Winterblaze

by Kristen Callihan

  Poppy appeared oblivious to his struggle. “From the moment I was born, my mother had expectations of who I should be and how I should act.”

  Winston cleared his throat and focused on their conversation. “Did you object to those expectations?”

  Her thin shoulders lifted. “How should I know? I’ve only now begun to live my own life. Nor were they necessarily bad expectations. They were simply…” She shrugged again. “Hers.”

  He needed to tell her everything. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Winston took a breath and pressed his arm closer to his side, trapping her hand there. Not very gentlemanly, but he didn’t release her. “The other night, when we met, I did not give you my full name. I don’t know why…” Her eyes were on him now, boring into him in that direct way of hers, and he forged on. “That isn’t correct. I do know.” Damn. “My father is the Duke of Marchland.”

  She walked on for a beat before speaking. “As in Marchland, cousin to the queen and one of the oldest titles in England?”

  “Yes.” His collar felt too tight. “I am his second son. Winston Hamon Belenus Lane, to be exact.”

  The hand at his arm gripped harder for one moment before slipping away. He felt the loss acutely.

  “Mmm.” She kept walking, not altering her pace, but not looking at him either. She glanced at the distant waters of the Serpentine where small canoes were out in droves as people took in the pleasant spring weather. Light danced off the water, and she squinted. “My father was born in the East End. Bethnal Green, to be exact.” He winced at the way she mimicked his speech and the meaning behind it. “My mother was the seventh daughter of the Earl of Lister. But he disowned her when she chose to marry my father.”

  “Did she regret the decision?” A sinking feeling labored his steps.

  “Yes.” Again her eyes scanned the park, looking everywhere but at him. “Eventually, she realized that their worlds were too far apart.”

  “Perhaps it was not their worlds but their temperaments that were at odds.” He was grasping at straws but he did not like the expression on her face nor the hard set of her shoulders.

  Finally, she turned to him. “My lord—”

  “Winston.”

  “Lord Winston. What is it you hope to accomplish by walking with me?”

  Unable to take the cold way in which she spoke, he caught hold of her hand and tugged her beneath the canopy of a willow tree. Quiet surrounded them, and her bright hair turned bronze in the shadows. She glanced pointedly at his hand clutching hers, but he did not let go. “I want to get to know you.”

  Beneath her straight red brows, her brown eyes studied his face. “What is the point of getting to know someone whom you could never…” She sucked in a sharp breath, and her jaw went tight. “With whom you could never have a relationship?”

  “Says who?”

  Her brows snapped together. “Do not be obtuse. A duke’s son and a merchant’s daughter live in separate spheres. They do not commingle.”

  “To my knowledge, there is no law against it.”

  Her gaze was direct and snapped with impatience and intelligence. It made him hot and breathless. She glared. “There is a social law, and you well know it.”

  A gust of wind rushed over the grass and whipped about them, and a long strand of her vibrant hair broke free from her practical bun to tickle his nose. Gently, he tucked it back behind her ear, not quite touching her, but wanting to. “Social laws are broken all the time.”

  “To ill effect.”

  He smiled then. “It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it?”

  She scowled. “What is?”

  “You picking away at my logic, and me finding new ways to prove you wrong.” And he could not wait.

  She blushed beautifully. “You talk as if we’re to have a future.”

  “Because we will.”

  She frowned. “It won’t… I’m…”

  “You’re what?”

  She huffed out a breath. Most unladylike. Most refreshing. “My life is complicated. I have responsibilities.”

  He moved just a bit closer. “I would not ask you to forgo them. I simply want…” So many things. He touched her cheek, a fleeting caress. “When I’m with you, I have no name,” he whispered. “No title. It’s just me. Just you. I want to keep that feeling, to keep you with me.”

  There. He’d said it. And her nose wrinkled. “I don’t…” She paused, appearing utterly confounded by him. Confusion, he gathered, was a new thing for Poppy Ellis. And though the flush in her cheeks grew redder still, she spoke plainly. “Men don’t usually fancy me.”

