before. And maybe I haven't?"
"Do you mean you feel them now?"
Instantly he realized his mistake. But it was
too late. "Ingrid," he warned.
Ingrid turned into him, the angle of her body
suddenly changing the way the wind brushed over
them. She fiddled with the lapel of his coat,
seemingly absorbed. Soft hair caressed his chin as
the wind blew it.
Byrnes sucked in a sharp breath. Want kindled
the fire in his blood. The urge to kiss her made
every muscle in his body taut with need. "I wanted
to kiss you last night," he told her. "But I was trying
to be a gentleman."
"There's a first time for everything," she
quipped lightly.
"Behave." He tapped her on the nose. "I'm
trying to be nice."
The laughter in Ingrid's eyes made him smile.
"Nice is overrated. Do you know what I think
about sometimes?"
"What?" he breathed, leaning closer to her.
"About what it would be like if you weren't a
gentleman." Her eyes told a thousand tales, all of
them naughty, as she met his gaze.
He swallowed. Slowly the pad of his thumb
rasped over her knuckles. Ingrid's dark lashes
shuttered her eyes as she glanced down.
"I want to kiss you right here, right now,” he
said.
"And your challenge?"
"Curse the bloody challenge." He leaned
closer, sliding his hand around her nape. "I want to
kiss you, just because I can. Because we both want
it."
"So you can burn me out of your blood?" she
asked lightly, leaning up on her toes to brush her
lips against his cheek.
Sheer idiocy. He wasn't entirely certain what
he'd been trying to say last night. Only that she was
tattooed under his skin, somehow. And leaning
against him right now, her full breasts pressing
lushly against his arm. Thought fled. The words
he'd been meaning to say vanished.
"Do you do this to me on purpose when we're
in public?" he growled, turning his face to brush
his mouth against hers. Just lightly.
Her lips moved against his. "Of course.
There's nothing to stop you from kissing me."
Only that pair of gentleman over there,
watching them. His vision dipped into a
chiaroscuro landscape as something dark within
him snarled. What he had planned didn't bear
witnesses. Byrnes's chest heaved. "You're doing
this on purpose. Just to try and make me sweat."
One hand stroked down the hard planes of his
abdomen. "I think I'm finally starting to work you
out, Byrnes. That's all. I think you're... full of
bluster. You say you want this to be over and done
with, so that you can forget me." Hot lips scored
his ear, her tongue darting out to lick his lobe.
"Only... I don't think you're ever going to be able to
forget me. No matter what happens between us."
Fuck. His cock leapt to ready attention, and
he couldn't stop himself from picturing precisely
what could happen between them. What he wanted
to make happen.
"I am this close to throwing you over my
shoulder and taking you somewhere where I can
have my way with you," he growled. "Think that's
bluster?"
The smile she gave him was completely
mysterious and totally feminine: utterly pleased
with itself. "You want me, Byrnes. You want me so
badly you're burning with it. But I don't think
you've entirely admitted to yourself why you want
me. Or what you really want." Stepping back, she
let go of his coat. "Don't look so surprised."
But he was. Because the words didn't feel
like a lie. They had the ring of truth to them, and—
Hell.
Ingrid tugged out her pocket watch. "We're
going to be late for that meeting with Malloryn.
Come on. Hurry up."
Bloody female.
FIFTEEN
GEMMA TOWNSEND FLUTTERED her fan as
she moved slowly through the British Museum,
keeping a surreptitious eye on Lord Ulbricht. He
was pacing in front of the Elgin Marbles, and kept
checking his pocket watch.
Stopping in front of an urn, Gemma opened
the guidebook that she'd been pretending to peruse
and made small notes in it. A bulky coat and a drab
brown gown that was padded in certain areas to
make her appear older than she was hid her figure.
Her wig was a concoction of brown and gray
hairs, and she'd carefully placed a much-loved hat
on top of it. A pair of occipital lenses turned her
pupils from blue to hazel, and the clever
application of powders and a new set of eyebrows
had aged her face a decade. Today she was Mary
Halstead, reluctant spinster with an interest in
Egyptian artifacts.
And Lord Ulbricht was meeting with
someone.
A stranger appeared at the far end of the hall
and strode directly toward Ulbricht. The stranger
towered over Ulbricht, with graying muttonchops
and a distinctly Georgian style of coat. Some of the
older blue bloods remained old-fashioned, as the
Echelon had always been shockingly resistant to
change.
