My Lady Quicksilver

Nineteen

A knock on the door woke him up.

Lynch dragged himself into a sitting position, the sheet pooling in his lap. Darkness skated through his vision and his fist clenched in the mattress before he took a deep breath. How long would it be like this? Every sudden move and sound stirring the hunger inside him? It terrified him that he was still so close to the darkness within. One wrong move and he could be lost in the shadows again, seeing nothing but prey.

Looking at his own men as if they were the enemy and as for Mrs. Marberry… He looked around then. There was no sign of her, beyond the faint, elusive scent that lingered on his sheets and his skin. Last night had been a revelation, both of the flesh and of herself. In the dark, he’d made love to her twice more as the hunger rose in him, sating himself on her flesh. In between, she’d curled in his arms, whispering with him. Quiet words. Little secrets. Bits of herself and some of the life she’d led on the streets before her father had found her. Of him, she said very little, and yet the not saying was telling enough.

She must have left him sometime during the night.

No, the darkness inside him roared.

Scraping a shaking hand over his jaw, Lynch swallowed. “Come in.”

Doyle backed into the room, bringing a breakfast tray with a flask of warmed blood and the Standard neatly folded atop it. Lynch’s gaze narrowed in on his friend’s throat and he looked away, his face draining of color.

How long, damn it?

“My lord.” Doyle stared at him, as though searching for signs of it in his face. “You’re lookin’ better this morn.”

Lynch nodded brusquely. “I feel it too.” Awkward silence descended and he gestured to his side table. The scent of the warmed blood spilled his vision over into tones of gray again, and his nostrils flared as he took tight rein of himself.

“Got the paper, sir.” Doyle rambled on, the same as any other morning. Or not quite the same. Tension stiffened his shoulders. “And your letters.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Two of them. The Council wishes a progress report—and to remind you that you got only two days left.”

“How kind of them.” His mood soured, black heat spilling through his eyes. Perhaps he should accept a meeting and show them what he thought of their solicitousness.

“And this.” Doyle held a scrap of paper up between his fingers, his brows arching. “One o’ your little pigeons, no doubt.”

Lynch took the folded note, eyeing the frayed edges and the stained parchment. None of the boys he paid for information could read or write. Anticipation became a sharp edge within him. He tore it open, gaze raking the few lines.

“I know something you don’t. Meet me at the Dog and Thistle, Shoreditch, at twelve.”

He didn’t recognize the writing, but he knew who it was from immediately. Tension coiled in his gut muscle, the thought of Mrs. Marberry springing to mind. Her husky laugh as she lay in his arms last night, her eyes sparkling with teasing humor as she lifted her lips to press a tender kiss against his pectoral muscle. By going to meet Mercury, he was effectively pretending nothing had changed when the entire world had shifted around him.

But the letter… Dare he ignore it?

He crushed it in his fist. If he didn’t find a way out of the looming jaws of the Echelon’s trap, then either way, it wouldn’t matter. He had to do something to appease the prince consort. “Get my body armor.”

A pair of Coldrush Guards in nondescript clothing tried to follow him, but he lost them at the wall, ducking into the thick weave of the East End. This was his world, not theirs, and he knew it like the back of his hand.

The Dog and Thistle bustled with drinkers; working class laborers and grizzled old seamen. Lynch dragged the collar of his coat up around his throat and pushed between them, the press of bodies arousing his predatory instincts. He could hear the steady pulse of every man’s heartbeat, the sight of the barmaid throwing back her head with laughter arresting him for a moment. Her carotid throbbed thickly with blood, a flush of color staining her cheeks. Lynch tore his gaze away, his eyes locking on a solitary figure across the bar.

Mercury watched him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Glancing down, she peered into her mug of ale, waiting for him.

Lynch choked down the thick need, shoving past a burly man who reeked of sardines. A haze of tobacco smoke hovered in the air above his head, tarnishing the heavy beams that supported the roof. Someone cheered as a dart launched itself into the heart of the dartboard and a few lads clapped the thrower on the back with good cheer.