  He knew what it cost her to say it, and instinctively, he knew she was trying to scare him away by her admission. London society maintained a pack mentality; the undesirables were culled. What she did not know was that her brutal honesty made him admire her all the more.

  He held her gaze with his. “This man does.”

  Chapter Four

  Jack Talent was going to be a problem. Mary had known this as soon as she’d seen him sneering at her from the deck above when she had embarked with Mrs. Lane. He always looked at her as if he knew something about her that others did not. As if he saw inside of her soul and found her lacking. It rankled. Who was he to pass judgment upon her without so much as a by-your-leave? Or scowl at her when she knew he was guilty of his own crimes? Worse still, he was now at Inspector Lane’s side. No doubt he would soon be whispering vitriol in his ear, much as he’d done with Ian Ranulf.

  She would not let him. Not with so much at stake. Thus when she spied the arrogant tilt of Talent’s dark head weaving through the crowd, she followed. It was an easy task; the man held little regard for those around him and simply cut through the slower-moving people like a scythe through dead grass. Mary moved just as quickly, but delicately, having long ago learned to slip and twist through a crowd without gaining any more notice than one would give a gentle breeze.

  Talent turned a corner, headed, if she could believe it, toward the shuffleboard deck. Laughter and the sandy scratch of disks over wood lifted and faded in the wind. Talent touched the brim of his hat and nodded to a pretty young lady who looked quite fetching in a white polonaise with sea blue ribbons. The golden-haired girl smiled coyly back, and Mary almost rolled her eyes. Yes, dear girl, engage with the devil. See how that works out for you.

  Coattails fluttering in the breeze, Talent moved on, circling a massive smokestack and heading to the windward side of the ship. On cautious feet, she followed, her senses alert—

  He slammed into her without warning, taking her back against the wooden hull of a lifeboat. The craft creaked in protest, but then he was against her, stilling it. His big hand covered her mouth. As though she would scream. The fool.

  His accusing eyes narrowed. “Following me, Miss Chase? Might want to be a little less obvious about it.” He cocked his head. “Your scent is all over the wind.” He leaned in for a sniff. “Cinnamon and spices. And here I thought you were supposed to be a proficient spy.”

  She merely stared back.

  A smarmy snort left his lips. “What? Nothing to say?”

  Oh, was she to talk with his brutish hand over her mouth?

  Something in her expression must have conveyed this, for he let her go, stepping back two wide paces. She knew better than to believe the action was out of respect or even fear. No, he was simply giving himself enough space to fight should she attack. Mary almost laughed.

  “Why are you here?” She wouldn’t bother with indignation; it would only please him.

  Talent crossed his arms over his chest. “Now that’s my question, merrily.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  He laughed, if one could call the ugly sound a laugh. “What? Do you not flit through London, making certain everyone sees you as a merry bit of fluff?”

  She hated him. Truly. Her spirit stretched along the walls of her flesh, yearning to escape and show this man how “frivolous” she could be. But she’d
worked too hard to fail now.

  “What I am is a Regulator in training.” Satisfaction rose at the flash of shock that went through Talent’s eyes. Mary moved closer to him. “While you are nothing more than The Ranulf’s valet. A common lickspittle who never leaves his master’s side. Until now. Which makes me wonder—”

  He moved in a flash, crashing her back against the lifeboats with his body. His eyes shone a brilliant, violent green. “Do not…” He sucked in a breath through his bared teeth. “You will keep your sticky GIM fingers out of my business, Chase, or learn to regret it.”

  She could have him begging in an instant. And the funny thing was, he had no idea. None of the others knew what a GIM could truly do. Calmed by the thought, she held his gaze. “What are you doing here, bounder?” When he didn’t move, she craned forward until their noses almost touched. “Whatever it is, think long and hard about getting in my way.” She was not going back to her old life. No matter what she had to do.

