My Lady Quicksilver

And he only had one more night.

Lynch dragged in a shuddering gasp, breathing hard against her mouth. With barely an inch between them, he could see the wild hunger gleaming in her eyes. It tempted him but he fought it, licking the taste of her from his lips. He could lose himself here, lose himself in her, but if he did, if he took her home and let the mechs do whatever they wanted, then he knew that no matter how frantically he kissed her, he would hear the clock ticking slowly in the background.

“I need you to know something,” he breathed, fingers trembling on her jaw. “No matter what happens…I need you to know.”

“What?” She clutched at his coat as if some sense of premonition shivered through her.

“I lied when I said that I wasn’t sure what I felt for Annabelle. I lied when I said that I didn’t once think of revenge,” he said roughly. “I did. Losing her hurt a great deal, so much so that I swore I’d never let myself feel that way again.” Lynch’s gaze cut to hers, forcing her to meet his eyes, no matter how much she stiffened. He didn’t care if she was afraid of this; he needed her to know, before it was too late. “You make me forget the hurt. You make me wish that there were more days ahead of me. So that we could—”

Rosa put her finger to his lips, stilling the flow of words. Horror rounded her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “No, you barely know me.” Hysteria laced the last two words.

“I know you’re frightened—”

“You don’t know anything!” She pushed past, pressing her gloved fingers to her lips.

Lynch followed, hard on her heels, ignoring the sudden scattering of curious debutantes. They couldn’t say this here. It was too crowded, every ear and eye suddenly turning their way.

He caught her wrist, his fingers locking around something hard. Rosa spun like a scalded cat, yanking at his grip and clutching her hand to her chest. Lynch’s fingers rubbed slowly together, as if his mind sought to assimilate the sensation of that touch.

Hard.

Like iron.

She froze like a trapped animal, a vicious, desperate look on her face. “And now, me lord Nighthawk? Do you still feel that way now?”

The noise and laughter around him drained away, the world narrowing in on the woman in front of him as she stared at him, almost daring him. He barely saw it. Everything in him turned to lead, darkness obliterating his vision as the hunger surged.

No. It couldn’t be.

Me lord Nighthawk…

As if a veil had been lifted, everything he knew about her—everything she’d explained away so well— crashed together. Her hands—don’t touch my hands—the pistol she carried, and the way she could pick a lock with barely a thought. No! He’d seen her hand, seen Mercury in the park while Rosa sat in the carriage beside him… Or had he? The truth hit him like a bucket of icy water, washing away the willful blindness, making him feel sick at the deception. The way she’d fooled him and so easily too.

Or perhaps, if he were honest, he had let himself be fooled.

“Mercury,” he whispered, and realized that she had been right.

He knew her not at all.

Twenty-two

Rosalind panicked.

What had she done? The look in his eyes—oh God, his eyes—like little black pinpricks of blazing fury. But she couldn’t cope, couldn’t face the oppressive weight of his declarations without ruining it. She had to. Before he said something she wouldn’t be able to forget. Before the sickening bite of her own secrets strangled her with guilt.

Rosalind couldn’t face him anymore. Couldn’t stomach the look on his face, as if she’d punched him in the chest with a knife. Betrayal. That’s what she saw and it hurt her so much she couldn’t breathe.

Heart thundering in her ears, she turned and ran toward the staircase. All around her blue bloods pressed close in their powdered wigs and extravagant velvets.

Rosalind sucked back a sob, the world blurring around her in a golden haze of melted candlelight. Why the devil hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Let him profess his undying love for her; it meant nothing. It shouldn’t.

Why had she blurted out the truth?

She’d wanted him to know. So he wouldn’t love her anymore. So he wouldn’t torture her with these false declarations. So she’d never have to see him again, never feel the aching pain of her secret gnawing like a tumor within her. Never let herself wish for something she couldn’t have…

This felt like a nightmare. The stairs were endless, as if no matter how hard she ran they would never end. She kept waiting for a hand to yank at her skirts, for him to grab her by the shoulder and wrench her to her knees. Finally! The top. She pushed into a pair of blue bloods and came to a staggering halt, trapped by the crowd. Where was he? Why hadn’t he grabbed her yet?

Rosalind risked a glance. Her eyes met Lynch’s, dark brown clashing with icy gray and something in her chest constricted at the way he stood at the bottom of the steps, staring at her as if she’d ripped his heart out and fled with it.

Her pulse thundered raggedly in her ears. As if he shared the same nightmare, he shook his head, shaking off the spell. The expression on his face hardened and something hurt deep within her at the sight of it.

Why? This is what you wanted!

His first step was slow, deliberate. Light gleamed in the polished shine of his boots, the blackness of his coat absorbing every shadow. Somehow the crowd gave way to him as though sensing the danger that prowled within its midst.

Rosalind’s lungs caught until she could barely breathe. Panic flared. She took a step back and Lynch’s gaze flattened. He was furious. Beyond furious. Sudden terror made her turn around in a swish of skirts and press into the crowd.

An elegant little bell rang and the doors to the theatre opened. Laughter echoed, so rough and raucous against her skin that she felt as if it rubbed her raw. The swarm of the crowd pressed through the doors, heading for their seats, and she was dragged along in the tide, trapped by the current of people. Buffeted on all sides, panicked, almost blind to the world around her, she shoved and pushed her way through, not caring what they thought anymore. Lynch was the danger. If he got his hands on her…

She sucked in a sharp breath. Nearly clear of the crowd. Just three more steps and then she was going to grab a handful of her skirts and flee across the blood-red carpets for the exit.

Two steps. One. A hard hand gripped her elbow, the other settling on her waist. She was shoved free of the crowd, then the grip on her tightened.

Rosalind stiffened.

“Don’t,” Lynch murmured, leaning close to her ear. His hard body pressed against her back, driving her against the wall.

Rosalind spun, the bodice knife clutched in her gloved fingers. Lynch pressed her against the velvet embossed wallpaper, examining the crowd around them with a dangerous glare. As if he felt her gaze on his face, he slowly looked at her.

“Are you going to use it?” That voice… So cold.

“Use what?” she whispered, unable to break the hold of his gaze. I’m sorry.

“The knife,” he said, enunciating each word with a diamond edge. He let her go, his nostrils flaring and his gaze black with fury. “Go on. Use it.” His arms dropped to his sides, presenting the vulnerable expanse of his abdomen and chest.

Rosalind stared at him. She had barely realized what she’d done; drawing the blade was always her first instinct. Only there was nothing to fight here. She couldn’t knife the brutal crush of feeling in her chest, the weight that made her feel like she was slowly drowning. Her fingers opened nervelessly and the knife fell to the