by Bec McMaster
"This was where the raiders who stole me from my parents brought me ashore," she told him, wrapping her arms around her middle. "I don't know how old I was. Rosa thinks that I was perhaps five, though verwulfen children grow larger than others." She glanced up at the Tower again, her voice lowering. "I just remember feeling terrified. I didn't know where my parents had gone, or why these strangers had taken me. They'd run me down in the snow near my home, and chained me, taking me aboard their ship and delivering me here. My father had been out hunting with me that day. I-I don't know what happened to him."
He felt ill. "Ingrid—"
"There was a market here," she said, gesturing about the stone cobbles. An Egyptian obelisk peered down at them. "They were selling all manner of things: screaming monkeys, beautiful macaws, parrots who swore like sailors, a pair of snarling baby leopards who smelled as terrified as I felt." With a swallow, Ingrid met his gaze, her own eyes suspiciously shining. "And I was in a cage right next to them. I kept stroking one of the leopards through the bars, for she was so scared. So little. I wanted to let her know that it would be all right, but it wasn't—"
"Ingrid."
"And that was when Lord Balfour appeared. He sat astride this enormous horse, and he peered down at me with such coldness that if felt like my heart stopped. And then he bought me for a hundred pounds." With a fractured laugh, her gaze danced to his. "I can remember every inch of what Balfour looked like that day; the imperious hook to his nose; those black, emotionless eyes; the cut of his black coat, and the gold serpents embroidered there. But I can barely recall my mother's face. I don't remember my father either—"
"Ingrid, stop." Byrnes caught her hands, stepping closer. He couldn't stand much more of this. Their eyes met. "Why are you telling me of this?"
There was a raw, hunted look in her eyes. "I took some of your privacy from you. And you were angry. I just thought... if you understood where I came from.... I would never cause any hurt to your mother, or—"
"I'm not angry with you." Byrnes's gaze dropped to the way his thumbs were stroking her leather-clad knuckles.
"You were."
"No. I'm just...." With a muttered curse word, he turned away, facing the Thames. "I wasn't expecting to see Debney the other night, and my mother's deteriorating, and... I can't do anything about it. Nobody can. The doctors call it dementia, and say that it’s just age taking its toll upon her, but... it feels like I'm burying my mother, day by day." The words were raw, harsh. Their admission ripped his chest open. "Her body is still there. Her heart still beats, but my mother's gone. She's just a shell, a marionette now."
"Byrnes." A soft hand touched his back. A hesitant hand. "She's young to be suffering from dementia."
The words choked in his throat and died there.
"I could see the scars," Ingrid whispered, "and the lump on her jaw, and her nose—"
"That's enough." He burst away from her, breathing hard, as memory assaulted him.
“Don't you ever tell me what I can do to my own son,” his father bellowed in his mind, as he lifted his clenched fist against her that last time.
If only Byrnes hadn’t roused his temper that day. His mother would still be here.
No. No. He wasn't going there. Not today. With a hard swallow, Byrnes forced himself to turn back to Ingrid. "Her dementia is not natural," he finally said, when he thought he could control himself. "It's the result of years of being my father's punching bag. The last time he hit her... he did some sort of damage to her mind. The doctors didn't think she'd wake, but eventually she did, two weeks after she fell. They had to drill burr holes in her skull to remove the pressure, and... she was never the same. Not really. Sometimes you'd see her in her eyes, but most of the time she was a blank canvas, staring at nothing. It grew worse over time. Now she has no idea who I am, or where she is. Debney feels some sense of guilt, so he pays her upkeep. I wouldn't take a shilling from those pack of vultures, but damn it..." His nostrils flared. "They owe her. I can't give her back her mind, or all the years Lord Debney stole from her, but I can force them to acknowledge what he did to her."
"I'm sorry."
A hand slid over his. Byrnes looked down sharply, then up at her face. Those amber eyes had softened, and she stared at him with a haunted expression that made all of his insides knot up.
Without saying a thing, he squeezed her hand. And it felt so bloody right that he suffered a moment of doubt.
"Have you ever tried to find your family?" he asked, letting out another harsh exhale as the hard lump in his throat threatened to overwhelm him.
