Her features wore incredulity well, her light-green eyes going calm and her lips just parting. “My benefit? How, pray tell?”
He nodded toward the library and its occupant. “Osborne was ogling you on the street. I thought to save you from having to rebuff his advances by making it clear where things stood. Kind of me, wasn’t it?”
For a moment, she made no reaction whatsoever. Then the glaciers thawed in her eyes and a low, soft laugh sounded in her throat, tying him in knots. “Oh, Dev.” She eased close again, going so far as to rest her forehead against his chest. Though he hadn’t even the chance to put his arms around her before she retreated once more.
Was it only the shadows cloaking the room that made the circles under her eyes so deep? He cupped her cheek and swept a thumb under the offending bruises. “You look tired.”
“I had a long night.”
“Long, but well spent.” He leaned down, thinking only to press his lips to her forehead, but she jerked away. And might as well have plunged a knife into his gut. “Mari, please. I said I will give you what space you need, but do not retreat entirely. I need you.”
“Do you?” She turned halfway toward the faded rectangle of lamplight.
“Do you doubt it?” He clasped her shoulder and would have pressed his lips to the pulse under her ear on another day. “I would do anything for you.”
“Really.” Her face turned toward him, muted mischief in her smile. “What if I were to ask you to…to run away with me? Leave all this behind and go someplace new. Someplace the war hasn’t touched.”
Devereaux chuckled. “If I thought for a moment that would make you happy, then we would be on the first train.”
“Everyone is so sure they know what I want.” Weariness colored the words—strange. Had Lucien made such assumptions? Her parents? Possibly. But none of them knew her as he did. And well he knew that she appreciated the fine things in life.
He gave her delicate shoulders a light squeeze. “Do you know what you need?”
“No.” The word sounded so heavy. So worn.
“Rest.” He let his hands fall away. “You have worn yourself thin caring for Mother. Osborne and I will take our leave so you can retire.”
Were those tears in her eyes? Between her blink and the shadows, he couldn’t tell. But given her smile, sincere if not as bright as usual, he decided it must have been a trick of the light.
“A wise idea. I think tomorrow I shall try to catch Daddy before he leaves port. I missed him today.”
To that, he could only hum. Jack Arnaud was likable enough—if only the man weren’t such a Unionist. “All the more reason for us to leave you to your repose.” He took a step toward the door.
“Dev?”
He paused, frowning at the plaintive note in her voice, one he had never heard in it before. One that lit an ember of worry. “Yes?”
Rather than turn into the light, she faced the darkness again. But she took his hand. “Do you love me?”
“Oh, darling.” He lifted her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles, and held them there a long moment. “You know I do. More than anything. Anything.”
She said no more, merely nodding and turning with him back to the door, keeping her face partially averted.
Feminine insecurities were not her usual trade…but it had been a trying few days. No doubt tomorrow she would be herself again, all fire and laughter.
And in the meantime, he had another fire to tend. One that was no laughing matter at all.
Four
Darkness pressed on all sides. Slade said nothing, made no move, but the familiar dread settled into his stomach. The one that said this kind of darkness hid monsters. Not the fanged, hairy kind boys created in their stories, but the ones of true terror—men with hidden hatred.
“Halt.” The voice snaked through the black.
Given the feel of cold steel against his face, Slade happily obliged.
“Those who would pass here must face fire and steel.”
His guide shifted beside him, someone Hughes had introduced as Surratt before he disappeared. “We are willing to face both—for liberty,” the man said.
Liberty, was it? Slade made no move.
The blade lifted. “It shall be ours. Pass!”
A gloved hand gripped his and pulled Slade farther and farther until he wondered if they knew his true identity and were going to take him into a dank basement and leave him there to die like a victim of an Edgar Allan Poe story.
A question that only grew stronger when another set of hands collided with his chest. Someone jerked off his coat, and his wrists were wrenched behind him. Cloth, soft but thick, came over his eyes.
Then a rip, and the sudden influx of wintry air against his chest. Slade clenched his jaw against any reaction as they tore his waistcoat and shirt. If this were to be his last moment, then he would face it with dignity.
He was shoved onward.