Shadow's Curse (12 page)

“Not so dead as the Amhas-draoi thought.” Corey turned to Hawthorne. “So, we capture St. Leger and . . . what? Siphon him off a teaspoon at a time? Is that your plan?”

“Who wouldn’t pay for the most powerful medicine? A cure for the plagues of aging? We could ask any price we wanted. It dazzles the mind with possibilities.”

Corey ran a hand over his chin as he mulled this over. “Why come to me with this proposition, Hawthorne? What do you get out of it?” He stiffened. “Your sister is mine. I don’t care if she’s rutted with a bloody barnyard bull. She’ll marry me. That was our deal.”

“Of course. And generous it is of you, to take her still. No, I came to you because I need your network to help me find the shifter. You need me to help you find Callista. It’s a business arrangement. Fifty-fifty.”

“Eighty-twenty if it’s my carriers doing the hunting.”

“Of course, Mr. Corey. That sounds fair. Are you in?”

Corey shrugged. “Why not? We’ll be shedding his blood anyway. Might as well see if the beggar’s claim is valid.”

Hawthorne stuck out his hand and Corey shook it. “Where is she, then?”

“Callista has an aunt on the Isle of Skye; a priestess at the
bandraoi
convent there. I’d wager all I have that my sister heads for Scotland.”

“You wagered once and lost. Are you certain you wish to roll that die again?”

“I’m sure of it. There’s nowhere else for her to go. She has no other family. And when we find them, St. Leger will pay for taking Callista away. And if he . . . if the two of them . . . if he’s soiled her . . .”

“I’ll send men out tonight. Immediately.”

“Make sure they know to take St. Leger alive. He’s no use to us dead.”

“Nor is your sister.”

“Oh, her . . . well, of course . . . goes without saying . . .”

Did it? Corey thought not. Hawthorne cared nothing for his sister now that he had the potential for untold riches in the shifter’s blood. Eighty-twenty. A decent split if the old beggar spoke true, but Corey liked a sure thing over a long shot. Better yet, he liked to rig the odds so that no matter how he chose, his success was ensured.

He slid open a desk drawer, pulled free the pistol he kept there. “On second thought, why share the wealth when I can have it all for myself?”

The bullet took Hawthorne in the face, blood and
brains exploding out the back of his skull, his body still twitching as it dropped to the carpet. Pearne, despite his age and infirmity, was quick. He dashed for the door, his fingers scrabbling for the latch. Corey’s knife took him in the back. It didn’t kill him outright, but it slowed him enough for Corey to rise, cross the room, yank the blade free, and slide it across the man’s throat from ear to ear. The man jerked and gurgled, and was still. So much for Amhas-draoi prowess.

Wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief, he rang for a footman to clean up the mess, his mind already pondering how to turn this new development to his best advantage.

The world as his domain or immortality? Why choose when he could have both?

*  *  *

True to his word, David rose in the morning well enough recovered to set out as planned, though not before he and Captain Flannery spent hours behind closed doors. Callista couldn’t make out what the two men were saying, but judging by the volume of the discussion, it wasn’t an amiable chat over tea and toast. By the time they stood on the front steps saying their good-byes beneath a drizzling leaden sky, the two men looked haggard and tight-jawed. Only Bianca’s intervention smoothed their final moments. Rising on her toes, she pressed a kiss upon David’s cheek, whispering, “Mac doesn’t know I know. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

The comment made no sense to Callista, but David seemed to understand. He offered Bianca a sober smile as he glanced at her growing belly. “I’ve said it before, Mrs. Flannery, you’re no shrinking wallflower.”

She turned to Callista. “You’ll be safe with David. He’s tougher than he looks and smarter than he acts.”

David laughed. “High praise indeed.” He assisted Callista into the coach before mounting a big-muscled bay that arched its neck and raked the cobbles in anticipation. His hands fisted the reins as he held the horse still and settled a long serious look on Flannery. “You can count on me, Mac. I’ll see the package gets safe to Gray.”

The captain gave a nod. “See you get yourself there safe and I’ll be satisfied.”

