Blamed (26 page)

“I want to try something new.”

The words, an echo from a far more intimate moment, jarred him, and he didn’t dare look to see if her father still watched, knowing his face flamed with the memory of precisely
which
new something she’d tried on him last time. “Uh, baby—”

Without warning, she stepped carefully into his body, tucking her socked feet between his and circling his torso with slender arms nowhere near to full strength. Pressing her cheek to his chest, he glanced down to see her eyes flutter closed, her slim body melting against his on a sigh.

A hug. Her something new was a hug.

The room, the house, the world disappeared as he wrapped his arms around her with infinite care. Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he squeezed his eyes shut and drowned in the perfection of the promise of this particular hug. He gave and took comfort in equal measure, and peace—actual peace—numbed his senses to all but Beth.

He breathed in the faint apple scent of her shampoo, the lingering sting of antibiotic cream, the fine wool of her sweater angel-soft against his exposed forearms. Her hips aligned with his, and while the innate sensuality of Beth never failed to stir him, this time he simply accepted the neat fit of their bodies as further evidence the universe had always intended them to find each other.

Emotion swamped him like a tidal wave, and he shuddered against her.
Can’t hold her too tight
,
can’t hurt her
,
can’t hurt her.
But she soothed him with a hand rubbing up and down his spine, quiet shushing whispers that said she understood. Oh, how she understood.

After eleven years, their happily ever after could finally begin.

Gently disentangling her body from his, he tenderly wiped away her tears before scrubbing a rough hand over his eyes. “You’re mine?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yes.”

The joy of it all made him dizzy. “You’ve always been mine?”

“Always, Vick.” Biting her bottom lip, she gazed up at him, considering. “The only question is, where do we go from here?”

A clearing throat drew their attention, and they turned as one to find Frank studying them, brow arched in an absolute mimic of Tobias’s. “How about Chicago?”

Beth shook her head. “Dad—”

Frank ignored his daughter to speak directly to Vick. “It’s been brought to my attention—by all three of my sons, I might add—that you are no longer employed.” The older man indicated a manila envelope resting on his lap. “This is your un-redacted file, Raleigh Anton Vick. Your former boss faxed it over this morning.”

Tension crept into Vick’s shoulders. “And?”

“I read it.” His gaze narrowed. “And then I cross-referenced it with Elisabeth’s work history with the company. What do you think I found?”

“A series of coincidences,” he deadpanned, and had the chest-beating satisfaction of watching Beth’s full lips curve in amusement. Joking aside, he asked, “Sir, why do you have my file?”

“Because you love my daughter, and my daughter is determined not to stay where we can keep an easy eye on her, so I suppose you’ll have to do.”

Beth inhaled sharply at his side, but Vick nodded in agreement. “That sounds about right.”

“Good. Now—”

“No, not
good
,” Beth interrupted, a mulish set to her jaw. “Not
now.
We need to backtrack to where you—” she pointed at her father, “—said he loved me, after which you—” and this time it was Vick on the receiving end of an angry index finger, “—said, ‘Sounds about right.’ Which I’m pretty sure I’ve said about a sandwich order at some point in my life.”

Frank stared at her, uncomprehending. “All right, so is it me you’re pissed at, or the spy?”

“It’s me,” Vick assured him before linking his finger playfully with Beth’s jabbing one. He lowered his voice. “Better ways to say I love you for the first-ever time, aren’t there.”

Eyes gleaming bright, she swayed toward him again. “I don’t remember everything about...about London, but our conversation in the park is fairly clear.” Her finger tightened around his. “You told me the woman you’d end up with would be one with whom you were ‘desperately, madly, unequivocally in love,’ and you couldn’t ‘bear the thought of living without her.’” Swallowing hard, she dropped his hand. “I won’t be a placeholder, Vick. No one else could love you like I do.”

Heart in his throat, he cupped her face between his palms. “You already know you’re not a placeholder. Because you trust me, like I should’ve trusted you. Now, remember what I said about promises, back in Chicago?” When she nodded, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m about to make you a promise, darling.” His mouth kicking up at one corner as their interlude in the hotel bathroom flitted through his mind. “I promise to remain desperately, madly, unequivocally in love with you for the rest of my life. Because I cannot tolerate the thought of living without you, Beth Faraday.” Lips hovering over hers, he whispered, “It was too close, baby. I wouldn’t have survived.” The truth of the revelation searing his tongue, he fitted his mouth over hers in a kiss that melded past, present and future, all shared with the woman in his arms. The woman who had always been his.

