Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

She swallowed several times. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Of course.”

Gentle fingers traced across the small rise of her belly. “When?”

A pained half-laugh escaped her, and she pressed her palm over her eyes. “I don’t know. I’d only just realized it myself. It was such a-a…” Oh, God, she didn’t want to speak. For years they had tried. Years of nothing but disappointment. It had ripped her heart open to discover that they’d finally achieved what they both wanted on the heels of his defection.

“You left me, Win.” Her fingers dug into the throbbing points at her temple as she gritted her teeth. “Wouldn’t talk to me.”

He hugged her tighter, a sound of pain breaking from him, but he did not speak. What could he say in any event?

“And I thought…” She licked her lips. “I did not want you to come home out of obligation.” She glanced down at him. “I still don’t.”

The ruined side of his face was to her. The paleness of his flesh made his scars vivid red. She wanted to touch them, lay her hand on his cheek, and send cool comfort into him. And her childish self wanted to yank him by his ungoverned locks and throw him from the room for causing her pain. His attention remained fixed on her belly, as his eyes began to water. Her fingers found their way into Win’s hair. She stroked his head as if to calm them both.

With a harsh sound, he cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. “I failed us both, Boadicea.” He fisted the loose folds of her gown and held on tight. “And will fail us more before the day is done.”

“Win.” Her voice broke, and she took a breath. “There is nothing so broken that cannot be mended.”

A wobbling, pained smiled ghosted over his lips. “Oh,” he said in a shaking voice, “I beg to differ.” Slowly, he rolled away and sat up at the edge of the bed, giving his back to her. His hair fell about his face as he glared down at his clenched hands, and she ached to rub the broad expanse of his back. She might hurt, but he seemed utterly lost.

“I’m the veriest of hypocrites, Pop.” As he turned back to her, the depth of regret and sorrow reflected in his eyes took her breath. “I left you for lying when I have done ten times worse.”

Though they no longer touched, Winston could feel Poppy tense. He knew his wife so well in this regard. She was preparing herself, governing her emotions. Before he had left Poppy, they never had a true row. It was all very civilized, their arguments. Voices might become raised, tempers flare, but one of them would leave the room before there was any danger of getting out of hand. Staring at his clenched fists, Win wondered if their mutual civility had really been a disservice. For it had made it too easy to walk away when things grew sticky.

He had walked away. And it disgusted him. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers. Never again would he turn from a fight with Poppy. Christ, but that was an easy thing to say when he had less than a week to save both his and their child’s soul.

Swallowing against the fear, he turned back to Poppy. Her pristine white nightgown covered her from neck to foot and made her appear all of twelve. The red silk of her hair ran over her shoulders and down to her waist. He pulled his gaze up to her eyes. Those eyes, dark and glinting beneath straight red brows. Those eyes never failed to draw him in.

“The demon found me.”

Horror slashed across her features, and she lurched forward. “When? What did he want?”

He rested a hand on the bed between them. “Poppy… Hell. He wants our child.”

Quite abruptly, the temperature in the room dropped, as if someone had walked in from an Arctic night. “Over my dead body.”

“No, over mine.” His voice came out stronger than he felt. “I made a bargain with him.”

“What!” Poppy wrenched herself out of the bed, her long hair swinging.

Win rubbed the back of his neck. “Fourteen years ago, I loved a woman. I was the son of a duke who would not let me marry this woman, and I wanted to be a detective.”

Poppy blanched. “You were cut off and I agreed—Oh-ho no…” Her fists bunched tight as if she might hit him. “Do not tell me…” Red swarmed up her cheeks, and the room grew icy. Currents of air swirled about them.

“Yes, Boadicea.” He made a furtive gesture to touch her but dropped his hand when she bared her teeth like a feral thing. “He found me and gave me my heart’s desire in exchange for my soul.” The sound of his swallowing was overly loud in the silence. “It’s all been a lie. Our life…”

“Do not!” She hissed through her teeth before going on. “Do not tell me this, Win.”