They left London amid a steady rain that turned the roads to mud and wearied horses and passengers alike. Despite the weather, David chose to ride rather than travel inside the coach with Callista. She felt an uncomfortable mixture of guilt and relief as she watched him hunched in his sodden coat, squinting into the wind, water streaming down his face. She needed time alone. Time to forget the few desperate moments in his bedchamber when she’d ached to feel his arms around her and his mouth moving against hers in a kiss as scandalous as it was powerful.

It worked.

After two long days of cloud-heavy skies and drenching downpours that perfectly matched her mood—during which time David had been nothing but breezily charming or ominously silent—she woke on the third day to blue skies, green meadows, and a somewhat restored equilibrium. There had been no repeat of the uneasy conversation and neither of them had brought up the matter again.

It was as if it had never happened.

With the return of the sun, their pace increased,
and soon they were bowling along the wide road, slowing only for the occasional tollgate or village crossroads. Every mile behind them eased Callista’s fears of pursuit. She no longer jumped at every sound of hooves and harness or shrank into her cloak at every stop to keep from being noticed. Still, she’d not feel truly safe until the gates of Dunsgathaic closed behind her. Only then would Branston’s reach recede and Corey be naught more than a bad dream.

They had just passed Grantham, the afternoon well progressed and dusk only now darkening the skies to the east when, drowsy with the motion of the coach, Callista put aside her book to lean against the window, head resting on her hand. More often than she liked, she found her gaze straying to David riding a little ahead of them, his horse tossing its head in the wind.

Where before she’d pitied him as the rain lashed his face and dripped under his collar, now she envied him the freedom and pleasure of the wind against his cheeks and the sun warm on his shoulders. She admired the easy way he handled his horse; the straight-ness of his back and the gentle touch he maintained on the reins. But she also noticed the experienced way he scanned the landscape for trouble, the flexing of his hand upon his thigh as though it sought the reassurance of a sword, and the grim set of his chiseled jaw.

Bianca Flannery was correct. He might play the pleasure-loving town dandy, but there was a dark heart hidden behind the quick smile and the twinkling eyes.

At one point, he looked back over his shoulder, and Callista drew into the shadows of the coach, a wild tingling deep in the pit of her stomach, her hands sweaty within her gloves. For a moment, she found
herself back in the musty dim corner of the Fowlers’ entry hall, shivers of unexpected pleasure trilling up her spine as David’s lips moved slowly over hers in a kiss of tender seduction. What would it be like to feel his body pressed skin on skin against hers? To explore the hard planes of his chest and the rippled muscles of his stomach in a slow and sinful trail southward? To hear him plead her name as he buried himself inside her? As he possessed her body and soul?

The carriage lurched, breaking into the wild spin of her thoughts before the lush, wanton heat coiling up from her center overcame her completely. She shifted uncomfortably until the impetuous sensations faded.

So much for her equilibrium.

She snatched up her book, burying herself in the prose. This trip was fraught with enough perils. She didn’t need to add to them with silly girlish fancies. There was no real bond between them. David St. Leger offered his protection, but he had not done so out of honor or chivalry or for any tender emotion. They had made a bargain. And he was as much a fugitive as she.

He gave a shout to the postillion. Lowering her book for one last swift glance out the window, Callista saw David tether his horse to a sapling and disappear into the line of trees close to the road, a flash of sunlight off steel as he drew his knife.

Her tingles turned to knots. Hard and tight, they jumbled her insides as her mouth went dry. But there were no shouts or signs of trouble, the coach rumbled on, and soon the horse and the wood were lost around a bend.

Another mile and still no sign of David. She clutched her satchel to her chest, running her finger
back and forth along the latch to calm her nerves. He was fine. There was nothing wrong. He would appear any minute.

As she fretted, the trees gave way to wide hedge-rowed fields and a low arched bridge, then a hill leading down into a long green meadow. Hundreds of feet had beaten the grass flat and churned great muddy swaths between a few scattered tents. Where the river looped away from the bridge, a group of four garishly painted wagons clustered together, mules hobbled to graze nearby. Two men worked to bring down a large blue-and-yellow-striped pavilion. Ropes coiled at their feet as they folded great swaths of canvas. A woman threaded past carrying a bucket of water, and a bearded giant strode from the nearest wagon, shouting orders, arms gesticulating.

