The Hunter (15 page)

“It’s madness, at first, or maybe always. It’s … possession and fear, passion and joy. It’s indescribably sweet, and utterly terrifying. It’s different for everyone, I imagine.”

Argent made a noise, whether agreement or despondence, Dorian couldn’t be sure. “Watch yourself, Argent,” Blackwell advised. “This is a path you may not be ready to tread.”

Ever,
he said silently to himself.

The sky licked the cobblestones with copper as Argent turned to slink back into the shadows. He muttered something that was carried away by the early evening breeze. Dorian thought it was something like, “Just for one night,” but he couldn’t be certain.

Argent might not be one to lie to others to spare their feelings, but if he believed he could let that actress go after only one night, Dorian truly wondered if the assassin lied to himself.

In any case,
he thought as he pointed his boots in the direction of his wife. Did Millicent LeCour know just what she was involved with and if she had the wherewithal to deal with a man like Christopher Argent?

If not, God help her, because no man alive, himself included, had ever been able to.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

If she had to identify the most surreal moments of her life, Millie was certain
this
would be near the top of the list. It had taken her some time to charm the stoic Hassan into saying more than two words. But she’d done it, by Jove, and now he was expertly applying charcoal color to outline her eyes at her behest. Millie had done her own stage makeup for years, but the precision with which the Arab accented his chocolate eyes sent her into fits of envy.

It was certainly to her benefit that she had her own dressing room, as Hassan had garnered so much attention backstage at Covent Garden, she was certain they’d never make the curtain call.

Though his features were sharp enough to etch glass, his wide-set gentle eyes reminded her of the good-natured carriage horses of the West End. When he leaned this close to her, she inhaled the scents of sand and musk and a spice that reminded her of flowing white tents, veiled women, and strong, dark vagabond tribes.

She’d found him fascinating and instantly determined they must be friends.

The dark blue of his head wrap and multitude of robes blurred with each swipe of the brush he used to apply the kohl as the gentle pressure pushed her lid against her eye.

Another face, with large, breathtakingly blue eyes and hair the color of dark sand, leaned on her knee and watched the process with fascination. Jakub, her son. Her small, sweet, beautiful boy. The boy for which she’d give her life, because he gave her life meaning. The boy for whom she’d made a deal with the very devil, himself.

She couldn’t think about that now. About
him
. Christopher Argent. A mercenary, assassin, and her soon-to-be lover. He’d return for her. Soon she would be in his bed.

Or wherever he decided to have her.

Suddenly her skin budded with chills so exquisite they ached, and she let out a trembling exhale.

“Remain still,” Hassan commanded gently.

“Mister Hassan, why do you line your eyes with black?” Jakub queried, his wire-rimmed spectacles magnifying his eyes from innocent to owlish.

“Because, little
rassam walad,
in my homeland the sun is so close and so unrelenting that the kohl protects the eyes from its fire and allows a man to see far across the desert.”

Jakub nodded, plucking at the collar of his crisp shirt. “Mister Hassan, why do you call me
rassam walad
?”

The Arab never faltered in his task as he used a small piece of linen to expertly smudge the liner around her lid and draw it out to accentuate the almond shape of Millie’s eye. “In my language it means painter boy.” Hassam gestured his bearded chin toward Jakub’s pile of art supplies arranged compulsively in a little corner. “In my homeland, painting is a sacred profession, a gift bestowed by Allah.”

“Oh.” Dimples appeared on each side of the boy’s chin as his round cheeks pinkened with a bit of embarrassment and shy pleasure. Then his brows drew together as a thought struck him. “But Mister Hassan, the sun is not so close in London. It barely visits at all.”

“This is so,
rassam walad
, but when far from home, it does one good to maintain the traditions of one’s people, so that the heart can remain close to those he loves but must live without.”

Sadness swam up from the depths of the Arab’s liquid dark eyes as he paused to gaze down at Jakub with nostalgic affection. Millie caught herself wondering if Hassan had a little
rassam walad
of his own. Not for the first time, she wondered what the Arab was doing so far from his beloved homeland and who he’d left behind. Was he a refugee? A criminal? Could he be a hired killer like Argent? It didn’t seem likely, though she’d caught the gleam of the hilt of a long jeweled dagger hidden in his voluminous robes.

