Forged by Desire (19 page)

Another long, slow, drugging kiss. Her shaking hands slid up over his shoulders tentatively. Muscle tensed beneath her touch and he drew back just enough to look at her. His eyes were black as night, the muscle in his jaw locked tight. “But I won’t let you lock me out. Not again. If you want this—want me—then you’re going to have to damned well tell me a few things.”

Her heart punched behind her ribs and he saw it on her face.

Garrett’s expression darkened, one finger pressing against her lips. “Either you talk to me, or things don’t go any further.” He caught her other hand and slid it lower. Over the thick bulge straining behind his pants. “You want this?” His hips thrust against her touch, rubbing the entire length of his cock against her hand. The expression on his face lost its focus, just for a moment, then tightened again. “Then you have to let me in. I won’t settle for less.”

Garrett took her hand away. Wouldn’t let her reach for him. “No.”

Hands tugged at her pants. He was doing up her buttons. Sliding her belt back into place. One last tug to notch it tight. The ache between her thighs intensified. Unfulfilled.

Perry’s lips stung. She licked them, trying to work out what was going on. “Garrett?”

“Tomorrow,” he said firmly, drawing away from her. “I’ll give you tonight to think, but tomorrow we’re going to talk. I’m tired of all the secrets between us at the moment. Aren’t you?”

Perry’s heart curled into a small tight ball in her chest. There would be no tomorrow. Tonight was meant to be good-bye. She slid her hand over his jaw, stepping closer, but he turned away and her lips met the smooth skin of his cheek instead. A gentle rebuff.
Don’t… Let me have this one night with you. Please
.

But he was turning away, holding the door open for her. Like a gentleman. The idea of that almost brought a pained smile to her lips. After everything he’d just done to her, she knew he was no gentleman. Not underneath the smooth, cultured cravats and coats he wore. Like the clothes he wore, the cultured veneer was just that…a veneer.

Perry darted inside his guard and pressed her lips to his in a chaste, gentle kiss that lingered. She never wanted it to end, but then his hand was stroking her face, subtle signs of his body withdrawing from her.

“Remember that,” Perry whispered as she backed through his door.

She would.

***

The door closed and Garrett splayed his fingers wide against the timber, letting out the breath he’d been holding. The scent of her perfume lingered, a ghostly fragrance that haunted him. Reminding him of what they’d just done. Of how he’d forced himself to let her go.

And if the scent of her was difficult to forget, the throbbing of his cock was just another reminder. He could have had her. Should have. He’d seen the look in her eyes as she left. Perry was gathering her wits together, and he preferred her off-balance. If he gave her too much time to think, he was afraid she’d only find some other excuse to shove between them.

But if he’d given in to her… He’d set the terms today and he meant to stand by them. For the first time in his life, sex wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Wanted to explore this attraction between them.

If he had time.

Garrett flexed his fist, looking up. He could hear her walking away, her steps getting firmer with each stride. A knot twisted in his guts. What was he doing? Drawing her closer when he should be holding her at arm’s length. Keeping her safe from him.

“Damn it.” He turned and stared at his bedchambers. Was this what he had to look forward to? A slow decline until he could no longer hide the truth of his condition? Holding everyone at bay? Pretending that he didn’t want her when the truth was so very different?

Slowly his back hit the door and he slid down it, his legs drawn up in front of him. Garrett raked his hands through his hair. Truth: his CV levels were only going to increase. He had months, at most, before he started showing signs of the Fade.

Months in which to lie in bed alone at night, listening to the tick of the clock.

Or months in which to live his last breath, make something of himself, let himself love.

A whisper of longing swept through him. If he didn’t have this looming over his head, would he push her away?

No. He wanted her too much. All his life he’d wondered if he would ever feel this way about a woman. He’d searched for it, charming dozens of women into his bed. Some of them had almost been clever enough or funny enough that he’d lingered, hoping that something in him would shift, that this would be the woman he could fall for.

And it never happened.

Until
now.

Slowly he dragged his cupped hands down over his face and breathed into them. Of all the women he’d met, Perry had snuck under his guard when he wasn’t looking.

He knew her, inside and out. Perry was the one person he trusted more than anyone else in the world, the one person he knew he could go to when he didn’t know what to do. After Lynch had passed the rank of Guild Master onto Garrett’s shoulders and left to face his own execution, Perry had been at Garrett’s side when he’d told Rosalind the truth and gone to rescue Lynch. Lynch might never forgive him for that, but at least, on some elemental level, Garrett knew Perry would always be there for him.

