by Zoë Archer
* * *
Bronwyn’s mind sharpened, and she felt her wobbly legs beneath her. She stood in the middle of an empty garret. Dormer windows lined one of the sloped walls. When she tried to turn, she couldn’t. Her hands were bound around a single support post that stood in the middle of the attic. She tugged hard, but the rope around her wrists held fast.
Panic surged. She battled to keep it at bay. If she gave in to fear, she’d collapse in a terror-stricken heap, and that would serve her no purpose. The fear could come later, after she’d survived. If she survived.
The kidnapper stepped forward out of the shadows. His face was carved from granite, his eyes equally emotionless.
“Tangle with Les Grillons,” he said flatly, “this is what happens.”
“They took my money,” she shot back.
He only shrugged. “Can’t fault us for doing our jobs. The fatal blunder was yours when you tried to strike against us. Nobody goes against Les Grillons and wins. Specially not two interlopers from England.” He spat the final word.
She tugged again on her bindings. “We didn’t try to strike,” she fired back. “We did strike. We’ve hurt Les Grillons.” She swallowed. “It will only get worse if you don’t let me go.”
“Tied up, and you threaten me. If your man comes for you…” He drew a wicked-looking knife from a sheath as he ambled toward her. “Look around. This is the last place you and he’ll ever see.”
Enraged, afraid, Bronwyn tried to kick him—wherever her foot could land. But he easily evaded her strike.
“Kicked me once, already,” he drawled. “I’ve lost my taste for it.”
She was about to snap a retort, but the sound of breaking glass interrupted her. She had a quick impression of a man’s dark figure crashing feet first through one of the dormer windows, then landing with a nimble roll before coming to his feet.
Marco. Her heart seized.
He glanced at her quickly, assessing. A look of pure, cold rage was on his face.
From his boot he drew out a thin, mean-looking blade. “You’ve never made a bigger mistake, ami,” Marco snarled, turning to the assassin.
The killer brandished his own knife, and the two men circled each other. “My only fault was letting you live the first time we met. Won’t make that error again.”
“No, you won’t.”
The kidnapper lunged, and Marco sidestepped the strike. He spun around and slashed with his weapon, catching the other man across the arm. Though the cut drew blood, the assassin didn’t slow as he feinted, causing Marco to block a hit that didn’t come. Instead, the kidnapper danced to one side, and swung his blade, cutting Marco along the cheek.
Marco didn’t bother to wipe the blood dripping from his face. He sliced at the kidnapper, causing the man to edge backward—toward Bronwyn.
She’d been watching the fight with terror, helpless to do anything. But when the assassin came close enough, she kicked again, this time catching him in the back of the knee.
“There’s another taste of my boot,” she snapped.
The man winced from her strike. Marco leaped. He plunged his blade up and between the kidnapper’s ribs. The assassin screamed, falling to his knees and dropping his own knife. Marco kicked it aside before drawing his blade out, and stabbing into the killer’s chest.
Bronwyn looked on as her would-be murderer crumpled to the dusty floor, Marco’s knife angling up from his heart. The assassin twitched as his lifeblood flowed onto the floorboards. Then he was still, his eyes open.
Instantly, Marco was in front of her, using the claw-shaped blade from his lapel to slice through the ropes binding her to the post.
The moment her hands were free, she wrapped her arms around him, at last letting the tremors take her. But he soothed her, whispering words in Italian, words she couldn’t understand but knew their meaning.
Thank God. Thank God you’re safe. But whether he said these words or she thought them, she couldn’t tell. The only thing she knew was that they were both alive, and the man who’d intended to kill them both was dead. She glanced over at the corpse, and shuddered.
“Don’t look at that,” he commanded gently.
“I’ll never stop seeing it.”
“That means you survived. Fragola mia.” He stroked over her hair, carefully over her face, as if assuring himself that she had, indeed, made it through alive. “Did he hurt you?”
“Just the once. How did you—”
“I’ll tell you everything. Later. Right now, let’s get ourselves to safety.”
She had no issue with that. Hand in hand, they hurried from the garret, leaving behind the body of the killer. After rushing down several flights of stairs—including the one where she’d fought with the assassin—they emerged out onto the street. It stunned her that the sun was still up, and that the day was still bright, the sky a glowing blue. Spring was nearing full bloom.
* * *
It took time to find a hotel, but they did, well away from both Reynard’s and Cluzet’s homes. Once in their room, she’d insisted on a long bath, as if she could wash away the lingering vestiges of fear like coal dust. After she’d finished her bath, Marco explained everything that had happened since her abduction—including his outrageous gambit with Reynard.
The arrests had created chaos for Les Grillons, and the streets were mercifully free of their spies and thugs.
“I can’t believe you attacked those policemen,” she said, curled up on the sofa and wrapped in a robe that Marco had mysteriously procured.
He’d also bathed and wore a silk dressing gown, though where the garment had come from, either, she’d no idea. Just another of the marvels he could perform effortlessly. Sprezzatura.
“I’d beat dozens of policemen if it meant keeping you safe,” he said.
“How bloodthirsty,” she said, “and … sweet.”
