Moonglow (43 page)

Miranda stood in shocked fury, her green eyes glinting. “Northrup, have you gone mad? You scared my butler into his closet—”

“Where is she?” He shook with the need to hold Daisy. Waiting only made his wolf whine and his muscles twitch.

The sight of Miranda blinking in confusion nearly brought him to his knees. He knew in his gut that she hadn’t a clue where Daisy had gone. He’d known the instant he’d woken up alone that Daisy had left for good.

Bile surged in his throat. His knees cracked hard against the flagstone. She was gone. He felt it, felt her soul
slipping away from him and leaving him ice cold. Leaving him alone.

A hand touched his shoulder. “Ian,” Miranda whispered fiercely. “Where is my sister?”

Fury and despair had his fangs sinking into his lip and tasting blood. She’d given up. Quit on him. A keening cry tore through the air. He realized it was his.

Words felt like broken glass in his mouth. “She’s taken her own way out.”

Her footsteps echoed in the silence as Daisy walked slowly across the Waterloo Bridge. She was afraid. So very afraid and cold. It made her want to turn tail and run, back to Ian and his warmth. Wrapping her arms about her middle, she kept going. A thick fog had come up, shrouding the bridge in murky gray bunting, punctuated only by the ghostly glow of the gas lamps.

She would not think about him. About her family. Her life. Her step stuttered. Think about Maccon. What he’d become. Deformed. Grotesque. In agony. She shivered, her steps slowing.

The mad beating of her heart overshadowed the mournful wail of a foghorn and the clang of a buoy. Her lips trembled, her breath coming short.

I am afraid. I want to go home.

Her fingers curled around the cold, slick wood of a piling as she stepped onto the pier. Just beyond, the barge floated at anchor as if waiting for her to pay a call. What if he said no? What if she had to inhabit another body? Bile rose in her throat, threatening to let loose. Her muscles tensed as she moved to pull herself up. The water below her raced onward, making her dizzy.

Ian. What would he think? Would he understand that
she had no other choice? Would he find her repugnant? Shame burned in her belly. On a cry, she tore away from the piling. “I cannot.”

“You can. Because you are no coward.”

Daisy jumped at the sound, a scream clogged in her throat as a figure emerged from the fog.

The man stepped closer, his familiar features illuminated by the weak lamplight behind her.

His voice was a low melody in the dusk. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Yes.”

She ought to be furious, but he had promised Ian. “Then you knew I would come to ask—”

“Of course.” He gave her a wry smile. “We are, after all, the ears of London.”

Her insides trembled. He would make dying easy. She knew that now, and she didn’t know if she appreciated the gesture.
I am afraid.
She blinked down at the hand he held out.

“Salvation is yours,” he said. “The question is, how much are you willing to sacrifice for love?”

There, glinting in the black bed of his gloved palm, it lay. A silver charm in the form of a goddess, with the wings of an angel.

I
t wasn’t easy to find Ian. Aside from his home and Ranulf House, both of which were unnervingly empty, she hadn’t a clue where to look. As a last resort, she went to Miranda’s home.

Her sister ran out into the hall to meet her.

“Daisy! Where have you been?”

Daisy tried to smile, but she was too weak. Her body felt odd, heavy yet light as if she might float away from it at any moment. The heart within her chest was like a ballast stone, an uncomfortable bulk that stretched against her breastbone—a sensation, she was assured, that would lessen with time. “Later, pet. I need to find Ian. Do you know where he is?”

Miranda’s eyes pinched. “He was beside himself. He thought…” She clenched Daisy’s arm. “He was under the impression that you went off to kill yourself.”

Guilt speared her, and with it, a cold fear that he would find what she’d done even worse.

“Well, obviously I did not,” she said briskly, and then winced at her own callousness. “Panda, where is he?”

“Oh, how glib you are acting. You scared the devil out of me, Daisy! I… Oh, Daisy, Archer told me about what’s happened.” She teared up. “You must know that we will help you.”