"I tried. Last year.... That's what I needed the money for, in that case we worked together."
It felt like a fist to the gut.
"I lied," she admitted. "I told Garrett and Lynch that you were no help in finding the Vampire of Drury Lane. I needed all of the bounty to purchase my passage to Oslo, and to pay people there for information." Her lips pressed tightly together. "It was wrong of me—"
"No." He cut her off with a tight wave of his free hand. "It was the truth. I let my arrogance and my competitive nature affect my case. You did all of the hard work. You found the bastard, and hence you earned the bounty."
"But your mother," Ingrid protested. "I saw the Home. It has to cost you a significant sum. I hate the thought that I took money you needed, for a fool's quest."
"Debney set up a trust for her years ago. Don’t worry about it."
The cool breeze stirred strands of her honey-brown hair across her forehead, and for a moment he was tempted to brush them back behind her ear. "You look thoughtful," he said instead.
"I was just thinking that we seem to have a few things in common," she replied. "It explains a great deal about you."
"Such as?"
"Why you always seem so aloof," Ingrid said.
"I'm not always aloof." And now he was thinking of last night, of all the things he'd admitted to her. She'd been flushed with heat and relaxed, the smell of too much brandy on her breath. Ingrid in a state of flirtatious relaxation was a dangerous thing.
"True," she admitted. "Sometimes you play nice."
"When I want something."
"You're holding my hand right now, Byrnes, and I don't think it's because you want something." Her gaze turned thoughtful. "Why is it so difficult for you to admit to the gentler emotions?"
Hell. There was no answer to that. He'd shared enough today. And that itch was back: irritation making him shift. "It's not difficult," he argued. "But you seem to think that I've felt them before. And maybe I haven't?"
"Do you mean you feel them now?"
Instantly he realized his mistake. But it was too late. "Ingrid," he warned.
Ingrid turned into him, the angle of her body suddenly changing the way the wind brushed over them. She fiddled with the lapel of his coat, seemingly absorbed. Soft hair caressed his chin as the wind blew it.
Byrnes sucked in a sharp breath. Want kindled the fire in his blood. The urge to kiss her made every muscle in his body taut with need. "I wanted to kiss you last night," he told her. "But I was trying to be a gentleman."
"There's a first time for everything," she quipped lightly.
"Behave." He tapped her on the nose. "I'm trying to be nice."
The laughter in Ingrid's eyes made him smile. "Nice is overrated. Do you know what I think about sometimes?"
"What?" he breathed, leaning closer to her.
"About what it would be like if you weren't a gentleman." Her eyes told a thousand tales, all of them naughty, as she met his gaze.
He swallowed. Slowly the pad of his thumb rasped over her knuckles. Ingrid's dark lashes shuttered her eyes as she glanced down.
"I want to kiss you right here, right now,” he said.
"And your challenge?"
"Curse the bloody challenge." He leaned closer, sliding his hand around her nape. "I want to kiss you, just because I can. Because we both want it."
"So you can burn me out of your blood?" sh
e asked lightly, leaning up on her toes to brush her lips against his cheek.
Sheer idiocy. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd been trying to say last night. Only that she was tattooed under his skin, somehow. And leaning against him right now, her full breasts pressing lushly against his arm. Thought fled. The words he'd been meaning to say vanished.
"Do you do this to me on purpose when we're in public?" he growled, turning his face to brush his mouth against hers. Just lightly.
Her lips moved against his. "Of course. There's nothing to stop you from kissing me."
Only that pair of gentleman over there, watching them. His vision dipped into a chiaroscuro landscape as something dark within him snarled. What he had planned didn't bear witnesses. Byrnes's chest heaved. "You're doing this on purpose. Just to try and make me sweat."
One hand stroked down the hard planes of his abdomen. "I think I'm finally starting to work you out, Byrnes. That's all. I think you're... full of bluster. You say you want this to be over and done with, so that you can forget me." Hot lips scored his ear, her tongue darting out to lick his lobe. "Only... I don't think you're ever going to be able to forget me. No matter what happens between us."
