Now she was alone with a monster.
Or might as well be, for in the quarter hour it took to be free of the carriage traffic on Bow Street, Jakub had slumped into Millie’s lap, and the only sound that permeated the thick silence between them was his soft, intermittent snoring.
“We could have walked, you know,” she stated. “I reside on the next street over, and we’d be there by now.”
“We’re not going to your apartments. I’m taking you somewhere more secure.”
She’d known that, somehow, but she’d wanted to hear him say it. “But the Brimtrees, they’ll worry.”
“I sent word.”
“Of course you did,” she huffed. The highhanded lout. Lord, she would have some explaining to do when she returned home. “Did you warn them? Are they safe?”
“If you’re not there, it does mitigate the possibility that anyone else would attempt to collect on the contract, so yes, they’re safer.”
Millie peered at the man seated across from her in the carriage. There wasn’t a lantern illuminating the inside, so only the glow from the streets seeped through a few cracks in the velvet drapes and slashed pale shards of light across his still form. One of those shards drew a jagged line over his eyes, one ear, and the blue silk upon which he rested his head.
She’d been right in her earlier musings, that dark blue behind his head painted his disconcerting eyes an even lighter shade. Something like a glacier floating above water. They looked almost inhuman, in a way she’d not noticed before. It was as though darkness sought him out, as though shadows settled upon him, recognizing one of their own, and he siphoned strength from them. This was where he belonged. Cold, eerie nights full of danger and blood.
“Did you murder Mr. Dashforth?”
“Did you fuck them all, or just him?”
They spoke at once, but his question rang through the carriage, snuffing hers into oblivion.
Millie released a shocked gasp that resembled a cough and didn’t speak until the next time she heard her son snore. “I—heartily beg your pardon,” she spat.
“Thurston, did you only fuck him, or did you have Gordon St. Vincent as well? They’re a randy lot, and Gordon St. Vincent and his father, the earl, often have those masqueraded, orgiastic gatherings you described. Is that why they give so much to the theater? Do you pay them in trade … like you’re paying me?”
Millie could count on one hand the times she’d been struck truly speechless. In fact, most people made the context a somewhat ironic paradox because they spoke in order to point out their speechlessness. But outrage and disgust paralyzed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and she could only stare in dumb amazement.
“I don’t ask to condemn you.” He correctly read the unmitigated outrage on her face. “Only to clarify the situation. We’ve both obviously had intercourse—”
“I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.” She put her gloves over Jakub’s ear, and though he twitched, the rhythm of his breathing didn’t falter.
Argent’s lids shuttered his expression. “I’ll admit … I wanted to kill them, though they’d done me no disservice and issued no insult. I wanted to spill their blood. To break every part of them that had touched you, starting with their fingers.”
“Don’t.” Millie held up her hand against him.
“It’s why I had to make this bargain, I expect. Why I must have you. Because you make me want to—” He paused, eyes moving in their sockets as though searching for a word. “You make me … want.”
“Stop,” she hissed in a dramatic whisper. This habit he had of chilling and concise honesty. It unsettled her. Disturbed her. She, who lived among people whose livelihood depended on being someone else a great deal of the time. Performers, the lot of them, much of their memorized rhetoric spilled over into their lives, and they borrowed from the minds of great thinkers and emotional writers to express their own needs, to seduce, and to survive. They were students and conveyors of the human condition, and a great part of that condition was deceit.
But not this strange and stoic man. He revealed what others wouldn’t dare. His uncommon fearlessness wasn’t contained to the physical, but also to the emotional. For someone so impervious to emotion, he certainly wasn’t oblivious to it. And Millie was starting to believe that he shared with her the entirety of his limited emotional experience, at least the ones that pertained to her.
A man who didn’t lie. Who didn’t flatter, or seduce, or elaborate.
Did such a man really exist?
“I’ve upset you,” he observed. “Perhaps because I’ve insinuated that you’re a prostitute?”
Millie glared at him, mostly upset because, in all honestly, she couldn’t say she wasn’t one. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I will tell you with absolute certainty that before tonight, I’d never in my life been introduced to those wretched people.”
“You seemed to enjoy their company.” His brow lowered, casting a shadow over his gaze. It was apparent that he didn’t believe her.
“It’s called acting. I was merely being polite. You can’t honestly believe I enjoyed a moment of that interaction?”
“I know nothing about what you enjoy.”
“Obviously.” The sharpness in Millie’s tone surprised even her. Was it wise to speak to a professional killer in such a manner? Likely not. But wisdom was never really something she’d been credited with an abundance of.
Unfortunately.
She had the habit of speaking before her thoughts told her the better of it, and maybe now was a good time to start working on that.
They were silent for a long moment, listening to the clip of the horse’s shoes against the cobbles, or the sound of Jakub sleeping the undisturbed sleep of the innocent.
“My mother was a prostitute.” The words were spoken so softly, Millie wondered if she’d imagined them.
“What?”
He leaned forward, releasing his features from the light. “Her name was Christine, and she was a whore.”
