighter than it had been at Tylluan. All of her was lighter. She had lost weight in London, he realized with a pang of guilt, and looked so much more delicate than she had only weeks earlier. And fragile.

She'd been unhappy, Malachi had said. And distressed, torn between what the Seymours and her grandfather wanted. Not certain what she wanted. And on top of all that was Kian's deception at Tylluan and the loss of someone who was dear to her. And what they had shared in her bed.

Aye, she needed rest. A few hours of peace and respite without being asked to do anything, for anyone. If Kian woke her he would send all her peace flying away. He'd do everything in his power to hold her, kiss her, even for the few brief moments the curse allowed.

But he wouldn't wake her. Rather, he would give her something to comfort and soothe, to make her slumbers far sweeter. He had done it before, when he had put her to sleep as Liw, though she'd never realized it.

Slowly, Kian lay beside her on the bed and, propping himself upon one elbow, gazed at Loris's face intently. He closed his eyes and concentrated, thinking of what she would wish to do more than anything in the world. Where she would wish to be. With tender care he wove a beautiful dream, and made a gift of it to her.

“Draceous Caslin,” the Earl of Graymar said some time later as he settled more comfortably into his chair near the fire, “is the son of Darin Caslin, whom my father told me about some years before his death. We have never been in much communication with any of the Families outside Europe, but my father had had some dealings with Darin Caslin in the
way of correspondence regarding a proposed business venture. It seems that Caslin wished to engage our ships for his importing and exporting business.”

Here the earl paused to sip from the wine in his glass and look at the others assembled.

“The Caslin family,” he went on, “made itself wealthy as traders, starting almost from the moment when the colonies were birthed. You can imagine the success they had in dealing with the natives, using their powers to at once defend themselves as well as to impress any who dared confront them. But that's neither here nor there,” he said dismissively, waving his glass about. “The main point is that my father was never able to put aside his displeasure with the colonies for their act of disloyalty in desiring independence, and couldn't bring himself to agree to the bargain, despite the money it would have brought into the Seymour coffers. His brother, our uncle Declan, died at Camden, you know.”

“And that was the last communication we know of between the two families,” Niclas added. “How it is that Lord Llew came to be in contact with them is a mystery.”

“However Cadmaran managed to establish relations,” Dyfed put in, looking at his brother, “he was able to lure Caslin to Europe with the promise of a great deal of money. You'll recall that Desdemona told me of it when I spoke with her.”

“Which is the part of the tale that I find particularly odd,” Malachi said. “When my father was in correspondence with Darin Caslin he was given to understand that they were among the oldest and most prominent families in Boston. Extremely wealthy and seeking to increase that wealth.”