by Luis, Maria
His hand gripping my knee, perhaps, to draw me back. His touch brazen and hot on my flesh, that cold, dark voice of his growling a domineering order in my ear. Something like, “Don’t even think about moving,” or “No matter how far you run, I’ll find you. Catch you. And drag you right back.”
My imagination is a dreadful, dreadful place.
I squirm in my seat, seeking space from everything that he is—and find no reprieve. His thigh kisses mine, his elbow remains firmly planted in place, and I . . .
Saliva sticks in my throat as I try to swallow.
Beside me, Saxon rumbles, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last confession.”
Four days?
Eyes widening, I grip the hem of my coat between white-knuckled fingers.
A brief silence, and then, “What of your friend?”
Saxon’s head turns, his chin lowered. He eyes me like I’m a selection of cheese at the local outdoor market. But whereas I fancy cheese, all cheese, like it’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, Saxon dismisses me easily, severing eye contact on my next breath. A chill spreads through me when he replies, “Never, Father. She’s new . . . but useful.”
Useful. That word again.
It’s beginning to feel like less of a compliment and more like a threat.
“Ah,” the priest murmurs softly, thoughtfully, “and does she pray?”
Instead of hurling myself over Saxon to flee, instinctive reflex has me gripping his thigh, rather murderously, as I wait for his answer. I don’t know what sort of game he’s playing, and even if I knew, I wouldn’t partake. I don’t pray. Don’t attend church. If Saxon thinks he can wipe all my sins away, he clearly doesn’t realize that he has his work cut out for him.
“Faithfully,” Saxon finally says, his gaze trained on the shuttered screen dividing the confessional.
I squeeze his leg again, nails digging into his hard muscles, and the blasted man doesn’t even hiss in pain. As though women regularly try to maim him, Saxon only plucks my hand off his leg and flattens it against my thigh, growling, “Patience. Find some.”
With a warning squeeze, he releases me and casually reclines on the bench, his shoulder propped up by the door, his long legs spread wide like he owns the air we breathe, as well as the plank of cushioned wood beneath our arses. His foot finds mine, but not to play footsy and certainly not to flirt. Catching my gaze, he slowly applies pressure.
A clear order to step back in line and follow his lead, if I’ve ever felt one.
“She hopes to better herself—shed societal judgments.”
I want absolutely none of that.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Saxon to sod off when the priest’s smooth London accent catches my full attention. “The congregation grows wary, my son.”
Grows . . . wary?
It’s an odd comment but no odder than Saxon dropping his elbows to his knees, his head bowed as if in prayer. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only being he worshipped is Satan. Figures the two of them would be best chums. “We continue on our path to salvation,” Saxon says, “no detours, no change in plans.”
My eyes narrow.
A soft chuckle echoes from the other side of the screen. “Youth gives you ambition.”
“Age gives you foresight,” Saxon replies evenly.
“Touché.” Another genteel laugh and then the priest sighs heavily. “You vouch for her fidelity, then?”
For the first time since we met, Saxon visibly hesitates. With one elbow still planted on his knee, he scrubs a palm over his scarred mouth and flicks his gaze in my direction. Muted sunshine, from the slatted wood of the confessional, slants across his face in stripes of shadowed black and golden warmth.
I feel the weight of his stare like an iron anvil chained to my ankles, seconds before I’m thrown overboard into a swirling sea.
Opening my mouth, I’m fully prepared to take my fate into my own hands when Saxon cuts me off with a firm, “I do.”
The priest hums his approval. “Very well. Your friend will come to confession in your place, then, yes?”
Words of protest bubble to the surface, threatening to jump to freedom, but I stifle them at the last second . . . and wait.
Instead of responding, Saxon reaches down and tugs at the hem of his trousers. Fastened to his calf is Dad’s knife, which he removes from the leg holster with a familiarity that speaks to years of handling weaponry. A good thing to know, considering we find ourselves at odds more often than not.