Millie blinked, her breath faltering as he leaned closer in the darkness. “Why would you say that to me?” she whispered.
He shifted. “I don’t know. I’ve never said it to anyone else. Perhaps I told you because I wanted you to understand that I meant you no offense. I don’t share society’s opinion of prostitutes. Because of the lustful nature of a man’s needs, or maybe because of the intrinsic beauty of the fairer sex, a woman’s body is a commodity, one that men barter for with land and titles and sometimes even kingdoms. So why then, when a woman sells her own body for food, or survival, or even pleasure, is it called a sin? Or a crime? What has marriage become but sanctioned prostitution, the buying and selling of female flesh for the begetting of heirs and so forth?”
Millie understood in that moment that Christopher Argent would never cease to astonish her. She couldn’t even begin to answer that question. Partly because his point made a great deal of sense, and partly because he’d left out so many variables. What about love? What about two souls, and yes, bodies, committing themselves to each other for the entirety of their lives? There was protection of joint properties, and the promise of a man to hold to one woman and care for the children they had together.
But, in all honesty, how many marriages did she know of that had more of a basis along his perception than hers?
Well. Drat.
The carriage rolled to a smooth stop, blessedly cutting off the need for a reply.
But then, a new fear arose. They’d arrived … somewhere. The place he’d planned on stashing them until he could guarantee their safety.
Until she’d fulfilled her part of the bargain. Before they embarked, she had to know what had happened this afternoon. “Did you murder Mr. Dashforth?” she repeated.
His jaw worked over the answer before he gave it to her. “Yes.”
“Why?” She hoped—no—prayed that he’d give her the answer she needed, the one that could appease her smarting conscience. That would calm her growing panic.
Argent leaned forward, eyes leaving the slash of light and his great body invading her space, her air, until she could feel his warm breath on her chilled skin.
“Because he threatened your life, hired Dorshaw to kill you, and take your child. He told me he wouldn’t relent.” His hand lifted, and Millie flinched, so it dropped back into the shadows. “I’m going to kill anyone who means you and your son harm.” His voice was hard as stone in the darkness. “Can you live with that?”
Millie considered for a few shaky breaths. Her son was draped limply in her arms, secure in the notion that she, his mother, would protect him. She was all he had in this world, and she had to accept that she didn’t have the skills or the necessary brutality to keep him safe during this nightmare.
“I—I can.” Millie wanted to take the words back, but knew she’d never be able to.
Knew that she’d meant them.
She started when he opened the door and leaped to the ground without the need of the steps. Turning, he held his arms out and gestured for her to hand him Jakub.
Millie hesitated, feeling as if she were about to put a bunny in the jaws of a wolf. But, she realized, she was in for a penny, might as well be a pound. He’d promised not to hurt them, and he’d proven himself by his treatment of Jakub thus far.
Lifting his shoulders, she rolled her son so Argent could lean in and take the boy, one arm beneath his knees, and the other behind his neck. Jakub twitched and snorted loudly, but settled into Argent’s heavy arms, and turned his head into his suit coat, where he promptly drooled on the lapel.
If Argent noticed, he paid it no heed.
The driver lowered the steps for her, and she thanked him as he steadied her until she was on solid ground.
Millie straightened the skirts of her costume, looked up, and gaped.
Pillars the color of rich cream provided a contrasting circle to the precise angles of stories and stories of pale stones. Neat hedgerows provided friendly cover to imposing iron gates. Millie reached out and used one of those stones to prop herself up.
“You … live in Belgravia?”
He nodded as the driver unlocked the gate and pulled it open wide enough for them to enter. “Blackwell thought it best if one of us were stationed at each end of the park whilst in London. He’s in Mayfair, and I’m here in Belgravia keeping an eye on things, as it were.”
“And this is your … house?” At his urging, she stumbled through the gate and made her way on unsteady legs to the arched front door. To call it a house seemed like a sacrilege. A Grecian temple was more apropos.
He followed with his usual long strides. “I believe most of us here in Belgravia lease from Lord Grosvenor, the Marquess of Westminster,” he mused.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges and a tall, white-gloved butler stepped out with the march of a soldier.
“Master Argent, welcome home.” His voice seemed to propagate mostly in his astoundingly large nose.
Argent nodded and climbed the few marble steps to the door. “Welton,”
The butler did not stand aside to let his employer pass. “It is customary, Master Argent, for the guest to enter the home first. Especially if that guest is a lady.” He flicked a meaningful, birdlike glance from dark glass-bead eyes, down to where Millie stood at the bottom of the stairs, her breath puffing from her open mouth.
“Oh.” Argent stepped to the side and waited.
Lifting her skirts, Millie hurried up the stairs and paused at the threshold before crossing it at the butler’s behest.
She didn’t know what she expected to find inside the stately mansion, but this most certainly wasn’t it. In the grand marble foyer, beneath the indecently expensive Irish crystal chandelier and lovely blue French wallpaper was …
Nothing.
Other than the faded rectangles and ovals on the paper, stained skeletons of a previous tenant’s art, Millie could find no signs of occupancy.
