Eliza hadn’t felt relief, only a bone-deep terror. And then Mellan had appeared, as always, moving from dark shadows into the light.
“Dear girl, you’re frightened.” He’d stroked her cheeks with a tender hand, this lovely, strange man. “When you should rejoice. You did this. You have the power to walk amongst the foulest creatures and never fear again.”
How seductive it sounded back then. Come live with Mellan, be one of his crew, and all she had to do were some little favors for him.
Eliza tossed in her bed, her stomach roiling. She hated herself for agreeing those first few times. And then, when her soul grew black with the grime of her sins, Eliza had told him no more. And he’d made her pay.
He’d beaten her and ground her will into dust. For so long.
Her whole life, she’d felt a bit like a cork in a vast sea, men’s expectations batting her here and there. She did not mind going where the winds took her but she wanted a sail, oars, and rudders. She wanted a say. And she was damn well through with being under the thumb of another’s will. The truth slammed into her like a rogue wave; if she wanted a say, she needed power.
“And I’m not going to get any by sitting on my ass,” she muttered, rising to her feet. No, she needed a plan.
Chapter Eight
Sin’s insides grew uncomfortably tight as he climbed the wide, red carpeted steps of the theatre. All around him people followed, making their way to their seats while chatting and softly laughing. Anticipation was a palpable hum, thicker tonight, for Londoners loved good gossip, and this performance promised to offer up a tasty meal of it. For Miss Layla Starling, the young, beautiful, and extremely wealthy heiress, was in attendance. With a suitor. Until now, she’d managed to evade the marriage noose. Despite the fact that she was unfortunately American, she’d received a staggering number of offers. And turned down every one.
Sin did not want to admit to the relief he felt every time he heard of her refusals. Nor did he want to admit to feeling as though his knees were cut out from under him when he thought of Layla finally marrying. Which was unfair of him. Layla deserved to be happy. She deserved to live a rich, full life. And if that included marriage, then so be it. As for him, he could not offer those things. He would never be normal, never be anything but a freak in her world.
Why then was he following her to the theatre? Irritation was a prickle at the back of his neck as he entered his brother-in-law Archer’s family box and took the seat closest to the rail. In the quiet hush of the luxury box, he let himself watch Layla. She sat in a box opposite him and one tier lower.
Seeing her sent a pang through his chest. The oval of her face was a cameo against her mahogany hair. He remembered when that hair had hung in snarls, from when they’d climbed trees, bits of leaves caught in the silky mass. He knew she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, like cinnamon over cream. He knew that, when she smiled, she’d reveal a front tooth that was just a bit crooked. And that her eyes would appear forest green, amber gold, or dusky brown, depending upon the light.
He knew her. Or had. Tonight, she was resplendent in pale pink satin, trimmed with chocolate brown ribbons. Despite her vast wealth, the only adornments she wore were small pearl earbobs and a brown satin ribbon about her slender neck. His fingers itched to touch the nape of her neck where he knew it’d be warm and soft, to tug the ribbon free and set his mouth to the place it had rested.
Foolish thoughts. He forced his attention to the man at her side, the one sitting so attentively, watching both the gathering crowds and her at the same time. He was older, with black hair and dark eyes. Yet there was an air of timelessness about him, as if he could be in his twenties or in his forties. But it was the “otherness” about him, as if the man stood apart from the rest of the crowd, that bothered Sin.
Or perhaps it was jealousy. When the man set his gloved hand near Layla’s, Sin’s back teeth met with a click.
“And who are we staring at?” said a female voice at his ear.
Sin loathed the muffled yelp that escaped him. He turned his head to properly glare and found the cool, jade eyes of his sister smiling back at him. “I’m purchasing a cowbell for you,” he groused as Lady Miranda Archer settled into the empty seat at his side.
“You’ll have to discover a way to make her wear it,” said her husband, Lord Benjamin Archer, as he took the seat next to Miranda’s. Amusement lit his pale gaze. “I’d take care. She’s liable to singe off your brows.”
Both Miranda and Sin snorted as one. Miranda could, in fact, burn a man’s brows off with a thought. But then, so could Sin.
“What are you two doing here?” Ordinarily, he’d be pleased to see them, but this was his night, and he did not want to share Layla with anyone.
“Why, I’m certain I don’t know.” Miranda blinked, her eyes wide and innocent, her voice falsely vapid. “Archer, why are we here? I’ve plum forgotten.”
Archer settled back, crossing one long leg over the other. “I believe it had something to do with attending the theatre, love.”
“Very amusing,” Sin muttered.
“So…” Miranda leaned forward, craning her neck in the direction of where Sin had been looking. “What lovely lady has caught your attention, then?”
“No one.” Sin’s cheeks burned. “And would you please sit back? You’re going to attract attention.” Miranda always attracted attention. Beautiful as she was, it couldn’t be helped.