Gemma assessed the newcomer through the
glass case. Clearly a lord, judging from the amount
of gilt on his coat and the pompous way in which
he carried himself. Could be a century or more in
age, which meant he belonged to one of the Great
Houses who ruled the Echelon. Though they might
no longer have the influence they’d once had,
thanks to technology's advancements and the
revolution, some of them hadn't quite realized that
fact.
"...this all about, Ulbricht? I don't have time
for your nonsense." The stranger's voice echoed in
her earpiece.
On her slow meander through the museum,
Gemma had placed a communicator in the room
Ulbricht currently lingered in, and scratching idly
at her ear, she managed to tune her receiver.
"If you were wise, Sunderland, you'd make
time."
Sunderland. Gemma's eyes widened. If she
wasn't mistaken, that meant the stranger was the
Duke of Sunderland, and he was over a century and
a half old. This conspiracy went deep into the heart
of the Echelon.
"I assume you're attempting to sway me from
my plans." Sunderland sniffed. "You might have
that pack of hounds baying at your heels, but I
assure you that you don't yet hold enough to dictate
the vote."
"Maybe it doesn't need to come down to a
vote," Ulbricht murmured.
The duke laughed in genuine astonishment.
"You're going to challenge me?" his hand slid to
the rapier sheathed at his side, and he took a
threatening step toward Ulbricht. "One of the
premier swordsmen in England?"
Ulbricht's answering smile held sinister tones.
"I guess we shall have to see. I was hoping you'd
step aside and yield. I respect your work here. The
Sons of Gilead would still be without a voice if
you hadn't conjured up this idea and brought us all
together in our unified cause. But your time is
done, Sunderland. We need a new direction, a
more emphatic voice. It's not enough for the SOG
to merely mutter in the darkness. There's work to
be done."
"Work is being done, you insolent little pup."
Ulbricht snorted. "Your rallies? The planned
blockade of the Council? Please. The queen no
longer respects us, nor our plight. Once we were
kings, but this bloody revolution cost us
everything, and if you're content to sit there on your
ass and tug on her skirts in some vain hope for a
crumb or two, then I'm not. I mean to see the queen
and her Council of Dukes regret the way they
discarded us."
"The meeting's tonight. Then we'll see who is
fit to lead the Rising Sons," Sunderland hissed.
"And it's not going to be you, Ulbricht. Not with
your destructive plans, nor your liberal ideas! I’ve
heard people are missing, and it’s starting to be
noticed. Did your whore take them?”
“That’s none of your business, Sunderland.”
Tower. At least they’re led by the queen, not your
pale bitch. I am done with you!"
The duke turned away from Ulbricht, and
Gemma straightened to attention as she saw the
malicious glint in Ulbricht's eyes as he stared at the
Duke's back and muttered. "Yes, we will see. By
the time this week ends, Sunderland, it will be
explosively clear who should lead."
The words sent a sinister chill down her
spine, and she pressed the communicator tightly
against her ear, trying to make out his mutters. Just
what did he mean by that?
But Sunderland's heels clicked on the marble,
coming directly toward her. There was no time to
lose, nor time to get away. Gemma brushed a curl
in front of her ear to hide her communicator, then
lifted the museum's pamphlet as though she were
perusing it. Two seconds later, Sunderland rounded
the corner and bumped into her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir!" she said, catching at
his coat to stop herself from falling, even as she
slipped a tracking device under his lapel. "I didn't
see you there."
The duke frowned at her, but the disguise did
its magic. All he saw was an aging spinster, one
that was both unthreatening and undesirable. "Quite
all right," he replied haughtily. "But you should
watch where you're going in future."
Gemma straightened her hat as the duke strode
away from her. Then she began to make her way
back toward the entrance of the museum. Ulbricht
had disappeared, but now she had another mark to
follow.
Or did she?
A whisper of noise behind her made her
pause.
Gemma glanced in a glass case, but could see
nothing in the reflection. Still, her nerves were on
edge. She'd always been a good spy, but after the
events in Russia she'd been prone to these bouts of
nerves. Russia had taught her that she wasn't
invulnerable. It was one of the reasons Malloryn
had retired her in the first place. She'd been a mess
back then and she didn't blame him, but now he'd
given her a second chance.
There's nothing there, she told herself. You're
only imagining things.
Maybe it was only the words that Ulbricht
had muttered? Setting her on edge with thoughts of
conspiracies and explosions.
But... she'd long since learned to listen to
instinct.
An Egyptian sarcophagus stared back at her,
as Gemma flipped the small lady's pistol holstered
at her wrist into her hand. "Hullo?" she called. "Is
someone there?"
