Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

“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.”

“Cage him?”

“He cannot be destroyed.” The very thought made her teeth gnash. “He is too powerful. He can only be sent back to the place we would call hell.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve bloody beheaded him twice!”

Win leaned back with a shocked huff. Awkward silence filled the space between them for a long minute until he spoke again. “When did you capture him?”

“One month after we married.”

Win seemed to sag. “And what is your plan to lure him out now?”

“To wait.”

“I’m sorry?” His smile was thin. “To wait? That is the whole of this grand production?”

Her lips pursed. “Believe me, Isley had his sick little game in place well before I arrived. He wants me here, and he has a reason for it. I’ve simply opened play. The next move will be his.”

Win’s nostrils flared as if scenting something off. “You know each other well.”

“I hunted him for three years.” She did not like the accusation in his tone nor the way it made her skin twitch. “This is the only way to draw him out. Besides, we are on a ship. His ilk can only be sent back to hell when standing upon the earth.”

“So then,” Win said, “this demon is after me because he believes that it will hurt you. I would counter that the solution might be a bit more simplistic.” His expression grew implacable, but the scars on his face seemed to stand out more. “You only have to make it clear that you no longer care for me.”

Her heart stopped painfully then promptly beat a wild rhythm. “He would see through that in an instant.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be a lie!”

Pride had her turning because she could not look at him now. But she got all of five feet away before he caught her by the upper arm, his grip hard and biting as he wrenched her round. “Oh no, you don’t.” He let her go but boxed her in against the railing with his frame. “You do not get to walk away from me. Not yet.”

“Why? You’ve walked away from me.” Her nails dug into her palms. “Hell, you left me, Winston.”

His eye twitched, a fleeting gesture, followed not by repentance but irritation. “And you followed me here.” His long finger pointed in accusation. “Evading the situation now does you little credit.”

“Why, you bloody hypocrite…”

“Call me all the names you like.” His rough countenance hardened. “It will not put me off from having answers.”

“You haven’t asked a question.”

He loomed, looking thoroughly capable of mayhem, before he leaned against the wall behind them with a grunt and gave her the gimlet eye. “Why did you keep it all from me?” he blurted out. “While I may understand why you were reticent to let me in, I cannot accept that you did not know me well enough to believe that I would ever have betrayed that trust.” He slammed a fist against the wall. “By the love of God, I thought you knew me better. That you knew my heart entirely.” His shoulders sank a little. “The way I thought I knew yours.”

Deep inside her, the black, ugly feelings she’d kept bottled up boiled over, burning her lungs, choking her throat. She rounded on him, fisting her hands so hard her knuckles ached. “I took a vow, Win. An oath never to reveal what I was, or what I did, to anyone. Anyone. Not to you, not to my family. Have you any idea how difficult it was to keep it inside? Or the isolation I felt in doing so? Bloody hell, do you think I do not feel the depth of my betrayal to all of you? Miranda can barely meet my eyes anymore. Daisy looks at me as though she has one over on me. And you. I ached to tell you. I died a little each day I could not. But this is what I was born and bred to do. My word is my honor. Break it and I am nothing. Break it and everything I sacrificed is for nothing.”

It wasn’t until the words died on the air that Poppy realized they were nose to nose, shouting like common riffraff, while their fellow passengers hurried by with eyes averted and postures stiff in disapproval. Win’s chest lifted and fell in a soft yet quick cadence as they glared at each other.

He was mere inches away, his eyes dark with close-kept emotion, yet he seemed utterly unreachable. She pulled in a breath and ended any possibility of bridging that gap. “To speak with perfect honesty, had you not found out, I would never have told. Because I keep my word. No matter how painful it might be to do so.”

He flinched, his broad shoulders tense beneath his coat. In the resounding silence, the wind howled, and she held back a shiver, waiting, and refusing to hide from his response. Slowly he nodded, his gaze on his feet. He stood like that for a moment.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice a rasp. “Now I know.” He moved as if he might touch her but stopped short. “I am sorry, you know. For not asking you sooner. It was wrong of me. You deserved to have your say.” Then, moving with utter control despite his evident fury, he stalked away. Poppy watched him go, admiring the long lines of his body even as she contemplated throttling his stubborn hide. For the first time, she wondered if things were truly hopeless.

Chapter Five

Mary discovered that working with Mrs. Lane was a far different endeavor than being a cog in Lucien’s machine. After years of double talk, decadence, and playing the part Lucien wrote for her, Mrs. Lane’s forthright manner and decisive action was cool water on a summer’s day.

Not one to sit about and have a servant handle things, Mrs. Lane went straight to unpacking. She did not speak a word about Inspector Lane, nor betray any emotion on her countenance, but her slim hands shook now and then when she did not keep them busy. Mary gathered that their discussion had not ended well. However, as they were not decamping, Mrs. Lane must have emerged victorious. Mary hadn’t really doubted the outcome, not after spending the last few days in Mrs. Lane’s company.

“Will you wear the pink for dinner tonight, mum?” Mary asked her, as she unpacked the gowns Lady Archer had provided. The pink satin evening gown was exquisite and a stroke of brilliance, as it would highlight Mrs. Lane’s bold coloring in an unexpected way.

Mrs. Lane’s keen gaze sought her out. “You realize that I do not truly mean to use you as my ladies maid.”

