Alexa Egan - Shadow's Curse

“Glad to see you safe, Fey-blood,” he said, licking some moisture back into his chapped lips. “Worried you caught trouble sneaking up here last night.”

“You’re a prisoner, tied up and half-dead, and you’re worrying about me? That’s rich.”

“What, this?” He shifted, wincing as he did so, a quick indrawn breath between gritted teeth. “Minor setback. Hardly worth mentioning.”

She eyed him speculatively. The bone-white pallor of his body worried her. His gaunt, sickly features scared her to death: eyes sunk within deep hollows, lips tinged blue. Had she waited too long? She’d batted her idea back and forth all day and seen no other alternative. But now the reality of the plan seemed ludicrous. Even if she didn’t sense the presence of imminent death, he was clearly unwell. But was that her only reason for second-guessing herself? Or did it have more to do with his quicksilver charm and his stomach-fluttering stare?

She’d no experience with men of his quality. She felt like a child as she struggled to counter his witty banter and a fool as she melted at his enticing smile. But better a live fool than a dead bride. If anyone could help her escape Branston and Corey, this man could. He was her best—and maybe her last—hope.

“I have a proposal for you.”

“Really?” The smile vanished. She caught a glimpse of the dangerous beast she’d watched savage Corey’s hired killers and was oddly reassured. “Go on.”

“If I help you escape, you agree to take me with you.”

His brows inched skyward. “You’re more brazen than you look.”

This time she refused the blush stealing up her neck. Yes, she was proposing a very unorthodox idea to a nude man, who even sick as death looked like your average Greek god, but it was that or marriage to Corey. Embarrassment was nothing compared to what awaited her at his hands.

“I need an escort to my aunt in Scotland. You need the knife I have secreted in my pocket. I think we can help each other.”

“What about your brother?”

“He doesn’t want . . . that is . . .”

“Scotland is your idea. Not his.”

“I’m of age. He has no legal right to keep me here.”

“Why doesn’t your aunt come and collect you?”

“The particulars of my dilemma aren’t your concern.”

“It’s my concern if I’m carting you all over the countryside with an irate brother after me.”

“Your choice is simple, Mr.—”

“David.”

“It’s simple . . . David; escape with me or rot here alone.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Callista.”

She straightened, chin up. “Miss Hawthorne to you.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “When?”

“Now. My satchel is packed, my brother won’t be back for hours. Mrs. Thursby is downstairs sleeping off her gin. Hold still.” Sliding the knife between the rope and his ankles, she began sawing until the cords gave way in a ravel of frayed ends. She pulled it free while unwinding the thin silver chain, revealing ugly black welts where the silver had rubbed his skin raw.

“Is the housekeeper our only watchdog?” he asked.

She moved behind him to cut the ropes at his wrists. “I heard Mr. Corey telling my brother he’d left two men to guard the house. They don’t trust that I won’t attempt to escape again.”

“Again?” Freed of the ropes and the silver chains threaded through them, he slowly rolled his shoulders, rubbed at the deep black welts encircling his wrists.

“Three attempts. Three failures.”

“Four times the charm?”

“Let’s hope so. Are you sure you’re fit to travel? You don’t look well.”

“The silver weakens me. I’ll recover—sooner or later.”

“Hopefully sooner rather than later. We don’t have all night.”

“Haven’t left the attic, and you’re already nagging me? Here we go.”

With a deep gulping inhale and a few expletives, he shoved himself to his feet, dragging the blanket with him. Callista stood poised, waiting for him to topple over or faint dead away.

“Mother of All, even my hair fucking hurts,” he grumbled while casting her a swift measured glance as if gauging her reaction. When she said nothing, he gave a good-natured snort and a shrug. “You really aren’t like any woman I’ve ever met.”

“Another compliment?”

“Most definitely.” He tugged at the coat wrapped around his hips. “Did you bring me clothes?”

“I thought you’d . . . that is, that you might just . . .”

“You thought I’d shift?” He grinned. “I like how your mind works, sweet Callista.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Snapped it shut with an audible click.

He agreed to her scheme. He was helping her escape. He could call her anything he bally well wanted.

The shirtsleeves stretched only as far as David’s forearms and the boots pinched his feet, but the breeches fit, and the three-caped greatcoat Miss Hawthorne had purloined from her brother’s closet was voluminous enough to hide any style faux pas as well as the death-on-a-stick pallor he was currently sporting. “What do you think?”

Callista threw a darting glance over her shoulder before turning around, though personally he thought it was a bit late for modesty on her part. There wasn’t an inch of his body she hadn’t already seen. “Oh dear.” A tiny smile curved the very edges of her mouth, her eyes crinkling with unvoiced laughter.

He ran a preening hand down his shirtfront.“That bad?”

“Absolutely horrid.” She sobered. “Are you certain you can’t just . . . you know . . . change? It might make our escape easier.”

“The word is shift , and no, I can’t.” He inhaled his first comfortable breath since she’d cut his bonds. Not a deep breath yet—his lungs still ached too much for that—but since breathing at all was a minor miracle, he’d not complain. “Three days of silver poisoning my body, you’re lucky I’m upright.” When her brows began to draw together in a frown, he grinned. “No worries, Fey-blood. I’m not completely without resources.”

Clearly unamused, Callista pursed her lips and gripped the handle of her satchel as if she might swing it at his head.

This only caused him to grin wider. He’d always been perverse that way.

“Can we leave now?” For the first time, David sensed the rising panic in her voice. It was obvious that the potential dangers Callista Hawthorne faced by escaping with him paled in comparison to the definite dangers she faced if she remained here.

“We made a bargain,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. “Trust me.”

Drawn to her eyes, he found himself focused on the strange shimmering intensity he saw there, an almost hypnotic sweep of storm clouds flickering across her gaze. The longer he looked, the more dizziness set the room around him swaying. But instead of narrowing, his vision expanded until it felt as if he might walk directly into her mind. Images flashed in front of him: a woman kneeling, her hair falling to shield her face, a man’s broad form rising behind her, a dagger clenched in his bloody fist.

David dragged a horrified breath from his lungs, bowels cramping in terror.

“Trust you? I’ve heard that line before,” Callista said quietly. “Forgive me if I remain skeptical.”

She blinked, long black lashes sweeping down over the rose of her skin, and his odd light-headedness receded. Even so, he kept his hands upon her shoulders a moment longer, just to reassure himself he wouldn’t fall over when he let go and undermine all his encouraging words.

They had been this close only once before, during the time she took to cut his bonds. Or should he say, Callista had only allowed herself to get this close to him that one instance. Since then, she’d maintained a civil but definite distance. But now, he felt the warmth—and the tension—of her body where his fingers rested. He noted the soft roundness of her cheeks and the fullness of her coral lips, but there were also deep smudges beneath her eyes and a tightness to her mouth. Whatever experiences pushed her to seek his help also hardened her expression to wary suspicion and made her seem older than her years. But for that one small half-smile, quickly snuffed, he’d have said she was incapable of anything less than a scowl.