“You done?” When they parted breathlessly, Frank rolled his eyes. “We need a tactical command office in the middle of the country—Chicago makes the most sense, as far as urban areas go. If he’s got the good sense to take what I’m offering, your man here will operate the office as he sees fit and report directly to me.”

“Dad.”

“Or to Casey,” he added with a petulant grumble. “Though since it’s my idea, reporting to me seems—”

“
Dad.
” Beth crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at her father, but Vick read the tentative excitement bubbling beneath her surface. “You can’t just open a satellite Faraday location in Chicago on a whim.”

“I’m still the CEO of Faraday Industries,” Frank growled, tapping the envelope containing Vick’s file against his leg in agitation. “If I want to open an office in Chicago, I will damn well open an office in Chicago, whim or not.” He speared Vick with a doubtful glare. “This isn’t a cover, understand? You’d do real work and sign real papers. No changing identities when you get bored. Can you accept that?”

“Yes, sir.” Vick turned to Beth. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of her unbroken hand and brought it to his lips. A gentle kiss along her knuckles, followed by the subtle caress of fingertips over sensitive skin. “But the decision is ours, not mine alone. Where we go, we go together.” From now until forever, his life was hers, and he wouldn’t jeopardize it by taking a single step without her by his side. For her ears alone, he murmured, “Ready to take on the world when you are, love.”

A brilliant smile broke out over her beautiful face, healthy color flushing her creased cheeks, and she rose on tiptoe to breathe the wonderful words against his lips. “Then the world had better fucking watch out, because here we come.”

Epilogue

Somewhere in London

The door to Chandler McCallister’s cell slid open with a hiss, the electronically monitored locking system disengaging by the only hand programmed to unlock her sterile cage. Swinging her legs over the side of her cot, Chandler flexed her bare toes, dreading the first touch of the cold concrete against sensitive skin.

They were right to deny her a rug; she’d have unraveled the threads, stripped the fibers, and braided together a makeshift garrote. Tobias Faraday would have been dead in ten seconds.

She looked at him now, filling the doorway, long and lean in another one of his dapper suits. The cold-blooded bastard was always tailored to within an inch of his life, not a single stitch out of place, his necktie never askew. That sort of clinical perfection tended to frighten a girl.

It was a good thing Chandler didn’t scare easily. “Hullo, keeper.” She stood, keeping her arms loose at her sides. The soft black sweatpants—no drawstring, of course—and white knit T-shirt she wore were what Faraday had given her when she’d been moved into these stellar lodgings three weeks earlier. That the fabric quality was superb succeeded only in making her despise him more. “Miss me again?”

“Hardly.” He moved into her cell, crossing the threshold for the first time ever. Shadows fled to reveal a face too angular to be handsome, the lines and planes of his features icy sharp beneath skin the color of her favorite chewy caramel candies. Dark brown hair, clipped short and ruthlessly styled, offset the mercurial gray of his chilly gaze—a gaze that never left hers. “We need to talk.”

Flipping her messy hair over her shoulder—because a comb was absolutely out of the question—she risked a step toward him. “I so adore our little chats, Toby, you know that.”

“Don’t call me Toby,” he said mildly, his only indication of irritation the brief clench of his sculpted jaw. All of the man’s edges were dangerously chiseled, but the effect wasn’t breath stealing, as it might be on a warmer man. On him, his edges were icebergs: a warning above of the danger beneath.

So she supposed, actually, that Faraday
did
steal her breath. Just not for warm-fuzzy-sexy reasons. “I feel as though by holding me against my will for weeks on end, you’ve essentially given me permission to call you whatever the bloody hell I want. You soulless prig.”

Oops. Her mad was showing. What was Pip’s nonsense mantra? Ah, yes—
calming breaths calm your breasts.

Come to think of it, Chandler’s nipples were feeling a little...riled. More than likely due to the cold concrete beneath her feet. Forcing a deep and, yes,
calming
breath, she fixed Faraday with her best helpful smile. Which might also have been her best most patently false smile, but beggars, choosers and whatnot. “What did you want to talk about this time? No, wait, let me guess—your sister.” The bastard always wanted to talk about his sister, and frankly, Chandler was damn tired of hearing every man around her go on ad nauseam about
Beth this
and
Beth that.

