“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask,” Lord Griffin responded with a nod. “Now, Lady Seagrave, would you permit me to escort you home?”
Brenna snorted. “If you insist, Lord Griffin. I’m afraid I’ll have to find my noble steed’s home first, but then, yes, I would be pleased to accept your company up until the point someone might see us together and ask awkward questions.”
“Embarrassed to be seen with me, my lady?” he asked, with a touch of mockery.
“Embarrassed to be seen with any escort,” she returned calmly, hoping he would understand it was nothing personal. “Tavern maids don’t go about town with bodyguards, you know.”
“Sweethearts, perhaps?”
Laughter burst out in spite of her. “Not in our present guises, Lord Griffin. No one would believe you to be honorable about your intentions towards a woman like me, and I can’t afford any other interpretation of our relationship.”
His voice went low and dangerous. “What is that supposed to mean? And what, exactly, is ‘a woman like you’?”
“There’s no need to be offended, either on my behalf or your own,” Brenna said. “You know perfectly well that if we’re seen together, gossip will insist that I’m your mistress, and my life will become a great deal more difficult. And it has nothing to do with you personally. No one is going to assume that any landed lord has an interest in doing the right thing by a tavern maid, even if she happened to be young and innocent and beautiful. You lot marry your own kind.”
“You’re not exactly an ugly old hag,” Lord Griffin growled, drawing another burst of laughter from Brenna. “And what do you mean ‘my lot’? That’s ‘our lot,’ or were you forgetting?”
Brenna sighed. “I’ve tried, Lord Griffin. I’ve tried very hard to forget. But Lizbet won’t let me abdicate, and my brother is busy being an ambassador, so there’s no chance I’ll be allowed to walk away anytime soon.”
Her mount began to shift its feet restlessly, so Lord Griffin took hold of its bridle before looking up at her oddly. “Do you really wish yourself free of your title?”
“Most days, yes,” Brenna admitted quietly. She had no idea why she felt moved to confide in a man she barely knew, but some impulse encouraged her to tell him the truth. “I had a good life before all of this happened to me—I was useful, and I loved my job. I always thought I was angry at my father for casting me off, but, as it turns out, he did me a favor. Being Lady Seagrave…” She looked down at him, admiring his stern-jawed silhouette in the moonlight. “I don’t know who she is, but I don’t think I like her very much.”
“How is she any different than Brenna?”
“Brenna,” she retorted, “is who you see now. Can you imagine this at court?”
“Actually,” he acknowledged with a grin, “I have an excellent imagination, and I can. I think it would be the best thing to happen to the Andari court since Prince Ramsey was named the heir.”
“Then you are more optimistic than I have the luxury of being,” Brenna responded tartly. “Now are you going to escort me home or not?”
“After you, my lady.” Lord Griffin let go of her horse, swept her a bow and gathered up his own mount’s reins.
Brenna rolled her eyes in the dark and tapped her mount with her heels. Lord Griffin was not what she’d expected, and while she generally preferred the unexpected, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to take the form of a man.
She might end up liking him, and that, she assured herself, would never do. Becoming attached to a handsome, intelligent, dangerous man was just a way of getting her heart broken. She couldn’t imagine someone like Rom ever caring for her in return, except perhaps for the same reasons as her other pathetic suitors. And even if, by some miracle, he did like her for something other than her title and her money, she preferred to work alone. Live alone. To be responsible for herself and answer to no one.
Didn’t she?
Chapter 9
Mr. Hill,
Our contract is cancelled. The objective is no longer of interest to me, and I have other places to be. Your fees will, of course, not be returned, as I have expended more than sufficient energy in pursuit of your target. As to your assertion that I will have difficulty finding work, the idea is laughable. No one cares about your over-inflated opinion.
If the target is still of importance to you, she is in Camber, calling herself Renee. She’s working as a barmaid at The Bad Apple, and living on Mill Street in a house with a green door. If you want her dead that badly, hunt her down yourself. Should you have any reason to consider contacting me again, save yourself the aggravation and don’t bother. You won’t be able to find me.
- Sir
Rom strolled down the darkened streets of Camber, leading his horse and wondering what had happened to him. He felt as though he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object.
No, that wasn’t it. He felt energized. Fully alive. Angry. Completely content. All of them at once.
And he felt nothing at all like himself. He didn’t normally engage in lengthy conversations with young women. They seldom shared any of his interests, as he led a strange life for a nobleman. One that was difficult to explain without lying, which he preferred not to do unless lives were at stake.
But Brenna… she already knew. He didn’t have any idea how she knew, but he also didn’t know how she’d managed to foil an assassination attempt and still sound bored.
Rom had wondered for years why he never felt any particular partiality for any of the eligible women he’d met, and this was a devil of a time to figure it out. After chasing Brenna around Camber, attempting to rescue her and discovering she was more than capable of rescuing herself, he’d come to an inescapable conclusion—he found competence to be quite devastatingly attractive.
