The Rogue (35 page)

“Fingal!” he shouted, his voice rocky. “Come saddle this horse for me.”

Only two places would draw her now. Through the drizzle that became a steady rain as he rode, he went to the nearest.

In the rain she stood amidst the ashes of the Duke of Loch Irvine's house. Her crimson cloak flared out behind her, a brilliant rose blooming from the soot, her milk-white horse standing at the edge of the foundations, the rose's guardian.

He dismounted and walked through the sodden ruins to her. Her eyes were clear, the bandage strapped across her cheek stark white against her skin.

“Constance . . .” The word found no companions upon his tongue.

“You are walking with a limp. I am so sorry that I hurt you.”

“I've suffered worse. Much.”

“Patience wrote to me of what happened. What you did. Will you be able to hold a sword again?”

He flexed his whole right hand. “At any time my lady requires it.”

She lifted her gaze to his. “Saint.”

“I don't know,” he said. “Perhaps.”

“He believed you left-handed, didn't he? Three hundred and fifty-one days wasted,” she said, her eyes becoming pools now. “But better that than a lifetime, of course.”

“Constance, you mustn't—”

“On that stone I counted to ten. I imagined the positioning of my guard, the angle of my feet, and each movement, each parry and attack. I counted them from one to ten, and when I finished I counted again. I heard your voice telling me to count and I thought, ‘Ten is not very high. I can make it to ten.' And when I reached ten each time I began again. Then you appeared.” Finally the tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

His eyes were hot, but he could not look away from her. “You did not need me to rescue you. You did it yourself.”

“I wanted him to die.”

“You acted in self-defense.”

“Walker Styles. For weeks I wished he were dead. Months.”

For many moments there was only the soft thrum of rain on the ruins.

“Of course you did,” he was finally able to say.

“I always wanted to be enough,” she said. “To be beautiful—
inside
. I wanted someone to look into my heart and to see me, not what he thinks I am, but me, the imperfect girl that is nevertheless worthy of affection.” Her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath. “I don't forgive him. Not yet. But I don't hate him any longer,” she said as though it surprised her.

Pride pressed at his ribs. “You are a warrior, my beauty. Warriors mend.”

“My kind, handsome Beast,” she said, and reached for his hand.

T
hey returned home in silence, she with a pensiveness he did not seek to disturb, and he without words anyway—again.

By the doctor's orders she retired immediately and took dinner with Mrs. Josephs in her bedchamber. In the dining room, the duke reported that Loch Irvine's absence from Scotland during the previous month was confirmed. Since he had departed Edinburgh after visiting the museum, he had been seen in London at Westminster, then in Portsmouth. He had not been in Edinburgh on the date that Constance and Saint attended the Sanctuary or on the evening of Sir Lorian's premature solstice ritual. He was not the Master.

Nevertheless, throughout Edinburgh rumor of the Devil's Duke did not quiet. It was generally believed that Sir Lorian had intended Chloe Edwards for yet another ritual. The prisoner would say nothing, and in the papers and at tea tables
theories abounded concerning his use of the symbols on the Haiknayes star.

Reeve could not be found. It was assumed he had fled Edinburgh, along with the other members of the Sanctuary.

“They will be watched,” the duke said.

But Saint was finished with it. According to Chloe's mysterious visitor, the missing girls were safe. Constance's mission was accomplished.

Excusing himself from the table, he went to her room.

Mrs. Josephs shooed him away. “That ride exhausted her!”

But he knew his wife. She would not be down for long.

She proved it the following morning when she appeared in the ballroom, where he was wasting time with a sword until she woke. She wore a gown of vibrant hue, which roused her skin to a warm glow, and no bandage on her face. She came toward him but halted at the sword rack.

“Good morning,” she said, fidgeting with the hilt of her sword.

“Good morning.” Nerves darted around his stomach.

She drew her lower lip between her teeth. He tapped the tip of his sword against the floor. An awkward, uncertain silence crept through the motes of sunlight between them.

She gripped the handle of the épée and brandished the weapon.

“What do you think?” she said, glancing up at him.

