“You exhibit a great deal of confidence for a man without a weapon.”
The knife quivered against Cora’s neck, scoring her skin and releasing a soft trickle of warm blood.
She considered Valère’s shaking arm and realized the bullet wound must be worse than she had originally thought. Cora took comfort from the solid mass of the paperweight in her right hand, her fingers curled around its smooth surface. She would have one chance, and one chance only, to make her escape.
Guy said, “I do not need a weapon to kill a man who hides behind women’s skirts.”
Valère spat on the ground. “Merde! I do not hide—”
Cora arched her hand wide and bashed the paperweight into his temple, wincing when the crunch of bone reached her ears. The arm around her slackened, and in one smooth motion, she flipped Valère over her shoulder and onto his back.
A wildness overtook her. She had dropped the paperweight so she could assault Valère with her bare hands. Hands that had been taught how to kill and to caress. Hands that had cradled her mother’s head and Scrapper’s lifeless body. Hands that had loved Guy.
She used them now, as she had been trained, plowing her fists into Valère’s neck, his injured eye and arm, any area that would give her an advantage over her enemy. She had no plan of attack; her only focus was on eliminating the threat. As he had her parents.
And all the while she meted out her revenge on the man who had destroyed her life, she felt a piece of her soul—her humanity—flit away. Everything that separated her from monsters like Valère was vanishing beneath the pounding of her grief. She was becoming all Raven. Ruthless. Driven. Vengeful.
Strong hands wrenched her up and away, pushing her into the corridor outside the cell’s doorway. Guy cupped her face, his thumbs wiping something wet off her cheeks. “Wait here, Cora-bell,” he commanded. “Do you hear me? Wait here.” The look on his face was wrought with a combination of fear, concern, fury, and determination.
She nodded, words lost to her. He needn’t have worried. She could not have moved had her life depended upon it. Everything felt numb and leaden, from the fine hairs on her head to the tips of her toes. Nothing worked but the lock on her knees.
“My lord?” A harsh, feminine whisper penetrated the shadows to Cora’s right.
“Take her upstairs, Dinks. Now.”
“Yes, sir.” Dinks wrapped an arm around Cora’s shoulders, and Guy reentered the cell. “Come, Miss Cora.”
Cora’s feet remained rooted in place. Her maid understood her silent communication, for she settled in next to Cora, offering her familiar, unshakable support. “I’ve got you, little mite.” Dinks used her ever-present handkerchief that smelled refreshingly crisp and clean to wipe off Cora’s face, neck, and arms while murmuring beneath her breath. Busy work, Cora realized distantly. Something Dinks had always done when anxious or upset.
Although Cora appreciated Dinks’s efforts, it was not the maid’s vague reassurances that held Cora’s rapt attention, but rather the macabre tableau playing out in the adjacent chamber. No longer stunned by the blow from the paperweight, Valère made a valiant attempt to rouse himself, while Guy retrieved the Frenchman’s discarded knife.
Guy stood over Valère, his chest rising high with each inhalation. He stashed the longer knife in the back of his breeches and then held up the penknife she had given him. “This is the weapon that will bring about your defeat, Valère. This, a woman, and a paperweight.”
Valère laughed. “What do you plan to do with that puny knife, Helsford? Trim my nails?”
Remembering how devastated she felt only moments ago, when her brutality sifted away the essence of her humanity, she attempted to absolve Guy of what he no doubt felt was his duty. “Guy.”
He did not lift his gaze from Valère’s prone body, but by the slight tilt of his head, she sensed he was listening to her.
“You do not have to do this, love.”
The tension eased from his shoulders, and she released a pent-up breath. She would have to content herself with the fact that Valère would rot in the dankest prison cell money could buy until it was his turn on the gibbet.
“I love you, Cora,” Guy said quietly. In a swift and violent move, he drew his arm back and drove the small knife—
Cora squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch Guy plunge the knife into Valère’s throat. Dinks’s arms went taut, and Cora sensed more than saw the maid’s retreat, as well.
After a few breathless seconds, Cora shifted her attention back to the chamber and found Guy checking Valère’s neck for a pulse.
Smelling new blood, the rats squealed their delight, inching their way toward Valère.
“Is he d-dead?” she asked with a catch in her voice.
Guy got to his feet, kicking away rats as he made his way over to the hanging lantern. Once he returned to Valère’s side, he held the lantern aloft and peered into each of the Frenchman’s eyes. “Both dilated.”
Dead. A profound weight lifted from her shoulders, a lightness of spirit amidst a macabre scene of evil. She glanced up at Dinks and found tears streaming down the older woman’s face.
“It’s over, little mite.”
Cora lifted her lips into a bittersweet smile. “Yes. Yes, it is.” She nodded in the direction of the cellar door. “Why don’t you see what the others are about?”
“You’re sure?”
Cora nodded.
Dinks chucked Cora on the chin. “Such a brave little mite. Don’t be long.”
“I won’t.” When Dinks disappeared in the shadows once again, Cora peered at Guy, wondering what was going through his mind as he stared down at Valère.