Her slippers echoed off the bare walls and floors with an eerie and empty sound. Where had he brought them? She turned to Argent with anxious questions in her eyes and he was looking about the place as though he’d never seen it before.
“Welton … I didn’t think about this, but I need you to find a place for the boy to sleep. I don’t think we have any—”
“Already done, sir. When you mentioned you might have guests I ordered a room for the little master here on the second floor overlooking the park. Follow me, if you please.” Hands clasped stiffly behind him, Welton took the left side of two grand staircases and Argent silently followed. He carried her sleeping son as if he were no heavier than an afterthought, and more precious than gold.
As she trailed them in the dim house, she couldn’t miss the way Argent’s muscles shifted beneath his coat, absorbing his movements and keeping the boy as comfortable and immobile as possible.
The gesture seemed so easy, so simple, and yet so incredibly out of character that Millie caught herself on a soft sigh.
Christopher Argent was truly an enigma. Empty house, empty eyes, empty heart … or so she’d thought.
But what if she was wrong about him? What if his heart was not so vacant as she’d initially assumed?
Intricate lanterns lit the hallways of his home, made ever wider by their lack of objets d’art, and only interrupted by thick, dark wood doors.
Welton paused at one on the left and opened it, sweeping a hand for them to step through. It became instantly obvious that he knew the visiting child would be male. Done in shades of green, the chamber couldn’t have been more of a contradiction to the rest of the house. Toys, models, books, and all manner of furniture surrounded the modestly sized bed like a besieging army.
“This was kind of you, Mr. Welton, but I don’t think we’ll by staying long enough to make all this worth your trouble.” Millie turned to the aging butler.
Welton sniffed, and looked down over his considerable nose. “Not at all, madam, it is my job to see to the needs of any guests under my master’s care.” Though his features were neither soft, nor friendly, Millie could swear that he winked at her.
“Well, that is appreciated.” Trailing Argent to the bed, she feared he’d trip on something or other, but her worry proved needless. She bent to pull the blankets back and looked on as he took care while settling Jakub beneath the counterpane.
The bed was more plush than she’d expected as she sat and began to undo the laces on her son’s shoes. Argent stood by and watched, his constant regard making her usually nimble fingers clumsy and slow.
“Why not leave the shoes?” he queried.
She looked at him askance. “I’m making him comfortable, and I don’t want his shoes to dirty the sheets.”
He nodded and waited until both boots were resting by the bed.
Standing, she began to divest Jakub’s tiny limp form from his jacket.
“Why make him comfortable, he’s already asleep?”
Exasperated, she stood, putting her fists on both hips. “Are you going to stand sentinel all night, or could you possibly allow me a moment with my son?”
His jaw clenched, and for a brief second, she worried he’d refuse.
“I could have lost him today,” she said more gently. “I just need a few minutes.”
As he glanced down at Jakub, his jaw worked to the side, then he nodded, shifting to one foot to move around her.
Millie’s sigh of relief was cut short by his giant hand gripping her upper arm with all the strength of an iron shackle. His eyes burned down at her, a molten flame melting the ice she’d begun to expect from his gaze.
She didn’t know now which she found more terrifying.
“Ten minutes.” His hand tightened, but then something flickered in his eyes and she caught what she could have called a wince before he released her. “Ten minutes and then you’re mine.” He swept to the doorway that Welton had vacated.
“I’m done waiting.”
Millie didn’t breathe until the door closed behind him.
Ten minutes. She almost couldn’t consider it.
Her hand shook as she pulled the blanket up over her son, brushed a lock of his hair off his forehead, and watched those angelic eyes flutter behind closed lids. Good dreams, she hoped. Something that didn’t include this new world of theirs full of danger and assassins and the consequences of the past.
Ten minutes.
Or nine, now. As she looked down into the face of her precious boy, she knew it would take all the time he’d allotted her to prepare, but she’d do what she promised. The curve of his round cheek glowed in the soft light of the lantern, and as she pondered it, Millie found herself wondering about the man to whom she belonged for the night.
He’d mentioned a mother. A whore. But in the darkness of the carriage, she thought that she’d heard something like nostalgia lurking in his otherwise monotone voice. A man like Argent … It was easier to think he’d been birthed from a shadowy hell-mouth in some dark, forbidden place. Already a lethal, brutal man with no conscience. It was as if he’d been put together by something darker and infinitely more cruel than God. Like pieces were missing.
But that couldn’t be, could it?
Once he’d been small like the child in front of her. Helpless. Maybe even innocent.
Had he been born, as some were, with the desire to kill? With the urge to take a life? Or had he been created by some dastardly villain who shaped him into the man he was? What if his missing peices had been ripped away from him? What if his brutality, his proclivity for violence and bloodletting, reached into the bedchamber as well?
Tears pricked Millie’s eyes and she rapidly blinked them away, she couldn’t tell if they were tears of fear or of compassion, but she did know one thing. She hated to cry for no reason. Besides, these questions were useless, because in a matter of minutes, she’d know the answers.
I’m done waiting, he’d said.
Well, she supposed they both were.
