My Lady Quicksilver (16 page)

Lynch glanced over the rail, assessing the bloody marks on the floor and the shattered paintings along the hall. “Just once?”

“I didn’t have time for a second shot. He turned on me and I went down. Somehow we ended up there—” Byrnes pointed at the spot below. “I’d lost the pistol by then.” He looked up, hard gaze locking on Lynch’s. “I had to rip his heart out of his chest. He was trying to gut me.” A shudder. “Christ, he was strong.”

Lynch surveyed the scene one last time then turned. “Show him to me.”

They’d taken the body to the main bedroom upstairs. The cloying scent of blood stained the air and Rosalind swallowed hard as she stepped inside. Someone had dragged a sheet over the body and Lynch strode to it, twitching it aside. His large body blocked her view and for that she was grateful. She’d seen enough macabre sights tonight.

Dropping the sheet, he turned, candlelight washing over his too-smooth features. “I want your report on my desk by morning. You’d best leave. If Bleight sees you, he’ll want your head—”

A shout sounded outside. They all spun toward the window and Lynch pushed past, twitching aside the curtains. “Go,” he said. “Out the back and return to the guild. Take a small guard.”

“Surely the duke wouldn’t attack anyone,” Rosalind murmured. Bleight was a vulture who sat on the council and circled for prey, but her dossier said he was once of the most cautious of the Council, choosing to pick his fights and rarely proclaiming them.

Lynch shot her a hard look as Byrnes left the room. “Don’t leave my side. Try to be inconspicuous.” He swore under his breath, grabbing her arm. “I should never have brought you here.”

“Lynch!” someone roared. The sound came from inside the house.

Lynch’s grip tightened, then he cursed again and started toward the door.

“Get your goddamned hands off me, you cur!” The voice was sodden with rage. “Lynch! You bastard, where’s my son? Where’s my bloody son?!”

Lynch stepped up to the rail by the stairs. “Release him.” His voice rang through the entry.

Rosalind hovered in the shadows as much as possible. Below her, the old Duke of Bleight threw off the restraining grip of two Nighthawks. His own men, in their dashing red livery, had followed him in and the hallway looked like a sea of red and black. The black outnumbered the red, but not by much.

Dozens of blue bloods. Rosa’s eyes narrowed fractionally, her gaze raking the hall. No faces she recognized. Her shoulders relaxed.

“You bastard!” Bleight bellowed. “You vengeful prick! You’re behind this! You wanted everything he ever had!”

Lynch stepped forward, tugging at the soft leather gloves he wore. “Your Grace,” he said sharply, “perhaps you’d care to discuss this in private? Your son’s body has been removed to the bedroom. If you’d like—”

“I’ll discuss nothing with you,” Bleight hissed, starting up the stairs. “Get out. Get out before I kill you.” The old duke’s hand lowered to rest on the hilt of his sword. His pale face was even whiter with stress, his eyes glittering with malice.

Below them a half dozen men stiffened at the implied threat. Rosalind straightened as her vision narrowed on the duke. She could almost feel the cool ring of sweat around her garter, where it held her pistol in place.

The sword hissed as it cleared its scabbard. Below, a pair of Nighthawks leaped toward the stairs but Lynch took a commanding step forward, holding up his hand. “I’ll leave, Your Grace. But if you would consider having some of my men remain, to examine the—”

“Get out!” Bleight swung the sword, cool gaslight glimmering off the razor edge of the blade.

Lynch ducked and the sword sheared through the elegant railing at the top of the stairs and stuck. Bleight snarled, yanking it free with a force that belied his evident age.

Lips thinning, Lynch stepped back, his hands held in a placating manner in front of him.

What the devil was he doing? Why did he not fight back? Rosalind had seen him in action; the duke didn’t stand a chance.

Swinging wildly, the duke slashed forward as Lynch stepped out of the way, his back hitting the wall. Lynch’s gaze met hers for a moment and narrowed in warning. Rosalind just had time to realize she’d stepped forward, her hand dipping automatically into her pocket when Bleight followed the direction of Lynch’s gaze.

“Is she yours?” the duke asked in a soft, threatening voice.

This close, Rosalind could see the darkness of his pupils threatening to overtake his irises. Her corset tightened and her fingers clamped around the smooth grip of her pistol through the slit in the bottom of her pocket. If he made one move toward her, she’d blow his head off.