With his knees spread wide, he balances the knife on a single finger, as if testing its craftsmanship. The blade wavers, straightens out once more, and then Saxon tosses it up in the air, catching the knife by the hilt, and holds out the only possession of Dad’s that I allowed myself to keep after his death. Tantalizingly within reach and yet feeling farther away than ever.
Stomach tightening, I make a swift move to grab the knife, only for Saxon to pull back. “Give the holy father your answer,” he says, his voice pitched low for my ears only.
That patience he told me to find? It snaps like a twig.
My hand shoots out to circle his wrist, and it’s only thanks to years spent training in martial arts that I catch him off guard. I tilt my father’s knife toward Saxon’s throat, bending his wrist at an angle that I know must ache like the very devil. The sharp tip punctures his skin and I despise the prick of guilt that echoes in my heart. King assassination aside, I don’t find a thrill in hurting people.
Wolves, not sheep, I remind myself.
It takes every ounce of self-control to keep Dad’s knife steady when I spot blood beading beneath the blade, coating the metal with a glossy red. My stomach heaves. “You have some nerve,” I whisper.
Saxon’s eerily colored eyes never leave my face. “And you have none.”
My grip on the knife goes slack at the unexpected cut of his words. Mistake number one. The confessional is tiny and the next thing I know, he’s leveled the blade with my collarbone, and I see it then, my entire life flashing before my eyes.
And it’s pitiful.
No big dreams.
No great ambitions.
No hope for anything but survival for myself and my siblings.
I draw in a ragged breath, at the same time that Saxon presses Dad’s knife into my lap, laid flat, so as not to hurt me. He twists away and taps on the screen separating us from the priest. “She’ll be here.”
I hear the quiet creak of a wooden bench beneath the priest’s weight, as though he’s shifted around. “Tell me, my child,” he murmurs, clearly directing the statement to me, “have you sinned?”
My fingers curl around the knife’s smooth hilt. I shot King John with a rifle that I stole then discarded in the Thames. I’d trembled as I lined up the shot. Then brought to mind every piece of advice my father ever gave me during all the times we hunted pheasant back in Yorkshire.
Aim, sweet Isla, he would tell me with a smile quirking his lips, and don’t you dare close your eyes when you shoot or you’re likely to hit me instead.
Pulling the trigger on another human being felt like scraping my soul raw.
In my lap, I grip the hilt of my father’s blade tighter, then confess: “Yes, Father, I have sinned.”
11
Saxon
If looks could kill, then I’d already be dead.
We’ve barely stepped outside of Christ Church when Isla storms past me. She manages three furious strides, her blond hair catching in the breeze, before whirling around. Blue eyes blazing, plump lips flattened in displeasure, cheeks reddened from the cold or anger, I don’t know, but she gets in my face and bravely—or stupidly—holds her ground.
“What was that?” she snaps, waving a hand at the church.
Involuntarily, my gaze latches onto the freckles scattered across her nose. Innocent, it’s how she looks, despite the all-black attire today—but bloody hell if she isn’t one step away from blowing a gasket. I’ve n
ever had another woman repeatedly try to kill me. Maim me, yes. Kill me? Not so much. It’d give me a complex if I weren’t already such an emotionless bastard.
I catch her wrist. “You’re making a scene.”
“Oh, I’m making a scene? Right. I don’t even—” She snaps her mouth shut, tongue running along the seam of her lips. “I don’t appreciate being jerked around for your entertainment. You saw . . . You . . .” Shaking her head, her gaze drops to the ground between our feet then returns north, to land somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. “You don’t do charity and I don’t beg for scraps. If we’ve learned anything about each other in the last twenty-four hours, it’s that, which means I’m being fully transparent when I say this: I’m running on fumes. Financially, emotionally, mentally, I’m one step away from calling it quits and dragging my siblings to the farthest corners of this bloody country and setting up shop as a ragtag team of hermits. And don’t you tell me I won’t last roughing it out in the wilderness.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
She kicks her chin up, ignoring my bite of sarcasm. “Tell that priest of yours I won’t be attending Mass or confession or whatever the hell it is that he thinks I’ll be schlepping myself over here to—”
“You will.”