Fuck. His cock leapt to ready attention, and he couldn't stop himself from picturing precisely what could happen between them. What he wanted to make happen.
"I am this close to throwing you over my shoulder and taking you somewhere where I can have my way with you," he growled. "Think that's bluster?"
The smile she gave him was completely mysterious and totally feminine: utterly pleased with itself. "You want me, Byrnes. You want me so badly you're burning with it. But I don't think you've entirely admitted to yourself why you want me. Or what you really want." Stepping back, she let go of his coat. "Don't look so surprised."
But he was. Because the words didn't feel like a lie. They had the ring of truth to them, and— Hell.
Ingrid tugged out her pocket watch. "We're going to be late for that meeting with Malloryn. Come on. Hurry up."
Bloody female.
FIFTEEN
GEMMA TOWNSEND FLUTTERED her fan as she moved slowly through the British Museum, keeping a surreptitious eye on Lord Ulbricht. He was pacing in front of the Elgin Marbles, and kept checking his pocket watch.
Stopping in front of an urn, Gemma opened the guidebook that she'd been pretending to peruse and made small notes in it. A bulky coat and a drab brown gown that was padded in certain areas to make her appear older than she was hid her figure. Her wig was a concoction of brown and gray hairs, and she'd carefully placed a much-loved hat on top of it. A pair of occipital lenses turned her pupils from blue to hazel, and the clever application of powders and a new set of eyebrows had aged her face a decade. Today she was Mary Halstead, reluctant spinster with an interest in Egyptian artifacts.
And Lord Ulbricht was meeting with someone.
A stranger appeared at the far end of the hall and strode directly toward Ulbricht. The stranger towered over Ulbricht, with graying muttonchops and a distinctly Georgian style of coat. Some of the older blue bloods remained old-fashioned, as the Echelon had always been shockingly resistant to change.
Gemma assessed the newcomer through the glass case. Clearly a lord, judging from the amount of gilt on his coat and the pompous way in which he carried himself. Could be a century or more in age, which meant he belonged to one of the Great Houses who ruled the Echelon. Though they might no longer have the influence they’d once had, thanks to technology's advancements and the revolution, some of them hadn't quite realized that fact.
"...this all about, Ulbricht? I don't have time for your nonsense." The stranger's voice echoed in her earpiece.
On her slow meander through the museum, Gemma had placed a communicator in the room Ulbricht currently lingered in, and scratching idly at her ear, she managed to tune her receiver.
"If you were wise, Sunderland, you'd make time."
Sunderland. Gemma's eyes widened. If she wasn't mistaken, that meant the stranger was the Duke of Sunderland, and he was over a century and a half old. This conspiracy went deep into the heart of the Echelon.
"I assume you're attempting to sway me from my plans." Sunderland sniffed. "You might have that pack of hounds baying at your heels, but I assure you that you don't yet hold enough to dictate the vote."
"Maybe it doesn't need to come down to a vote," Ulbricht murmured.
The duke laughed in genuine astonishment. "You're going to challenge me?" his hand slid to the rapier sheathed at his side, and he took a threatening step toward Ulbricht. "One of the premier swordsmen in England?"
Ulbricht's answering smile held sinister tones. "I guess we shall have to see. I was hoping you'd step aside and yield. I respect your work here. The Sons of Gilead would still be without a voice if you hadn't conjured up this idea and brought us all together in our unified cause. But your time is done, Sunderland. We need a new direction, a more emphatic voice. It's not enough for the SOG to merely mutter in the darkness. There's work to be done."
"Work is being done, you insolent little pup."
Ulbricht snorted. "Your rallies? The planned blockade of the Council? Please. The queen no longer respects us, nor our plight. Once we were kings, but this bloody revolution cost us everything, and if you're content to sit there on your ass and tug on her skirts in some vain hope for a crumb or two, then I'm not. I mean to see the queen and her Council of Dukes regret the way they discarded us."
"The meeting's tonight. Then we'll see who is fit to lead the Rising Sons," Sunderland hissed. "And it's not going to be you, Ulbricht. Not with your destructive plans, nor your liberal ideas! I’ve heard people are missing, and it’s starting to be noticed. Did your whore take them?”