“Don’t,” Lynch warned. For a moment, she thought he referred to the duke, then she realized that his stark gaze was locked on hers.

Reality flooded in. Kill the duke and she’d be executed by dawn. Rosalind’s finger rubbed the trigger hesitantly. Trust that Lynch knew what he was doing? Or take action? She hovered on the precipice, staring into the mad duke’s eyes. She’d never stop him in time if he attacked her; a blue blood was simply too fast.

Her hand slowly withdrew and she took a shaky breath. Trusting Lynch went against all of her instincts, but she had no choice.

Bleight turned on her with a snarl, the sword cutting through the air. Rosalind threw herself backward, tripping over her skirts and tumbling to the floor. The sword gleamed eerily in the bluish light as it arced toward her.

Then Lynch was between them, slamming his body hard against the duke’s. A sharp hiss of pain filled the air and blood spattered her face. The pair staggered into the railing, which gave with a sharp crack.

“
No
!” She snatched at Lynch’s cloak, her fingers closing over air, and then they were gone.

The dull smack as they landed dragged her to the edge. She peered through the broken gap of rail as Lynch smashed his elbow into the duke’s face. Somehow he’d gotten the upper hand and forced the duke’s sword hand to the floor. Grabbing Bleight by the throat, he crouched over him with a snarl.

Around them, both the Nighthawks and the duke’s men had danced back, clearing a circle. One of the red-clad guards stepped forward and Lynch looked up, baring his teeth. “Enough!”

Looking down, he smashed the duke’s hand to the tiles. The sword clattered free, and as he stood, Lynch kicked it away. He staggered back, clapping a hand to his side.

Blood dripped on the floor.

Rosalind shoved to her feet, hurrying for the stairs. The moment when he’d leaped in front of her flashed before her eyes. He’d taken the blow meant for her.

She couldn’t quite name the emotion that gripped her. Lynch shot her a quelling look and Rosalind slowed, her steps flagging. She couldn’t see how badly he was bleeding against the black of his leather body armor. Nor could she ask him, not now, in front of the duke and his men. Any sign of weakness and Bleight would be on them.

“We’re going,” Lynch commanded. He nodded sharply to his men. “I want all preliminary reports completed by morning.” Gesturing her to his side, he put his free hand in the small of her back—an almost protective gesture—and ushered her close to his body.

Bleight struggled into a sitting position, spitting blood. “I’ll have your head for that—”

Lynch turned swiftly and the duke flinched, some of his men stepping forward with their hands dropping to their weapons. All eyes were upon him as he glared down at the duke. “If you ever make a move against one of mine again, you’ll face me in the atrium. I swear it.” Then Lynch shoved free and, taking Rosalind by the arm, ushered her to the door.

Nine

“How badly are you bleeding?”

Lynch pressed back against the carriage seat as the door closed, locking them in darkness. He could hear Perry outside, snapping at the men to get out of her way as she clambered up onto the driver’s seat. A rumble started beneath him as Perry kicked the boilers into gear.

“Lynch?”

He dragged his attention back inside as Mrs. Marberry knelt on the seat beside him, her skirts tumbling across his legs. He shouldn’t be feeling this weak—damn Bleight. Taking a shuddery breath, he peeled his hand away from the wound in his side and winced. The scent of blood flooded his nose, saliva springing into his mouth. His world was spinning slightly, the warm press of the body beside him his only anchor.

So hot. So tempting. The color drained out of his vision, leaving him with the silvery patina of moonlight across the pale skin of Rosa’s throat. Instantly the demon within him leaped to the surface, threatening to drown him. Desire was a sharp ache that cut like a knife, his gut clenching in need.
Christ
.

He grabbed her upper arm, intending to push her away. The muscle beneath his touch tightened but Rosa didn’t withdraw. Lynch loomed over her, the subtler scent of lemon and linen washing through him.

He shuddered. “Devil take you, leave me be!” The words were a harsh croak as he clung to sanity by the finest of threads.

“Here,” she said grimly, withdrawing something from her reticule. Silver flashed in the moonlight as the steam carriage lurched into motion with a teakettle hiss. The sound of a flask being unscrewed drew his focus and then Rosa was pressing it to his lips.

