Authors: Kerrigan Byrne
It was too much to hope. The man caught himself, rolling out of the fall, absorbing minimal damage and unfolding to stand with his back to the window. His lip was bleeding, and broken glass had done a number on his skin, but all wounds seemed superficial.
They circled each other, low and ready, testing the reach of their blade, looking for a place to strike.
“What’s happening to you?” Dorshaw’s handsome face grimaced with disgust. “Protecting a mark, all for a piece of quim?”
“Shut up.” Christopher sliced, but the blow was parried.
“Why not just fuck her first, then kill her and collect the money?” Dorshaw smirked. “It’s simple enough, even for someone like you.”
“I don’t enjoy that,” Christopher hissed. He lunged again, but caught the edge of Dorshaw’s jacket before his blade glanced off Dorshaw’s knife. “I’m not like you.”
“I know you’re not.” Dorshaw’s smile revealed sharp, uneven teeth. “I’d kill her first, and then fuck her.”
Losing the battle for his control, Christopher saw the opening, just the slightest gap in Dorshaw’s guard, whether a trap or a mistake, he was going to fucking take it, and there would be two men’s entrails staining the Fenwick library carpets.
The click of a revolver action pulled him up short. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
Morley had gained his feet, his right arm curled uselessly around the large knife almost embedded to the hilt in his shoulder. Though his stern features were devoid of color, his left hand, the hand holding the gun, was absolutely steady.
Argent sent him a silent tirade. This was supposed to have been easy. A quick climb, the snap of a neck, and then Millie and Jakub would be out of danger. Men like him, ones that shifted through shadows, they had no purpose for loud and messy guns, not on a job like this. Argent made a silent promise that his pistol would be his new permanent accessory. If rogue coppers were carrying them now, it might be a necessity from here on out.
“Shoot him,” Argent commanded.
Dorshaw dropped his knife and put his hands up, backing toward the broken window in the guise of making himself more visible to Morley.
“You heard what I said, shoot him.
Now
.”
“I’m unarmed,” Dorshaw cried, throwing a bit of fear into his voice for flair. “And you only have this man’s unholy word that I’m guilty of anything that transpired here today.”
“You … threw a knife at me,” Morley slurred, a bit incredulous. Argent wondered if it was blood loss or shock making the inspector unsteady; either way, it didn’t bode well.
“I was aiming for him,” Dorshaw lied, gesturing to Argent. “Upon my word.” He took several steps back, inching closer to the window, hands still in the air.
“Shoot, goddammit,” Argent snarled. “He’s going to escape.”
“No I won’t. I’m not leaving this city.” Dorshaw smirked, glee twinkling in his wild eyes. “I think I know where I’m going next. To catch up with an old friend, the Blackheart of Ben More … I hear he has a houseguest who’s going to just
die
when she sees me.”
Twisting his torso, Dorshaw leaped for the window.
Argent dove after him.
Morley’s first shot went wild. He cocked the hammer and tried again, this time hitting the window molding just as Dorshaw slipped beneath it. His third bullet landed so close to Argent’s face as he moved to follow, that he couldn’t be sure whether it was the bullet or splinters from the windowpane that grazed his cheek.
“I won’t miss this time,” Morley warned.
“He’s getting away, you bloody fuck wit!” Argent eyed the pistol. Two bullets left. Five paces away. If he charged, what were the odds of Morley missing? He considered the inspector’s condition, losing blood, his hard lips pinched with the indescribable pain of the blade embedded in his shoulder. His pale hair now slick with cold sweat that trickled down his neck.
Maybe,
Argent thought, maybe he had a chance.
“Didn’t you hear him?” Argent demanded. “He’s going after Millie. I have to stop him. Lower your weapon.”
Morley snorted and swayed. “He said she’s with bloody Blackwell.” Morley’s eyes shuttered, then snapped open. “He’ll keep her safe … though you were a fool to leave her alone with him.” His expression twisted into something bitter, and he thrust the weapon forward.
Argent didn’t find it at all unmanly to flinch.
“He’s probably squirreled her away to his fucking castle in Scotland … and married her,” Morley slurred bitterly.