Love was something that he’d always regarded in an almost mythic way, something he’d wanted but couldn’t quite understand. He’d seen men and women stricken by it, and wondered when, or even if, that lightning bolt would ever strike him. Instead it had crept up on cat-silent feet, sinking its claws into him when he wasn’t looking. It wasn’t mythic. It wasn’t an equation that could be solved or even something he could classify. It was trust and respect and the solid, grounding feel of her hand in his when he faced his problems. It was the idea of his closest friend becoming his lover, of exploring this feeling between them.

And he was frightened that he wasn’t going to have that chance.

Dr. Gibson would track him down one day, or Doyle would notice how swiftly his blood decanters were being depleted, and then they’d both be required by law to report him.

He had a choice. Leave things as they were and die, never knowing the one thing he’d always wanted. Or let himself love her, knowing that he could never have forever with her.

It wouldn’t be fair for him not to tell her the truth about his condition. He had to have her approval before he pursued this further. But the weight on his chest lifted. He could have Perry—for a time. Love her fast and hard, and then at the end of it, when his CV levels hit seventy-five, he’d hand himself in.

Better to live the life he had left than to spend every last minute thinking about her and wishing he had taken this chance.

If she’d let him.

Light spilled over his desk. Garrett blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been staring too long at the case file. Most of the night, in fact, for that was dawn’s first light, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Pushing to his feet, he stretched, shooting the case file a filthy glance. The name “Morrow, Octavia” was etched along its spine. There were numerous reports on the night she’d fled. Details on the forensic evidence gathered at the scene, but barely anything on Octavia Morrow herself or any of the events following the night she disappeared.

What the devil was going on? Lynch was meticulous, and Garrett knew his handwriting well enough to recognize the notations. Anyone else looking at the file might not notice anything amiss, but Garrett knew his former master. No stone unturned, no fact left unchecked… Yet to all appearances, Octavia Morrow hadn’t even left a trace of herself in the paperwork.

Garrett raked a tired hand over his face. He needed blood and the decanter in here was empty.

Leaving his study, he followed the sounds of quiet conversation to the dining hall, greeting each Nighthawk by name and then helping himself to the sideboard. Byrnes glanced up from one of several dining tables, flicking out the morning’s news sheet. He paused when he saw Garrett, then offered a wary nod.

Curse it. Garrett poured himself a glass of blood and made his way to the table. Appearances were everything, and the men needed to see the pair of them working together. And perhaps Perry was right about the way he was dealing with this. Not that he liked admitting it.

“My powers of deduction tell me you haven’t slept a wink,” Byrnes drawled. He laid the paper flat and leaned back in his chair. “One would almost think that you had women troubles, but you never have those, do you?”

Garrett bared his teeth in a smile and took the seat across from Byrnes instead of planting him a facer, as he’d have preferred. There was little doubt what the other man referred to. “Women are the last thing on my mind at the moment. I have two murdered girls, a laboratory straight from a penny dreadful, and now a private commission that seems to be muddying up waters that were as clear as the Thames in the first place.”

Byrnes poured himself some coffee. The scent of it made Garrett’s stomach lurch, but Byrnes seemed to be able to stomach small amounts of it, at least. “Indeed? Muddied waters…that sounds intriguing.”

Garrett lowered the glass. Why the hell not? Byrnes occasionally had his uses. “Have you ever come across a case file that seemed lacking?”

“Lacking? In what context?”

“As if certain notes were missing from it.”

Byrnes frowned. “Lynch oversaw the final closure of all case files. He would have noticed something.”

The same line of thought Garrett himself had had. “The only man with access to the files is the head clerk. I sent a note an hour ago. He claims nobody’s tampered with any of the files in his care.”

“Are you suggesting that the file was tampered with before it was given to Mr. Morell?”

The only man who could do that was Lynch himself. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting.”

“Hmm.” Byrnes leaned closer. “Which file?”

“The disappearance of Octavia Morrow.”

“That’s almost ten years old.”

“Never solved,” Garrett replied. “Lynch hates letting go of a case unanswered. And now there’s not a single note in the file about any attempts made to track her. Not even a photograph or portrait of the girl.”

“Someone tampered with it. Lynch would never leave a case like that.”

“Exactly.”

For a moment they were in perfect accord.

“But who could steal into the clerical wing without being seen?” Byrnes asked. “And why the sudden interest in the Morrow girl?”

“She’s the commission.”

Byrnes was at his best when there was a puzzle to be solved or something to be found. “It seems like the past is certainly coming to light again. The Duke of Moncrieff’s return and now this, the mystery of poor Octavia Morrow being dredged out of the depths.” Those bright eyes locked on Garrett. “Who requested the commission? I know the duke graced us with his presence yesterday.”

No point denying it. Garrett gave a terse nod.

“How very curious,” Byrnes said.

“I want to know more about the case,” Garrett replied. “I remember a handful of facts, but only what was shouted about in the broadsheets.”

