Paul Gibson trudged up the hill toward home, his gaze on the somber bulk of the Tower looming before him. The light was fading rapidly from the sky, leaving the ancient battlements silhouetted against the darkening clouds. He could feel the temperature dropping with each step, the icy wind chafing his cheeks and freezing his nostrils as he sucked in air. But that didn’t stop a thin layer of sweat from forming on his forehead. The sense of unease that had dogged him for blocks was growing ever-more oppressive with each step. It was as if he could feel someone behind him, their eyes boring into his back.
Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he whipped around. “Who’s there?” he cried to the nearly empty street, only to feel more than a wee bit foolish as he looked into the beady eyes of a dirty white hen that stopped midpeck to raise her head and stare at him.
Straightening his shoulders, he self-consciously adjusted the set of his coat and continued up the hill, his peg leg tap-tapping hollowly with each step. He tried to tell himself he was tired, worn down by the events of the last several days, and bedeviled by the wispy remnants of last night’s laudanum.
Yet the feeling of being watched remained.
It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the golden glow of candlelight shining through the front windows of his house. He pushed open his front door and breathed in the rich aroma of a hearty stew. Leaning back against the closed door, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to still the heavy pounding of his heart. Alexi Sauvage was right, he thought; those damned poppies were going to kill him at the rate he was going. Kill him, or steal what was left of his mind.
The sound of a soft step on the worn flagging of the passage made him open his eyes. She stood before him, a slim, fiery-haired woman dressed in a gown of mossy green he’d never seen before.
“You should be resting,” he said.
She shook her head. “I am tired of resting. I’m better. Truly, I am. Besides, someone needed to fix your supper.”
“My supper?” He frowned. “Where the d—” He started to say “devil” but caught himself just in time. “—dickens is Mrs. Federico?”
“I am afraid your housekeeper has a rather low opinion of the French.”
“She what?”
“She promised to return tomorrow, after I am gone.”
He became aware of the bundle of her things resting just inside the door, and its significance hit him so hard it nearly took his breath. “You’re leaving?”
“I sent for Karmele. She’s gone to fetch us a hackney. But I wanted to stay long enough to tell you good-bye.”
She took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. For one glorious moment he thought she meant to kiss him, and he told himself he was six kinds of an Irish fool. She rested her palms on the front of his coat. He could feel the heat of her hands against his chest, feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Then she tipped her head to brush her lips against his ever so softly before taking a step back again.
Her hands fell to her sides. “There simply are no words adequate for the task of thanking someone who has saved your life,” she said. “But I don’t know what else to say except . . . merci.”
Somehow, he found enough breath to answer her. “You don’t need to be going yet.”
“Yes, I do.” Her gaze met his. “And you know why as well as I do.”
A long silence drew out between them, filled with their measured breathing and words best left unspoken.
He said, “What about that man—the one who was watching you last night—”
“Bullock?” She shrugged. “I can handle Bullock.”
She was so bloody brave and stubborn she frightened him. “And Damion Pelletan’s killer?” he asked, his voice rough with the force of his emotions. “Can you ‘handle’ him too?”
She lifted her chin in that way she had. “I refuse to live my life in fear. But . . . I will be careful. I promise.”
The rattle of a trace chain and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside announced the arrival of her hackney. She stooped to catch up her bundle and reached for the latch. Then she paused to look back at him. “I meant what I said last night. You don’t need to live with the pain from your missing leg. I can help you. There’s a trick that uses a box and mirrors to fool the mind into—”
He shook his head. “No.”
“And you call me stubborn.” She jerked open the door.