Winterblaze (18 page)

She drew near, knowing that he was aware of her. She fancied she could see the knowledge hardening over his fine, strong features. He let it go for a few steps more then rose gracefully to his feet and drew out a chair for her.

“Morning,” he said in his raspy voice. “Have you eaten?”

She sat in her chair as he poured fresh coffee into his cup and pushed it toward her. “No.” She took a grateful drink.

He frowned, which, with his scars, made him appear all the more disreputable. “You ought to take better care. The child needs nourishment.”

The cup clinked as she set it down. “Which would be moot if I were to simply cast the food back up.” She scowled down at her hands, aware that he was staring at her. “I feel slightly ill this morning.”

Her chest ached where Isley had struck her, and her head throbbed. She wanted to nap, even though she’d just risen. She wanted someone else to carry her load for a moment or two. Hell, she just wanted off this great, rocking prison. As that would happen in a few hours, she refused to be churlish about it a moment longer and slowly lifted her gaze to his. Win’s eyes gave her no indication of his feelings.

“You’ve a plan, I gather.” She took another sip of coffee and felt a bit more restored. Perhaps a sweet bun was in order, after all.

“Yes.” Win lifted a hand in the air, and a waiter started over. “Find this Moira Darling and solve the case for the bastard.” He turned to the waiter. “My wife will have…”

“Sweet buns,” she supplied. When he left, she turned back to Win. “You’ve always been able to do that? How?”

His gorgeously stern mouth quirked, and she was hit anew by the need to kiss those lips. “Because I know how to read you.” The smile faded. “Or I used to think I did.”

Her heart kicked in her chest. “You obviously still do it well enough to know I wanted food.”

“There is that,” he murmured, stealing a sip of coffee.

“Win?” Poppy ran a finger along the edge of the marble tabletop, studying her progress rather than face him.
“Did it… Would you have preferred it if I had expressed my anger more… vocally? Over the years, that is.” Blast, but her cheeks were too hot.

He set his coffee cup on its saucer. “Would it have been so terrible? To let me in, let me share your burden?”

Her finger slid back and forth over the marble. She cleared her throat. “I thought you’d prefer your wife to exhibit at least some womanly virtue.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him lean back in his chair, and she made herself look up. His arms were folded, resting on his lean middle. A hint of wry amusement flickered in his eyes, but there was irritation dwelling there as well. “I see. So then you would rather I behaved the common husband, demanded you stay at home, darn my stockings, and so forth?!”

“That is hardly the same.”

“Is it not?” His shoulders tightened. “I was under the impression that the things we were
not
brought us together as much as the things we were.”

Typical Winston logic. Her face heated further. He moved then, in his quick, economical way, and sat up fully in the chair once more. “I’ve a lead to follow in London. The Komtesse Krogstad. I’ve never heard of her, but she apparently knew the demon as Lord Isley sixteen years ago.”

“I know her,” Poppy said with a lurch. “She lives in Chelsea.”

His steady blue-grey eyes held hers. “How do you know her?” Which translated to:
When during our marriage were you consorting with komtesses? And why?

She refused to apologize. “She’s a demimondaine and a member of the Aesthetic movement, which means she interacts with a great deal of, shall we say, eccentrics. It
puts her in a key position to notice certain supernatural activities.” Poppy paused as the waiter returned and set down a basket of fresh baked bread and two plates. Her mouth actually watered at the scent, and she tucked into a sweet bun, chewing vigorously before swallowing it down with another sip of coffee.
Heaven.
“The Komtesse has been an SOS informant for years.”

“Mmm.” Win selected a roll and tore off a chunk before popping it in his mouth. Unlike her, his manners remained impeccable. Well, she thought irritably, he wasn’t beset by sudden bouts of insatiable hunger. She took another large bite of the sweet bread.

“Questioning her,” he said, “ought to go a bit more smoothly in that case.”