“It is worse.” On a breath, he told her the rest. With each word out of his mouth, each lie revealed, the room grew colder, until he shivered and icicles hung from the lamps and frost coated the portholes.

“Damn him to hell,” Poppy shouted when he finished. She whirled about and slammed her palm against a chair, sending it flying. “Bloody f**king bastard!”

Icy air tore about the room, howling in the small space and blinding his eyes. Squinting, he braced himself, waiting for the explosion to turn his way. It did not come. The frost blew itself out, as quickly and deftly as if one had slammed the door shut on it. Standing in the center of the room, her back to him and her head bowed, she pressed a fist against her mouth for one silent moment. Then she took a quick breath, letting her hand fall, and looked up at the ceiling as if it might hold answers or a way out.

When she spoke, her voice cracked. “All right. The damage is done.” She sucked in another shallow breath. “Now we need to contain it. So you’ve been charged to find this woman? And then we are free?” With shaking hands, she smoothed her gown. “Fine then, let us find her. Not that I bloody well trust Isley to deliver.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but simply moved to pick up an overturned chair.

“Poppy, look at me.”

She did not.

“Then shout at me… Blame me for my idiocy. Anything.” He cursed and tried to come near, but she hissed between her teeth with such vehemence that he stopped. “I’ve done you a terrible wrong,” he said. “Have a proper go at me. In truth, I would welcome it.”

She made a sound that might have been amusement but had too much anger behind it. “I’m certain you would.” She brushed back a stray wisp of hair with a steady hand, then straightened a pillow, looking anywhere but at him, and he wanted to punch something, wanted her to punch him, as he deserved. But her voice grew composed. “You were tricked by something far more devious than yourself. You hadn’t a chance once Isley got his claws into you. What more is there to say?”

That he was a hypocrite? That he’d put their family in danger because of his selfishness? Winston had a dozen self-recriminations, and it irked him that she wouldn’t address a one. Instead, she retreated behind that shell of hers, where no one could see her pain or rage. Just as she always did. No matter what occurred, Poppy was an entity unto herself, and he was the one on the outside.

Chapter Thirteen

Poppy slipped from the cabin and made her way below decks. Shortly after their argument, Win had left. God, she did not want to think of him now. She refused to think of him, or her child. For if she did, she would be screaming. Her life with Win had been manipulated? Her child’s fate in Isley’s grasp?

Blood filled her mouth from the force of biting her lip. She swallowed the metallic taste down with a curse. How dare Isley? She thought Win an exiled son of a duke. When really he’d given it all up for her. Her? At the cost of his soul, of their child’s. Black hate filled her vision as she made her way to the ship’s rear stairwell. Isley would pay.

She would search the ship, starting from the bottom. The demon had fled there, and Poppy had to believe that he was one of Isley’s minions. The change from first class to second was subtle. The decor, while not as ornate, was still fine, lovely even. There was simply less open space and more people. They moved about, bustling to the large dining hall or to the game rooms, library, or second-class promenade. If anything, the feeling of excitement was somehow amplified here, for these people viewed this short voyage as an event, the holiday of a lifetime.

Unlike the shift from first to second class, descending into third class was like entering another world. Gone were the fine wood paneling, the wide halls, and plush carpeting. Her boot heels clicked against bare wood floors as she moved in and out of shadows, as the lights were spaced farther apart. It was noisier here too. The hum of the engines was more prevalent lower down, and the chatter of passengers echoed off of the bare walls. Someone was singing. An accordion wheezed and spat out a tune, and then a fiddle began to play along.

People moved through the tight spaces in droves, brushing her shoulders as they went about their business. Isley would relish this environment. Like most demons, he loved nothing better than to be around humanity. Their vitality gave him energy. Following the sound of the music, Poppy found herself in the dining hall, a Spartan place with whitewashed walls and wooden chairs pushed against them. Women chatted in groups of two or three, while the men gathered in larger clusters. Laughing children darted like minnows around the adults. Not a surprise to see them up and about. This was a holiday for them as well.

