Forged by Desire

by Bec McMaster

  “Not even you have the right to murder a man,” she whispered.

  “Can’t I? Perhaps I don’t have to.” He smiled. “All I have to do is tell him what I’ll do to you—what I’ve done. I’ve met the man. I made a point of that. It’s always wise to know your adversary. He’s intent on protecting you, my dear, which means he won’t have a choice but to challenge me.”

  And she could see it, just as clearly as the picture he painted for her. The Moncrieff had the power to do exactly what he’d just threatened. The only thing she could do was sacrifice herself to protect Garrett. As the Moncrieff no doubt planned.

  “He’s a better man than you’ll ever be,” she whispered, knowing that the words were capitulation.

  “I don’t want to be the better man,” he replied, folding the paper and putting it aside. “I’m the Duke of Moncrieff. However, I’m not entirely cruel. I shall give you a day to say your good-byes and gather your things. You will come to my house tomorrow at four in the afternoon, when you will put aside that hideous thing you’re wearing and dress appropriately. Coincidentally, I’m hosting a ball, something of a welcome back to civilized life. You’re to be my special guest.”

  He’d never once doubted that she would appear. He must have been planning this for weeks, manipulating her into a position where she would have no choice but to face him. Giving her a day to say good-bye was just a sign of how much power he held over her, nothing more.

  “I hate you.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” he replied. “I might have given a damn once, Octavia, but nine years of humiliation tends to wear away at a man’s pride. There are a number of ways I could punish you for this, but I simply wish to put this behind me and move on. I have a reputation to regain and you have a reneged contract to fulfill.”

  “And what shall we tell the world about my absence?” she asked bitterly. “Since you seem to have thought of everything else?”

  “You tripped and hit your head,” he replied, “which led to a temporary loss of memory, and in your disorientation, you fled my manor. You have been living in the city serving as a governess for a merchant banker, until I found you and helped you regain your memory.”

  “I’m terrible with children.”

  “Use your imagination, my dear. I’m certain you’ll be fine. You seem to have lied your way into the Nighthawks quite adequately. Unless Lynch was aware of your identity the entire time?”

  The way his gaze focused on her chilled her. A warning that any answer of hers might only implicate Lynch. “I didn’t find my way to the Nighthawks until three months after Octavia had disappeared. Lynch doesn’t ask questions. He’s not interested in our pasts, only what we can make of ourselves.”

  The Moncrieff stared at her for a second longer, then nodded shortly, accepting the story.

  “And my father?” she demanded. The words almost stuck in her throat. She would rather face the Moncrieff before she could look her father in the eye again. “I don’t want to see him.”

  “Hardly the thing, Octavia.”

  “Perry,” she corrected absently.

  “Octavia,” he repeated. “I’m afraid that everything you’ve known for the last nine years is about to be buried.”

  The words were a chilling reminder of the threat facing Garrett. “I don’t want to see my father,” she repeated. “I won’t. I can’t look him in the eye and lie. Not about this.”

  “He’ll want to see you,” the duke replied.

  “Then tell him I don’t want to see him.” It was the only way she could protect him.

  They stared at each other. The duke gave a short, clipped nod. He could afford to be magnanimous, and if her father didn’t believe her lies, then Moncrieff was the one who would have to deal with the Earl of Langford.

  He would do it too.

  “Is there anything else?” Perry asked hollowly.

  “Not at this stage.”

  “Then I have my own conditions.”

  Interest flared in his eyes. The man had always been charismatic enough to charm, but few charmed him. He’d always enjoyed the challenge she’d presented. “Intrigue me.”

  “I’ll fulfill my contract as your thrall, which means you have every right to my blood. But I won’t give you my flesh rights.” She had once, before she’d known the true depth of the monster before her.

  “Challenge accepted,” he purred.

  Suddenly her temper snapped. Perry had the blade to his throat before she even knew what she was doing. The Moncrieff didn’t even flinch. “You will never bed me again,” she ground out harshly. Blood welled as the tip of the knife dug into his pale flesh. “If you touch me, I will kill you.”

  Her gaze dropped, drawn despite her hatred for him to the sudden droplet of blood that ran down his throat. Something stroked over the back of her hand. His thumb.

  “I like this change in you,” he whispered. “Why don’t you taste it?”

  Their eyes met, his thumb digging into the back of her hand, forcing the edge of the knife across his throat. Blood welled.

  Perry staggered back, dropping the knife. All she could see was the line of blood across his throat, the scent of it flavoring the air. She could almost taste it in her mouth.

  “I won’t force you, Octavia. I won’t have to. You think you can control your hungers? Your passion? I know just how deep it runs. How much it aches to hold it back.” He smeared the blood across his hand, drawing her hypnotized gaze again as he sucked it from his fingers. A hint of darkness crept through his irises and Perry took a half step toward him.

  She realized what she was doing and froze.

  “When you are beneath my roof, you will take your blood from me, or not at all,” he stated, tugging a snowy white kerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his throat. “In return, I shall not demand your flesh rights or touch you in any manner other than is necessary for the blood-letting.”