Her muscles twitch under my grip. “Bark another order at me and I’ll finish off what I started. My knife, your neck, one happily-ever-after.”
My teeth clench tight. Fuck, she is infuriating.
I yank her close, her captive hand trapped between us. “Had you waited five more minutes, I would have filled you in at the pub.”
“Instead you’re the one making a scene,” she retorts, sharply rotating her hand as she fights my ironclad hold.
“No, Isla,” I grind out, drawing my thumb over her fluttering pulse at the heart of her wrist, “I’m giving you what you bloody asked me for.”
“By trying to frighten me, clearly.”
“By trying not to get you killed!” My temper spikes at her implication that I might do her bodily harm. I don’t know the last time I raised my voice, but here I am, standing in the middle of a public street, fighting a losing battle that has my blood boiling in a way that I haven’t felt in years, if ever. “Your parents may have been murdered but somehow you’re still living with your head in the clouds. Any other man would take your proposition and spin it to his advantage. Last night, any other man would have dragged your skirt above your hips, kept your body locked under his, and taken what you didn’t offer him freely. You’re so goddamned keen to insert yourself into this world of which you know absolutely nothing.”
I feel her knuckles brush my chest as she furls her fingers into a fist. “You’re no gentleman,” she whispers roughly. “If you’re trying to paint yourself as a man with a heart of gold—”
“I have no heart.” I issue the words without fanfare before releasing her hand. Then drag my palm over my trousers, as though that alone can rid me of the last vestiges of her warmth. “And I’m not some knight in shining armor here to save you. Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”
She draws her hand up to her chest, then closes the other over it. “Then why help me? Why bother with any of this?”
I don’t know.
I asked myself that same question throughout the night and I’m no closer to discovering the answer now than I was yesterday. But then I remember seeing her lifeless form at the riot, her arms cradling her head and her legs drawn up tight like a cocoon, and that lurching sensation returns with a vengeance.
Isla Quinn is nothing to me.
Her happiness means little, her survival even less so, and yet I haven’t walked away. Haven’t even considered it.
Needing space, I fall back a step and dig my fingers into my hips. Swing my gaze right, then left. Commercial Street is busy this time of day: people going to work; others headed out for lunch or errands. Adjacently, Fournier remains quiet. Aside from patrons entering The Bell & Hand, no one bats an eye at us standing in the middle of the street, nor do they approach. Even so, I lower my voice to keep us from being overheard. “Father Bootham holds confession—think hard on that. His congregation runs a mixture of loyalists, anti-loyalists. He hears all.”
Isla’s brows hike up. “You say this as if you know it firsthand.”
“I say this because he reports everything that he hears back to me.” Hands still locked on my hips, I lean forward. “Everything, Isla. But the man is devout, and he feels better spilling secrets when it’s under the guise of asking God for forgiveness.”
Her mouth forms what looks like the words four days then hitches into a smile that exudes no humor. “So, you go to confession?”
Stiffly, I nod. “Twice a week. Sometimes more.”
“And he wants the queen off her throne.”
“The man’s an Anglican priest, Isla, a dedicated member of the Church of England. Do you really think he wants Margaret gone?”
A frown tugs that humorless smile of hers into nonexistence, and my jaw stiffens as I hold her gaze. Slowly, as though she’s working out a difficult maths problem in her head, she says, “I don’t understand. You want the queen dethroned and he wants her to stay exactly where she is. Which means he would only be feeding you information on anti-loyalists, which tells you nothing new. Am I missing something here?”