A servant drone suddenly wheeled into the
room, steam hissing from its vents as its little brush
swept up dust into a pan. The automatons had
replaced the cleaning staff in most places in
London, including here.
Fool. Gemma lowered the pistol. Just a
drone. She was letting her anxiety get to her. To
prove it to herself, she flipped the small pistol
back into the mechanical wrist holder and let out a
slow breath.
This time, she didn't even hear a thing. Only
saw a blur move behind her in the reflective glass
case.
A hand clamped over her mouth and hauled
her back against a hard body. Her training kicked
in and Gemma jerked her head back, hearing a
resounding crack behind her as the base of her
skull met a nose. Then a hard fist punched into her
side, robbing her of her breath.
She caught the fellow's wrist and spun out of
the way, twisting as she went... but it didn't all go
quite according to plan. Gemma staggered, strength
leeching from her body. What the hell was wrong
with her? Another punch drove into her ribs, and
cost her a lungful of breath as she staggered back
into a glass case, smashing it into particles as she
fell.
Whispers of darkness curled up from within
her. Blood. She could smell blood. Or the hunger
within her could.
As if the thought broke a glass wall between
her. Bleeding.... She was bleeding. Gemma
touched her side where the man had punched her,
and her fingers came away wet.
" Help," she whispered, crawling through the
glass, its shards cutting into her hands. "Help!"
"There's no help here," came a cold voice,
devoid of emotion. "This isn't personal, you know.
Or at least, not for me. I'll make it swift, I
promise."
A wave of dizziness washed through her head,
leaving her tripping sideways as she tried to gain
her feet, and she didn't have the strength to force
the fellow away as he came for her again. Hard
hands locked around her throat. As she went down,
Gemma knew she was fighting for her life. Blue
bloods were extremely difficult to dispose of. This
wouldn't kill her. But it might render her
unconscious, and once there, it would be easy for
her attacker to cut her heart out of her chest. A pale
face swam into her view as she gagged and
punched up uselessly between his clenched hands.
No. Not like this.
Gemma fought, using her knees and her fists,
but a tide of blackness began to grow at the edges
of her vision, and her lungs were heaving like a
chest pump, robbed of air and sucking desperately
for oxygen.
The last thing she saw as the world crashed
down upon her was something moving behind her
attacker's shoulder....
OBS
IDIAN STARED down at the woman on the
floor, his chest heaving with fury as his hand
curled around the stone fossil he'd used to beat the
man to death. There was nothing left of the fellow's
head. Merely a bloody pulp. He couldn't even
remember doing it. The last thing he recalled was
Hollis flailing backward as Henrik's hands locked
around her throat. And now he was standing here,
Henrik was dead, and Obsidian's knuckles were
cut from where he'd obviously punched his way
through one of the glass display cases to retrieve
the fossil.
What the hell had he done?
The lost time unnerved him. The sight of her
unnerved him. It brought back a lifetime of bitter
memories and unanswered questions, and he'd
buried those doubts years ago. Or thought he had.
He dropped the fossil and backed away.
He'd lost control. That was clear. And
dangerous. If anyone found out—if the man who
called himself Ghost found out.... He should finish
the job. Right now. This was his chance to take
revenge for the way she'd double-crossed him in
Russia five years ago. As his body had slowly
healed from the burns she'd caused him, he'd had
more than enough time to plot his revenge. And
Ghost had sat by his bedside and told him that it
was for the best: Hollis was a weakness, and the
dhampir could not afford weaknesses.
Except she'd disappeared, her body failing to
turn up after she'd gone into the river. Obsidian had
been forced to realize that the cold-blooded bitch
who'd betrayed him was gone, and there would be
no reckoning. He'd been cheated. Even if the
woman had haunted his dreams every night since.
And now Ghost had tried to cheat him again.
Hollis's death was his. Obsidian knelt by her side.
It would be so easy. But his fist trembled, and
stayed clenched.
Hollis groaned. No, he had to stop thinking of
her like that. Gemma suited her better, for Hollis
reminded him of the cold Russian nights they'd
shared, and the way she'd kiss her way down his
throat in bed... the way that, for a moment, he'd
begun to think dangerous thoughts about turning his
back on those who'd broken him free of his
incarceration, and simply running away with her.
God, she'd played him so well.
Far better for him to think of her now as
Gemma, for that Hollis—the one who haunted him
—had never existed.
Calling her Gemma reminded him of that.
He stared down at her for a long time,
watching as she began to shift and groan, and then