Blood washed over his tongue. Lynch caught her wrist in surprise, then tipped the flask up. He needed blood. Lots of it—anything to focus his mind and leash the demon within.

Draining the flask, he collapsed back against the plush carriage seats, panting. Rosa took it from him and neatly screwed the lid back on.

He could feel her watching him. The world seemed to fade until it was just the pair of them, breathing softly in the dark interior. Even the pain in his side ebbed to a dull throb as the craving virus began to heal him. Come morning there wouldn’t even be a scar, courtesy of his high CV levels.

“Thank you,” he said.

Rosa let out a low breath. “I should be thanking
you
. That blade was meant for me. Here.” Leaning closer, she fumbled at his chest. “Let me have a look at it.”

“It will heal.”

Tugging at her gloves, she eased them off, her pale hands finding the buckles to his body armor and snapping one open. Even in the faint moonlight, he caught a glimpse of the scarred back of her left hand and the paler skin.
My
father
… He suddenly wanted to know what the man had done to her but he didn’t ask. This was the first time she’d ever removed her gloves in front of him and as he glanced up, he realized that she knew he’d been staring at her slightly thickened fingers.

Rosa swiftly glanced down, tugging at another buckle. Heat darkened her cheeks as if embarrassed by his attention. Lynch didn’t give a damn about the deformity, but he would respect her wishes in the matter and not mention it.

He winced as the leather breastplate gave way. Built to stop a knife or a blow, it had been poor defense against Bleight’s sword.

“Why did he do it?” she asked softly. Taking hold of his undershirt in both hands, she ripped it up the side, baring his skin to her gaze.

Lynch shivered at the chill, feeling the cool blood pulsing down his hip. The blade had taken him high, just beneath the ribs. “Do what?”

Gentle fingertips probed the slash. “Attack you. Why did he think you had something to do with his son’s death?”

“I told you, Alistair and I were cousins.” Lynch bared his teeth in a silent hiss as she touched a particularly tender spot. “Bleight has long held the position that I desired Alistair’s place as heir of the House.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“It was the truth,” he told her, watching her expression in the flickering light from the passing gaslights. “Once.”

Her silence was almost unbearable. A hungry, curious yearning filled her expression. “Of course. You were Lord Arrondale’s cousin—which makes you the duke’s nephew.”

“Third in line to the duchy,” he said with a bleak smile. “My father and Bleight were never friends. My father was born an hour after Bleight and he never forgot it.”

Her gloved thumb stroked against the bare flesh of his side. “He wanted you to be duke?”

“He pushed me to compete with Alistair in all things, to prove myself. Alistair was heir by right of birth, but I could overthrow him if I chose. All I had to do was duel him in front of the court when we came of age. And kill him.” Memory was a sharp stab. He would have done anything for his father, but not that.

Lynch looked down beneath his lashes at the soft fingers that unconsciously stroked his hip. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“You’re weak,” she said, her white teeth flashing a quick smile. “And I’m taking advantage of the moment.” Sitting back with a sigh, she tugged her skirts up.

The sight stilled him. Acres of frothy white petticoats gleamed in the weak moonlight, revealing smooth, stocking-clad calves. Taking hold of the hem of her petticoats, she tore them with a sharp rip that made his gut clench.

“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

“I’m not taking advantage of you in that way. You may relax.” Wadding the fine linen into a ball, she tore another long strip, yanking sharply on the material with little care to the fact that his eyes were locked on her ankles.

Tossing her skirts down, Rosa knelt on the seat, bending forward. Shadows enveloped her upper body, but he could still see the faint outline of her breasts as she pressed her makeshift pad to his side. Sliding her arms around his waist, she tugged the long piece of linen around his back and dragged it clear with a determined expression.

Her teeth worried at her lip as she worked. Lynch watched, entirely frozen. He could feel the heat off her body and sense the scant inch between them. She was nothing but darkness and warmth, a shadow of a woman who ignited his desire, his dreams. And instantly he knew that when he was finally alone, he’d dream of her like this.

The thought shocked him. It had been Mercury on his mind, night after night, but there was something about the shadow-wreathed woman in front of him that drew him. A sense of…tenderness.

His own secretary. Bloody hell. If he was one of his men, he’d have strung himself up by the heels.