And then, he raised his dark gaze to Cora’s. After what she had witnessed in the last quarter hour, she had expected to find sadness, regret, or some other form of torment lurking in the black depths of his eyes.
But she found something entirely different, something completely unexpected.
What she found was… redemption.
I love you, Cora. He had said the words aloud. Words they had danced around for so long. He had said them and then killed the man responsible for murdering so many of her loved ones. A deep ache closed in around her throat, shutting off her ability to breathe even as her heart beat with excitement.
He set the lantern down and then stepped around the dead body of their enemy. “Cora.”
The next thing she knew, she was flying into him.
Strong arms encased her in a cocoon of sheer comfort and safety. She sensed his fear, his regret, his relief. And she felt his love in the tightness of his embrace.
“Are you well?” he asked against her forehead. “Are you injured?”
With the demon of Cora’s nightmares vanquished, how could she not be well? “The housekeeper sewed up my newest wound.” She pulled back her chemise to show him the bandage. “Just a prick. At this rate, I will have to draw up a map to find them all.”
Her amusement dimmed as she looked over his body for telltale signs of serious injury. “And you, Guy? I heard a gunshot. I thought for certain the guard had killed you.”
“Nothing a few bandages won’t cure.” He inspected her neck and then used his sleeve to dab at the cut made by Valère’s knife.
Cora studied him for a long moment, recalling his physical reaction to Valère’s jeering remarks. She reached up and used the pad of her thumb to swipe away a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. “Earlier, when you were pointing the gun at Valère, you seemed… distressed.”
Guy’s body shuddered at the gentle press of her fingers against his overheated skin. A part of him hoped she had not noticed his flare of panic, and another part of him was profoundly happy she had.
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he said, “Earlier this year, Somerton received intelligence that a small coalition of French sympathizers had shifted from having harmless, clandestine meetings to stockpiling firearms and other weapons of destruction in an abandoned textile building in Soho.
”
She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his. “Drawing-room politics?”
“Indeed,” he said. “But far more deadly in this instance. With Napoleon’s forces gaining strength to the south and the ever-present danger of another Irish uprising, the government’s resources were being stretched across the seas, the continent, and British soil. To add yet another worrisome threat in our capital city was simply too much. We did not have the necessary men to watch our back door.”
Her fingers tightened. “I take it you were sent on a field assignment.”
“Yes,” he said. “The chief sent me and another agent to remove the leader of this growing faction. The mission was straightforward, and our intelligence was quite detailed. We had the leader’s name, his description, and a rendezvous date and time.”
She lifted their clasped hands and pressed a kiss against his knuckles.
He appreciated the calming gesture, because the nightmarish panic began to pulse through his mind once again. “A few minutes after the appointed rendezvous, we made our way into the dimly lit warehouse and found a man fitting the leader’s description sorting through a crate of munitions.”
He rubbed his hand over his damp upper lip, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted nothing more than to finish this bloody story quickly. A distant, hopeful part of him had believed talking about the mission would help put closure to the terrible incident.
But discussing it made it all too real, something he had tried to hide for several months.
A slender arm snaked around his middle, holding him close. He loved her so damn much in that moment.
“We emerged from our hiding spot and commanded the leader to stand down.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “At the sound of my voice, the man whipped around, brandishing a pistol. I did not think twice, simply raised my own weapon and took the shot.”
Cora kissed his chest, and Guy felt the delicate touch all the way to his toes.
“The story is more than a case of self-defense,” she reasoned.
“You are correct.” His heart beat hard and fast, gaining momentum with each revelation. “The echo of my shot had barely faded before a young boy, maybe nine years of age, came careening around the corner, yelling to his papa about a gunshot.”
She squeezed him harder. “Guy, no.”
“I see you comprehend the situation,” he said in an unsteady voice. “Not only did I kill the young boy’s father—virtually before his eyes—I killed the wrong man.”
“What?” Her head jerked up, and she caught his gaze. “The man you shot wasn’t the leader?”
He shook his head. “No, and to add further injury to an already tragic situation, the man was wielding an unloaded weapon from the crate.”
“Guy,” she said gently, clutching his nape. “You could not have known the weapon was not a threat. You were in an unfamiliar, darkened warehouse, hunting an enemy. Whether or not the pistol was loaded is immaterial. All your intelligence pointed to the man as the leader of the sympathizers.”
He chucked her beneath the chin. “Still playing the part of my protector, Raven?”
“It appears someone must,” she said. “How did you discover the man was not your intended target?”
“The boy was our first clue, of course.” He absently rubbed her back. “After lighting a lamp, we noticed the man’s clothing was not that of the merchant, or a shopkeeper, or even a gentleman, but rather that of someone making a living of working off the streets. We deduced he had either grown curious about the goings-on in the warehouse and started poking about, or he was a very unlucky thief.”
“What of the boy?”
“He ran away.” Guy rubbed his temples with shaking fingers. “We watched the warehouse for several more days, hoping the boy would return, but he never did. After a fruitless sennight of monitoring the building and making inquiries of the locals, we finally gave up.” He dropped his hand to his side. “For all I know, I orphaned that boy the same as Valère orphaned you and Ethan.”