Mercury trailed her gloved fingers in small circles, stirring the sticky ring of ale that lingered on the bar. It was dark back here, shadows pooling across the heavy coat that she wore and the mop of thick close-cropped curls around her head. Someone had pasted a very authentic moustache to her lip and there was enough coal dust—or grime—shadowing her jaw that he almost mistook it for stubble.

“You’re late,” she said, thick, dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she slowly lifted her gaze.

He stared into a pair of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

Blue eyes.

Somehow the thought struck him as wrong, as if he ought to recognize her from somewhere. Lynch frowned, leaning on the bar beside her. “You deserve to be up on stage.”

She lifted her mug to him, taking a heady sip. “Per’aps I were once.”

That set his mind racing. Until he saw the faint gleam in her eyes. She was toying with him, knowing that the mystery of her identity fascinated him.

“Is that where you came into contact with blue bloods?” he asked coolly, gesturing the barmaid for another ale. Folding his arms on the bar, he observed the room. Mercury had a good view here. She could see everything while few could observe her. And from the draft at his back, there was a door somewhere behind in case she needed to get out in a hurry.

“Whatd’ya mean?”

“People don’t just decide to join a cause,” he replied, slipping a pound note toward the barmaid as she handed him a foamy mug. “Keep the change.”

Sipping at the ale—it wasn’t what he wanted but it would do—he turned his head to look at Mercury.

The humor faded from her face and suddenly he felt the room narrow around them, as if someone had slammed an invisible window shut between them and the raucous laughter.

“You ran afoul of a blue blood once,” he told her. “That’s why you do this. Whoever it was, his face haunts you, night after night, or you wouldn’t feel this way.”

The color drained out of her face, her fingers clenching around the heavy mug. She jerked her gaze down, staring into the foamy dregs. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”

“What did he do to you?”

She hissed between her teeth, shoulders stiffening. “Let it alone, me lord Nighthawk. Ain’t no bloody business o’ yours.”

“Of course it is. You made it my business the moment you kissed me.”

“A fact I still regret, me lord.”

“Liar.” Reaching out he brought his fingers to her cheek. He could feel her trembling.

She laughed bitterly. “I do. Every day I regret meeting you.”

“Why?” It wasn’t his imagination. The cockney accent had faded there for a moment. Her voice sounded almost familiar.

She looked up, blue eyes gleaming. The flicker of light off the irises made his breath catch. An occipital lens, if he wasn’t mistaken. Designed for spies by the Echelon—by Balfour himself, the prince consort’s spymaster. How the devil had she gotten her hands on a set?

And what color were her eyes if they weren’t blue?

His heart was beating so fast he suddenly realized that shadows washed his vision. Her distress beat at him until the devil inside roused. A craving. A fierce need to protect her.

He shut his eyes and breathed through it. He had two days. Two days before the executioner’s blade descended on one of them. A sick feeling invaded him and as he opened his eyes and saw the fine trembling of her lips, he knew what his choice was going to be.

Lynch let her go, the taste of regret like ash in his mouth. He couldn’t do it. He barely knew her, but he could no more hand her over to the Council than he could have plunged a dagger in her heart. The wave of regret that swept through him was almost intense enough to buckle his knees. Rosa… All the missed opportunities. For years he’d wanted to find someone and now he had… And it was too late.

“You know why I regret it.” Sucking in a deep breath, Mercury reached out and pressed her iron fingers against the center of his chest, a tortured expression on her face. “You were right. I do picture ’is face every night. I ’ate ’im so much I wanted to burn the whole Echelon, but—” She hesitated, her eyes lifting to his. “What if I were wrong? What if they weren’t all bad?”

The last few words were a whisper.

Lynch’s heart constricted in his chest as if she’d punched him. “Do you take me for a fool?” he asked harshly.

