by Maria Luis
“No one says that,” I edge out.
“Matshona Dhliwayo did.”
Oh, bloody fucking hell. “Rowena, it doesn’t matter who said it. The fact is, you turned a profit on selling intel from MPs. You could have been caught.”
“Instead I grossed nearly a million pounds in the first year alone and I re-invested all of it.”
Torn between the ridiculous urge to applaud her ingenuity while also calling her damned sanity into question, I run my hands over my face. It doesn’t matter that it’s been years, my mind paints an image of her behind bars or, worse, dead—and it sets my blood on fire.
I demolish the space between us in three strides, and, before I even realize it, my hands are on her elbows and my face is in hers and I’m locked back in the darkness that I once told her to harness before it consumed her.
Right now, envisioning her limp and broken, I am consumed.
“Do you know how bloody easy it is to hack a website?” I growl, shaking her. “I can do it in my fucking sleep, Rowena. I can do it with my hands tied behind my back, or blindfolded, and I’m telling you right now, the fact that you’re standing here is proof that either all politicians are idiots or that you are the luckiest woman—”
“I hired someone in the field.”
My lids fall closed and I pray for control. “You hired someone,” I manage on a tight whisper, “to create a forum where you sold private information?”
“I’m not—” She struggles in my arms and plants a firm hand on my chest. “I’m not naïve.”
“In this,” I clip out, “you are.”
She pushes against me. “After some major digging around that lasted months, mind you, I found someone who’d done some work for MI5. He must have thought me ridiculous.” A wry grin deepens the curve of her bottom lip. “But I’m nothing if not savvy. I used a fake name and an account that I opened just for this venture. And I knew, Damien—I knew that I could never let any of it get back to me or my head would be on a pike. All I needed was the skeleton of the site, anyway, and I could manage the rest. So, I had him build me a website that catered to selling second-hand clothing worn by England’s rich and famous because—”
All I hear is the roar in my ears.
Beyond it, there’s the sound of her voice.
Beneath it, the quickening of my pulse.
I step back then step back again. Twist around at the waist and find myself leaning against the window, staring blindly at the garden that overlooks Swain’s Lane beyond a brick outer wall.
My hands furl into fists at my sides, which I plant heavily on the window frame. “The name,” I utter, my gaze trained on the sycamore trees bracketing the street. “What was the name of the clothing site?”
“I . . .” She clears her throat, and I hear her feet pad in my direction. “I actually never took the time to make one up. In the email I sent, I said just to leave that part blank.”
Jesus Christ, I think I’m going to be sick.
“Damien?” comes her soft voice, just behind my right shoulder. “Are you okay?”
No.
No, I don’t think I am.
“It was me,” I rasp, looking back at her. “You hired me, Rowena.”
Her porcelain skin pales to a ghostly white. “I didn’t. There’s no way. I hired—”
“You paid me twenty-thousand pounds.” Turning around, I face her directly. Openly. “And you spent five paragraphs rattling on about how you wanted everything to be top-notch and anonymous, so that celebrities wouldn’t feel embarrassed that they were forced to sell the clothes straight off their backs to make ends meet.”
“But you . . . but, Damien, you—”
“I took it on as a whim.” Because M. had sounded desperate in her emails. Plus, turning down a twenty-K gig, when the job itself only would take a matter of two or three hours, was the very definition of madness. “And I said yes.”
“You work for Holyrood!” Her eyes are wide, the color in her cheeks swiftly returning to bloom a furious red. “You worked for Holyrood. Why in the world would you take on anything else?”
Boredom, mostly.
But also because, back then, it had amused me to peel back the clandestine world of MI5 and steal their secrets for Holyrood.
“Thanks to me, you managed to—what did you say?—make almost a million pounds in a year.”
Before she can respond, my mobile goes off and I reach it for in my pocket. One glance at the screen and the pit in my stomach grows. “I have to take this,” I mutter, flicking my gaze back to Rowena. Something compels me to add, “It’s Matthews.”