“Perhaps you should ask Perry. She seemed quite taken with the story in the papers the other morning.”

“Perry?”

“Tall, slim girl. Rather serious expression, quiet, seems to prefer breeches to gowns. Looks rather smashing in red silk, though, wouldn’t you say?”

Garrett frowned. There was a sense of something lurking beneath the words. “I know bloody well who she is. It surprised me, is all. She’s not said a word to me about the duke.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were speaking much at the moment. Either of you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Garrett growled.

“Miss Morrow isn’t the only mystery around here. You’re not sleeping, and the pair of you are frequently at odds these past few days. That in itself has never happened before. Then of course, Perry’s tiptoeing around in the middle of the night—”

He was one moment away from dragging Byrnes across the table when that last sentence penetrated. “What do you mean, she’s sneaking around at night?”

“Last night,” Byrnes replied. “Ava said she saw Perry disappearing toward the steam baths.”

“Perry can use the steam baths if she wants—”

“Pardon, sir. Did someone say my name?”

Miss McLaren appeared carrying a plate of kippers and fried sole. Her hair was neatly braided and she wore the same drab green gown they’d found for her the day before. She paused at the edge of the table when she saw their reactions. “My apologies. I didn’t realize you were unaware of me.”

Both of them pushed to their feet. Garrett held her chair out for her. “Simply business,” he replied smoothly. “Byrnes was telling me how you were recovering.”

“I’ve been better.” Despite the haunted look in her eyes, she graced him with a smile as she sat. “But Master Byrnes has been very kind.”

Not a word he’d ever associate with the man.

“A little blunt, but very solicitous,” Miss McLaren corrected, sighting his expression. Stabbing a kipper with her fork, she popped it in her mouth. Then paled.

Byrnes swore under his breath. “Your body’s not the same, and neither are your necessities. Food is no longer something you require.”

As she pressed her fingers to her lips, Garrett hastily found her a napkin. Miss McLaren took it from him and used it to discreetly remove her mouthful. “Oh, that’s ghastly.” She looked down in dismay. “I adore kippers.”

“Try blood,” Byrnes replied. “You’re a blue blood now.”

A fierce little pinprick of hunger lit her eyes, but her skin paled further. “No, thank you. I believe it’s an acquired taste. Much like others.” This with a darting glance at Byrnes.

Garrett paused with his cup to his lips. Good God. Was that flirtation?

Byrnes gave her a smile. “Perhaps you’d prefer something a little fresher?” He flicked the button on his sleeve and drew back the fabric, revealing the inside of his wrist.

“Byrnes was telling me you saw Perry last night,” Garrett broke in, with a warning glare toward the other man. The woman had been through an ordeal; this was the last thing she needed. Especially from Byrnes. The man was coldly calculating in all pursuits, including those that involved women.

Then he put his cup down. Byrnes knew how haunted some victims of crime could be. Garrett sat back and reexamined them. Byrnes had his arm slung along the back of her chair, seemingly relaxed—though tension rested in his shoulders—and Miss McLaren…she was leaning in toward him. Hands shaking a little around her cup, despite her weak smile.

Perhaps Miss McLaren saw Byrnes as some sort of protector? Safe enough to smile at, to try to make some attempts at what she perceived as normality.

Perhaps she needed this to heal? To forget the nightmare? And Byrnes was her version of safety?

“I did,” Miss McLaren replied, her gaze dropping. For the longest moment she stared at the thumping pulse in the offered blue veins.

The devil knew, she needed someone to help her adjust to being a blue blood and she seemed to trust Byrnes. “Did Perry seem out of sorts?”

Miss McLaren jerked her gaze to the kippers. “I’m not quite sure, sir. I barely know her.”

Garrett reached out and laid a hand over hers. “I’m merely concerned about her. It cannot be easy being the lone woman in a building full of men.”

“She—I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”

“I won’t let her know.”

Miss McLaren’s eyes softened. “She looked surprised to see me there. As if she was hiding something. And she…she…”

“Please,” Garrett asked, holding her gaze. Forcing her to look at him, to trust him. “She seems out of sorts of late and we argued yesterday. I only want to know if she’s all right.”

Again Miss McLaren seemed caught on the edge of a precipice. “She seemed upset. And, if I didn’t know any better, I’d believe she left the building. Or at least, she had a small satchel with her. I was… My room felt so small that I spent most of the night pacing the hallways, and I never saw her return.”

“Satchel?” Byrnes asked.

“Left the building?” Why the hell would she have needed to go out last night? A cold hand gripped the back of Garrett’s neck as he shoved his chair back and stood.

“Yes,” Miss McLaren whispered. “She asked me not to say anything to you.”