My Lady Quicksilver ls-3

by Bec McMaster

  Another rasp of the knife. Rosalind watched in morbid fascination as Lynch sliced the man from ear to ear, the pressure just firm enough to part the skin. The butcher was barely even bleeding but he’d remember it. And when he looked in the mirror in the morning to shave, he’d see evidence of this night.

  Lynch shoved away from him and the man tumbled to the cobbles, crying in great, racking sobs. “Go,” he said coldly, wiping the edge of the knife against his breeches. “Before I change my mind and have you arrested for breaking curfew.”

  A quick scramble on the cobbles, then the butcher staggered past her, so frightened he didn’t even seem to see her. Rosalind pressed back against the bricks to avoid him, then slowly looked up.

  Lynch breathed hard, staring down at his gloved hands. He closed his eyes, his entire body trembling.

  Something was wrong. Rosalind wet her lips and pushed away from the building.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered. He hadn’t followed her. He couldn’t have—or else he wouldn’t have stayed his hand with just the butcher. This was pure chance that their paths had crossed.

  “No.” Hoarse words. He reached out and splayed a hand over the pitted brickwork. The very preciseness of his movements made her still, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting. She’d seen this before in Balfour.

  This wasn’t the man she knew; his hunger was in ascendancy, Lynch holding on to it by the thinnest of leashes.

  “What are you doing out?” he asked harshly. “It’s martial law. I should damned well arrest you.”

  “I was looking for my brother,” she said, a pang of sadness twisting through her. “He’s not come home yet.”

  The words almost bought tears to her eyes. She was holding on to sanity herself by the slightest grip. Every day only tightened the knot inside her heart, where Jeremy belonged. No matter how busy she kept herself, the quiet moments still crept up, where she couldn’t help but dwell on her growing sense of loss.

  Still no sign of him… She couldn’t give up. She wouldn’t… But why couldn’t she find him?

  Lynch turned black eyes on her, the irises completely obliterated by darkness. “How often has that man harassed you? Has he ever—”

  “No,” she hastened to assure him. “He hasn’t dared before. I came across him on the way home and he’d been drinking—” She shook her head. “And I have my pistol. For men like that.”

  Lynch pushed away from the wall. “Then why didn’t you draw it?”

  Rosalind was tempted to back away but didn’t dare. “I didn’t think I needed to. I was in control.”

  “It didn’t sound like it.”

  She gaped for words, not understanding the change in him. His anger was so fierce she could almost feel it on her skin. “Well. I don’t think I shall have to be concerned in the future. Word will spread after that little performance.”

  He grabbed her arm. “I would force you to stay at the guild, but I don’t think that wise. I’ll set a man to watch over you instead.”

  The closeness of his body set her on fire, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t quite forget the feel of those clever fingers between her thighs and the rasp of his teeth against her throat. Concentrating was hard, but she would not be undone like she had been in the bathing room. “No,” she blurted. The worst thing possible. “That’s quite all right. I don’t need a Nighthawk on my doorstep.” Then she frowned. “And why don’t you want me staying at the guild? I thought…after this afternoon—?”

  His gaze lowered, but he wasn’t staring at her breasts as the butcher had. “This afternoon was a mistake,” he said gently but firmly. “I should never have taken such liberties and I beg your forgiveness.” He met her gaze then. The black was fading, but the implacability of his resolve was not. “It won’t happen again, Rosa. It can’t.”

  She should never have provoked it in the first place. Yet her heart clenched at his words, a dangerous sense of…something…filling her. Disappointment?

  “Why?” she blurted recklessly.

  Lynch seemed to withdraw into himself as if he were putting up walls. “You’re my secretary,” he said, “and I your employer. I would be taking advantage.”

  “I didn’t mind,” she murmured. “I wanted what happened—”

  “I kissed another woman tonight,” he said bluntly. “You should know that.”