In her opinion, everyone would’ve been saved a great deal of trouble had Chandler’s bullet in Chicago hit Beth Faraday a few inches to the left. Or higher, for that matter. A head shot would have done the trick nicely.

A gleam shifted across Faraday’s stormy eyes. “Strange, but I know when you’re fantasizing about killing someone. Particularly my sister.” In a deliberately casual move, he fitted his hands into his trouser pockets, the unbuttoned jacket of his suit pushed away from his hips to reveal a flat abdomen covered by a neat navy waistcoat. Never a simple two-piece ensemble for Faraday, no. He layered up like a Victorian virgin on her wedding night. “We have decided on the conditions pertaining to your freedom.”

Her heart leapt. “We?”

“I,” he corrected, with a slight incline of his dark head. “
I
have decided on the conditions pertaining to your freedom.”

His magnanimous acknowledgment rankled. Her hands turned to fists. “Are you planning on sharing, or just standing there like a knob all day?”

Again, the tightening of his jaw was the single clue to his emotional state. “You’re a failed double agent, Ms. McCallister. You’ve been disavowed by your government, and left to rot by your Russian friends. So, tell me—what use do you believe you might have to Faraday Industries?”

Chandler had been imprisoned before; she probably would be again before retiring to a boring civilian life. Tortures had come and gone, threats and pain and a host of other demeaning cruelties inflicted upon her person. It was the nature of the work, and work was soon to be all she had. Provided she could convince MI6 to un-disavow her and prove what little innocence she still possessed. “Are you offering me a job, Toby? Because I have to say, not sure I’m private-sector material.”

His next step left less than three feet between them. “Not a job. Redemption.”

She’d go for his nose first, straight perfect thing that it was, then his knees. Jump on his back, lock his throat in the crook of her elbow, and—”Redemption?” Her fists released, aching fingers flexing as she shook off her plan of attack. A mental image of her sister’s face flashed before her, reminding her of all she stood to lose...unless she grabbed up an opportunity, when presented. Even if the opportunity was presented by the Ice King himself. “Yes.”

For a moment, she thought Faraday almost smiled. But that was ridiculous. “Just ‘yes’? No questions asked?”

“Just yes,” she echoed, completely serious. When he closed the distance between them, she tilted her head to hold his gaze. “No questions asked.”

“You know where we’re going, then.” His hands left his pockets, the elegant fingers of his right efficiently buttoning his jacket before dropping his arms to his sides. He stood as loose as she, and for once, Chandler didn’t see the cold façade of a boardroom boss but the battle-ready stance of a warrior who was the living embodiment of a steel blade.

The shock of him stole her breath—though she would deny, on pain of death, the strange heat spreading through her seized lungs. Her voice broke low, whether in excitement or dread, she didn’t know. Probably some sickening combination of the two. “We’re going to Russia.”

Life in Death:
The Faraday Story
by T. S. Marcus, PhD

(A Comprehensive Examination of America’s
First Warmongering Family)

Library of Congress Classification Number:
EJ3369.V22 T101 2014

PART I: ROOTED in REVOLUTION
(
excerpt
)

[...] In 1773, the dissident group Sons of Liberty planned and implemented one of the United States’ most famous acts of defiance: the Boston Tea Party. The organization is credited with instigating violent uprisings in the years leading to the American Revolutionary War, though during the war itself, the Sons of Liberty tempered into more formal factions of freedom fighters.

General knowledge holds that the Sons of Liberty were a group of likeminded middle-class individuals who banded together to fight the incendiary taxations leveled at the colonies by the British government. What the history books have failed to cover—or discover—was the powerful force not only bankrolling the Sons of Liberty, but inciting them as well: a man named R. Jonquil Faraday.

Faraday arrived in Boston in 1757 via the
Poisson Rose
, the ship of a French privateer famous for smuggling rebellious souls from Europe to the New World. The
Poisson
Rose’s captain, exiled aristocrat Basile Baptiste, possessed a reputation for demanding transport payment in Spanish gold, and R. Jonquil Faraday stepped onto colonial soil already infamous for meeting Baptiste’s fee ten times over—paying for his own passage, as well as the passage of his wife, two young sons, and six men who had been in Faraday’s employ back in England. That kind of wealth, from a man who would insist on labeling himself as a commoner, was to be feared as much as it was admired.

