Because if Angel killed him, it would be too much like Jeremy.
A moan escaped through the crack beneath the closed study door. She flinched, then steeled herself against the sound. Truly, she didn’t want to know what was going on behind that door.
But she wondered about the toll it would take on Angel. One couldn’t hurt another person without carving away a piece of one’s humanity. Some part of her had been lost on a field in the Netherlands.
Looking down at her feet, she saw the deep purple slippers were stained with blood. They would never be clean again.
The door opened and Angel stepped out. He looked the same. Expressionless. Merciless. Through the open door behind him, Lilias could see the assassin on the ground, panting, eyes closed. Fresh blood bloomed around his wound. But he was alive. When his eyes flicked open, she saw awareness there. And fear.
Chapter 28
“HE IS STILL alive and has all his limbs intact,” Angel said. He swept his arm into the room, as though ushering her into something as innocuous as joining him in the drawing room. “Unfortunately, he knows nothing.”
“I beg your pardon?” She moved into the room, her eyes on the assassin.
“He doesn’t know who the leader is.” Rage was a quiet note beneath the words. “He does know how to contact him.”
“That’s something at least.” But very little comfort.
“Jones should have returned. I need to speak with him. I must contact my commander and a surgeon.” His gaze flicked toward the assassin. “In that order,” he added.
“What do you need me to do?” She didn’t want to stand by, useless. She was a target, and she could think of no way forward but to be on the offensive.
Angel gestured to the frivolous purple reticule on the sideboard. Its delicate fringe spilled over her pistol. “I assume it’s loaded?” He picked it up, inspected it.
“Yes.” Her mind was reeling as he handed her the weapon. Her hand was steady as she accepted it. She’d do what needed to be done, and hoped it didn’t involve cold-blooded murder.
“I’ll be back in less than ten minutes. If he moves”—he jerked his head toward the assassin—“shoot him.”
“Of course.” She took aim at the enemy bleeding on the rug. Pity still beat in her, but she supposed that only made her human. The rest of her pulsed with hate and anger. It was not Jeremy on the floor, and yet somehow it was.
The door closed quietly behind Angel. The assassin’s dark eyes darted around the room. A scared rabbit. She narrowed her gaze. But no. He was working at the bindings around his wrist. Subtly. A slight twist. A pull. Ah, not such a scared rabbit.
He did not know the information Angel wanted, however. The leader’s name was still unknown, and from the fresh bloom of blood on his shirt, he would have told Angel if he did. But he must know something. The Death Adders did not work in seclusion. They did not work completely alone. If Angel knew other spies, then this Adder knew other assassins.
And if Jeremy was, indeed, an assassin, then this man might have known him.
Like a sword balancing on its edge, this moment was the tipping point. She could turn away. Leave. She knew enough about Jeremy and his duplicity. Had accepted it. Knowing more was not necessary.
But then she would guess for the rest of her life.
She smiled grimly. “Now that the spy has had his little talk with you, it’s my turn to ask you a few questions.”
“I do not know the man in London. We—we do not—” He broke off. Shook his head as though to clear it, coughed. Not a healthy sound, nor was his gasp of breath. She imagined the wound burned like the devil. But he bore it stoically. She could respect that.
“But I do not care about the man in London. Whether you know his name is irrelevant to me.” Her palm was slick on the butt of the pistol. She couldn’t betray her nerves by even the slightest degree, so she did not even attempt to change hands. “But I do intend to extract information from you.”
The assassin licked his lips. “What can you do to me that he hasn’t done?”
“Besides kill you?” she asked casually, setting one hip on Angel’s wooden desk. She swung her leg gently and contemplated the man bleeding on the rug. “A very good question. I have no training you know, except on the battlefield.”
“The battlefield?” His voice cracked.
“Waterloo. Are you thirsty? Did the brandy’s effects wear off?”
He only watched her.
“Ah. You are thirsty. I can fix that.” She gestured toward the brandy. “For a few answers. I’m not a hard woman.”
His eyes flicked toward the decanter. “What do you want to know?”
“I’d like to know about one of your members. A soldier.” She drew a breath. “Jeremy Fairchild.”
“Yes. I knew him.”
Hope could be a slap in the face. Sharp, sudden, it could steal one’s breath away. She hadn’t realized she still hoped it had all been a mistake. Had she truly believed Jeremy was innocent? She must have. Her fingers spasmed on the pistol, then relaxed again. Hope was a foolish misstep. She should have known better.
The assassin licked his lips again. “The brandy.” His voice was sand over desperate stone.
“Tell me more.” She moved to the sideboard and pulled the stopper from the decanter with one hand while keeping the pistol pointed at him with the other hand. She picked up the decanter by the neck and poured, splashing the liquor over the rim and onto the wooden sideboard.
“There is nothing to tell. Fairchild is dead.” He squirmed, wiggling his hands and feet. Still trying to release those bonds—though she doubted he could. She heard his harsh breath, the pained moan.
She steeled her heart. “Yes. He is dead, isn’t he?” She picked up the snifter, set it beneath her nose as if enjoying the scent of wood and caramel and spirits.
