Heart of Iron (20 page)

One more flight of stairs to the ground entrance. She gathered her pink skirts and started dashing down them, but Will leaped in front of her, a frown on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She tried to push past, but he blocked her way. Standing two steps below her put his face on a level with hers. “Will, I’m tired. I want to go home. This is not—”

“Your scent changed.” He took a step up, his thighs pressing against her skirts. “As soon as I told you what they’d promised.”

Did guilt have its own scent? She pressed her fingertips against his chest. Whether to hold him at bay or draw him closer, she didn’t know. The superfine of his coat was soft beneath her fingers.

“It changed again,” he admitted, little sparks of molten copper flaring in his irises. “When you mentioned Lady Astrid.” His head lowered, gaze dropping to her mouth. “Just as it’s changed now.”

Lena’s heart started beating faster. Every emotion, every hope, dream, and despair she thought she’d kept hidden from him was betrayed by her scent. She met his eyes and couldn’t read the look in them. Hot amber. Eyes that she could drown in if he let her. The color of them softened, melted, as he leaned closer.

His intentions stole her breath. He meant to kiss her. In the foyer of the Ivory Tower, in front of anyone who walked down the stairs. Exhilaration leaped through every nerve in her body.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

He paused, his mouth an inch from hers. “I never understand you.” His eyes darkened with heat. “Yes or no, Lena?”

Warm breath against her lips. Her hand softened on his chest. She knew the answer before her traitorous mouth could say the words. And so did he.

Will captured the yes on her lips, his hands cupping her face and tilting it up to him. The first taste of him was intoxicating. Lena clutched his lapels and rose on her toes.

The world around them faded. All she could feel was the heat of his hard body, pressed firmly against hers, and the taste of his mouth, of champagne and lemon tarts. Darting her tongue against his, she swallowed his soft moan. As if sensing permission, his own tongue met hers and he devoured her, all hot, male possession.

Will’s hand splayed over her bottom and he wrenched her against him. Every burning inch. She could feel the layers of fabric bunching between them, and the hint of his shaft, pressed hard against her hips. Wanting more, needing more, she slid her hands into his hair, abandoning herself to the taste of his mouth. There was no skill involved, no finesse, none of the careful kisses she’d flirted with in the Echelon. Nothing but hunger and the barely contained raw fury she could sense beneath his skin.

Taking him to bed would never be tame. Never safe. And she wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

“Take me home,” she whispered, before she dared think about it. “Your home.”

Will lifted his head, an iron stillness running through his body. Hot little sparks of copper burned in his gaze and she knew instantly she’d said the wrong thing.

She kissed him again, biting at his bottom lip, but he didn’t rise to meet her. Cupping her face in both hands, Will drew back, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers.

“Lena.” A word full of hunger and denied need. “I can’t. We can’t.”

She slid her hands down his chest, hovering over his abdomen. “Yes, we can. Nobody would know.” A shiver ran through her. “I want you, Will. I need you. Need this. It’s not a game to me.” The last few words were a whisper.

He shuddered, eyes closed, fighting something she didn’t understand. “
Can’t
.” He tore away from her, red heat flushing his cheeks. The look he shot her was dark, dangerous. Hungry. Slowly he shook his head. “Even this should never have happened.”

He might as well have stabbed her in the heart.

“You wanted me,” she whispered.

“What I want and what I should do ain’t the same.” He ran his hands over his head, disheveling the neat queue. Strands of thick honey-gold cascaded around his face, caressing the stark cheekbones.

The denial rocked her. As if in mockery, her pulse raced through her veins, something hot and heavy throbbing between her thighs. Her body had not realized what the rest of her had.

“Why?”

“Because I’m verwulfen, Lena.”

“I don’t care. You know I don’t care—”

Will caught her wrists. “I do.”

Everything she’d ever feared. Heat flushed behind her eyes and she turned her face away. This had turned into one of the most horrendous nights she’d ever had.

“Let go of me,” she said.

Moments ticked by. Then he let her go and stepped away. Finally some space to breathe. Swallowing hard, she forced her tears back and clutched at her ruined gloves. “You may as well return to the ball,” she said. “You have a job to do. I’ll find my way to the carriage.”

“Lena—”

“I’d rather you went back. I want to go home.” Wherever that might be. “To Waverly Place.”