Acquiring a parcel of land outside of Boston’s city limits, Faraday and company constructed what could only be described as a compound, with the main house, bunkhouse, stable, and work barn enclosed by a chest-high fence riding the property line. By the end of 1758, it is reported that Faraday had raised a sign at the entrance to the compound, reading,

I
answer to none but me.
RJF

Rumor quickly spread through Massachusetts concerning Faraday, the “king unto himself,” and the reasons behind his leaving of England aboard a French ship carrying a fortune in Spanish gold. The gossip fueled a tempest of local curiosity, none of which garnered much attention or concern from those with loyal ties to the Crown, regardless that some claimed he was a thief, some a bastard royal, and others yet a madcap inventor.

Only the last was ever confirmed. In 1982, a pamphlet was found tucked between the pages of a little-known treatise on peace
1
that had been languishing on a dusty shelf in the University of Oxford’s Bodleian Library. Within the pamphlet (which is sadly unavailable for public view due to the deterioration of the parchment and the light sensitivity of the ink), a Roland Faraday is mentioned in conjunction with a 1754 explosion that decimated the west wing of a medieval keep near Wolverhampton. The explosion is stated in the pamphlet to have been caused by “the miscalculation of unstable scientific elements,” the physical quantities of which “are presumed to have been misappropriated by Mister Faraday through illegal means after his request for permission to experiment by the master of the keep, Lord Valsar, was denied.” Four men are reported in this pamphlet to have died in the explosion and ensuing fire, among them Valsar’s elder son.

This is the only evidence we have placing Faraday on English soil prior to his name appearing on the
Poisson
Rose’s manifesto. There exist no clues to Faraday’s activity between ’54 and ’57, apart from his sudden and surprising possession of Spanish gold. It is assumed the death of Valsar’s son was the impetus for Faraday’s departure from England.

In 1765, following the implementation of the Stamp Act and the flurry of vocal and sometimes riotous demonstrations it inspired, the Sons of Liberty formed its first cogent group in Boston. Men who earned their livings as doctors, lawyers, artisans, and the like gathered together to “ensure their rights as Englishmen.” As time went on, and the strictures against colonial citizens increased, the Sons of Liberty adopted a more volatile, violent approach to voicing their concerns.

It could be argued that this approach would never have occurred had a 1769 midnight meeting in the Red Letter Tavern not taken place between Faraday and a prominent Sons of Liberty organizer, merchant and purported smuggler Conrad Jackson. During this meeting—as Jackson later noted in his journal—Faraday made apparent his virulent distaste for and distrust of the reigning monarch, King George III. He is quoted in Jackson’s journal as saying, “There ought not to be man enthroned who thinks himself next to God, whose power smites those who dare challenge his delusions of holiness.” Faraday went on to say, “I for one will engage in the seditious behavior necessary to bring equality to our people. Never again will a man be thwarted in the pursuit of his livelihood by those who would deny their blood runs a common red, but blue instead.” As their conversation came to an end, Faraday promised Jackson and the Sons of Liberty the financial support necessary to fund their revolution, a promise he never failed to meet when they came to him again and again until the cessation of hostilities in 1783.

After the meeting at the Red Letter, a large wooden coffin was delivered to Jackson’s rear doorstep. In it lay five gleaming bayonet rifles, engraved with the letter “F” along the barrel. Jackson writes in his journal, “Never have I aimed a weapon so true as the Faraday. Never again do I wish to aim any other, for the Faraday seems an extension of my arm, my breath, my will.”

The ominous delivery of the coffin of rifles to Conrad Jackson revealed the purpose of the cloistered Faraday compound: Faraday and his people had spent the prior decade developing high-functioning weaponry, no doubt invented for the express purpose of starting a war with the country Faraday believed had wronged him when Lord Valsar denied him the right to legally perform his scientific inquiries. Most likely, this is the pursuit of livelihood which Faraday referenced in Jackson’s account of their meeting.

I
answer to none but me.
The prophetic nature of this statement cannot be undersold, because today, more than two hundred and fifty years after the hanging of that sign, the Faraday compound still stands, and Roland Jonquil Faraday’s descendants remain a deadly law unto themselves.

1. The treatise is thought to have been written by a rector’s wife circa 1750. It is signed only with the letters “Mme,” though there is the faint imprint on the title page of the seal used by the Rectory at Milland Pond. The treatise is currently on rotating display at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, and a digital version is available via the university’s online catalogue.
   

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