He only shrugged.
“What’s to become of Reynard?” she asked.
“He’ll stand trial, but I heard from Journet and he says the case is strong, so it’s a deadlock that he’ll go to prison. Cluzet, though, managed to get away before the Sûreté could collar him.”
She sat up, alarmed. “That means we’re still in danger.”
“Cluzet’s on the run, without funds and powerless. It won’t be long before Journet catches him. Either that, or Les Grillons will, and they won’t look kindly on him trying to flee with their money.”
“The threat is gone,” she murmured to herself. She’d been living with it for so long that no sense of relief came at the news. Hopefully, in time, she’d feel some peace.
“I’ve heard from Simon,” Marco continued. “The money transfers went through. Amounts worth ten thousand pounds were deposited in your account.”
It took her a moment to understand what he was saying. “I’m … rich?”
“Far wealthier than you were before.” He sat beside her. “How do you feel?”
“Numb.” Literally. Her fingers and toes felt frozen, and she could barely sense the rest of her body. Not even the breath moving in and out of her lungs. “I thought I’d feel happy but … I can’t feel anything. It’s not that I’m not grateful,” she added quickly. “I am. But this is what I’d wanted for so long, and now it’s here, and I just feel like I’m in someone else’s body, another person’s life.”
He nodded. “It took almost a month for the children we rescued from forced labor to smile again. Half of them believed they’d be returned to the workhouse. It takes time to understand that the ordeal is finished.”
She sat back, frowning. “So it’s over.”
A long pause. Then, “It is.”
“What happens now?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s up to you. Were you serious about opening that home for widows?”
Was she? “It wouldn’t be difficult to slip back into my old life,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Long as I had money, nobody would really care where it came from or wha
t had happened to me. But … I’d care. And I can’t … I can’t return to that world. Not after everything I’ve seen. Everything I’ve done. It would all feel so … hollow. Oppressive.”
She picked at the hem of her robe. “I’ve seen beyond the veil. Not just of my widowhood, but … everything. And if Nemesis can do so much to help others … opening a place for widows to take shelter is the least I can do.” She glanced at him. “Is it foolish of me to think I might be able to make a difference?”
“Not foolish. Brave. And beautiful.” He leaned forward and kissed her, tenderly.
She recognized the kiss for what it was. A kiss of farewell.
“We won’t see each other again, will we?” she asked.
His expression darkened. “Doubtful.”
They’d made plans for even a brief affair, but that wasn’t to happen. She knew it was coming, yet that didn’t lessen the pain. God, how was she to get through tomorrow and the day after and the next day and all the days to come without him? In the span of a few weeks, he’d become essential to her. She loved him. Yet now they’d reached the end of their time together. She’d have her work, and he had his. Nemesis. Spying. Hardly room for her in his life. And she’d never make him choose.
Still … “If you ever get a moment of freedom, perhaps you could come and see me.”
But he shook his head. “Can’t.”
“I thought you said—”
The look on his face was raw, open. “I can’t see you. I can’t.”
It felt like a slap in the face. Perhaps he was tired of her. Or perhaps he felt too much. Either way, it meant this was good-bye.
SIXTEEN
London. Three months later.
There was always a commotion. Crying children. Women squabbling over possessions. It was a struggle to get enough food, especially when there were always more and more people coming to the Home for Widows and Children. They were understaffed—especially for teachers—and at least three slept to a bed. But the home was clean and safe.
Bronwyn collapsed into bed exhausted every night, yet she rose each morning ready to meet the challenges of the day. However meager it might be, she was making a difference.
Right now, she led a roomful of children through a music lesson, some of them with tiny violins, others with wooden recorders, and whatever instruments they’d been able to buy cheaply from shops around the city. In theory, the children were performing a simple Brahms lullaby, but the unholy noise they made would never permit anyone to sleep.
Still, she praised them. “Excellent, Mary Ellen,” she said to one little girl knocking against a triangle. “Good bow work, Daniel.”
The children beamed back at her. And for all her aching head, she smiled back.
After this, she’d have to go out and solicit more donations from women she once considered part of her social circle. She still wore her weeds for this purpose, lest she engender scandal. Whenever she’d go to her old friends, they’d insist she was mad for trying to actually run a home for widows on her own, rather than simply throwing money at missionaries and letting them do the work. She never answered them, not wanting to entrust this work to anyone but herself. She knew her strengths now.
At least her former friends felt enough guilt to keep the donations coming.
Yes, her days and even her nights were extremely busy. And thank God for that, because if she stopped for even a moment, memories of him would flood in. They left her heartbroken and melancholy. She’d thought that, over time, the pain would diminish, like a healing wound.
But it didn’t. In fact, each day, it seemed to grow worse. Only the needs of the home kept her moving forward.
The music lesson finally concluded, and the children ran from the classroom, eager to go out to the yard and play. As they left, their mothers filed in, along with one of the teachers, who instructed the widows on needlework. It wouldn’t be much, but it would provide the women with some means of earning a living. Some degree of freedom and security. Things that had been missing from their lives.