“That’s none of your business, Sunderland.”
“You're no better than that rabble in the White Tower. At least they’re led by the queen, not your pale bitch. I am done with you!"
The duke turned away from Ulbricht, and Gemma straightened to attention as she saw the malicious glint in Ulbricht's eyes as he stared at the Duke's back and muttered. "Yes, we will see. By the time this week ends, Sunderland, it will be explosively clear who should lead."
The words sent a sinister chill down her spine, and she pressed the communicator tightly against her ear, trying to make out his mutters. Just what did he mean by that?
But Sunderland's heels clicked on the marble, coming directly toward her. There was no time to lose, nor time to get away. Gemma brushed a curl in front of her ear to hide her communicator, then lifted the museum's pamphlet as though she were perusing it. Two seconds later, Sunderland rounded the corner and bumped into her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir!" she said, catching at his coat to stop herself from falling, even as she slipped a tracking device under his lapel. "I didn't see you there."
The duke frowned at her, but the disguise did its magic. All he saw was an aging spinster, one that was both unthreatening and undesirable. "Quite all right," he replied haughtily. "But you should watch where you're going in future."
Gemma straightened her hat as the duke strode away from her. Then she began to make her way back toward the entrance of the museum. Ulbricht had disappeared, but now she had another mark to follow.
Or did she?
A whisper of noise behind her made her pause.
Gemma glanced in a glass case, but could see nothing in the reflection. Still, her nerves were on edge. She'd always been a good spy, but after the events in Russia she'd been prone to these bouts of nerves. Russia had taught her that she wasn't invulnerable. It was one of the reasons Malloryn had retired her in the first place. She'd been a mess back then and she didn't blame him, but now he'd given her a second chance.
There's nothing there, she told herself. You're only imagining things.
Maybe it was only the words that Ulbricht had muttered? Setting her on edge with thoughts of conspiracies and explosions.
But... she'd long since learned to listen
to instinct.
An Egyptian sarcophagus stared back at her, as Gemma flipped the small lady's pistol holstered at her wrist into her hand. "Hullo?" she called. "Is someone there?"
A servant drone suddenly wheeled into the room, steam hissing from its vents as its little brush swept up dust into a pan. The automatons had replaced the cleaning staff in most places in London, including here.
Fool. Gemma lowered the pistol. Just a drone. She was letting her anxiety get to her. To prove it to herself, she flipped the small pistol back into the mechanical wrist holder and let out a slow breath.
This time, she didn't even hear a thing. Only saw a blur move behind her in the reflective glass case.
A hand clamped over her mouth and hauled her back against a hard body. Her training kicked in and Gemma jerked her head back, hearing a resounding crack behind her as the base of her skull met a nose. Then a hard fist punched into her side, robbing her of her breath.
She caught the fellow's wrist and spun out of the way, twisting as she went... but it didn't all go quite according to plan. Gemma staggered, strength leeching from her body. What the hell was wrong with her? Another punch drove into her ribs, and cost her a lungful of breath as she staggered back into a glass case, smashing it into particles as she fell.
Whispers of darkness curled up from within her. Blood. She could smell blood. Or the hunger within her could.
As if the thought broke a glass wall between her and her body, pain came crashing down upon her. Bleeding.... She was bleeding. Gemma touched her side where the man had punched her, and her fingers came away wet.
"Help," she whispered, crawling through the glass, its shards cutting into her hands. "Help!"
"There's no help here," came a cold voice, devoid of emotion. "This isn't personal, you know. Or at least, not for me. I'll make it swift, I promise."
A wave of dizziness washed through her head, leaving her tripping sideways as she tried to gain her feet, and she didn't have the strength to force the fellow away as he came for her again. Hard hands locked around her throat. As she went down, Gemma knew she was fighting for her life. Blue bloods were extremely difficult to dispose of. This wouldn't kill her. But it might render her unconscious, and once there, it would be easy for her attacker to cut her heart out of her chest. A pale face swam into her view as she gagged and punched up uselessly between his clenched hands. No. Not like this.