“Of that sword? I told you months ago, it—”

“Of my scar.” She turned her face so that he could see the angry scarlet slashes on her cheek: three waving lines, crisscrossed with surgeon's thread. “It is still a wound, of course. But soon enough it will be a scar. Does it make me look mysterious?”

“Yes.” His throat was a clogged shambles. “Very mysterious.”

“Good.” She sliced a half circle in the air with the tip of her blade. “Because I like mysterious. I told you that once.”

“You did. You were trying to entice me with a display of your martial skill.”

“I never try to entice you. You have always found me irresistible.”

He lifted a brow. “This is true.”

The épée stilled. “I was not ready.”

“Ready?”

“Before yesterday. For you to see it.”

“You needn't have worried. I've never thought you perfect.”

For a moment she only stared at him, her eyes brilliant.

“Why didn't you tell me about your brother's fortune? Rather, your fortune.”

“I wanted you to accept me for who I am. For who I have always been. Not because of a pile of gold that someone gave to me. It doesn't matter to me, and I did not want it to matter to you.”

With one fine fingertip she traced the golden wings on the épée's guard. “You purchased a house for Patience and Miranda.”

“I did.”

“Somewhere quiet and safe, where they will not be thought anything but two slightly eccentric ladies of leisure, I hope?”

“In a village on the coast. Westin is now en route to France, apparently, fleeing domestic lack of tranquility.”

“Do you wish to go to France too? To found a
salle
in Paris? Dylan told me that was your dream.” Her voice was unnatural. Uneasy. “Or will you prefer the West Indies now—now that you are a man of wealth and can do anything you like?”

For many weeks he had dreaded this moment. Now that it had arrived, he found he could not breathe properly.

“Temporarily, perhaps, to see to the property there.” He glanced down at the sword in his hand that had sliced through ropes binding her to stone.

He set it aside.

“Constance, I cannot do this.”

A wave of panic went through her. For four days she had
lain in bed hoping, praying against this. She had thought it could not happen like this—not now, not
ever
. Yet his shoulders were so rigid, the muscles in his jaw tight. And his beautiful eyes were resolute.

She made herself speak. “You cannot do what?”

“I cannot do as you wish now.”

“Oh?” she said with outward poise as inside she crumbled.

“I have done my best to aid you, to serve you these past months as you have needed, and as I vowed. To help you in your mission. But no matter how well I play the gentleman, I am not of this world that you inhabit. I never will be. I cannot let you go. I won't.”

“You . . .
won't
?”

“Not this time. Never again.”

Air shot from her compressed lungs. “But—”

“I don't care what the laissez-faire standards of apathy and faithlessness are for aristocratic marriages. They are not mine. You are. You are mine. And I'm not letting you go.”

“Saint, I—”

“Constance, I love you. I have always loved you. Only you. And you love me. I know you do, even if you're too proud and afraid to admit it. There is nothing on this earth that—”

Her sword clattered to the floor as she threw herself on him. His arms came around her, his hand sweeping up beneath her hair to hold her, and she pressed her cheek to his chest and banded her arms about him. Laughter and tears shook her at once. He kissed the top of her head, settled her more snugly into his embrace, and his voice came muffled against her hair.

“No annulment, then. This is”—he drew a staggered breath—“good news.”

She laughed again and heard his heart beating hard and steady beneath her ear, felt it, and she hugged him tighter. Gently he stroked her hair back from her wounded cheek and kissed her brow.

“My lady,” he murmured. “You are inside me. You are everything.”

She turned her face up. He lowered his lips to hers. Honest and tender, his kiss repeated his words in a caress.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered.

“I love you.” She surrounded his face with her hands and met his lips. “Of course I love you.”

She withdrew from his next kiss breathless to say again, “I love you,” to which he responded with such approval that she was, for quite some time, lost to everything but the perfection of his mouth and the strength of his arms holding her to him.

Finally, breaking away, she flattened her palms against his chest.

“How could you believe that I wished us to
part
?” she demanded.

“You said you did not want to be married,” he said perfectly rationally. “You begged me to leave you. Several times.”

“I was making a noble sacrifice.”