Lively music filled the air, and the floors shook with the beat of dancing feet. The men and women crowding the space had formed a circle around a group of dancers in the center of the room.

One dancer in particular garnered much attention. A spritely woman, no higher than Poppy’s shoulder, twirled and leapt. Kicking up her feet to the fast rhythm, she held the men in thrall and made most women smile. It was hard not to when she carried such joy in her expression, her rounded cheeks pink with exertion and her eyes flashing. She had no partner; she did not need one. There was no question that her skill on the dance floor was unparalleled. Poppy edged closer, weaving through the crowd. The young lady tossed her head back and laughed as her heels slammed against the floor, faster and faster. The fiddler came closer, his bow flying over the strings with near inhuman speed. Faster, faster, the fiddle’s notes growing wilder. Gypsy music. Lovely, erotic, enticing.

Calls of encouragement rang out. People clapped. The fiddler, a long and lanky gent, grinned with devilish glee from behind his black beard.

Heart pounding along with the beat of the wicked music, Poppy made it to the edge of the dance floor. Excitement rushed through her like potent wine. Here was her quarry, beguiling the crowd and drawing them closer. Indeed, it was all she could do not to jump in and dance along, twirl about too. Holding her fists at her sides, she stared down her prey, knowing that the demon would feel her—if he hadn’t already. Sure enough, their gazes clashed, and the true devil flashed in those seemingly innocent eyes. Isley.

Poppy hardened her gaze, and Isley’s rhythm lost a single beat. It was enough to have Poppy grinning in return. Bastard. Hiding away with these people. How many had he tricked already? How many souls were gambled away with false dreams and promises of better tomorrows?

The girl on the dance floor spun faster, her golden hair a blur as the music reached its crescendo and then, as if one, she and the fiddle stopped. Around Poppy, the crowd roared their appreciation, but her attention stayed on her prey. People surged forward to praise the girl who stood panting and grinning as the fiddler slipped off to drink his fill of the vodka offered to him.

As for Poppy, she eased back to the door, knowing Isley would follow. The air was cooler in the hall. She moved toward a door marked STAFF. It was a simple thing to pick the lock and slip inside. The first class cargo hold was a cavernous space. That it encroached upon the third class passengers’ living space was no surprise. Poppy walked among crates lashed securely against the walls. The faint scent of coal smoke mixed with the wood of the crates. The vibration of the massive engines and the constant thwump, thwump of the paddle wheels that they powered was almost a living thing against her skin. Her bones hummed. But her mind and heart were calm. Behind her came the sound of the door opening once again and the click of a boot heel on the iron floor.

Poppy rested a palm against a crate. “You’re quite the dancer.”

A light, feminine voice echoed in the space. “I was lovely, was I not?”

Poppy turned to study the body that Isley had created for himself. Because it was a creation. Poppy did not know the specific mechanics of it, but Isley’s bodies were as real as hers, yet they were created not by God, but by Isley’s will. As far as she knew, he was the only demon able to do so. Other demons relied on possession or the stealing of a person’s blood to shift their shape into something else.

Impish and young, the female Isley preened. Poppy bit the inside of her lower lip. “I daresay you accumulated many offers after that display.”

Isley fluffed out his skirts. “Oh, plenty. Alas, they were all male, and I find I no longer enjoy pleasures with the male sex.” Pretty pink cheeks plumped on a smile. “As there do not seem to be any Sapphos onboard, I do believe a change back to the male persuasion may be in order.” His eyes flashed white as he looked Poppy over. “And how is dear Winston?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Poppy leaned against the crate. Her muscles twitched with the need to lash out, and her jaw ached from keeping in the words she wanted to shout. He dared threaten her family. Her child. Her fists curled tight. “I must say, Isley, I am disappointed. Are you so afraid of facing me that you had to ensure our meeting was over open water where I cannot send you back to your prison?”

His white irises turned red. “Dumb luck will not be on your side this time, girl.”