  She’d known. Of course she’d known. Yet the way he threw it in her face actually hurt. She could feel the heat draining from her skin, her heart suddenly pounding sharply in her ears. How ridiculous… To feel such jealousy over what was essentially herself.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  Lynch drew away, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “It’s a complicated situation.”

  “Is she… Is she someone you know?” It seemed ridiculous to ask, but she was suddenly desperate to know what he truly thought about her. Or about Rosa Marberry.

  Anger filled her. She wasn’t Rosa Marberry. The woman was just a role. Yet it felt real. A tiny little part of her wanted to be Rosa Marberry. Someone without the crushing burden of her past or the pressure of a missing brother. Someone that Jasper Lynch had wanted, even for a second.

  Lynch’s bleakness surprised her. “No,” he said. “She’s no one I know, no one…important.”

  That made the ache fiercer. “I see.”

  “I should never have touched you. The shame is all mine,” he replied. A faint hesitation. “Come, I’ll walk you home.”

  “No.” She jerked away. “It’s fine. I can find my own way.”

  “Rosa.” A hand caught her upper arm.

  She lashed out then, balling her right hand into a fist and driving it into his gut. “Don’t touch me! Just leave me alone!”

  He exhaled sharply but the ribbed padding of his armor deflected the blow and she was left clutching at her hand, heat bubbling up behind her eyes.

  The shock of it took her by surprise. Then she was crying and she couldn’t stop, wet messy tears sliding down her cheeks and a sob catching in her throat. She jammed her fist against her teeth to stop it from escaping, a hot flare of pain sliding through the wounded limb.

  “Damn it,” Lynch cursed. He stepped closer, the toes of his boots coming into her watery vision. “Damn it, Rosa. Please don’t cry.” His hands slid over her upper arms and she stiffened, but he was only rubbing them. Her metal hand was far from his touch.

  Then his arms wrapped around her, crushing her close. Rosalind fought for a second, hot angry tears scoring her cheeks, then collapsed into his arms. Hesitantly, she put her hand against his chest. Sexual desire she could fight, but not this… She wanted to be held as if someone cared, just this once.

  Hurt bubbled up inside her at the thought. A sudden lurching wave of grief went through her; she missed her husband so dreadfully. Or perhaps simply the touch of a man, the warm companionship, the feeling that someone would look after her, instead of always being the one to look after everyone else.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Rosalind curled into Lynch’s arms, silently pleading with him to hold her. Shaking her head, she buried her face against his chest and let the tears come.

  She’d thought she was strong enough to deal with this but she was coming apart at the seams, fracturing, her entire world shattering like a stained-glass window.

  “I’m trying to be strong,” she blurted, not knowing where the words were coming from.

  “You are strong—”

  “No, I’m not,” she cried. “Everything is going wrong. Everything!”

  “I don’t understand,” he replied, frustration edging his voice. He rubbed her back, his hand curling protectively against her spine. “What’s wrong, Rosa? What is ‘everything’? Is it the butcher? Or…me?”

  Longing filled her. Rosalind wanted to tell him, to blurt out all of her troubles and stay here in his arms. To have someone else deal with the problem for once. As if someone cared, as if someone would
look after her. What a mess. She dragged strands of wet hair off her cheeks and shook her head. If she told him the truth, the caring tone would leech out of his voice immediately. He wasn’t her ally nor even her friend. Not truly. She had to forget this feeling and forge ahead on the path she’d set herself.

  You are alone. That’s how it had to be—or had been since Nate’s death.

  Dragging in a breath, she wiped her eyes, her cheeks. The tears slid silently now. “I’m sorry.”

  “Rosa,” he whispered, cupping her face. An echo of her pain lingered in his expression, as if it actually hurt him to see this. “Tell me what’s wrong. I can help you.”

  She shook her head. “It’s just—” Her breath caught again. “I can’t find my brother. I haven’t seen him…for a long time. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.” Her mouth kept saying the words even as her horrified brain screamed at her to shut up.

  Lynch’s hands cupped her face and tilted it up. “I can help you, Rosa. I can find him. It’s what I do.”