“You did a very poor job of it. I think when we are finished with daggers it might be useful for you to have instruction on effective noble sacrifices, the sort where you don't tear out your lover's heart in the process.”

She laughed but her hands clenched in his shirt. “I was
afraid
.”

His eyes sobered. “I know.”

She ran her fingertips along the scar on his face. “You taught me how to be brave.”

“I merely taught you how to wield a sword. The rest was you.”

Her palm covered his heart. “I don't mean that sort of brave.”

A half smile shaped his lips. “There is only one sort.”

“Did Monsieur Banneret teach you that?”

“You taught me that. Six years ago.”

“How I love you,” she said in wonder. “I did not know that I could be so happy.”

He set his lips upon her brow and drew a deep breath.

“Saint, I must tell you my last secret.”

“Last?”

“You know all the others.”

“I doubt that.” His smile was wry. “But do continue.”

“Six years ago I joined a secret government agency so that I could gain access to information that would allow me to know where you were. Leam was involved, and he invited me to join it before I even moved to London. He thought I was too unhappy in my mourning. I eagerly accepted. I wanted to help people, of course. But I was also desperate to learn where you were. So I did. I knew when you moved to Plymouth, and when you traveled to the West Indies, and the day you returned to England. I was not allowed to be with you, but I could not forget you. I did not want to forget you.”

He stared at her, his eyes very bright.

“That is . . . quite a secret indeed.”

She pressed her fingertips into his chest. “And?”

“I admit, I didn't see it coming. You're telling me that you are a spy?”

“Not a spy.” She smoothed the shirt linen beneath her hand. “I collected information about missing people so that my friends could help them. A bit like what we have done here, except of course the parts about getting married and noble sacrifices.” She smiled. “I saved those for you.”

He laughed. “You are mad, after all.”

“Mad for you. When you came to the castle, I thought I was dreaming. I knew it must be a dream because in all those years I had only wanted you. Then, despite all—despite my father and your anger—you smiled at me, and I knew. I knew I could not lose you again. So there it is, the unvarnished truth. Will you prepare the attic for me now?”

“Yes.” His voice was rough. “And lock myself inside with you.”

She went onto her toes as he pulled her mouth beneath his. They were kisses of acknowledged love, spoken love, and they were different—full of trust and hunger and unrestrained joy. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders
and he pulled her against him and she felt his body's tension, his passion so powerfully checked.

“I will wait for you to be ready again,” he said. “As long as you need. Weeks, months, years, if need be. I will—”

“
Years?
”

“Forever. My God, Constance, I love you.”

“But I don't want to wait. I want to make love with you now.”

“Now?”

“I am your wife.” She trailed her fingertips down his chest. “And you are my husband, to do with what I want. And I want you now.”

He scooped her up in his arms.

“Your hand!”

“Your wish, my lady, is ever my command.” He carried her from the ballroom, up the stairs, into his bedchamber. Upon his bed he took her in his arms and held her. Then she pushed his shoulders back against the mattress and hooked her knee over his hip.

“Now,” she said, rising over him with a glorious smile. “You will be mine.”

With his hand in her hair he drew her down and kissed her.

“Now,” he said huskily, “I am yours.”

Dear Sir,

As you are already aware, Sparrow has formally resigned from the Club. In the absence of current projects and in light of my father's declining health, I offer you now my resignation as well. It has been an honor and privilege to serve the Kingdom.

Sincerely,

Peregrine

Lady Justice

Brittle & Sons, Printers

Dear Lady Justice,

In sorrow I write to you a final time. The Falcon Club is no more. I beg of you, do not weep for this loss too bitterly. You have other poor souls to badger and other unworthy causes to pursue for the entertainment of your readers. Know, however, that my days
will be duller, my nights meaningless, without your correspondence to sustain me. Only, dear lady, do not forget me. For I will most certainly not forget you.

With eternal admiration,

Peregrine

No longer Secretary, The Falcon Club

Peregrine

The Falcon Club

14½ Dover Street

Dear Sir,

I write to you now reluctantly but from terrible necessity. Do not lay down your mission yet. At present, I can say no more to explain myself, except these most difficult words: I need your help.

—Lady Justice