“Mister Hassan, do you—”

“Jakub,
kochanie
.” Millie cupped his little chin in her gentle hand. “Why don’t you give poor Mister Hassan a rest and set up your easel?”

Her son’s little mouth puckered and he looked down and to the side. “Yes, Mama,” he mumbled.

Jakub scrambled to his makeshift art corner and flung open his box of paints, gingerly selecting a few umbers, golds, reds, and blues for careful inspection. Next, he would mix them with the precision of an alchemist and the focus of a savant, all the world disappearing for him until he created the perfect pigment.

Millie offered an apologetic smile to their interim guardian, but his expression conveyed that it was not necessary. It was true that Jakub was an exceptionally intelligent child, and that came with a profusion of inquisitiveness, but in general his extreme shyness kept him from speaking more than a few words to strangers. She supposed the boy’s fascination with all things odd and new overcame his timidity with the imposing Arab.

Indeed, Millie had to bite back a barrage of her own questions. Such as, how did the foreigner come to know Christopher Argent? What did he know about the assassin’s proclivities, sexual and otherwise? What had he gleaned about who was after her and why?

“I have finished, madam.” Hassan stepped back and squinted at his handiwork before dipping his chin in a satisfied nod.

Millie turned to the mirror and caught her breath. He’d done a splendid job. She’d never felt more like Desdemona. An innocent, virtuous woman, slandered by the whims of wicked men and killed for a sin she’d never committed.

Lord, who could better relate than she?

“Bless you, Hassan, you’ve performed a wonder.”

He gave another bow. “And I am certain Madam will perform a wonder upon the stage tonight, secure in the knowledge that I will give my life unto the safety of her son.”

Millie had to suppress the urge to throw her arms around the fatherly man with the gentle eyes and the dangerous knife. She had a feeling such contact would offend him, so she bowed her head to him, mimicking his previous gesture. “Thank you,” she whispered, before clearing emotion out of her voice.

“What do you think,
kochanie
?” She faked a relaxed smile she didn’t at all feel.

“You look splendid, Mama,” Jakub encouraged, never once glancing up at her from where he knelt surrounded by his paints and studying his canvas.

Sighing, she shook her head and stood, tugging on the front of her silk robe to make sure she maintained her modesty around the Mussulman. Her costume, a wine-red velvet dress with fake pearls beaded across little gold braids on the bodice, hung from a mannequin perched in front of a dressing screen. “Pardon me whilst I dress,” she murmured.

“Madam.” Hassan hesitated, his dark eyes cast at the floor. “I mean you no offense, but I am already skirting a sin, being almost alone in a room with an unmarried woman. Since your son is here, it is my hope that Allah, God, forgives me. But if you were to disrobe … even behind a screen…” He trailed off politely, keeping his judgment of her lifestyle to himself.

Embarrassed by her ignorance, Millie bit her lip. “Would you like to step outside the door? I’ll call you back when I’m finished.”

“That isn’t something either of you need to worry about now.” The dark voice sliced through her room like a sudden arctic chill.

Millie’s head snapped toward the doorway, where Christopher Argent filled its width shoulder to shoulder. Dressed in a fine gray suit, he again resembled Bentley Drummle, the man she’d met before. Charming, charismatic, affected with the same ennui bemoaned by so many wealthy Londoners.

But she knew better now, didn’t she? Beneath his unnatural stillness and enigmatic expression lurked someone much more sinister and, alternately, more intriguing.

“You may go, Hassan.” Argent pulled an envelope from his suit coat, and handed the graceful Arab what Millie assumed was payment for her protection.

With no small amount of curiosity, Millie wondered what her life was worth.

“Thank you, Argent.” Hassan dipped his head with respect as he took the envelope. “Convey my regards to Blackwell.” Turning to Millie, he bowed to her. “It has been an honor to know you and your son.
Fi Amanullah
. May God protect you.”

“Fare you well, sir.” Millie curtsied to him, and in a soft swish of blue robes, he glided past Argent and was gone.