Those stricken eyes stared at him without recrimination. “No.” She wet her lips with her tongue, emotions battling their way across her face. “I should never have kissed you. Never.”

Then she was on her toes, her hot little mouth seeking his in the shadows. The taste of her exploded through him, his hand coming up unconsciously to cup the base of her scalp. No.

Yes, the demon in him purred. She is mine.

Lynch dragged his mouth away with a gasp, turning his face so that her lips brushed his cheek and not his own. Her heart thundered in his ears, matching the racing gallop of his own, and for a moment, the memory of holding Rosa in his arms rose to the fore. Both of them fit so easily there and both of them kissed as though seeking to drown in it. He could almost taste Rosa on his lips but that was…insane.

Lynch shook his head. Ridiculous. No doubt it was guilt that brought the image of Rosa to mind. Guilt that left the taste of her in his mouth. And that revealed his heart’s intentions more than anything else. The shock of it pushed him away from her, so that he could find some sense of breathing room. Some sense of distance.

“Me lord?” Mercury whispered, hands stroking the shuddering planes of his sides.

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “My heart lies elsewhere.” The confession burned through him and he caught her wrists and held them away from him. The shock on her face was almost tinged with hysteria as she pulled at her hands.

“No,” she said, voice getting stronger. “No. You can’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Who?” she demanded.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, letting her wrists go. “You don’t know her.”

Taking a step back, she leaned heavily on the bar. “It’s the redhead, ain’t it?” She looked up, her expression so lost. Then it hardened. “You don’t think I can make you forget her?”

He caught her wrist as she reached for him. “For a few minutes, yes. But I’m not that type of man.”

A sound of faint regret whispered through her throat. When he opened his eyes, she was staring up at him again, helplessly.

“This,” he told her, “is just need. Just desire. She is more to me. She is…everything that I thought I’d never feel again.”

Slowly, she dragged her arm back to her chest, clutching it as if he’d hurt it. “You can’t have her. You know that?”

“I know.” Two days. He smiled bitterly down at his untouched ale. “But I won’t betray her.”

“There you go again, shatterin’ me perceptions.” A hurt smile ghosted over her lips, but her cheeks were still white. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It were easier when the blue bloods were just monsters. You oughta know, me lord Nighthawk, that I won’t move against you. I couldn’t.” Her fists clenched and she shook her head. “All this plannin’ and you destroyed it in the matter of a few weeks.”

Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. “I know what the mechs are up to. The massacres in Mayfair were just a test. They’re plannin’ on goin’ after the Echelon with their Doeppler Orbs, creatin’ a widespread massacre. Lettin’ you blue bloods rip each other apart.”

Lynch stilled. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” She held up her hands when she saw his expression. “I don’t. Mordecai’s keepin’ ’is cards close to ’is chest. But it’ll be somewhere where a lot o’ blue bloods are gathered. Somewhere as’ll make the biggest impact.”

Where? His mind raced. There were no major political events planned nor even social ones. The Season was winding down, most of the thrall contracts signed.

A commotion caught his ear and he spun, sighting a pair of immaculately shaven gentlemen shoving their way into the pub. His gaze caught Sir Richard Maitland’s, though the man was lacking his distinctive Coldrush livery. Fury flared white-hot in him and Lynch stepped in front of Mercury, shielding her with his body.

“Go,” he told her. “Out the back. Don’t get caught.”

She stared at him, then back to Maitland. “Who is ’e?”

“Go,” he repeated, harshly this time.

Her eyes met his. “This is good-bye then?”

Lynch nodded, the hunger in him screaming its rage. A vein in his temple throbbed, his color dipping to shades of gray, then flashing back through color again.

“Good-bye, me lord Nighthawk,” she whispered.

“Good-bye,” he repeated, then he turned and shoved into the crowd, not looking to see her go. The hunger in him, his inner demon, roared its silent fury.

No! Take her!

Lynch ignored it, shoving the thought deep. Neither of them could be his.

He had a date with the executioner.