He glanced up to where she rode next to him, relaxed and serene in the dim light. A slight frown creased her features, but she appeared completely at ease with the situation—the dark, her unconventional mount, a murder attempt, and an unexpected escort.
She didn’t even twitch when a trio of men stepped out of an alley to block their way, the golden light of street lamps glinting off the blades in their hands.
“Oh dear me,” she proclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. “Methinks they intend to rob us.” She cocked her head to one side. “Well, rob you, anyway. I don’t look like the sort of person with much to steal.”
Rom chuckled. “They’d be disappointed either way. It isn’t like I carry a fat purse when I chase distressed damsels into the seedier side of town.”
“Tell me,” Brenna asked conversationally, “which Lord Griffin are you today? I only ask because a lady ought to always consider the feelings of others. Are you the Lord Griffin who is lamentably confused by the task of choosing his own waistcoats, or the Lord Griffin who might enjoy a good brawl?”
“Why, my lady,” Rom drawled, “are you offering to share?”
“What can I say? I’m feeling magnanimous. If you promise to make it interesting, I might even agree to let you have all of them.” She batted her lashes at him, and then winked.
And that was that. At thirty-six years old, Rom discovered that for the first and probably only time in his life, he was in love.
It was sudden, he knew. And probably premature. And she would laugh at him if he declared himself. But Brenna—no matter whether she called herself Breanne, Renee, or something completely different—was the woman he wanted. All he had to do was make sure she stayed alive long enough for him to convince her that she ought to marry him.
Wait. Marry him?
The three cutpurses moved in, even as he worried over that thought. Could he actually propose to a woman and expect her to share the life he led? He’d always thought that would be unfair, but if anyone would be up to the challenge, it was Brenna.
The first man struck at him with his knife and Rom simply moved out of the way. The fellow was slow, and his grip wa
s all wrong.
But she was a countess. She had her own life, with many responsibilities. Even if they married, they might not see much of each other, except for the rare moments when he was at court.
The other two men came at him together, and Rom ducked under one’s jab, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into his companion’s path. They really ought to coordinate their attacks more efficiently.
Perhaps she could travel with him on occasion. It would only improve his cover, if he could pretend to be married, and she clearly wouldn’t mind the danger.
Well, not pretend. They would actually be married. If he could convince her.
The first man dove in, making an attempt to tackle him. Rom shoved him to the side, tripping his two companions who immediately scrambled up, cursing. All attempts at subtlety ceased, and the three came at him as one, fists and knives at the ready.
Perhaps he really ought to focus. A well-timed kick disarmed the first thug, and a simple twist of the wrist brought the second to his knees and left his knife in the dirt. Rom punched the third in the jaw hard enough to knock him out, while kicking their blades out of reach. After the second man staggered to his feet clutching his injured wrist, the first one risked going for Rom’s throat, and received a blow to the kidney for his trouble.
That seemed to be sufficient to convince them to seek another target. Brenna clapped appreciatively as the two men who were still conscious limped off into the shadows, muttering comments about Rom’s mother as they went.
“I think you could have done that faster, but I’ll give you extra points for style,” she said. “Also, that kick you used to disarm was a bit weak. If you’d broken his wrist, he wouldn’t have come back for another round. Are you favoring your left knee?”
If Rom hadn’t been quite certain of his affection before, he was now. “My thanks for your instructive commentary, my lady. Fortunately I know better than to expect thanks for saving your life.”
“Careful, Lord Griffin,” she said with a smile, “or I might get the idea that you’ve been paying attention.”
“Perish the thought,” he muttered. “Yes, I injured my knee some months ago in an ill-advised leap off a roof. In my defense, the smuggler I was chasing turned out to be smuggling more than just un-taxed silk. Half his hold was filled with…” he paused. “Substances I really shouldn’t be talking about with a countess.”
Brenna sighed. “An unidentified powder that explodes when exposed to fire?”
Rom stared.
“I told you, you really ought to trust me.”
“I was told that you had the confidence of Lady Norelle, not that you knew all of her darkest secrets!”
“Did you ever stop to think that of the two of us, I might not be the one whose trustworthiness is most in question?”
With that she urged her horse forward, and left him standing in the street staring after her, with the beginnings of a smile growing on his lips.
They left the horse at a convenient livery, where Rom paid for a few days’ worth of stabling in hopes that the owner, if it was not the attempted assassin, would come looking for it sooner or later.
Afterwards, he walked Brenna back to a dark corner near the house where she’d found a temporary haven.
“You trust these women?” he asked, guessing what she would say, but needing to emphasize that she ought to exercise caution, even at home.
“As much as I trust you,” Brenna pointed out. “I’ve spent more time with them, and none of them have accused me of being a fool.”
“But are you certain none of them would sell you out?” he insisted. “It took no more than a smile and a coin to convince Myra to tell me where you’d gone. It would be far simpler for someone who shares your house to hurt you, and all too easy for this Grim Hill to offer them adequate incentive.”
Brenna turned to face him. “Why, because they’re poor and desperate?”