Millie was alone with an assassin.

Again.

They stared at one another in silence, and only when Millie’s lungs began burning did she realize that she’d been holding her breath.

She released it in a tumble of words. “Mr. Argent, this is my son, Jakub. Jakub, come and meet Mr. Christopher Argent, our—guardian.” She’d explained their need for temporary bodyguards to him the morning she’d hired the McGivney brothers in as vague and careful terms as possible. It angered her that her son didn’t always feel safe. That he had to fear the shadows.

Even when he stood, Jakub’s little neck had to tilt back so far his head rested on his shoulders to look the towering man in the face. Though his spectacles always seemed to magnify his eyes, they were wide with obvious wonder.

“Are you a giant, Mr. Argent?” he asked.

“No.” Argent blinked, but showed no offense.

“Jakub,” Millie reprimanded, worried that a man who killed people for a living might not take care with the feelings of a small, inquisitive child.

Jakub straightened at the censure in her voice and wandered over to Argent, remembering his manners. “I mean, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he amended.

Looking much like a barbarian in a gentleman’s suit, the assassin regarded the little boy’s upstretched hand with undue assessment before reaching down to take it with two careful fingers.

“Likewise,” Argent muttered, letting the boy shake twice before snatching his hand back.

“Was your father a Viking?” Jakub resumed his interview.

“I couldn’t say,” the assassin answered blandly. “I never knew my father.”

At that, the little boy brightened. “Neither did I.”

Millie’s heart squeezed, but she couldn’t instantly identify the cause. Because her son was without a father, a fact he now stated with little to no sorrow? Perhaps because he had common ground with such a villain? Or because she’d never seen the boy so animated around anyone except for the two mysterious and dangerous men she’d been forced to allow into his life. Could the cause be that the stoic assassin had just been so gentle with her boy?

Lord, it would do her well to not notice such things.

“Maybe you’re half a giant,” Jakub assessed. “Like your father could have been one.”

Argent peered down at the child as though examining a queer sort of oddity. “I very much doubt it.”

“But you don’t
know
that he wasn’t, if you never met him.”

The assassin paused. “I suppose there’s a certain logic to that.”

“It’s only that you’re so
big.
” Jakub held out both of his hands to demonstrate the largest size he possibly could.

“Jakub.” Millie shooed him back toward his paints. “You’re being impolite.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Jakub mumbled, chastised. “Sorry, Mr. Argent.”

“Why don’t you finish your portrait,
kochanie,
while I get dressed?” Millie kissed him and turned to Argent, noting that she’d subconsciously placed her body in between her son and the so-called giant.

The assassin hadn’t missed it either, though if it bothered him, Millie couldn’t tell. His features were smooth and cool as pressed satin.

“Would you … like to step out while I dress, sir?” She gestured to the door, and again to her robe, beneath which she only wore her corset and underthings. As an actress, she wasn’t used to adhering to the rules of modesty as her life was full of backstage costume changes. But she suddenly felt quite shy.

“No.” His gaze sharpened and his features tightened.

Millie found herself breathless yet again. Something told her that to insist would be folly, and she certainly wouldn’t want to create a scene in front of her child. If they were truly going to be lovers this night, then why make an issue of diffidence?

Because he unnerved her. Because she’d been unprepared for him to invade her space and claim it as his own. Perhaps … because she’d forgotten how intensely compelling and frightening and awe-inspiring his presence truly was in the scant hours they’d spent apart.

“Then—may I induce you to sit, Mr. Argent?” Millie gestured to a chaise, one of the only available surfaces in the disarray of her dressing room. She silently wished he’d take it. He
was
an unusually large man, and somehow her dressing room had become too small with him inside it. As though he’d claimed all the air, the space, the notice of every little sensory nerve on her body. And while his eyes were arctic, his effect on her was anything but.

Her skin bloomed with warmth when he was nearby, even though he sometimes caused chills to spread through her. She found the paradox rather alarming.

He made no move to sit, just stared at her silently with those blue, blue eyes, and for a moment, Millie wondered if he’d heard her.