  “I’d rather starve.”

  “Then you will,” he replied, lowering the handkerchief. There was no sign of the wound. His CV levels must have been astoundingly high.

  “Keep Hague away from me. If I see him, I’ll kill him.” How confident she sounded. Inside, she trembled, but the duke nodded as if accepting her terms. “You will also cause no harm to Garrett or any of the Nighthawks, either by your own hand or anyone else’s, or by any political maneuvering.”

  “I won’t need to. Unless they move against me.”

  Which would be her task to manage. Perry gave a brief, abrupt nod. “You’ll give me your word?”

  “You have it.” A look of dark satisfaction shadowed his expression.

  Perry suddenly felt tired. This was the moment she’d been running from for years. It was almost a relief to have it over and done with.

  “Then I will see you on the morrow.” The strength was starting to wash out of her, leaving her knees quivering beneath her. A certain sense of hopelessness settled over her. She needed to get out of here. She needed to walk, to clear her head, to be alone to think.

  “Octavia?”

  She paused on the threshold and glanced over her shoulder at him.

  “I shouldn’t care to be pushed on this. You’ve been given my terms. If you don’t appear tomorrow at four, then you will regret it.”

  The finality with which he said the words made her shiver.

  ***

  Perry couldn’t return to the guild. Not just yet. Instead she walked out into the heavy rain, barely feeling the icy sting of it on her face and head. People hurried past with parasols and umbrellas, and one poor girl selling oranges shivered on the corner, holding a bedraggled newspaper over her head.

  She walked for hours, not knowing where she was going or why. The rain came down like a curtain, obscuring the world and sinking through her clothes until the wet leather clung to her clammy skin and her tee
th chattered with the cold. She staggered to a halt and looked up, staring at a white Georgian manor in Kensington. Suddenly she knew where she’d been going.

  Perry shivered in misery as she waited for someone to answer her knock. At this time of night, most blue bloods would be out doing the social rounds and she would be lucky if the servants let her in.

  Footsteps sounded, then an imperious-looking butler cracked open the door. Butter-yellow light flooded out, and for a moment she felt like she’d found her balance again.

  “Yes?” the butler intoned.

  “I need to speak to Lynch.”

  An imperious eye raked over her. “His Grace is not at home.”

  Perry pushed past, dripping water all over the white marble floor. She couldn’t stand to be out in the rain a moment longer.

  “What’s the problem, Haversley?” A voice rang out.

  Lynch strode to the edge of the gilt balcony above the entry, his gaze raking over her. His knuckles tightened on the rail at her appearance and he turned to the butler. “I want drying cloths and a flask of blud-wein sent up to my study, and a bath drawn in the guest chambers. Have something of Rosalind’s laid out for her.”

  “Your Grace—”

  Lynch took the stairs two at a time. “If I wished for your opinion, I would have asked for it.”

  He caught her by the arm as she swayed, his nostrils flaring. “Bloody hell, you’re freezing. What have you been doing?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Perry said hoarsely. “I need your help.”

  He gave the butler a glance to warn her and nodded. “Upstairs. The fire’s lit in my study. We can speak there.”

  Somehow he got her up the stairs. Perry was so cold, she was shivering almost violently by the time he helped her through the door. He pressed her into an armchair, despite her protestations about being wet.

  The butler reappeared with several maids, and Lynch conferred with them quietly before returning with some towels. He dragged her coat and boots off her and dried her as best he could.

  Finally he knelt in front of her, his dark head bent as he took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?

  “You had to know,” she whispered. “You’re not stupid. You had to know who I was. And the investigation closed shortly after I found the Nighthawks. You’ve never given up on a case before, not like that.”

  Lynch stared at her for such a long time that she thought perhaps she’d been mistaken. Then he jerked his head. “Do you need me?”

  The power of the Duke of Bleight against the Duke of Moncrieff. It was a tempting offer. And it might have worked.

  But it would also draw Lynch and Rosalind into Moncrieff’s schemes. And who knew what the Moncrieff would do? If he was having her watched, then they were good at what they did, for she hadn’t seen them. Which meant that one of his men could potentially get close to Garrett. Or perhaps they were already close enough to hurt him.

  “No,” she whispered miserably. She had run from the duke years ago. It was time to pay her dues. “But I do need you to do something for me.”

  Lynch’s expression softened. “Anything.”

  “I have to go back. I have to—” She swallowed hard. “I need you to look after Garrett for me. I know you’re angry with him for what he did, but I need you to promise me that you’ll forgive him, that you’ll make sure he doesn’t do something foolish.”

  “Perry, I—”

  “Your word!” she replied, feeling her own anger rise. “After everything he has damned well done for you over the years! He needs you now.”

  Lynch turned on his heel and paced to the decanter in the corner, pouring them both a shot of blood. “We’ll discuss this in a minute.”

  “He needs you,” she repeated stubbornly.

  Lynch handed her a glass of blood and then threw his own back. “As you’re all intent on reminding me at the moment.”

  “Please. His virus levels have doubled. From the Falcone attack. They’re at sixty-eight percent.”