  “You can’t. Nobody can help me.”

  His gaze turned watchful. “Are you afraid of what might happen if I do find him? Rosa, you said once he’d fallen in with a bad crowd. Is he… Is he a humanist?”

  Her fingers tightened on his sleeve in fear and she looked up, a swift denial on her lips.

  Lynch pressed his finger against her mouth, stilling the words. “Don’t,” he demanded in a silky-harsh voice. “Don’t lie to me, please.” The backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek, tracing the path of her tears. “I’m not a monster, Rosa. I wouldn’t hurt him. It’s not the first time I’ve turned a blind eye.”

  Disbelief shivered through her. “You lied to the Echelon?”

  His hands were almost hypnotic, tracing over the curve of her lip. “Sometimes the Council misreads a situation.” His fingers hesitated. “I’m not the enemy, Rosa. I never have been.”

  She closed her eyes, taking a deep, trembling breath. Did she dare trust him? It was so tempting, but she’d had her lessons beaten into her over the years with brutal efficiency. Could she go against everything she’d ever learned?

  “Please, Rosa.”

  It broke something inside her. She trembled beneath his touch, another hot tear sliding down her cheek. “I wanted to try and find him. That’s why I took the job as your secretary,” she whispered. She needed this, she realized. Needed some sense of honesty between them. “I thought you might have word of him. That’s why I went through all your papers. That’s why I picked the lock on your study. I’ve…lied to you several times.”

  He was so still. She looked up, catching his wrist as if he sought to draw away.

  “Go on.”

  “He’s a humanist,” she replied. The words almost shriveled on her tongue. “Just a boy though. I tried to protect him…”

  “But boys will do as they will.” Lynch frowned. “What’s his name?”

  Again she couldn’t speak the words. This went against everything she believed in. Lynch watched her silently until she finally tore her gaze away. “Jeremy,” she murmured. “Jeremy Fairchild.” Her voice dropped wistfully. “I call him Jem. He’s so much younger than I. My mother died when he was two, so I had the raising of him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Another grim silence. “That’s old enough to be tried in the tower.”

  “No.” She shook her head desperately. “He’s just a boy.”

  “What does he look like?”

  The words were starting to come easier now. “He has red hair, like me.” She fingered a strand of hair that hung over her face. “And freckles, though they’re fading now. He’s perhaps six foot, although it seems like he grows an inch each time I look at him.”

  Lynch sucked in a sharp breath as if she’d struck him. “And how long has it been since you’ve seen him?” he demanded.

  Another hard question to answer. “August 24th.”

  They both knew what it meant. The date the Echelon signed the treaty with the Scandinavian verwulfen clans. The date the mechs had tried to blow up the tower.

  “Did he have anything to do with the bombing?”

  She shook her head. Then hesitated. It was so terribly difficult to answer this question. Did she trust him? Truly trust him? He had said this wasn’t the first time he’d turned a blind eye to events, but she was playing with Jeremy’s life here. “Yes.” A whisper. A plea. “I think so. The men he was involved with…”

  Lynch sucked in a sharp breath. “Bloody hell.” He looked at her, then scraped a hand over his jaw. “You realize what this means? A humanist is one thing, but an act of such magnitude?” His voice broke. “Rosa, do you know what you’re asking of me?”

  Hope deflated, her chest squeezing tight. Of course she’d asked too much. He couldn’t help her. Nobody could. “Yes.”

  Lynch swore under his breath. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. “But I need more facts than this. I need to know that if I found him and set him free for you, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. I can’t—I can’t promise you anything.”

  That he was even willing to help her was so much more than she would have ever suspected. On impulse, she reached out and took his hand, sliding her fingers through his. “I know you’ll do what you must.”

  As would she. But the weight that had been dragging at her for weeks seemed to have lifted. A flood of feeling swept through her, as alien and uncomfortable as a knife itching against her skin. She didn’t understand it; or perhaps she understood it all too much. This was what had almost destroyed her so many years ago, when she’d slammed the door open on the cell and staggered inside, only to watch Balfour drag the blade across her husband’s throat.