“You might as well,” Mary said without heat. “I’m quite good at it, and Lady Archer did not select evening wear that you can get into on your own.”

“Humph. I cannot think of anything more banal than picking out dinner gowns. Or striving to impress others with my clothing.” Mrs. Lane’s red brows drew together in a slash. “Blasted Miranda and Daisy. I should have known better than to entrust my wardrobe to them. I do not see why I cannot wear my current outfit.”

Mary bit the inside of her cheek. From what she knew of the Ellis sisters, there was a time when young Poppy Ellis had attended societal events. And she had been raised to be a lady, despite having lived the past decade among the middle class. Mrs. Lane turned back to her trunk, a massive blue leather one that, when she opened it, contained a veritable arsenal of weaponry. Some that Mary recognized and far more that she did not. She could not help but be awed by the efficiency and speed with which Mrs. Lane had prepared. Between Mrs. Lane assembling her weapons and her sisters selecting gowns, they had gathered everything needed for an ocean voyage in little over an hour.

“I suppose you could,” Mary said, choosing to ignore her employer’s fit of pique. “It would invoke plenty of conversation, at the very least.”

One elegant red brow rose pointedly. Mary gathered her courage and met Mrs. Lane’s piercing gaze.

Mrs. Lane’s crisp voice broke the silence. “You remind me of Mr. Lane. He too believes his cheekiness is amusing.” The small note of wistfulness in Mrs. Lane’s voice was well concealed but Mary heard it.

Mary spoke carefully as she hung up the pink to air out. “The inspector is stubborn as well?”

For a moment, Mary feared she’d overstepped her bounds irrevocably. Then Mrs. Lane answered. “He is that. But at the moment, he is angry. Justifiably, I’m afraid.”

A flurry of activity told Mary just how upset Mrs. Lane was. Mary kept her gaze averted. “Show him what he is missing.” The words hung in the air, and she could feel Mrs. Lane’s stare. Reluctantly, she turned to find that her employer appeared befuddled. Mary sighed inwardly. “When it comes to dealing with the female sex, men generally think with their smaller head. Inspector Lane has merely forgotten to listen to his.”

Mrs. Lane’s lips twitched spasmodically. “So you suggest,” she asked in even tones, “that I remind him to think with his cock?”

Mary’s cheeks heated. “Normally, I would suggest the reverse, but in a case of overabundant logical thinking, I believe a return to balance is in order.”

A strangled noise left Mrs. Lane’s throat but she maintained her poise. “You are a most unusual woman, Miss Chase.”

Rather the pot calling the kettle but… “Yes.”

Thankfully, Mrs. Lane turned back to her unpacking. “I shall take your suggestion under advisement.”

They worked in silence with Mrs. Lane sorting through her box of horrors as Mary exalted in the rainbow of silken gowns her sisters had selected, far more than Mrs. Lane would be able to wear on such a short trip.

“Here.” Mrs. Lane suddenly appeared by her side and handed her a slim box of polished ash wood. “These are for you.”

Mary hesitated. Lucien often gave her gifts. Gifts of adornment. He did it to be kind, never understanding that she did not want to be dressed up like a doll. Mrs. Lane, however, wasn’t the sort prone to frivolity.

“Me?”

“Of course. Did I not just say?” Mrs. Lane bustled back to her trunk and began rooting about in it once more, dropping a heavy scimitar knife on the dressing table with a thud.

Mary’s fingers were careful as she set the box down and opened it. Nestled in black velvet were four gleaming metal stars. Japanese throwing stars shaped more like stylized suns. Their edges glinted, sharp and wicked.

“Happo shuriken,” she murmured. “How lovely.”

“Do you know how to use them?” Mrs. Lane asked from the depths of her trunk.

“A little. There aren’t very many Japanese gentlemen about, even fewer willing to teach their weaponry.” The GIM’s knowledge was second-hand. My, but they were beautiful.

Mrs. Lane straightened. “I want you to practice every day. Do it in here or your rooms, where no one can see. The walls are as good a target as any.”

That she had little care for the resulting state of said wall had Mary holding back a smile. “Yes, mum.”

Mrs. Lane nodded. “They don’t usually deliver a killing blow, but they’ll slow down your enemy well enough. I’ve a gun and knife for you as well. A good Regulator must be proficient in all forms of combat. As much as I wish that you had received proper training beforehand, there is little use crying over it now. We’ll get you set to rights later.”

“I am not entirely without training.” Although she gathered that her notion of training was not in keeping with Mrs. Lane’s exacting standards.

Mrs. Lane’s expression was proof enough of that. “You’ll do for now. Which is why I let you come along.” She sighed and ran a hand along her hair, her straight nose wrinkling when she encountered her hat. She tugged it off, completely destroying her coiffure.

“If you’d like, mum, I could find a way to incorporate some weapons within your millinery and gowns.”

Mrs. Lane’s pale face lit up with almost girlish glee. “Most excellent idea, Miss Chase.” With an idle flick of the wrist, she tossed her hat to Mary and then proceeded to attack her trunk once more. “Eventually, I’ll have to inform Mr. Lane of our plans. Sooner rather than later, I’m afraid.” Her voice lost its usual confidence, and though her face was hidden behind the lid of the trunk, Mary fancied she was frowning. Then her tone became brisk once more. “At the very least, we have Mr. Talent, which is a boon. He will watch over my husband while I confront the demon.”