“Is it about Margaret?” she asks, worry creeping into her voice. “Is she all right?”
“I’ll let you know.” The mobile continues to vibrate in my hand, and I hover there, wishing that I could ignore Holyrood’s surgeon. But he wouldn’t be calling unless he had news, and I’m not ready to face the consequences of avoiding the outside world to stay in this bubble with Rowena. “I may have to step out this afternoon,” I tell her.
Her lips press together in a straight line. “Is that a smart idea when there’s a bounty on your head?”
Because the Mad Priest is wanted. Fortunately for all of England, they only have to wait a little while longer to get what they so desperately crave. Unfortunately for me, with Carrigan and Guthram on the hunt, I already have one foot in the grave.
27
Damien
The Bell & Hand is a husk of ash and rubble.
The windows are gone, the outer walls nothing but mangled, half-melted steel piers that reveal Christ Church Spitalfields across Fournier Street. The stairwell leading up to Guy’s flat stretches north toward an open night sky, and Saxon’s bar—once a hub of activity—sits like a soot-covered cavern near the back of the pub.
It’s a fucking disaster.
Hunching my shoulders against an icy breeze, I light a cigarette and bring it to my lips. Inhale slowly, drawing the nicotine into my system, before exhaling on a soft breath. I shove the Zippo into the pocket of my armored vest. “I know you’re there.”
Debris crunches under near-silent feet. “You’re playing a dangerous game, brother.”
“Not dangerous enough, apparently, because you still came to meet me in the middle of the night.” I glance over my shoulder at the darkened frame picking its way through the rubble, and feel a twist of relief to see him after all these weeks. “Where’s your other half?”
Moonlight splices across Saxon’s harsh face, revealing the snarled upper lip and those eerie green eyes that he inherited from Pa. Dressed in his customary black-on-black, he carries a duffel bag in one hand, which he tosses at my feet when he steps in close.
He jerks his chin toward the fag. “Put it out.”
Fighting the urge to take another drag, just to mess with him, I drop it to the ground and stub out the cherry with my boot. “Happy—”
The rest of my sentence is bludgeoned to death by my older brother’s massive arms coming around me.
A hug.
He’s hugging me.
My hands stay suspended mid-air. “What”—I clear my throat, frantically searching the pub beyond his right ear—“are you doing? Has Isla addled your brain? Swapped you out for a different model or—”
One of those big fists leaves my back to grab a handful of my vest and—crack! Teeth rattling, my chin snaps to the left.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Staggering backward, I flex my lower jaw. Press two fingers to the sore flesh and come away wincing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Saxon only stands there, the lower half of his face concealed in shadow. “The hug is because Matthews told me how you almost died up on the roof. You were reckless, Damien. Absolutely goddamn reckless.”
“And the punch?”
“That’s for sending me the queen. And Guy. And Paul, you sadistic bastard.”
“At least you don’t have Benji,” I mutter, letting my hand drop after pro
dding my aching jaw one last time. “He’s currently locked away with Alfie Barker in Holly Village’s loft. I hear they’re mates but couldn’t tell you if it’s true.”
“You haven’t gotten him out yet?”
“Benji? No. I figure he can do with a bit of penance after attacking you in the woods. Justice by Damien Priest—he should be glad that I didn’t have any of my toys.” Angling my chin toward the duffel, I say, “I’m assuming you brought everything I asked for?”
“You’re lucky I had most of it on hand.”
Luck has nothing to do with it. When I rang Saxon this afternoon, after meeting with Matthews, I figured he’d have everything that I needed and more. A man doesn’t leave Holyrood without being prepared for the moment when Holyrood decides to bring you back. There’s only ever been one agent to retire: Robert Guthram, who once stood side-by-side with Pa. But the old man has been shut away in an asylum for the last ten years, and I doubt he’s enjoying his days post-Holyrood.
Especially not with a son like Marcus Guthram.
Shoving a hand into my kit for the cigarette pack, I fish another fag free from the carton. “Have Isla and the queen . . .”