“He was my assignment. Mine. The brandy—” He swallowed audibly, strained against his bindings.
“Oh, what luck. Jeremy Fairchild was your assignment.” Pity could be pitiless. The surgeon will be here. Soon. He would not die. And the brandy—it was only brandy.
“No one renounces the Death Adders once they are in.”
She jerked, spilling brandy onto the already bloodstained rug. Angel would have to buy another carpet. “Renounce?”
His eyes had followed the drip so that he stared at the floor where it had fallen. She could see the thirst on his face, in the ravaged eyes. He must have lost a lot of blood. He needed water, not liquor. But a man in a desert would drink the sand if that was all he could see. Which meant she had something he desperately wanted.
She swirled the brandy in the glass and lifted it to her lips. Blocking out the craving in his eyes and what it did to her heart, she sipped. “Mmmm. French. And very, very good.”
“What do you want to know?” The man’s voice was steady, but his eyes darted between her lips and the glass.
“I want to know about Fairchild’s leaving the Adders,” she shot out. “Why?”
“He was done. He wanted to retire.” His gaze focused on the glass.
She stepped forward. “Why?” she said again.
“His wife.”
“His wife?” Woodenly, she stared at the assassin. “He wanted to leave because of his wife?”
“He wanted a normal life. The London Adder gave the order for his death after Fairchild gave his notice. He could not be allowed—” He coughed. The jerking movements sent pain shooting across his face. He panted, gasped.
She couldn’t bear it. She knelt and held the glass up to his lips, still keeping the pistol trained on him. He gulped it, and she thought now of a drowning man, instead of one in the desert.
“I’ll see you get water,” she said softly. “You need water.”
“Thank—thank you.” He leaned his head against the floor an
d closed his eyes. He breathed in and out, slowly. “I remember you from that day at Waterloo. I did not know you were his wife when I saw you on the field. L’Ange de Vengeance.”
Lilias pressed her lips together and stood. She set the snifter aside and gripped the pistol tightly. He had not asked a question. So she would not answer.
“But when I saw you a few days ago, when I received the order for your death, I recognized you.” His voice was rough with pain.
Orders for her death. Orders for Jeremy’s death. Sorrow swelled and grew and swamped her. Once, she had believed a person could not survive grief. It had consumed every waking moment. She’d nearly died avenging her husband. Then she’d learned he was an assassin and grief had turned to hate and fury.
She did not know what the horrible pressure in her chest now was caused by. The mix of it was beyond name. Beyond knowing. It simply consumed her. Perhaps she hated Jeremy for deceiving her. Perhaps she hated herself for being blind to his true nature. Perhaps she hated him for dying.
Perhaps she hated him for seeking redemption.
He’d been trying to leave the Adders for her. For her. And his killer lay before her. Bound and helpless.
She felt the tears. Hot. Bitter. They swam in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked them back and ignored the ache in her throat. Ignored the way her chest heaved beneath the smothering storm inside her.
She turned back to the assassin and raised the pistol, aiming it at his head.
“Yes, I was at the Battle of Waterloo.” Behind her, the door opened. She pretended she hadn’t heard the sound. “I was avenging the death of my husband. Jeremy Fairchild.”
Chapter 29
GOD’S TEETH, SHE was stunningly beautiful. And furious. Angel stayed near the door, afraid to even move into the room lest he startle her into something her soul would regret.
“Lilias.” He could see her finger was taut on the trigger. “What has happened?”
Her throat worked and she audibly swallowed.
“What?” he asked again.
“Jeremy was assassinated on the battlefield—because he was trying to leave the Death Adders.” She turned bright, angry eyes toward him. “He was leaving because of his wife.”
It was like watching the slow torture of an angel in hell. Turmoil. Pain. All there in her eyes. Her husband was an assassin. How did one accept that? Worse, he’d tried to stop for her—and was killed for it.
Forgetting about the Adder bleeding on the rug, he reached for her arm. Sliding his hand over her soft forearm, her tense wrist, her rigid hand, he finally came to the weapon. Her fingers convulsed.
“Give me the pistol, Lilias.” Quiet words. Soft hands. Like a startled mare, she might spook. The assassin was smart enough not to make a sound. “Give it to me now.”
She continued to stare into his eyes. Lips parted, jaw firm. Eyes bright and hard and so full of vengeance. He’d seen it all there once before, after all. It was an expression he’d never forgotten. He was going to lose her. He saw it in that brilliant blue as she stared at him. She would pull the trigger.
Stay with me. He willed it. His mind screamed it. If she did this, she would never recover. He angled his body, set his back to the assassin. In effect, he put himself between Lilias and the assassin.
The hardness in her eyes eased. Her shoulders slumped. The hand holding the weapon trembled once before loosening its grip.
“It’s different in cold blood, isn’t it?” Her voice was raw and wounded. “Death on the battlefield is different than death in the middle of Mayfair.”
He didn’t answer. He only took the weapon from her shaking hand. The door opened and Jones came in. Angel heard the soft footfalls as the man crossed the room toward them.
“My lord.” His voice was hushed, as a man’s might be when he was trying not to startle a wild animal.