Jesus Christ, Argent didn’t have time for a history lesson. Millie,
his
Millie, was in danger. Despite his many contacts, Blackwell may not have any idea that Dorshaw had escaped, that he was descending on his home. And, though there was no place more secure save Buckingham Palace, itself, Argent couldn’t breathe. And didn’t think he’d breathe again until Millie was in his arms and Dorshaw was in the ground. Not specifically in that order.
“Hold still!” Morley barked.
Argent hadn’t moved a muscle. He was wasting precious time. He had to go. Now.
“I said stop where you are!” The chief inspector made an animal noise of pain, doubling over his injured arm but valiantly keeping his pistol trained. Obviously, his vision swam from shock or blood loss.
“Let. Me. Go,” Argent warned quietly, remaining absolutely motionless.
“Never,” the man croaked, before falling to the ground in a dead faint, a pool of blood collecting around his shoulder.
Argent would never be able to tell why he did what he did next, but in a split decision, he pulled the rope next to Thurston’s desk on the way out, which would bring the staff from the basement. It was the best chance Morley had at survival.
And as Argent slid back into the shadows, jumped the fence, and ran for the Blackwell estate with desperation filling his lungs upon every breath, he knew
he
was Millie’s best chance.
An icy dread stole through his entire body; a sense of impending catastrophe gathering in the very air that whistled past his ears told him that he might already be too late.
Chaos reigned at the Blackwell household. A dozen men gathered in the yard drawing the notice of curious neighbors. One of them opened the gate as Argent shoved his way through the gathering onlookers, and pounded up the drive at a dead run. A heavy weight burned within him, that sense of impending doom flaring into a frantic knowledge.
Bursting through the front entry, he bounced two men off the walls in his haste to get to the parlor. “Millie?” His heart beat her name, though even as he dashed into the room and searched every face, a part of him knew he wouldn’t find her.
Farah held a sobbing Jakub to her breast, stroking his hair as silent tears rolled down cheeks pale with worry. A harried Gemma bounced Blackwell’s fussy daughter, her own tears spilling onto the child’s dress. Murdoch, Blackwell’s grizzled Scottish steward, sat in the corner holding a bottle of Ravencroft’s finest whilst his lover, Gregory Tallow, held pressure to a bleeding torso wound.
“Where is she?” Argent bellowed.
“Argent.” Blackwell’s cool, dark voice behind him preceded the man’s gentle hand on his shoulder.
Strengthened by desperation, Argent turned on Blackwell and shoved him against the far wall, blocking out the varied sounds of shock and dismay. “Where. Is. Millie?” Argent slammed him again for emphasis.
Blackwell put up a hand, staying the approaching men drawing their weapons. “It’s only been a matter of minutes. I’m gathering men to search for her, Dorshaw took her from Hyde Park. He can’t have gone far.”
Argent stepped away with a desperate sound, took two paces, pulled at his hair, and then turned back, landing a hook to the jaw that not even Blackwell could have seen coming. “How could you let her out of your sight?” He swung again, but someone grabbed his wrist. He threw the bastard off, lunging for Dorian, only to be grappled by two men, one on each arm. A third, the one he’d tossed aside, snaked a thick elbow around his neck from behind, putting pressure on his throat.
The monstrous arm could only belong to Frank Walters, one of the biggest men alive, and famously a gentle giant, his wits having been stolen by one too many bashes to the head in prison.
Another of Blackwell’s men seized his middle. And still it took all their strength to keep Argent from tearing the Blackheart of Ben More to shreds.
Argent had helped to train these men, this underworld army, and he’d never regretted anything more in his life. “You had one job,” he yelled. “To keep her
alive
. How the bloody hell did she get into the park?”
“’Twas my fault, Argent,” Murdoch confessed through his gray beard. “I didna see him coming at me until he nigh well skewered me. I lost yer woman. I’m damned sorry for it.”
“H-he needs a doctor,” Tallow stuttered. “He’s losing too much blood.”
“One’s been sent for,” Farah said.
Dorian swiped at the back of his split and bleeding lip, his disfigured face contorted into an ugly sneer. “You’ll answer for that,” he vowed, but then he glanced past Argent toward his wife, and a grim sort of understanding settled upon his cruel features. “But it’ll wait until after we get your woman back.”