Poppy forced herself to ignore the bread. “Win, I want to help you.”

He stared back with those eyes that saw everything and gave nothing away unless he let them. “I want you to help me,” he said softly, and her insides went warm.

“Good.” She nodded and snuck just one more bite of the roll.

He looked like he might say more so she cut him off, not wanting to hear him discuss last night before she could. “We shall solve this case, eradicate this bloody bargain, capture Isley, and then…”

“And then,” he prompted, his voice even, almost dull, his expression going hard once again. “What then, Poppy?”

Her heart pounded. Did he dare make
her
ask? Beg for them to be a family? Not like this. Her hand clenched the smooth curve of the coffee cup. “And then this business shall be over, of course.”

Something snuffed in his eyes, like a flame blown
out, and again came the feeling of failing a test that he’d laid out for her. It made her want to throw the cup across the room, just to see it smash. She calmly returned his gaze.

“Right,” he said. But when she made to rise, his hand snaked out and clamped around her wrist, holding her still. “Until then, let me correct certain misapprehensions. We may no longer live as husband and wife, but there is more than just you and me to consider. There is our child. We are in this together now.” His grip tightened. “Together, Boadicea. If you fall, I
will
catch you. I do not expect you to trust me on that. Not yet.” His eyes were hard, and he stared her down, but his touch suddenly became unbearably gentle and secure. “But I shall work at every moment to make you believe it.”

Disembarking went smoothly. The train ride from Southampton to London was made in relative silence. It wasn’t until they stood on the platform at Victoria Station and faced each other over their stacked travel trunks that the reality of returning home fell upon them. Win’s deep-set eyes watched her, letting the moment grow between them, and she saw his hesitation, as if he did not want to be the one to state the obvious—that he would now go back to whatever rooms he’d let.

Irritatingly, the backs of Poppy’s eyes began to burn and prickle. She’d grown used to him again. When he’d left, it had taken weeks to finally get a full night’s rest. A hard-earned struggle now destroyed by two days of being with him once again. Damn it all.

This man could hurt her. More than anyone on earth. For she had exposed her heart to him in all its pink, fleshy glory. He knew its pathways and its weaknesses. Where
she would bleed the most if he chose to slice into her. In truth, he’d already made the first cut, leaving her blood to run not hot but ice cold down the walls of her chest. Wounded as she was, it would not take much for him to finish her. This man could do much worse than hurt her. This man could destroy her.

Behind them, Mary Chase and Jack Talent waited, both of them trying their best to blend into the scenery. Ye gods, would the ignominy of her situation ever end? She detested public spectacle, and now it was hers.

She straightened, refusing to hug herself or acknowledge the thickness in her throat. “Well then, I suppose we ought to go.”

A rare break in the cloud cover sent a few rays of brilliant light down upon them, and Win’s eyes fell into shadow under the brim of his bowler. “Yes,” he said in his husky voice, then shifted his weight, sending more of his features into darkness.

She looked at him and set her jaw firm.
Do not make me ask it. Do not make me.

The line of his shoulders became stiff and unyielding. “Look here, I do not think we should separate. It isn’t safe.”

Sternness tempered his tone, as if he thought she’d argue. It took her a moment to clear her throat. “If you think it best.”

“I do.” He gave her a sharp nod then turned to Talent. “Take our trunks to Ranulf House.”

Talent frowned. “I ought to go with you.”

Win gave a tight, quick smile. “I believe we can all agree that I am no longer in imminent danger of being attacked by the demon.” Because of their loyalty, Poppy
and Win had given both Talent and Mary a basic explanation of the situation.

Win, obviously seeing the disappointment etched on Talent’s face, added, “Should further developments arise, I shall not hesitate to solicit your help, Mr. Talent.”

Talent appeared somewhat mollified. “And where do I put Miss Chase here?” he asked with a bored flick of his thumb in Mary’s direction.

Mary bristled. “You do not ‘put’ me anywhere, Mr. Talent.”