  A cold chill swept through her, her eyes swimming with tears again. Balfour had ripped her heart from her chest in one move, destroying her entire world. She’d sworn then that she would never weaken herself ever again, never place another man in such a situation.

  Lynch’s head lowered, his lashes falling half-closed over those glacial blue eyes. Rosalind’s heart stuttered in her chest as she realized his intentions. It was one thing to kiss him as Mercury, to tease him as Rosa Marberry, but now she was neither. She had bared part of her soul to him, the first time she had done so in many years. The feeling left her surprisingly vulnerable. This, more than anything, was her truth. Not the words she had just spoken, but her own admittance that she had growing feelings for him.

  A blue blood.

  Abruptly she tugged her fingers from his grasp. Panic curled through her abdomen and she turned away, almost tripping on her skirts. Balfour had taught her to fear neither pain nor death. But…this… And the devastation it left in its wake…

  “I’m sorry,” he said curtly. “I did not mean to do that.”

  Rosalind nodded, tucking her hands into each other. What was she thinking? Maybe Ingrid was right. Perhaps it was time to cut her losses… But then he had just promised to help her try and find Jeremy.

  She needed to see this through to the end.

  If she could. For the first time, Rosa had serious doubts about her ability to remain cool and unaffected.

  “You were right,” she whispered. “I don’t think it wise to pursue this… this…” She had no name for it, as if in the giving of a name, she gave the weakness power over her. “I think perhaps we should remain as we were. Employer and employee.”

  She waited for his answer, her head tilting to the side to see him. Uncertainty filled her, she who was never uncertain. What was he doing to her? She had to keep her distance.

  “Of course,” he murmured. “But I must insist on walking you home. I hate to think of you out here on the streets.”

  She could handle almost anything she found on these streets. The irony was that her one weakness was him. Rosalind took a slow breath, collecting herself. “If you must.”

  She turned to accept his sleeve. Lynch staggered into her, his hands clutching at hers before s
he could stop him.

  Horror filled her. His hand closed over the hard metal of her left wrist. She couldn’t feel the touch of course, though she felt as though she should. She felt as though it should burn right through her.

  “Oh God,” she whispered.

  Then his knees went out from under him and he slumped against her, his hand catching at her skirt, her fingers, anything to stop himself from falling.

  That was when she saw the dart sticking out of the back of his neck.

  Fifteen

  A mocking laugh filled the alley.

  Rosalind looked up as a shadow separated itself from the rest. A tall man wearing a heavy leather seaman’s coat lumbered forward. He didn’t bother to hide the sharp hook he wore instead of a left hand, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding over her.

  “Well, now. Look what we got, boys. A Nighthawk by the looks of it. And a well-rounded tart.” A smile split his broad face. “The craver for Mordecai, and the bitch for me.”

  She watched the hook, her gaze following its hypnotic motions. Years ago, seeing a glimpse of that would have been any East-Ender’s worst nightmare. The slasher gangs that had roamed these parts used whatever scrap metal they could find to enhance themselves. Some said they even cut the limbs from their own flesh to replace with cruel hooks and sharp blades in order to join the gangs. The better to drag a body to Undertown, where they’d strap it to a gurney and drain it of blood for profit.

  Three years ago, a vampire had taken care of most of them, with the Devil of Whitechapel cleaning up the rest. Obviously some few had escaped.

  And Mordecai must have allied himself with them, giving them the secret of hemlock.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got a prior engagement.” Rosalind watched the shadows. Slashers used to run in packs, hunting their prey like wild dogs. There’d be more of them.

  A second man slid free of the encroaching fog. Then a third. Rosalind glanced up as something shifted in her peripheral vision and saw more on the roof.

  At her feet Lynch made a helpless noise in his throat. A sudden burning fierceness in her chest took her by surprise. They weren’t going to get their hands on him. She’d make sure of that.