Hello Stranger (The Ravenels 4)

Garrett rose to her knees and hugged him from behind, her breasts flattening against his back. Don’t leave, she longed to beg, but instead said quietly, “Come to me as soon as you’re able.”

Ethan was silent for a long moment. “I’ll try, acushla.”

“If things don’t go as they should . . . if you should have to go away somewhere . . . promise you’ll take me with you.”

Ethan turned to face her then. “Love . . .” He shook his head slightly. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Your family and friends, your patients, your practice . . . everything is here. It would ruin your life to leave all that.”

“It would ruin my life not to have you.” As soon as the words left her lips, Garrett realized it was the truth. “I could be a doctor anywhere. I have a little nest egg set aside. Once we settle somewhere, I’ll be able to earn enough to provide for us until you find a suitable occupation. We’ll manage. I’m afraid we would have to take my father with us, but—”

“Garrett.” A rapid succession of emotions crossed Ethan’s face, an odd smile twisting his lips. Taking her head in his hands, he imprinted a brief, hard kiss on her mouth. “You wouldn’t have to support me. I have enough to . . . well, it doesn’t matter. It won’t come to that.” He pulled her head against his chest and rocked her slightly, crushing a kiss against her hair. “I’ll come to you if I’m able. I swear it.”

Closing her eyes in relief, Garrett slid her arms around him.

The next evening, Ethan walked along the footway of Blackfriars Bridge, a structure that was cinched across the lowest banks of the Thames like a buckled luggage strap. Five wrought-iron spans set on enormous red-granite river piers supported the bridge’s steep gradient. No matter which direction vehicles or pedestrians came from, it was a long dead pull to get to the other side.

Although the light was fading, the air was still thick with the growls and hisses of factories, the commotion of dockyards, and the bone-jarring clamor of a nearby railway bridge.

Ethan passed a series of pulpit-shaped niches filled by sleeping vagrants covered with tattered newspapers. None of them stirred or made a sound as he walked by. Finding a place to stand at the railing, he proceeded to eat the dinner he’d bought at a fish shop on the Southwark side. For a penny, a customer could have a meal as fine as any wealthy toff in London: a fillet of fresh haddock or cod dredged in bread crumbs and fried over a coal fire in an iron cauldron of boiling fat. When the inside was firm and white, and the outside crust a sizzling deep brown, the fillet was wrapped in parchment along with a hot lemon wedge and a few sprigs of parsley fried into salted green crisps.

Leaning against the curved railing, Ethan ate slowly and considered his situation. He had kept moving throughout the day, wandering inconspicuously among crossing-sweeps and dustmen, sandwich men wearing billboards front and back, shoeblacks, horse-holders, piemen, and pickpockets. He was weary to the bone, but he felt safer out in the streets than trapped in the confines of his flat.

Crumbling the bit of parchment into a ball, Ethan dropped it over the bridge railing and watched it descend more than forty feet until it hit the smeary black water. Despite ongoing efforts—stricter legislation, new sewer lines and pumping stations—to reduce the foul substances released into the Thames, the water’s oxygen levels were too low to support fish or marine mammals.

The little ball vanished slowly beneath the opaque surface.

Ethan’s gaze lifted to the dome of St. Paul’s, the tallest structure in London. Beyond it, a ragged veil of clouds glowed with milky luminescence, flashes of pink and orange piercing through a few places like veins pulsing with light.

He thought of Garrett, as he always did during quiet moments. At this time of day, she was usually at home. Not far from here, slightly less than three miles. Some part of his brain was always calculating her probable location, the distance between them. The thought of her soothed and pleasured him, made him aware of his humanity as nothing else could.

A thunderous sound heralded a train crossing along the railway between Blackfriars and Southwark bridges. Although Ethan was well accustomed to railway noise, he flinched at the violent rattling of metal plate girders, ironwork rail supports, and rolling stock couplings. Continuous earsplitting puffs of steam were punctuated regularly by the combustive roar of the firebox. Turning from the water, Ethan began to resume his walk along the footpath.

He was stunned by a tremendous wallop to his chest, as if someone had struck him with a cudgel. He was thrown backward onto his arse, the breath knocked out of him. Wheezing and choking, he worked to pull air back into his lungs. A strange buzzing feeling circled through his insides.

It took all his strength to rise to his feet. His limbs weren’t working properly, muscles quivering and bunching in response to the confused signals of his brain. The buzzing turned into something searing and terrible, hotter than fire. It didn’t seem possible that human flesh could harbor so much pain. Unable to identify the cause, Ethan looked down at himself in bewilderment. A flooding dark stain spread over the front of his shirt.

He’d been shot.

His numb gaze lifted to behold William Gamble walking toward him, a short-gripped bulldog revolver in hand.

The deafening roar of the train went on and on, while Ethan backed up to the bridge railing and leaned against it to keep from collapsing.

“Counting on Felbrigg’s honor, were you?” Gamble asked when the noise had faded. “He’s a bureaucrat at heart. He’ll always defer to the next man up the chain. Tatham and Jenkyn convinced him their plans were all for the greater good.”

Ethan stared at him dumbly. Christ Jesus. The commissioner of police was going to allow scores of innocent people, including women and children, to be maimed and murdered . . . all for the sake of political advantage.

“. . . robbing Tatham’s safe on my watch, you bastard,” Gamble was saying irritably. “The only reason Jenkyn hasn’t put a bullet in my head is because he was the one who made a hash of it by inviting Dr. Gibson to the soiree in the first place.” He approached Ethan slowly. “I didn’t want to finish you off like this. I wanted it to be a fair fight.”

“’Twas fair enough,” Ethan managed to say. “Should’ve . . . seen you coming.” There was a salty liquid rattle in his throat. He coughed and saw blood spatter on the ground. As he leaned over, he glanced through the stone balustrades at the expanse of dark water below. Lifting himself up, he braced heavily against the railing.

There was no way to win. No path to survival.

“You should have,” Gamble agreed. “But you’ve been distracted for weeks, thinking of nothing but that green-eyed bitch. She’s brought you to this.”

Garrett.

She wouldn’t know he’d been thinking of her at the last moment. She would never know what she’d meant to him. It would make dying so much easier if only he’d told her. But she would do well without him, just as she had before. She was a strong, resilient woman, a force of nature.

He only worried that no one would bring her flowers.

How strange that as his life was spinning down to its end, there was no anger or fear, only soul-scorching love. He was dissolving in it. There was nothing left but the way she’d made him feel.