Her finger stilled upon the metal clasp. She recognized that tent, that man.

Sam Oakham.

It was said that Sam could shoot the wing from a fly at a hundred paces and split a strand of hair from twice that distance. But it was his fists that earned him his bread and butter as he traveled from town to town offering to bare-knuckle fight any comers. For two long years after Mother’s death, Branston and she had made their lives among the itinerant players and fairfolk. Then Sam had asked for her hand in marriage following her seventeenth birthday. Her brother had refused the proposal, and soon after, they had left the road for lodgings in Bath. She’d not seen the fighter since.

A face appeared in her window, nearly stopping her heart in a wild moment of panic.

Dirt-smudged and rumpled, David leaned down in the saddle. “Miss me?” He grinned, though Callista noted that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, which remained troubled.

“Where did you go? I was worried sick.”

He shrugged. “When the need arises . . .”

But Callista had seen the knife, caught the intent in David’s eyes. Something more than the call of nature had lured him into those woods.

He motioned toward the empty meadow. “Looks as though we missed all the fun. Fair’s over and packed up.”

She turned to fling one last sidelong glance out at the pavilion and the wagons and the man in his shirtsleeves bellowing orders. “I’ve not missed it at all,” she murmured.

*  *  *

“More wine?” David held the bottle over Callista’s glass.

She looked up from her dinner of stringy beef and burnt potatoes. They had decided to stay at this shabby down-at-heels tavern on the edge of town rather than the more comfortable posting inn near the market cross. Less traffic to notice them. Easier to escape should difficulties arise. Even so, the taproom was full, and David had offered the barman extra coins for a private room and his silence.

“It’s no Clos de Vougeot, but it’s better than the beer—barely,” he said.

She placed her hand over the rim of her glass. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to intoxicate me.”

“With this? Doubtful.” He leaned back in his chair. Poured another glass for himself. That had to be the fourth or fifth. He didn’t seem any the worse for wear, and after years spent living with Branston, she definitely knew the signs. Still . . .

“Should you be drinking so much?” she asked.

His eyes locked on hers, and she cringed.
Haunted
didn’t begin to describe the shadows filling his storm-gray stare—an expression replaced so quickly with his usual scoundrel’s twinkle, she couldn’t decide if she’d seen it at all. “I’m in a ramshackle tavern on the edge of some godforsaken town, being hunted by Ossine enforcers and dangerous Fey-bloods.” He lifted his wine to his lips as if he meant to toss it down in one gulp, then slowly placed it back on the table. “Probably not.”

“This isn’t a lovely spring fete for me, either,” she replied. “I’m just as uncomfortable and just as hunted. At least, if they catch us, you’ll only be killed.
I’ll
have to marry Victor Corey.”

For a moment he stared at her as if unsure how to respond. Callista’s nerves jumped and she dug her fingers into her skirt, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t like her to talk back. She’d learned long ago to keep her own counsel and let none see what she truly felt. It must be fatigue and the awful weight of her fear making her waspish and presumptuous.

He continued to eye her, but she sensed no anger in his expression. If anything, it was amusement. Laughter lurked in his gaze and his mouth twitched. “Point well-taken, Miss Hawthorne.” He reached once more for his wineglass, but at a stern look from her subsided. “You win. No more wine.”

Instead, he pulled a chunk of wood from his coat
pocket, a knife from a sheath at his waist. Slowly, he drew the blade across the wood. A long, thin shaving fell away. Then another. And another, the delicate curls falling on his lap and at his feet.

“What are you doing?” she asked, pushing her plate aside to lean her elbows on the table.

He looked up, a corkscrew curling up over his palm, knife stilled in his hand. “Not drinking.”

“I mean with the wood. Are you . . . whittling?”

He lifted his brows and a smile crooked a corner of his mouth. “Can’t pull the wool over your eyes, can I?”

He continued to shave at the wood, a little thinner at one end, rounder at the other.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“The army,” he answered without looking up. “Moments of sheer terror. Months of complete boredom. My friend Adam kept a journal to pass the time. I’m not nearly that scholastic.”