  Poppy did not take Winston’s arm as they traversed the ship. In truth, he hadn’t offered, but kept a steady, yet silent, clip down the first class deck, which was surprisingly wide and fitted with reclining chairs that were nestled against the ship walls. Varnished teak boards shone golden in the noon light. Archer had given Winston use of the owner’s suite and all the trappings that went with it. It was a refined world that they had never been a part of as a couple. Poppy had lived it for a brief time and knew that Winston had too. But his family had cut him off because he’d insisted on being a detective. She wondered if he missed this life.

  He set a brisk pace, knowing somehow it was what she craved. For a moment, she reveled in the simple feeling of walking with him. Often, when he had been on a particularly vexing case, they would take long walks through the city and talk his theories through. She’d loved those walks, loved being his sounding board. They were in the same business, after all, even if he never knew it. She too strove to weed out the dregs of society. And she felt the same stress and worry when she failed to hunt down the criminals of her world.

  He had called her life a lie. And Poppy supposed it was true. To get through the day, she’d allowed herself to think of it more as a product of her trade than actual lying. In the darkest hours of the night, however, all those lies grew almost too heavy to bear.

  When they reached a small space, unoccupied by others, Winston leaned back against the rail, crossing one long leg in front of the other, and the ends of his hair caught in the sea breeze. Dark gold strands whipped about his face, dancing along his mouth before he canted his head and the mass of it blew back. “Right then, vague warnings of my needing protection do me little good.”

  Out here, where he had the whistle of the wind to contend with, his voice was rougher, a gravelly rumble that made her skin shiver. She hid it by leaning back on the opposite wall, out of the wind, and tucking her hands into the wide pockets of her travel gown. “When I last knew this demon, he went under the false identity of Lord Isley, which I believe he subsumed from an earl he murdered. However that is just one of many names and identities he employs. His name doesn’t matter, in any regard.”

  “Go on.” Not taking his eyes from her, he reached into his coat and withdrew a battered pack of cigarettes.

  Poppy frowned at it. Win enjoyed his pipe but she’d never seen him smoke a cigarette. “Archer believes those to bode ill for a person’s health.”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up. God, that crooked smile of his. How many times had he used it right before he seduced the knickers off of her? She braced her shoulder blades against cold steel as he pulled out a pack of matches and lit one from the protected cup of his palm. The tiny, yellow flame reflected in his eyes before he bent his head to light his cigarette. The black tip flared red, and then a puff of smoke left his lips. “So I’ve heard. Never mind the fact that every other physician in London believes smoke helps clear the lungs.”

  The noxious cloud drifted over to tickle her nose. “I’d put my money on Archer.”

  He grunted, and she waved away a fresh cloud of smoke. “Not to mention that your pipe emits a much nicer scent.”

  Win’s mouth quirked again. “The pipe pulls at my scars.” His eyes grew heavily lidded. “You were telling me about the demon.” He drew on his blasted cigarette again.

  Poppy tried to relax her shoulders but she was too keyed up. “He can change appearance to suit his needs. Thus you cannot trust anyone. Anyone.”

  Win grunted and, taking one last draw on his cigarette, tossed it down and crushed it with his boot. “Even you?”

  She did not so much as flinch. “Even me. Should I suddenly feel hotter to the touch or avoid prolonged eye contact, then you may suspect me. His eyes will give him away eventually, for he cannot fully control the way they flash with inhuman light. No demon can.”

  “This demon,” Win said, “do you know why he is after me?”

  “He sent me a message saying…” Her jaw locked and then released. “Saying that he’d take my heart and destroy it.”

  She felt, rather than saw, Win tense. He grasped her elbow and guided her deeper into the shadows of the deck.

  “Go on,” he said.

  With great reluctance, she repeated the words of the telegram verbatim, aware that her cheeks were warm, despite the cool wind. His grip upon her elbow grew stronger as they walked for several lengths without talking. Then he stopped and turned to face her, his body blocking out the wind. “Why you, Poppy?”

  She could not avoid his eyes, those canny eyes that always saw a bit too clearly for comfort. “Because I am SOS.” She had to tell him the whole story, only years of keeping it inside made the words slow in coming. Frustration, anger, regret, and yes, self-pity pressed against her breastbone. It ought to be easier.