  Lynch froze.

  “He’s always thought of you as a father. You know that. And he needs you to forgive him.”

  “Bloody hell.” Lynch let out a harsh breath. “And you? Will he forgive you?”

  “No.” This was the second time she wouldn’t say good-bye. “No, he won’t.”

  A bleak look crossed Lynch’s face, and then he sighed and knelt beside her. “Perry, are you certain?” A hand reached out to stroke her cheek, one of the few times he’d ever touched her like that.

  “Please. Don’t—” Perry couldn’t stand his gentleness. She felt as though one kind word or touch would shatter her right now, like a rock pitched through a stained-glass window. It would smash her into a thousand tiny pieces that would never quite fit back together again. “Just promise me.”

  “I’ll forgive him.” Lynch’s hand lowered. “I’ll find…some way to help him through this.”

  “There is no cure,” she said bleakly, the first time she’d ever voiced it. The first time she could contemplate what that meant for Garrett.

  “There have been rumors of late—I’ll look into them, I promise. And perhaps I wasn’t speaking of his craving levels.”

  Their eyes met. He knew how she felt. She saw it.

  “How?” she whispered.

  “Rosalind,” he replied. Then more gently, “Does Garrett know how you feel?”

  “He—I—”

  Again he understood. “He won’t let you go so easily.”

  “I know.”

  Another favor she was asking from him. Another debt that she would never be able to repay. And more. “Can I stay here tonight?”

  He disapproved, she saw, but he nodded. “Are you going to say good-bye to him?”

  “I can’t.”

  And suddenly Perry realized that this was the end. She could never see Garrett again, never touch him, never tell him how much she loved him, how she’d always loved him…

  Lynch saw it in her face. Hard arms wrapped around her, dragging her tight against his chest. Perry couldn’t hold it in anymore. She broke, sucking in huge raking gasps of air, her hands fisting in his coat to hold herself up. A sob tore loose. Then another.

  “Shhh,” he murmured, stroking her damp hair. “I’ve got you, Perry. I won’t let anything happen to him, I swear. We’ll work this out. We’ll do something…”

  A thousand meaningless words that she couldn’t hear anymore, but they soothed her when nothing else could. This was Lynch. The man she’d once believed could do anything, save anyone. Not herself perhaps, for there was no saving her, but he would look after Garrett.

  She heard someone come into the room. Rosalind, from the fresh scent of lemon verbena perfume. A murmured question, then Lynch was lifting her in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

  “Come,” he murmured. “I’ll put you to bed.”

  Like her own father had done, once upon a time. Perry clung to him, feeling as though she could sleep for a hundred years.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Nineteen

  Garrett rubbed at the bridge of his nose and pushed the case file away from him. Where the hell was Perry? She was supposed to meet him back here at five, and that was hours ago. To take his mind off matters, he’d been poring over the nonexistent case file for Octavia Morrow in the hope that something would give him a lead. He’d even sent Doyle to look through the boxes of books he’d packed for Lynch. Somewhere in there was a Guide to the Great Houses of the Echelon. If he had nothing on Octavia, perhaps he could look into the entire Morrow family. See if anyone there might have had a motive to kill her—or to hide her.

  Footsteps echoed in the hallway and his head jerked. Too heavy for Perry. The moment a rap at the door sounded, he knew who it was.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Byrnes strod
e into his study as if he owned it. He was covered in mud and God-knows-what, and the smell of him hit Garrett in the face like a punch.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “I thought you were hunting Sykes. Not rats in the sewer.”

  Byrnes’s own lips twisted. “Much the same thing, it appears. Caught sight of a man matching your description, but he ran into the tunnels beneath the draining factories.”

  Another scent lifted the hairs on the back of Garrett’s neck. “Is that blood?”

  “Sykes was prepared for a hunt. The whole place is rigged with traps. We lost him, and then I had to bring two of the lads back to Gibson. Thought I’d let you know, then I’ll head back out. The bastard’s not getting away from me this time.” A strange glint gleamed in the other man’s eyes.

  “How bad?” A blue blood could heal from almost anything, and Dr. Gibson’s help was rarely required.

  “Mind if I have a drink?” Byrnes asked, tipping his head toward the decanter.

  Garrett nodded and poured them both a snifter of blood. “How bad?” he repeated.

  “Might lose Kennewick. Took a wooden shaft straight through the chest. Jansen’s leg’s hanging by a tendon or two, but that should heal if Gibson can stitch it all back together.”

  “Bloody hell.” His first month as master, and already one Nighthawk was at death’s door. “How many men would you need to hunt him down safely?”

  Byrnes considered it. “Give me a squad of twenty-five. The best you’ve got.”

  Garrett nodded. “Brief them on what to expect. Then see if you can pick up Sykes’s trail.”

  “It’s hard to track—he doesn’t have a personal scent, but I can smell the faintest hint of chemical on him.” Byrnes looked nervous for a moment. “It’d be easier with Perry. She can smell things even I can’t.”

  Their gazes locked. The hair on the back of Garrett’s neck rose, darkness flickering up over his vision.