Unable to bear his presence anymore, she pushed past in a flurry of skirts and made her escape.

Thirteen

The shop bell chimed.

The man behind the counter looked up, his smile paling somewhat when he saw who stood there. A mercenary gaze raked over Will’s workman’s shirt and leather trousers. “May I help you, sir?”

The display cases gleamed in the weak sunlight. Row upon row of pistols filled the cases. In the corner was another case with less common forms of weaponry; a gilded crossbow, meant for a lady; a handheld mace; even a pair of leather fingerless gloves, with razors cut into the back of them. One punch and you’d kill a man with them. Will looked at them lingeringly, then pushed toward the pistols. He wasn’t here for himself.

“I’m after a pistol,” he said. “Somethin’ dainty.”

The shop owner’s eyebrows lifted. “Something like that won’t come cheap.”

Without looking at him, Will tossed him a purse. It bounced on the counter, heavy coins clinking together. “Weren’t expectin’ it to.”

He leaned on the counter, splaying his hands wide as he examined the contents. A heavy derringer, a German-made M1879
Reichsrevolver
, a steam-firing pistol… And there, something small enough to fit Lena’s hand.

The inlay was mother-of-pearl, the fittings gilded. A brass eyesight was mounted on the barrel and delicate little etchings lined the handle. “That one,” he said, stabbing his finger at the glass.

“A beautiful piece, sir. May I ask its purpose? It was designed for target shooting.”

“Protection.”

The shop owner unlocked the case and lifted out the mahogany box the pistol rested in. “It’s a seventeen caliber. Won’t stop much more than a pigeon, or small animal, I’m afraid. Unless you’re a damned good shot.”

“It will when I’m done with it.” He fingered the smooth barrel. A few alterations and Lena would be able to take down a bear—or a blue blood. Her own father had designed a type of bullet that would explode on impact. All he had to do was replicate the chemical mix and refine the bullets to something that would fit the compact pistol.

The shopkeeper fussed about him until his teeth were on edge, now that Will had proven to have good coin.

“And these,” he said instinctively, pointing toward the half-gloves before it was too late.

Outside, sunlight danced over the street. Passersby glanced at him in curiosity, but none said a word. A young woman in embroidered yellow cotton grabbed her son’s hand and dragged the staring child out of the way. Will was tempted to smile at her with bared teeth, but something about what Lena had said to him rang true. He wasn’t a beast. Not truly. No matter what the woman saw when she looked at him. Forcing out a curt nod, he strode past her as if he belonged here.

The night had been long and sleep hard to find. Colchester played on his mind, the adversary he didn’t know enough about.

Yet.

If Lena thought her best defense against a blue blood was to lie down and submit, then she had another thing coming. Last night scared him. Even at a gathering of nearly four hundred people, Colchester managed to get near her.

He found his way to a jeweler’s and strode in out of the wind. A pair of blue bloods were examining the wares at the counter, clad in velvets and lace. One wore a perfumed, fragrant wig, much in the style of Georgian times, and leaned heavily on a cane. Beneath the perfume lingered a faint rotting smell that made Will’s hackles rise.

On the verge of the Fade. The blue blood wouldn’t have much time left before someone decided to put him out of his misery—and spare the city another vampire massacre.

The middle-aged man grabbed his arm as the elder turned, leaning heavily on the cane. “Here, Grandfather. Take a seat.” He guided him to a chair and gestured at the shopkeeper. “Blud-wein. Now.”

Neither of them had smelt him yet. Will prowled the cabinets, fighting the urge to turn and keep them in sight at all times. The scent made his blood chill. He’d only ever faced one vampire. And one was enough, as the scars across his abdomen would attest. They were the only wounds his virus hadn’t been able to heal completely.

In Georgian times, a spate of vampires almost drowned the city in blood. It cost ten thousand lives before the Echelon managed to destroy them all. Now, when the virus finally overtook them and the Fade threatened, a blue blood was closely watched. As soon as his body started paling—his eyes filming over and his teeth sharpening—an ax was sent for.

The shop bell tinkled and a pair of heavy boots strode in. Will caught a glimpse of the newcomer’s reflection in the glass of the cabinet.