  And then he touched her. The first deliberately intimate touch he’d given her in months. The rough pads of his fingertips caressed her cheek, lighting a slow path of sensation along her skin. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the feeling. Down he went, to her neck, where she was so sensitive that his touch made her shudder. He stood close. His warm breath blew over her lips as his fingers traced the tendons along her neck, and the shiver within her grew. It was almost painful the way she wanted to lean on him and feel his arms wrap about her. But she didn’t know how to ask anymore. He’d left her. And she wasn’t supposed to be weak.

  A small puff of air left her lips as his fingers delved beneath her high collar. A dark whisper heated her ear. “Why you?” he repeated, more emphatic now.

  She couldn’t think when he stroked her neck, and the bastard knew it. Thus she didn’t note the way his fingertip hooked over the thin gold chain she wore until it was too late. With a brisk flick of his hand, he pulled the hidden necklace out into the light. The little golden Isis pendant fluttered in the breeze as he held it aloft, hooked over his forefingers. His blue-grey eyes bore into her. “Is it because you are Mother?”

  She couldn’t speak. Outrage flooded her veins, bitter and hot, followed directly by admiration that he’d sussed her secret out.

  Gently, he let the pendant drop, and it dangled awkwardly over her collar. She tucked it away, years of discipline demanding she do nothing less. “How?” She had planned to tell him. Of course she had. Hiding was no longer feasible.

  Win angled his head, considering her, and still his eyes did not yield their careful study of her, as though she were a particularly confounding specimen under his scope. “That thing that saved me in the alley—”

  “Augustus,” Poppy supplied, suppressing a smile at the thought of how Augustus would react to hearing himself being referred to as a “thing.” “He… well, he is a demon too. The very best sort.” When Win raised a brow in speculation, she added, “Demons are not inherently evil. Every living being has a choice as to how it will live its life.”

  Winston’s mouth flattened. “In any event, this Augustus said that he wouldn’t want to lose Mother over me.” Calculating e
yes snapped back to her. “Later, when Ian told me about the SOS, he said it was led by an unknown woman named Mother.” A small shrug. “I cannot fathom why this Mother would care if I died, unless she were you.”

  It had been a miracle that Win hadn’t figured her out earlier. She studied the knot in his cravat. “Yes, well, you are correct. I am Mother.” Even saying it aloud sent a skein of foreboding down her skin, and she caught his wrist. “Win, whatever you think of me…” She licked her lips. “Blast it…. Only a handful of people know. If it were to get out—”

  “Do you honestly believe,” he cut in, speaking through his teeth, “that I would endanger you out of a petty need for revenge?”

  Beneath her fingertips, his pulse beat a hard tattoo as he glared down at her. “No,” she said at last. “No. Save years of training are hard to deny.”

  He eased a bit, the tension in his jaw leaving, though his eyes were still distant and cold. He glanced down at her hand, clutching his wrist, and she let it drop. “My being Mother is not entirely the whole of the issue.”

  His lip curled. “What is the whole issue?”

  Oh, but his attitude scathed, and she fought back her own irritation.

  “I put him in his prison.”

  “How? When?”

  Poppy put a hand to her brow and was not surprised to find it clammy. She was tired. So very tired. And hungry. Her stomach growled with unseemly volume. Poppy spoke over it. “He killed my mother, Win.”

  Win lurched forward. “What?”

  Poppy stared at the ocean. From the grand height of the deck, the water had the look of a stretched hide of dark blue leather. “Miranda and Daisy think she died shortly after giving birth to my brother. It was yet another lie. Designed to protect them. The truth is that Isley killed her.” She clutched the rail hard. “He never would have bested her if she hadn’t been mourning the death of my brother.” Poppy had to believe that, for that loss had affected them all. Her brother had been so small, so innocent. And Mother had been devastated. Her grip tightened. “It took me two years to track Isley down and cage him.”