“Interacted?” Saxon gives a rough chuckle that carries on the breeze. “Currently, the queen thinks Isla is the sweetest woman she’s ever met. They’ve had tea.”
Fucking hell.
After lighting the cherry, I take a slow drag. Then swing my gaze over to Saxon’s inscrutable face. Spontaneous hugs aside, my older brother has always been the one person who I’ve never been able to read. He plays his emotions close to his vest—whatever he has of them, at any rate—and rarely reveals anything. Still. The thought of the king killer sitting down for tea with the queen of England, of all people, sounds so farfetched I’m almost positive that he’s taking the piss.
“And what does Isla think of her . . . newfound friendship?”
“She finds it problematic that the queen isn’t half-bad, especially since Margaret spends most of her time sniping at Guy. They share a common enemy.”
Laughter kicks free from my chest. “If we’ve nothing else going for us, at least we don’t have to worry about the king killer making her debut as the queen killer—doesn’t really have the same ring.”
Saxon’s mouth barely tips up in a smile. On him, though, it’s as close to a full-blown smirk as I’ve ever seen.
Turning his gaze from mine, he sweeps a hard glance over the ruined pub. “You really think Carrigan did this?” he asks. “There’s nothing for him to gain by torching the place.”
The confession burns within me, as does Guy’s warning that I can’t hide from Saxon forever. I never intended to keep Carrigan’s appearance at Westminster a secret. He posed a logistical problem that none of us could have ever predicted. Hell, until the king told me his suspicions, there was no reason to suspect the prime minister of any foul play. Carrigan fulfilled what few responsibilities he had as PM and he did it all with little fanfare. That he wanted me to kill the king was a major red flag that I never saw coming.
Just as I never anticipated the attack.
If Guy has always taken on the disciplinary role of father figure, then Saxon has always sought to be my fiercest protector. It’s only thanks to a riot in Leeds that he was away from the Palace when Guy brought me to Matthews. There’s no doubt in my mind—one word about my brush with death would have had Saxon nailing Carrigan’s ass to the wall before ripping the bastard’s entrails from his body.
Then and now, vengeance belongs to me.
And while Saxon deserves to know the truth, I can’t bring myself to reveal anything that might ruin the measure of peace he’s finally found with Isla Quinn.
Grimacing, I take one last pull of the cig before stamping it out on the ground. “Carrigan wanted the king dead.”
Saxon’s head snaps in my direction. “What?”
“Dead,” I mutter, staring at the dimly lit entrance of Christ Church Spitalfields. A view we’ll never enjoy again unless we go through the hassle of rebuilding the pub. “When I showed up at Westminster that night, Carrigan was already there and waiting to propose a bargain: kill John or he’d make my life a living hell.”
My brother curses under his breath. “That’s an ultimatum not a bargain.”
“Generally, my favorite kind,” I drawl. “Unless, of course, it’s being used against me.”
Ignoring the sarcastic quip, Saxon’s eyes narrow on me. “You told him no.”
“I told him no,” I confirm. And I’ve paid the price for my loyalty every day since. A loyalty that was all for naught because the king hired Rowena to kill us anyway. Mouth flat, I tear my gaze away from the church. “Imagine what people would think if they learned the prime minister had hoped to take out the king.”
“At least half the country would cheer him on.”
“And the other half would revolt—it’d be the Westminster Riots all over again but so much worse. Anarchy. Bloodshed. And Carrigan would go from being the country’s last hope for democracy to the fanatical Grim Reaper.” Spit out the words. Just fucking say them. “I know too much,” I say quietly. “I hold his entire life in the palm of my hand and can snap his neck anytime I choose.”
“Is there a chance that his daughter—”
“No.” The word leaves me on a battered snarl. “No, Rowena hates Carrigan.” He’s the monster in her life, just as Mum was always the monster in mine. Broken, kindred souls, the two of us. Raking my fingers through my hair, I drop my chin. “She and I have had our differences but she wouldn’t lie to me about this.”
“The queen seems to think that Rowena had a hand in the fire at Buckingham Palace.”