A long black great cloak wrapped around the man’s shoulders, with a spill of lace at his throat. His waistcoat was red velvet, a golden pocket watch gleaming against it. White gloves curled around a golden-handled cane and he glanced at the pair in the corner, his lip curling beneath a battered nose.

“Devil take it, Arsen,” the man snapped, tugging out a scented handkerchief. “Haven’t you buried that old relic yet?”

Both of the men froze. Whilst the younger stammered, the elder lifted his pale, powdered face, a hint of malice in those dark eyes. “I’m not dead yet, Colchester. Maybe I’ll take you with me.”

Colchester
.

“I should like to see you try, Monkton,” Colchester sneered. “Perhaps I can do the job Arsen’s evidently been neglecting.”

Colchester was younger than he’d imagined, with the kind of smooth cheeks and rakishly tossed hair that might turn a lady’s head. A big, broad-shouldered fellow, he moved with the smooth-limbed grace of a swordsman.

His blue eyes glanced at Will’s attire and dismissed him. That was his first mistake. Any true predator would have looked past the clothes to the man within. Obviously years of rank and position had inured him to the dangers of the world. In the Echelon, if a blue blood had grievance with another, they dueled. Will, however, was used to streets where men took what they wanted with a quick knife to the back.

“Please, Your Grace,” Arsen stammered. “Grandfather doesn’t mean anything by it. We’ve been watching him closely. We just thought some fresh air would do him good.”

“An ax would be better.”

Monkton’s lip curled up. “Aye. Like the one you forgot to take to the late, unlamented Vickers ’til it was too late?” He laughed, a wheezing sound. “Heard it was a glorious duel with the duke’s wig torn off in front of the court and the truth of his condition betrayed. They say it took a week to get the stink of his rot out of the atrium.”

Colchester’s fist tightened unconsciously. “Don’t make a dangerous enemy, Monkton. You’re nothing but a minor offshoot of the House of Malloryn. And Auvry’s a dear friend of mine. Perhaps I’ll whisper in his ear and see the matter dealt with appropriately?”

Both of the men paled. The younger grabbed his grandfather by his velvet-clad arm and hustled him out of the jewelry shop with a steady stream of apologies. Colchester watched them go with a bored expression on his face. He eased a snuff tin from his pocket and inhaled a pinch of it, wincing through his bruised nose.

Their eyes met in the jeweled mirror on the far wall.

“Aren’t you out of your league here?” Colchester asked, tucking his snuff tin back in his pocket.

“You’d be surprised,” Will replied. His hands twitched. One moment of violence and Lena would never have to look over her shoulder again… He took a step toward the duke.

The shopkeeper reappeared with a pair of glasses balanced on a tray. He blinked to find the room empty. Colchester snatched a glass of blud-wein as he sauntered past.

“Really, Griffith. The people you allow in here,” he muttered, peering at an antique cameo. “I might have to take my business elsewhere.”

“Y-Your Grace—” the shopkeeper stammered.

Anger bubbled in Will’s chest. The chance was lost.

Colchester looked up. “You’re still here?”

“I’ve business ’ere,” he replied, stepping out of the shadows. Heat swam behind his eyes and every muscle in his body tightened. This bastard had done something to Lena. He didn’t know what, but it was enough to terrify her.

Killing him would be only too sweet. And yet, with it would go any chance he had of freeing himself and his fellows from the cages and arenas.

Instinct demanded he kill the duke. But cold intellect argued against it. He could almost hear Blade and Lena’s voices in his ear, trying to explain to him that it would be wrong. Sweat rimed his forehead. This was a world he didn’t understand and never completely would. But he trusted them, knew that they would not be pleased if he did this thing.

Colchester would never know how close to death he came as he straightened. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Aye. I know exactly who you are.”

Colchester’s gaze sharpened with interest. Will could feel the heat of his anger burning through him. For once he let it surface just enough to show, the molten gold of it transforming his eyes in the mirror’s reflection.

Colchester sucked in a breath and slapped a hand to his belt, as if reaching for a blade.

“Wouldn’t if I were you.” Will sucked in a breath and looked away. Little gems fractured the sunlight back at him, a thousand different shades and colors. Rings, necklaces, bracelets. An entire corner filled with pearl chokers that were worth more than his life. He focused on them furiously, trying to ignore the duke’s perfume.