A tear spilled over her cheek. “No, Guy. You must not compare the two. Your situation was a mistake, a terrible, horrible mistake that any agent would have made in your shoes.”
He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Ah, but I am the agent who made the mistake.”
She turned more fully toward him, cradling his jaw in the palm of her hands. “No wonder your body reacted so physically against shooting another. It is the stuff of nightmares.”
“As well I know.”
“What about the leader of the French sympathizers?” she asked. “Did you complete your original assignment?”
“No. The leader surfaced a few days later, but I couldn’t—” He glanced away, clenching his teeth against a wave of humiliation. “I couldn’t pull the damned trigger. My partner had to finish it.”
She smoothed her thumbs over his cheeks. “Your partner. Would he be anyone with whom I’m acquainted?”
Guy knew she spoke of Ethan, but he could not confirm or deny her brother’s part in the botched mission. As much as he loved her, he would not reveal the details of any missions that did not personally concern her. And he suspected she would do the same with him.
“Never mind,” she said as if reading his mind. “I do not wish to know.” She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him with a gentle, thorough passion. She drew back far enough to say, “’Twas not your fault, Guy.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders, and Guy flexed open his hands before settling them on Cora’s hips. His kissed her nose. “I will try to remember your words.”
The detestable sound of a dozen gnashing teeth echoed through the cell.
Cora stiffened in Guy’s arms and glanced down at the encroaching rats. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”
“Agreed.” He released her and then bent to scoop up the cameo necklace.
“No.” She grabbed his arm. “Leave it. I don’t need that any longer.”
They both stared down at the delicate female profile. Goddess of Liberty. “Ironic, isn’t?” she asked. “That France’s symbol of freedom is being used to oppress entire nations?”
“The French are not unlike citizens of other countries,” Guy said quietly. “Everyone needs a hero, someone they can trust to care for their needs and make them feel safe. Napoleon fulfills that role now, but his greed for power will one day be his downfall, and then the French will rally around their next savior.”
Cora stared up into Guy’s dark eyes. “You are right. Everyone does need a hero… and you are mine.”
She saw his nostrils flare and his eyes well a moment before he swooped down to cover her mouth, kissing her until she was nearly senseless. Cora melted into him, forgetting about the rats. Then he drew back and said, “As you are mine.”
Her vision blurred, and then it was her turn to kiss him.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said against her lips. “Let us leave this place.”
Cora nodded and allowed Guy to help her into her ruined dress. The back gaped open, and it was hopelessly wrinkled, but it kept her modesty intact. Pausing at the door, she scanned the dank cell, vowing it would be the last time she ever stepped foot inside one again.
“Ready?” Guy asked softly.
“Yes.”
As they made their way through the death-filled cellar, Cora left her past behind, amidst the squeal of excited rats.
Forty-One
“Hello, runt.”
Climbing the last few stairs leading up from the cellar, Guy nearly bashed into Cora’s back when she stopped abruptly at the sound of her brother’s voice. Guy peered over her stiff shoulders and noticed Danforth and several others crowding into the kitchen. Including Somerton.
Closing the cellar door, he gave her a gentle nudge. That was all it took for her to break free of her disbelieving stupor. She screeched her excitement across the short distance and catapulted herself into Danforth’s open arms.
The contact must have hurt like the d
evil. Danforth’s chiseled features still carried deep shades of purple mixed with greens and yellows. Lord only knew what injuries lay beneath his rumpled coat. But her brother did not make a sound, merely enclosed his sobbing sister in his arms.
“Ethan,” Cora said in a croaked whisper. “You’re alive.” She shrieked again, hugging him closer.
Guy smiled, understanding her relief. The two siblings had always been close, especially after they were orphaned and began training together.
As poignant as their reunion was, Guy’s nerves felt abraded and raw. He wanted to be quit of this place. Logically, he knew Valère was dead, but instincts urged him to get Cora as far away from the Frenchman as possible.
He stepped forward to shake Somerton’s hand. “All clear up here?”
Somerton nodded. “Valère?”
Guy caught Danforth’s eye over Cora’s head. “Dead.”
Pulling in a deep breath, his mentor said, “Good.” Then more to himself. “Good.”
“Jack was supposed to keep you away,” Guy said, knowing he sent the footman on a fool’s errand.
“He tried.” Somerton eyed him. “Care to tell me why?”
“I finally deciphered one of the letters you gave me.”
“You were the target,” Cora said with a catch in her voice. “Not me. It was you they wanted all along. I was merely the bait.”
The chief’s nostrils flared on a deep breath, and his gaze shuttered.
In the silence that followed, Danforth draped his coat over Cora’s shoulders, and she smiled her appreciation before turning to Guy. Tears sparkled in her eyes, and a trembling smile graced her beautiful face. He noticed that she no longer bothered to hide her scar.
Although she looked upon him with fondness, Guy sensed something of a goodbye in her tearful smile. His heart clenched around a painful knot. She would not be free of him so easily.
She might have had a chance—a slim chance—to run had she not mouthed those three little words and called him “love.” In her infuriating need to protect him, she had attempted to pardon him from avenging her honor.
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