Win cleared his throat. “Find Miss Chase proper accommodations in Ranulf House.” His visage grew stern. “And behave.”

Talent muttered under his breath but complied with a sweeping bow. Poppy bit back a smile as the pair began to bicker about who would hail a porter and who would find the cab.

Sighing, Win left them to it and his assessing gaze swept over her once more. “Have you a need to rest now?”

“No.” She might go mad if she were to be cooped up in another room so soon, and the day promised to be fresh and bright for once. She fell in step beside Winston.

“Win, why Ranulf House?”

“It is where I’ve been staying.”

“You’ve been staying with the lycans?” Shock colored her words. Lycans, while not werewolves, could turn into them, and they had the ability to unleash claws and fangs. They were more than capable of hurting Win in the exact fashion he’d been hurt before. And he’d set up house with them.

His expression turned wry. “A man might as well face his fears, or let them rule him.”

She wanted to wrap her arms about him so badly that
her limbs twitched. She knew he did not think of himself as brave. But he was. More so than she.

Win shifted his weight as though uncomfortable with her silence. “The place is a veritable fortress.”

“It is at that.” No demon in its right mind would try to infiltrate a den of lycans.

W
inston guided Poppy to the hack stands but she stopped short. He followed the direction of her gaze. A smart town coach painted glossy, ox-blood red and trimmed in gold stood at the curb. No crest graced the doors, but the coachman and two outriders were dressed in fine black livery. As if sensing her notice, one of the toms jumped down and bowed.

“A friend of yours?” Win asked.

“Yes.” She appeared both pleased and yet put out. Before he could ask another question, Poppy started forward, and Win followed.

The coach’s window curtains were drawn tight, and Win blinked in the dim interior as he climbed inside.

“Forgive the darkness, Mr. Lane,” said a woman.

His sight adjusted and settled on a diminutive woman tucked up against the black velvet squabs. Raven hair surrounded the pale moon of her face. Her red lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “I’ve a skin ailment which erupts upon exposure to sunlight.” Her words came out clipped with a
deep roll in the middle. Russian perhaps, but she’d been in England long enough for it to have faded.

Her gown, however, was purely Asiatic. Made of crimson silk and embroidered with silver dragons, it was exotic and strange, yet seemed to suit her in some way that he suspected proper English gowns would not.

He took the seat on the opposite bench next to Poppy, who appeared perfectly at ease. “I’ve heard of such ailments,” he said. “Any small bit of sunlight exposure results in rapid skin burns.”

The smile grew a shade more. “Precisely.”

“Winston,” Poppy said. “This is Lena. She is my lieutenant, for lack of a better word.”

“Madam.” Poppy hadn’t offered a last name, but Win’s upbringing protested against using the woman’s given name.

Lena inclined her head, and the beaded hair sticks that speared her coiffure clattered. “Mr. Lane.” She turned her dark eyes back to Poppy. “What news?”

Poppy informed Lena with clipped tones then leaned back with a small sigh, and for once, she appeared utterly exhausted. Win let his hand fall to the seat, and their pinkies touched.

“Do you know who this Moira Darling could be?” Poppy asked Lena. The tip of her pinky moved against his. The light touch sent a lightning bolt of lust down the pathways of his nerves. Crossing one leg over the other, he watched Lena carefully.

The woman’s slim shoulders swayed gently with the rhythm of the coach as she stared back at Poppy. “No.”

For the life of him, Win could not tell if she was lying. Quite the feat since he ferreted out the best of liars. Save one. Poppy studied Lena as well, but seemed to be satisfied with the answer.

Again Poppy’s little finger stroked him. He stroked back, trailing his pinky along her slimmer one. A shiver of sensation lit over his heated skin. Win cleared his throat. “She stole something from him. We do not know what.”

At this, Lena gave a brittle smile. “Sounds like Isley, having a fit of pique over losing some nonsensical object.”