long before he’d be a full-time invalid. He’d not trap Callista into the role of drudge. He might be selfish, but he wasn’t cruel. And Callista deserved more than to spend her days watching him disintegrate before her eyes. David had thought there was nothing worse than the hell the Fey-blood’s black spell had wrought. He’d been wrong.
Worse than death was having what you desired as close as a mingled breath and being forced to walk away. It was looking at Callista and seeing what could be, perhaps even should be, while knowing it would never happen. And worst of all, it was knowing that even the brief time remaining was tainted with prophecies of death.
His enemies gathered.
The danger mounted.
The sooner Callista departed Addershiels for the Isle of Skye, the better. She would be safe there, beyond Corey’s reach.
She would be safe there, beyond
He couldn’t change his fate, but he might . . . just might . . . be able to change hers.
That would have to be enough.
15
From the window of his room within the comfortable hotel, Corey looked down on the busy square and noted every coach and carriage, as well as the throng of busy pedestrians out on a rare sunny day after a week of rain and sullen skies. He scanned the passersby, not because he thought he might spy the towering figure of David St. Leger cutting his way through the crowd or Callista’s trim shape and dowdy attire moving in and out of the shops in nearby Catherine Street, but simply out of habit after a week on the road north in search of the elusive runaways.
Only the phlegmy clearing of a throat broke him from his scrutiny of a suspicious gentleman standing head and shoulders above those around him on a nearby corner. Corey swung around to face the weasely slump- backed cutpurse, his mutilated hand half hidden in the wide pocket of a greasy smock.
He continued to utilize gallows bait like this one when necessary, but his lip curled in repugnance at the stench of gin and defeat.
“I paid you your pennies. Is there a reason you’re still here?”
“You said a shilling,” the thug growled, his yellow teeth showing, in what Corey supposed was meant to be a threatening leer. “This ain’t even half that.”
“Bring me a shilling’s worth of information next time. What you’ve given me is tavern gossip and whores’ whispers,” he answered before turning back to watch the gentleman across the square.
He hadn’t moved, and the swarm of afternoon strollers and street vendors with their baskets and sacks had to joggle round him in consternation, yet, oddly, none confronted the man. Instead, they seemed to avoid him, heads down as they scurried past. As Corey continued to watch, the gentleman looked up at the window, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat, but Corey had the sensation of the man’s stare drilling down into his brain.
A crow settled on the ledge just outside the window, its great black wings spread, its beak wide as it croaked and squawked. A wash of cold splashed over Corey’s shoulders and down his spine. He shooed the bird away, but the feeling of menace remained.
“You’re trying to cheat me, you is,” the thief-taker complained. “It’s him just like in them drawings. I seen him with my own eyes not thirty miles from here.”
Corey rubbed a hand over the knob of his cane, his patience fraying. “Then where’s the woman? He’s traveling with a woman.” He rounded on his informer, cane raised. “Did your pox-ridden slatterns mention
The man’s back rounded as if he’d been struck, but he held his ground, coughing wetly into a large soiled handkerchief. “Next time, I’ll take my news to the other fella. He’ll pay what’s owed me,” he grumbled.
Corey visibly relaxed his face into a smile, though inside every alarm was ringing. “Other fellow?”
“You’re not the only one out there asking about that St. Leger bloke. And he pays twice as much. I only come to you ’cause we had a deal. Not no more. Not when I see how you pay honest chaps for honest work.”
“Honest, my ass,” Corey replied. “You probably stole your mother’s liver as you were being squeezed out between her legs. Give me a name. Who is he? Who is this champion of the rights of honest thieves everywhere?”
The man’s expression grew petulant, arms folded over his chest. “We’re to go to the Swan and Crown and tell ’em we’ve got news for Beskin. That’s all I know.”
It didn’t matter. Let this Beskin son of a bitch play seek-and-find up and down the Great North Road; Corey knew where the two of them were headed. He would be there in a few days more. Then all he had to do was wait for St. Leger and Callista to come to him.
Corey smiled and flipped the cellar rat another penny. “And there’s a half crown more if you tell this jack at the Swan and Crown that St. Leger’s halfway to Cardiff with his doxy in tow.”
As the man stretched to catch the coin, Corey’s hand shot out, grabbing him around the throat, his fingers digging deep into his flesh. He leaned in, his voice low and almost pleasant. “Don’t ever tell me I don’t pay what’s owing.”
The penny hit the floor to roll away under a table.
The man hit the floor and lay unmoving.
David eased a shirt on over his head, stifling a groan as pain slashed up his chest and into his skull. The room wavered but did not spin. His body ached but did not collapse. And he’d be damned if he’d lay in that bed another minute. Still, he sat and breathed deeply for a moment before he dared attempt to pull on his breeches, glancing only briefly at the door.
“Come in and scold me in person,” he called out. “Much easier than glaring at me through the keyhole.”
The latch turned, and Gray de Coursy stood on the threshold, bearing a whisky bottle and two glasses. At least he assumed it was Gray. This gentleman bore the familiar rangy build and stark aristocratic features, but gone was the champagne shine and the cool, prideful gaze that had England’s elite climbing over themselves to curry favor . . . and gain a husband for their daughters. Instead, he looked battle-toughened and forbidding in a way he never had before, even during the long years campaigning. Perhaps because this war was far more personal, the stakes much closer to home.
“How did you know I was there?” Gray asked, placing the glasses upon a cabinet. Filling them with whisky.
“You always were horrible at stealth. You have the tread of an elephant. I heard you halfway down the corridor.” David sucked in a breath and resumed the laborious process of dressing. One leg . . . easy does it. “Stick to aerial surveillance and leave scouting enemy terrain to those familiar with the ground.”
Now for his boots. When had his legs grown so damned long? His feet seemed bloody miles away. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for his valet. Wishing for any valet. Wishing for a room that didn’t waver in and out of focus.
“Do you consider Addershiels in the hands of the enemy?” Gray turned around, a glass in each hand. David noted the bandage wrapped around his palm and his waxy complexion and silently cursed the draught’s sinister destruction.
“The Duncallans, a Fey, and a dead traitor roam the halls. It’s either enemy territory or a circus freak show, and I learned more than I care to about circuses in the past few weeks.” David accepted the glass, though he did not taste. Somehow, the idea of alcohol at—he checked the clock—two in the afternoon didn’t seem quite as appealing as it once had.
“An awful lot of people track your scent, St. Leger,” Gray commented, sipping his drink.
If it had been David, he’d have downed the whole in one throat-burning swallow. Hell, he’d have tipped the