I shake my head. “The group that Rowena’s pulled together . . . there’s no chance in hell they could have coordinated an attack of that caliber. It’s just not possible.”
“And yet, they still found us in Sevenoaks. Guy said that she’s blind.”
Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I say, “She has a book about English architecture dogeared to an entry on Ightham Mote. I’m guessing that someone—Hamish or Matthews, probably—let the name drop and thought nothing of it.” But she remembered, because Rowena Carrigan is cunning in a way that no one ever suspects of her.
Particularly when it comes to selling the country’s deepest, darkest political secrets to the highest bidder.
Saxon stares at me for a beat too long, and I steel my spine to keep from averting my gaze. If I know a person’s move before they ever think to make it, then my brother has the uncomfortable ability to look someone in the eye and steal every one of their thoughts. It’s uncanny, bloody unnerving. When he finally looks away, my shoulders fall with relief.
“I told Isla that I was done with Holyrood,” he says, dropping to his haunches to pick up a charred picture frame off the floor. Turning it over, he stares down at the image that’s completely blackened from the fire. “And even when I left Oxford tonight, I looked her in the eye and said, I choose you.”
“Saxon, I know.”
“I don’t think you do, brother.” He lets the frame go, and it splinters completely when it hits a pile of equally charred wood. “Isla is my fire, my fucking soulmate, and life without her is no life at all. But you . . .” With both wrists leveled on his bent knee, he twists at the waist to stare up at me. “You’re running from something. The rage, the panic when you think no one is watching—I’ve seen it for months now.”
My throat constricts. “You’re overthinking shit.”
Those cold green eyes don’t even blink. “You’ve lost at least a stone.”
“House arrest tends to dampen one’s hunger.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Damien.” He pushes to his full height, which is still a few centimeters shorter than me. Thrusting his face close to mine, he shoves a hand against my shoulder but we’re evenly matched, when he’s not catching me by surprise, that is, and I don’t budge. “Tell me what it is,” he growls, “tell me what you need because, C
hrist, I know the look in your eye. I’ve seen it before—that soul-wrenching bleakness—and I’m willing . . . Bloody fucking hell, I’m willing to step back into this life for you.”
He’s already been roped back in.
I told Guy about Saxon’s safehouse in Oxford because desperate times called for desperate measures. But in every other way, Saxon has walked free. He rang when Buckingham Palace went up in flames but didn’t return to the fight. He must have heard the alert when The Bell & Hand caught fire but didn’t make a move. He chose Isla Quinn over Holyrood and his brothers-in-arms, and I . . .
I don’t fault him for it.
“You deserve better, brother.” Clapping a hand on his wrist, I pull him away from my shoulder. “You deserve happiness. And we both know that Holyrood is the tidal wave that’ll drown you.”
The severe lines of his face go taut. “Damien, just—”
My gaze snags on something moving along Fournier. A shoulder turning. A body bending down. And then, far off to the right, the unmistakable shape of a long barrel that turns my blood to ice.
Saxon lets loose a grunt as I tackle him to the soot-covered floor.
I don’t move fast enough—fire sears my right bicep and red swims on my periphery and fucking hell. Hissing through clenched teeth, I deaden my weight so that Saxon can’t push me off. “Stop,” I snarl. “Jesus, stop moving.”
“You’re not a goddamn shield. Get up.”
Gunfire erupts above us, and I flatten my body over my brother’s, prepared to take every hit that comes our way. He has Isla. For the first time, he has a future worth living at his fingertips, and I have—
Bullets ping off the only remaining interior wall.
Moonlight shimmers over the rubble, bathing what’s left of The Bell & Hand in a pearlescent glow. Without the pub’s roof for cover, we’re ripe for the picking.
Dropping my head to Saxon’s ear, I demand, “How many do you see?”
I feel him angle his head. “Six. No, seven.”
We’re either dead men walking, or dead men buried, and since I have no plans to see my brother dressed in his funeral best anytime soon, it’s going to have to be neither of the above. With small, incremental adjustments, I move off him.