“Because they’re human,” he replied patiently. “None of us are immune to the lure of easy advancement. We all want simple solutions to thorny problems, like how we’re going to achieve happiness in spite of all the obstacles life throws in our way. The size of the obstacle isn’t the point.”
“They’re not going to betray me for money, Lord Griffin.” She sounded disgusted by the thought. “These women have left their homes, left behind the dream of easy security in exchange for the difficulty of independence. They’ve left forced betrothals, cruel fathers, thieving brothers, and a whole world that tells them they can’t make it on their own. They want to make something for themselves, to choose their own future, and that’s more important to them than ease and simplicity.”
“You envy them,” Rom said quietly.
“I am them,” Brenna corrected fiercely. “Except I didn’t have the courage to make the same choices—that life found me. And even then I had people to tell me I was smart, and strong, and worthwhile. They have only each other, and they’ve been told all their lives that they are weak and foolish and need someone to make their decisions and tell them who they are. But they escaped, and they believe the world can look differently if they don’t give up. I have faith in them, whether you do or not.”
“Then I will choose to trust them as well,” he agreed, clearly surprising her again.
She stopped and folded her arms. “And will you trust me enough to let me be the bait to capture our target?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking down at her with a smile. “But I promise to at least think about it.”
When Rom returned to Lorenhall, Quinn was making himself completely at home in the study.
“Please tell me you’ve been doing something more productive than disappearing mysteriously,” Rom growled, restraining himself from telling the man to stop sitting on his desk. Quinn only did it to be annoying, because annoyed people made mistakes. Rom didn’t think Quinn was testing him exactly, it was just a difficult habit to break.
As expected, Quinn didn’t bother to confirm or deny, only responded with a question of his own.
“Did you speak to Brenna?”
“Only after she’d resolved one attempt to murder her, and just in time to disband a potential second. Though that was likely to be nothing more complicated than robbery.”
“Has her mother been in contact?”
Rom’s eyebrows shot up. “And how would that work exactly? Her mother doesn’t know where she is.”
“If she’s the one who hired me, she has for several days.”
Rom had a choice between weary resignation and murderous rage. One of them would probably get him killed, so he slumped into his chair and regarded the sometime assassin with hard, unforgiving eyes.
“You told her. I thought we agreed that Brenna was not to be used as bait.”
“Then you didn’t listen. I never agreed.”
“What information did you divulge, Quinn?”
The sandy-haired man gave back stare for stare. “Where Brenna lives, what name she’s using and where she works.” He shrugged. “Up to Grim Hill what happens now.”
“If you care for Brenna at all, why would you endanger her?”
Quinn’s expression was cold. “What gave you the impression that I care for anyone? Whoever hired me needs to be caught. I took the most straightforward path.”
“And if the most straightforward path leads to Brenna’s death?” Rom snarled.
Quinn jumped off the desk and strolled for the door. “She’s more than you give her credit for, Lord Griffin.” He glanced back. “And it might interest your man at Crestwood to know that I conveyed that information by letter.”
Rom’s eyebrows shot up. “Since when do real assassins send letters?”
“Since they needed one to be found. As evidence.”
Sneaky bastard. It still didn’t give them good odds. If Louise was Grim Hill, she had been devious enough to avoid getting caught, at least up to this point. It was unlikely she would keep the letter, unless she was hoping to use it. If she w
as angry enough at the man who had accepted a contract to kill her daughter and kept the money despite his failure, she might keep the letter as proof. And if she did, Danward might just be able to discover it.
But if they were wrong, and Grim Hill was someone else…
“You’d better hope Danward finds something.”
“Or what?” Quinn replied, his voice filled with quiet menace.
“Or I might not care that we’re on the same side and you’d probably kill me. If anything happens to Brenna because of this, I’ll come after you.”
Quinn shrugged. “Love makes fools of the best of us.” He stepped through the doorway, looking back over his shoulder long enough to add: “But you could definitely do worse.”
The door closed just in time to catch the paperweight Rom hurled viciously in Quinn’s direction.
The following evening, Brenna returned home from work to find all seven of her housemates waiting for her in the sitting room, wearing identical expressions of uneasiness and strain.
Brenna was already nursing a sore ankle, numerous abrasions from her unexpected ride, and an overwhelming sense of discontent. She couldn’t identify it exactly, but she suspected it had something to do with a certain irritating nobleman. A tall, strong, competent, intelligent nobleman who looked at her with admiration instead of disdain.
Lord Rommel Griffin ought to be ashamed of himself for invading her thoughts so comprehensively.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, hoping that whatever it was could be resolved quickly and with minimal involvement on her part.
“This.” Grita pointed to a basket that rested on the small, round table in the center of the room. “Did you know about this, then?”
“It’s not mine, so no,” Brenna said, confusion mingling with impatience. “What is it, and why would I know about it?”
“It was left here for you,” Dora informed her, with uncharacteristic seriousness. “An old woman brought it and asked to see you. When I told her you weren’t here, she left it for you, and said we weren’t to open it without you. That our very lives might depend on it.”
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