“If anything happens to her I swear to Christ, I’ll—”
“Stop it, all of you,” Farah ordered from behind him. “You’re upsetting the children.”
“It was me!” A tiny voice cut through the masculine growls with high-pitched clarity. Little feet pounded on the wood floors until Jakub stood in front of him, his spectacles fogged with emotion and his skin patched red with grief and fear. The child collapsed against him, thin arms surrounding his thighs and wails of grief wetting the side of his shirt. “It was me, Mr. Argent, it was
my
fault.” The boy lost his breath to sobs before he could continue. “I—I wanted to help you. I wanted to use what you taught me to keep her safe. I—I took a knife and snuck away to find you.”
Something crumpled inside of Argent, and again he struggled against the men holding him back.
In front of him, Blackwell nodded at Argent’s subduers, and he was released. Sinking to his knees, Argent allowed Jakub’s arms to encircle his neck and bury his little face in his throat, unleashing a tempest of tears against his skin. “He’s going to hurt her and it’s my fault,” the child cried. “I
can’t
lose her. She’s my mama. I want her. I want her
back
. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Argent wanted to believe the pressure in his throat was due to the clinging boy. More than anyone, he understood exactly the helplessness causing the violent spasms of grief and horror ripping through the tiny body heaving against his. Suddenly he found his arms around the boy and, as he held the distraught child against him, the decades-gone memory of his own fear and helplessness shuddered through every muscle and left him one raw, open wound.
He’d wanted her back, his mother. Begged her not to leave him. Cried and cried for help. Sobbed his apologies against her cold body. It had been
his
fault. If he’d not fought back, she might have lived. The guilt and rage had drowned the child he once was in a shallow pool of her blood.
“I want Mama,” the boy whimpered. “I want her back.”
“I do, too,” Argent said hoarsely, meaning it with every fiber of his being. Dragging Jakub away from him, he looked the boy right in the eyes, somewhat hidden behind the smeared glass. “I’m going after your mother, but I have to leave now. Do you promise to remain here, upon your honor?”
Jakub wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and nodded, fat tears still streaming down his miserable face. Argent took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “Listen to me, Jakub. No matter what happens, this
isn’t
your fault. The blame lies solely on the shoulders of the man who took her. Do you understand me?”
Jakub swallowed, biting hard on his lower lip.
“You were being brave. You wanted to protect your mother. There’s nothing in the world more honorable than that. But until you’re a man, you have to leave that to me.”
“I promise, I’ll do anything.” Jakub surged against him. “I’ll do anything if you bring her home.”
Argent stood, the boy locked in his arms, and met Blackwell’s suspiciously bright eye. The Blackheart of Ben More’s jaw was clenched, his chin may have been unsteady, and the man whom he’d met only the year after the tragedy of his mother’s death nodded to him. A silent vow. He’d also lost his mother violently, and Argent knew the memory still haunted the man.
Turning to the room of wide-eyed and moist-eyed spectators, he deposited Jakub into Farah’s reaching arms. “We’ll look after him, Argent,” she reassured him. “No matter what.”
Argent nodded and turned to leave. He was going to tear this city apart, stone by fucking stone, if he had to. He was going to bring Millie home.
“He’ll take his time with her,” Blackwell said in a low voice, falling into step behind him as he left the parlor. “We have a good chance of tracking them.”
“We?” Argent clipped through clenched teeth, every heartbeat that passed a moment Millie could be hurting, or worse. Wrenching open the door to Blackwell’s study and pulling the statue lever that uncovered the panel of weapons behind the wall, Argent claimed an arsenal.
“You didn’t mean to find her alone, did you?” Blackwell handed him a pistol, which he stowed beneath his jacket before selecting a few scabbards and throwing knives. “I wouldn’t have found Farah without your help.”
“I wouldn’t have lost Millie without yours,” Argent bandied back, shouldering past Dorian to stalk toward the entrance.
“I didn’t know Dorshaw had escaped police custody.” Blackwell trailed him with long, powerful strides. “And I was fair certain you’d taken care of Thurston by then.”
Argent jogged down the front stairs of the Blackwell mansion, his mind on one thing.
Millie.
“I couldn’t very well keep her from searching for her son,” Dorian continued.
“You could have tied her to something.”