Daisy stroked Miranda’s cheek. “I’m sorry to have worried you all. It was a misunderstanding. Everything will be all right now, dearest.”

“That is supposed to be what I say to you—” Miranda stopped short and studied her with a keen eye. “You look odd. Lovely, but… odd.”

Well, she felt odd. Daisy could no longer bite back her impatience. “Panda! I need Ian. Now.” Indeed, if she didn’t see him soon, she might scream.

“He’s at the Plough and Harrow,” said a male voice behind them.

Talent limped forward on limbs still healing. “He’s gone out of his head. I came to see if Lady or Lord Archer could talk him down”—cold accusation burned into her—“because I thought you were gone.”

“How did you get in?” Miranda asked.

“Flew through an open window.”

Miranda blinked in surprise, but Daisy was already gathering her skirts.

“Daisy, wait!” Miranda searched her face. “I’m sorry I stood in your way. He loves you so.”

“I know.” And the knowledge gave Daisy the strength to run to him.

Clemens was in a state when she arrived. The whey-faced barkeep paced in front of his tavern, wringing his hands and muttering about crazed noblemen.

“He threw everybody out,” Clemens told her. “Had his man give me a sack of coins and said he’d buy the use of the place for the night.”

Daisy moved to go in when he blocked her path. “He ain’t in his right mind, lassie. I’m fearing for your safety.”

She meant her touch to be light, but she ended up all but shoving Clemens to the side in her haste. “I’ve nothing to fear from him.”

He was sitting at their table, a forlorn figure hunched in the near darkness of the deserted tavern. From Clemens’s warning, she feared he’d been drinking or had possibly destroyed the room, but he simply sat, alone in the quiet. Elbows on the table, his head in his hands, he didn’t see her approach. For a moment, she wondered if he knew she was there.

“Get the fuck out.”

She stopped at his harsh command, and her stomach dipped.

Ian didn’t lift his head to acknowledge her as he spoke in a dead, flat voice. “I don’t care who you are or what you want. I’ve paid for this space. Now go.”

Her lips trembled in a smile. Ridiculous that she should be smiling now, but it was that or cry. “Ian,” she whispered.

His lithe body tensed so hard that every muscle along his shoulders and arms stood out in fine relief against his shirt. His chest lifted on a deep breath, and she knew without doubt that he was scenting her. In a rush, he exhaled. Slowly, as though he were afraid to look, he let his hands fall and he raised his head.

Red rimmed the azure color of his eyes. Thick auburn stubble shadowed his jaw and throat. A stain, whiskey perhaps, spread over the expanse of his rumpled linen shirt. He looked ghastly. He looked wonderful.

She expected him to come to her, but he didn’t move. He stared at her for a long moment, his lower lip twitching, his eyes wide and agonized. Daisy fought the urge to fidget. Her blood moved like sludge through her veins, a painful feeling, compounded by the ache in her chest. Part of her wanted to run away; the other part wanted to run into his arms.

His voice cracked through the silence. “You left.” A grimace of pain twisted his features. “I thought you had—” He bit down on his lip and swallowed audibly.

She ground her fists into her skirts to keep still. “I know. I’m sorry, Ian. So sorry.”

Ian blinked as if her words were a physical blow. “Where did you go?” His teeth clicked together. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Daisy’s hand floated up to her chest to rest there. How was it that her heart still hurt? “I…” She couldn’t find the courage.

“Why are you hovering there?” he said quietly, not moving, barely breathing. “Are you afraid of me then?”

She took a step closer to him. “Never.”

His jaw clenched as his gaze slid away. “Perhaps you should be. I’m in a rare temper just now.”

“You don’t appear to be.”

He snorted softly, without humor. “For future reference, lass, a wolf’s always dangerous when he’s gone still.” His mouth curled in a parody of a smile as his hands clenched into fists. “And I’m of a mind to ‘stroop yer backside,�� as ye so kindly put it once.”