Bronwyn walked toward the small room that served as her office. Stacks of papers were everywhere, evidence of all her projects and investments. Knowing that she couldn’t rely on the money recovered from Les Grillons forever, and also knowing that she couldn’t count on the largesse of society ladies, she’d made a few investments in sundry business ventures. They yielded a steady, though not lavish, profit. All the more to go into the home.
She took a moment to sigh and stretch her back. Soon, she’d have to put on her cloak and bonnet and venture forth to Kensington and Mayfair. But for now, she’d allow herself a brief respite.
Periodically, women showed up, having been sent by Nemesis. Bronwyn had even spoken with Harriet a few times. But, true to his word, there’d been no sign of Marco.
She supposed it was for the best. As he’d said, seeing him again would only hurt too much. So she considered it a painful blessing that he stayed away.
Though her heart ached with every thought of him. And she always thought of him.
A knock sounded on her door. “Mrs. Parrish?”
It was Vivienne, one of the young women who helped her run the home. She looked anxious.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Parrish,” she continued. “But do you remember that woman we took in last week, Anna Matthews?”
The poor woman had been widowed a year earlier when her navvy husband had died when a trench collapsed on him. Since then, she’d been living with her brother, who’d been beating her.
“Is it the brother?” Bronwyn asked.
Vivienne nodded. “He demands to see her.”
Bronwyn steeled herself. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. With Vivienne trailing after her, she first went to Anna, cowering in the women’s dormitory.
“I don’t have to go with him, do I?” she asked, shaking with terror.
Rage poured through Bronwyn at the fear that louse of a brother had implanted in Anna. “Of course you don’t,” Bronwyn assured her. She patted the frightened woman on the shoulder. “I’ll send him on his way, and make sure he never bothers you again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Parrish.”
Finding Anna’s brother wasn’t hard to do. He stood in the entrance lobby, shouting and waving his fists. Several of the home’s employees fought to hold him back. When he spotted Bronwyn, he looked at her with gin-bleary eyes that swam with hate.
“You the bitch that won’t let me see my own flesh and blood?” he demanded.
“That’s right,” she answered.
“Let me take her home, or by God I’ll—”
“Hit me, too? I wouldn’t advise that.”
“What you going to do? Call the damn coppers? They can’t do nothing.”
“They might not,” she replied, “but I happen to be rather well connected to a certain section of London’s East End populace. Ruthless individuals who are very effective at using their fists, too.” She took a step toward the red-faced bully. “Just a word from me, or from Anna, and my East End friends will make certain you can never use your hands to hurt anyone ever again.”
The brother’s face went ashen.
“I think you understand me,” Bronwyn continued levelly.
Anna’s brother shook off the employees still clustered around him. “Who needs the whore?” he spat. “Tell her I don’t ever want to see her again.” With that, he trundled out the door, disappearing into the gray afternoon fog.
As soon as he was gone, Bronwyn pressed a shaking hand to her stomach. She barely heard the women around her congratulate her on her bravery.
She glanced through the open front door. A figure stood out in the street, poised to come to her aid, if she needed it.
Marco.
She stared at him for a long moment, and he stared back. Neither moved. But she felt a vicious pounding in her chest. Her heart—as if it wanted to run to him.
She turned and hurried to her office. But he followed her.
Bronwy
n took a moment. Steeling herself before turning around. Yet it didn’t ease the sweet, agonizing shock of seeing him again.
He appeared just as dangerous as ever, standing in her doorway, his hat in his hand. He looked a little thinner, his eyes set a little deeper, but other than that, he was the same. Sharp, handsome, and opaque.
Love flooded her, bright and wondrous and painful.
“This…” She swallowed hard. “This is a surprise.” It took all her strength not to cross the room, go to him.
“For me, too.”
His voice stroked every sense.
She frowned. “Why—”
He glanced away, his gaze alighting on small details like the painting of a flower one of the children had made for her, a half-finished embroidered pillow crafted by a widow, a stack of letters from different women who’d moved on to new lives.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, almost grudgingly. He continued to look around. “This place is doing well.”
“We manage.”
“And you?” He finally looked at her, and she saw now the fatigue beneath his eyes, the drawn look around his mouth. He wasn’t taking care of himself. She fought to keep from leading him to their refectory and giving him a bowl of nourishing soup.
“I manage, too.” But something inside her wouldn’t allow her any cowardice, so she added, “Barely.”
His gaze sharpened. “Do you need more money? We can get it. Are you ill? I know a doctor—”
She shook her head. Decided to be completely open. “None of that. I barely sleep. Can’t eat.” Her clothes hung on her, and she kept having to take them in. “But I’m not ill. Overworked, perhaps, but not sick.”
“Then what—”
“You know the reason. So if you’re here for a tour, I can get one of the other women to take you. Otherwise, you’d better go.”
He stepped forward, stopped. “I don’t want to go.”
“I want you to.”
He gazed at her. The moment stretched out with agonizing sweetness. How could she keep from touching him? Yet she had to. Or else give in to the morass of emotion engulfing her.
Instead of leaving, he reached into his coat and produced a folded letter. Tossed it lightly onto her desk. “Go on,” he said softly. “Read it.”