“Knowledge is power.” I twist my body so I can indicate Christ Church with a tip of my chin. “Father Bootham only wants peace. He’s . . . kind. Too kind. His parishioners know that, and they feel comfortable coming to him. His first loyalty is to God, his next to the queen. And it doesn’t hurt that he thinks my brother once worked for MI5.”
“What?”
“He never has.” I study Isla’s face. Working for Holyrood means bending the truth to fit a particular motive. Father Bootham is a diehard loyalist who feels threatened by the violent uprisings. All of London may see the Priests as men running campaigns against the Crown, but not the good father. To him, Damien’s warrant for arrest is a clear front that he must have been acting on behalf of the Security Service to gather intelligence on a divided parliament that’s determined to do away with the monarchy, for good.
Father Bootham’s not completely off course with that assumption—though the Security Service has no idea Holyrood even exists—and I use it to my advantage. I pay my penance, sitting in that damned confessional twice per week, and play the part of misunderstood loyalist. Bootham reports his findings, and I promise to pass the information along to Damien.
But Isla . . .
She’s sharp, quick on her feet. Any run-of-the-mill excuse will send off alarms, and she’ll be breathing fire down my neck within days of Father Bootham telling her one thing and me saying another.
I settle for a half-truth: “He believes Damien is loyal to the queen.”
Isla’s mouth falls open unceremoniously. “Loyal,” she says, disbelief echoing in every syllable, “to the queen.”
“Yes.”
“Has he heard nothing of what you all have done? Half this city is prepared to kiss your feet while the other half wouldn’t mind stringing you up by your necks.”
My nape itches at the thought. Over the years, I’ve found myself imagining how I’ll end up going—stabbed to death like Pa, shot to death like the king. Being hanged wouldn’t be my first choice. “A person hears what works in their favor—what aligns with their personal beliefs. And, in me, the priest hears a man who’s finally found the right path after a sinful past.”
“And you’re wanting me to . . . what, do the same? Lie to Father Bootham for information?”
“You were sacked from the news network.”
Her gaze leaps to mine, shock swirling in those blue depths. “I-I never told you that.”
“You admitted as much just now.”
A blush stains her cheeks as she twists her face away. “All right,” she says, her voice hushed, “yes, I was . . . let go.”
“Because?”
Her
shoulders rise with a sharp inhale. “Because I wanted to do more to show the world what was really happening. I was—am—tired of the fighting and the violence and the fact that the queen sits inside her palace, impervious to it all.”
Except that the queen isn’t impervious to anything.
It eats at her just as it eats at the rest of us, but I keep those thoughts to myself as I nod along, playing the part required of me. Because it’s a role. My entire life is a continuous string of roles that I feed small portions of myself to, for the greater good of Britain.
The queen.
Holyrood.
“You get me every bit of intelligence Father Bootham is willing to reveal, and I’ll give you what you want in return.”
Isla visibly swallows. “Aren’t you curious as to what I want to propose? So we can even the score? I don’t do well with owing a debt—to anyone.”
Something tells me that whatever she plans to offer would pale in comparison to what I’m doing for her—and what she’s giving me in return. Father Bootham may choose to see me as a man worth saving, but the rest of London doesn’t feel the same. Continuing to visit him would not only put an eventual target on his back, but another on mine. As it is, I’m walking a tightrope that might snap at any moment.
Isla working as a go-between nets me the continual information from Bootham while keeping me out of the limelight. It’s a perfect arrangement, and I’m not interested in learning anything that might fuck it up.
I shake my head. “No debt owed. Attend confessional, put on your best redemption tour, and I’ll see that you get paid.”
It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to read the relief that spears Isla’s expression. “How much?” When I list off a sum, her eyes go saucer-wide. “Saxon, no. I-I can’t accept that. That’s way too much.”
My skin prickles at the sound of my name coming off her tongue, and I force myself to take another step back. “It’s not nearly enough. The wrong person catches wind of what you’re doing, and you’ll be wishing you hadn’t agreed to a blasted thing.”
