Soulbound (Darkest London 6)

The wooden chair that held his large frame creaked as he leaned forward, bracing his forearms upon the battered table. “Would you care to know what affected me the greatest?”

Would she? Eliza was afraid she did, and she found herself nodding, even as her breath quickened.

“It was in the year 1373. A crofter and his family lived in a one-room cottage. I don’t know why I was drawn to their little house, perhaps it was my being in the cold dark and seeing the firelight flickering from their small window. Whatever the case, there they were, four children and their parents, all bundled together in the family bed, limbs intertwined, bodies higgledy-piggledy. They held on to each other in sleep with such perfect trust.”

Eliza thought of him, huddled in a dark corner of those long departed crofters, watching them with the same longing that graced his hard face now. Did he know it then? How much he longed for love? She rather thought he knew all too well. It made her heart ache to think of his loneliness. Would she have survived nearly a millennium of such isolation? Of never having felt loved or cared for?

His voice turned soft, reflective. “It struck me that I’d never known that sort of connection to another. Just the simple act of loving for love’s sake.” Golden eyes framed by black lashes stared at her. “I became a knight to protect the promise of that type of love. Yet all I saw was death. Cù-Sìth, the hound of death. That is what they called me.”

“Is that how you see yourself?” she asked, quiet in the shared space between them. Not waiting for his answer, she shook her head, and it felt unbearably heavy. “You are so very wrong. So blind.”

His thick brows drew tight, that bold, stubborn nose of his lifting in defiance. “On the contrary. I see myself far too well.”

The lively strains of a reel lit over the room. Eliza glanced toward the group of fiddlers who had begun to play and then back at him. Bracing her hands upon the table, she rose. “You are life. You create it from death. And it is lovely.”

His mouth fell open, a nearly comical expression on one so stern. She fought a smile as she extended her hand towards him. “Come, dance with me.”

The look of shock he wore grew. And then he blinked as if shaking himself out of a dream. “I don’t dance.” It was a croak from the depths of his chest.

“Pity.” Eliza shrugged. “As I love to dance.”

His darkly beautiful face twisted in a scowl. “Are you mocking me?”

Dear, confused man. “Far from it.” Eliza sighed. “You are life, Adam. I suspect that’s why you chose the name you did, even if you weren’t aware of doing so. You are life,” she said again with greater emphasis. “You simply don’t know how to live.”

Adam sat watching as Eliza May made her way to the crude dance floor in the space cleared before the fiddlers. Immediately she was welcomed into the fold.

His life was lovely? Was she bloody bamming him? Adam had expected platitudes. A bit of “but there is nobility in death” or “you did what you felt you must.” He’d have hated it, but at least he’d been prepared to react accordingly.

He rubbed at the tight knot forming beneath his breastbone and watched Eliza May dance. Light on her feet, her lithe form moved as if made to follow music. Cheeks pink and eyes like dark velvet, she smiled at a bloke who’d taken her in his arms. Together they twirled, her frothy skirts swirling about her slim ankles, the man’s hand snug on her neat waist.

A growl rattled about in Adam’s throat. He swallowed it down. He’d no right to interfere. He hadn’t lied. He didn’t dance. Because he didn’t know how, not any dance that had been invented in the past few hundred years, at least. And he’d be buggered if he’d bumble about, trying to learn here.

She laughed. The lovely sound brought his head up sharply. A waltz played now, melodic and haunting in the fiddler’s hand. The big GIM hadn’t let her go. His hair was nearly the same shade as Eliza’s and, as they moved about, gliding and twirling, they seemed to glow, their heads glinting like gold in the low light. Perfectly matched.

Adam’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair. She ought to live in the light, as she was now. And he would not go to her, nor hold her. Eliza’s gaze never strayed to him as she danced her waltz. As if she’d forgotten him entirely. Wood cracked beneath his hands. Bugger, would this set never end?

The fiddler playing was an expert, his music haunting and pure, his instrument battered and well loved.

Despite his death grip on the chair, Adam could almost feel the smooth, cool surface of the violin and the bite of the strings against his fingertips. A distant memory. One he did not want to revel in. He’d felt too much already this day.

The GIM moved closer to Eliza, his hand sliding a bit lower. Adam was out of the chair in the next beat. With each step, the floor rose up to meet him. With each breath, a matching protest shouted in his head, Stop, stop, stop. He couldn’t. They belonged to one another, and he’d be damned if he let another man touch her.

Like gazelles in the plains, the dancers sensed him coming. Heads turned, conversations stuttered. Eliza’s wide, brown eyes stared up at him. Waiting? Wondering? He ignored her. One touch would undo him now.

The fiddler halted, his last note screeching unfortunately loud in the tavern. What did they think of their sire? Did they fear his wrath? Or merely wonder why he’d come to beg for scraps of attention from the woman who’d bewitched him? He was Adam, King of the GIM. He was supposed to be dignified, inspiring awe and respect from his subjects. A king did not humble himself.