“Yes?” Angel didn’t take his eyes from Lilias’s, nor did he let go of her hand. Or the pistol.
“Sir Charles should be arriving soon.” Not by even the slightest change of expression did Jones betray his understanding of the scene.
Lilias blinked those stunningly blue eyes and turned away, as though waking from a dream. Or a nightmare. She paced toward the opera cape draped over the arm of the settee.
“Good,” Angel said, watching her jerky movements as she swung the cape around her shoulders. “Take the pistol, Jones. Cover the prisoner. I’ll return in a moment.”
“Yes, my lord.” Jones took the weapon when Angel held it out. With competent and well-trained movements he checked the pistol and took up his position.
“Lilias.” Angel kept his voice low. “We need to talk.”
“I can’t.” Refusing to meet his eyes, she swept toward the door. “I need to think. I need to move.”
He strode after her as she clipped into the hall. Grabbing her arm, he swung her around to face him. She snarled at him. As he’d wanted her to. If she was angry at him, the pain was buried. And he needed her angry, not full of sorrow.
“Very well, Lilias. If you need to move, you can pace the bloody hallway—”
“Don’t bloody swear at me.”
“—while I talk.” He wanted to kiss that mouth. Why was a spitting, snarling woman who cursed when she was angry so damn attractive to him? “It’s important, Lilias.”
“Fine.” She wrenched her arm away and did, indeed, pace the hallway in quick, strong strides. Anger flushed color into her high cheekbones. “What do you wish to speak about, Angel? I’ve had enough for this night. I want to go home.”
“To Fairchild House? Where an assassin nearly killed you in your own bed?” he asked softly.
Her steps faltered. Stopped. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “Is nowhere safe? I cannot even trust old friends.”
“Hawthorne has been cleared of suspicion.” Mostly cleared, at any rate. But at least he could give her this. It might be a comfort. “He does have a child.”
“Thank God.” Her shoulders sagged with relief.
He hated to take that away again. “But you still cannot fully trust him. There is nowhere safe.”
He crossed to her, set a hand on the rigid curve of her shoulder. The light of the wall sconce played over fabric as she tensed. She shrugged off his hand and stepped deliberately away from him. Her eyes glittered like twin shards of broken glass. She did not want comfort. Nor pity.
So he would not give it. “There’s a price on your head. A big one. Ten thousand pounds to the Adder that completes the job.”
“Ten thousand pounds?” Her jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.” The notion seemed to have taken the temper out of her.
“You don’t think your life is worth ten thousand pounds?”
“What an odd thought.” She pursed her lips. A line appeared between her brows, as though she were truly attempting to calculate the value of her life.
“With that price, the Adders will not stop. It will be attack after attack until one of them succeeds.” He fisted his hands. He could not undo the directive. He was as helpless as he’d been to stop Gemma’s murder. “I want to send you into hiding.”
“But—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I said I want to. I can’t.” The hand he’d raised reached for her. Cupped her cheek. She did not shy away from him now. Her eyes were still bright, but it was not with that broken light of before. Her skin was soft beneath his thumb as he rubbed it over her cheekbone. “The only way to stop the attacks is to capture more Adders. When we find one that knows the leader, we’ll be able to revoke his directive.”
He shouldn’t even touch her now. He was about to use her in the most horrific way, and she knew it.
“I’m the bait for your trap,” she said.
—
HE LOOKED EVERY inch the fallen angel just now, with his bro
ws furrowed and those golden looks gilded by candlelight. She could not be angry with him. She could not even summon any fear at the moment. She was hollowed out by too much emotion, too much knowledge.
“It is not easy, is it?” His fingers brushed against her cheek again.
She did not pretend confusion. “Truth is never easy.”
His fingers continued to glide across her skin, cheek to jaw to collarbone. A simple touch between lovers. It sent her already bruised heart reeling.
“I do not know what is worse,” she said, though he had not asked a question. “Whether Jeremy was an assassin and killed men for money, or that he was killed because he wanted to stop being an assassin.” She turned her face away. Sometimes a gentle touch could move mountains. “There is no clear right and wrong in that. Was he right to try to leave the Adders? Yes. But of course, there is nothing more wrong than murder. So he started in the wrong.”
“The answers are complicated. As are the questions. Lilias.” He waited to speak until she turned to face him again. “I know there is no time for you to recover.”
“I don’t need—”
“You need to regain your equilibrium.” He paused, and though he was not touching her any longer, he still stepped closer. “But you do not have time. You must keep thinking. Keep moving. Keep watching. The price on your head is beyond reason. The Adders will be following you, waiting for the right moment. There is no room for mistake. If they come for you and we don’t see them in time—”
She could see the worry in the gold depths of his eyes. In the way he held his breath.
“Don’t think of it.” She took his hand, twined her fingers with his. The rasp of calluses against her palm was an odd sort of comfort. “I will not wallow. I promise to stay alert.”
He raised their joined hands and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I worry for you, Lilias.” His words were easy, but beneath them was a heavy tone, full of meaning that could not be discerned.
Her heart thumped once, hard. I worry for you. She could not decide if there was more beneath those words or not.
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