The hurt surrounding him made her eyes water. She would make it up to him. With everything she had, she would make him feel loved and cherished.

“You still don’t scare me, Ian Ranulf.”

His eyes fluttered closed for one pained moment. When they opened, they shone brilliant blue. “Then come here.” He exhaled with a ragged growl. “Come here. Let me touch you, if you’re real.” His throat worked. “I want to touch you. I need to touch you.”

“Ian.” She took a shuddering breath. “I did something.”

He heard the regret in her voice, and his eyes grew watchful. “What?” His voice was flat, afraid. “What have you done?”

She hugged herself tightly. “What I had to do.” He wouldn’t understand. “Ian… I… I am frightened that you—”

He moved before she could blink, catching her up, hauling her against him. His mouth was on hers in an instant, tender, demanding, thirsting. She kissed him back, holding him tightly because he was her home, her other half, and she hadn’t felt whole or safe until he touched her.

He broke the kiss first, but he didn’t let her go. “Hasn’t it seeped into your thick head yet, Daisy-Meg,” he whispered, his hands roaming her back, neck, shoulders, “there isn’t anything you can do that will make me stop loving you. You might break my heart, but it is yours anyway.”

Daisy sobbed, the tension in her breaking until she couldn’t hold herself up. She could no longer give him her heart, but he had her soul. Always. “Ian… I should have told you, I know.”

Cooing under his breath, he sank down into a chair and pulled her closer. It was then she felt how much he shook, deep tremors that racked his frame. But his voice was steady and his touch tender.

“There now, lass.” His fingers threaded through her hair. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry I scared you. I couldn’t think of another way. I…” She stopped and picked at a loose thread along his collar.

“I understand, Daisy. I do. I’m not happy you left me to think the worst, mind you, but I understand your fear.” He kissed her temple. “We will work it out, I promise.”

She held him tighter and burrowed her face into the warm crook of his neck. Those hours she’d been gone. Hours of hell and fear. For both of them. “I love you, Ian. So much.”

He stiffened, and she could feel the pounding of his heart against her ribs. A sigh left him, soft and gentle.

“Well, thank Christ for that,” he said on a breath.

Odd that she could feel him smile, but she knew he did. Ian always smiled with his whole body.

“I went to Lucien.”

The muscles surrounding her turned to rock. Before she could explain, he grabbed hold of her upper arms. His nostrils flared. “What did you do?” It was a whisper of fear.

With shaking hands, she pulled open her cloak and undid the loose blouse she wore. Her tender ribs couldn’t bear a corset just now. Ian made a strangled sound as she pulled the blouse open to reveal the line of golden stitching between her breasts, below which ticked her golden heart. Lucien had explained that “due to the delectable attributes of the female anatomy, a window won’t do.” Hence she was stitched back together.

“Ah, Christ.” Ian’s fingertips hovered over her breastbone. “Tell me you didn’t.” He clasped the back of her neck hard and pressed his forehead against her. His ragged breath fanned her face. “Ah, hell, my sweet Daisy-girl, why?”

She closed her eyes and wrapped an arm around his neck. She needed to hold him. Uncertainty made her bones shake. “You know why.”

“Aye, that I do. And it tears at my heart.” He swore again and then hugged her tight. It felt so much like home that her throat constricted. “My brave love.”

“I know it is not the most attractive alternative—”

“It’s beautiful,” he cut in fiercely. “If it’s you, it is beautiful.”

She pressed her lips to the strong, warm column of his neck, where his pulse beat true. “It is you who are beautiful. Heart and soul.”

He held her as if she were a fragile thing, not the indestructible shell she had become. But she knew he was not content. Not by half.

“How many?” he asked as he stroked her back.

The question was clear. She shuddered again. For a cold moment, she was back in Lucien’s barge, feeling her life end, the icy, sick dread of it, and the blinding pain of rebirth. She’d been violently ill for an hour afterward and wished for true death more than once as Lucien held her hair and patted her back in sympathy.

She swallowed several times before she could speak. “One.”