face in her shoulder, holding her beneath him as he fought one last wave of panic.
“Lynch?” she murmured, shifting as if to look at him. “Are you all right?”
His throat was dry. “I’m fine.” Lynch wrapped his arms around her and shifted her so that her body tucked into the curve of his hip, his face buried in that glorious red hair. So that she couldn’t see him. “Go back to sleep.”
She brought their linked hands to her lips and pressed a kiss to his white knuckles. “I think I will,” she murmured, in her husky Mrs. Marberry voice. “You’ve quite worn me out.”
Her soft laughter echoed through her chest as he held her. For a moment all felt right with the world. He breathed in the scent of her hair, so familiar and yet so uniquely hers.
The minutes stretched out, each tick of the clock sounding like the clang of a jail cell. Rosa softened in his arms, her breathing becoming slow and even. He wanted to stay here all day. Forever. But the hour hand struck nine and he knew there was too much to do if he wanted to protect her.
Untangling himself from her body, he slipped from the bed with careful grace and made his way to the door.
He didn’t say good-bye.
He didn’t even leave a note, though he lingered over his desk for long moments in indecision.
In the end, they’d said everything that needed to be said.
There was a knock at the door. Rosalind lifted her head off the pillow, feeling the aching bruise of that fall into the orchestra pit. She winced, then realized she was alone.
Jerking the sheet up to her chest, she looked around, her heart hammering a little faster. There was no sign of Lynch and from the sunlight streaming in through the window, she’d slept half the morning away. Little wonder, what with the emotional and physical exertion of the night before.
“Mrs. Marberry?” Perry called. “May I come in?”
Scraping her hair behind her ear, she called out an assent. Her eyes felt tight and puffy. Vanity compelled her to admit it was probably a good thing Lynch had left early.
Or was it?
She couldn’t help feeling nervous. So much had happened between them in the last day, and yet not all of it had been resolved. He’d forgiven her? Hadn’t he?
Perry swept in with Rosalind’s green dress from the previous afternoon over her arm. Dark circles lingered beneath her cerulean eyes; she looked almost as poorly as Rosalind felt.
“Here,” Perry said, thrusting the dress toward her. “Garrett said it was time for you to get up. He wishes to speak with you.”
The abrupt tone of her voice made Rosalind’s chest tighten. They didn’t know. They couldn’t. “Is Lynch here?” she asked. “Is he…did he want to see me?”
Perry stiffened, her gaze darting to Rosalind’s—then away. “You’ll have to ask Garrett.”
Perry left her to dress. Rosalind made swift work of the gown and stockings, butterflies starting to tickle in her abdomen. Instinct—ever a curse—was starting to make her nervous. Something was wrong. Perry had been warming to her last night but this morning they might as well have been strangers.
When she jerked open the door to Lynch’s bedchambers, she found Garrett drumming his fingers on the desk in Lynch’s office. The fingers stopped, his gaze examining her with an obliqueness that wasn’t normal. One could always gauge Garrett’s thoughts by the expressions that flickered across his face. There was no sign of his usual, slightly self-mocking smile as he stared at her.
“What’s going on?” Rosalind asked.
He eased to his feet, white lines straining around his mouth. “Mrs. Marberry.” Those blue eyes were watchful. “I’ve been instructed to escort you to the dungeons.”
The blood drained out of her face. “What?” He wouldn’t. Not Lynch. Damn it, last night had to have meant something. She’d given him everything, until she was almost wrung dry. Unless…she had hurt him so badly that she had destroyed even the glimmer of affection that he’d had for her.
Garrett gestured her in front of him. “Shall we?”
She wouldn’t break. Not here. Not in front of Garrett or any of the Nighthawks she might see on the trip to the cells below. Her vision white with shock, she preceded him through the door, seeing none of the twists and turns they took. All too soon, she was standing in front of what looked like a pair of doors made entirely of interlocking brass cogs.
Garrett stepped past, his hands darting over the display. Each cog gave a click as he turned them, though she couldn’t fathom by which order he moved them. Then he stepped to the side and pressed a small button concealed beside the doors.
The whole display began to move, the cogs in the middle beginning to grind, then each subsequent cog turning and shifting the others at its peripheral until the whole door was a whirling rotation. A heavy clunk sounded within. Then another. And a final, dull throb that sounded as if it were low within the door. The cogs ground to a halt, and then the thin crack in the middle began to separate.
“A clockwork door,” Garrett murmured. “You must move the pieces correctly the first time, or it grinds to a halt and can’t be resurrected until the entire thing is reset. Lynch and Fitz came up with the idea. Nobody can get in without the first piece of the puzzle—and nobody can get out.”
The doors parted to reveal the inside of an elevation chamber. Rosalind swallowed hard and stepped inside.
“He has an extraordinary mind,” she replied quietly.
Garrett stepped beside her, then pressed the button for the doors to close. The boxcar began to move, the steely rasp of the heavy winch sounding above her.
“He has an extraordinary heart,” he corrected, shadows darkening his vision. “He told me who you are and what you had done.”
The words were polite; the tone held a core of steel however.
Each jerk of the elevation chamber reminded her that there was no way out. Worrying at her gloves, she tried to keep her breathing steady. Already little white dots danced in her vision. “Does he intend to speak to me?”
She could feel him looking at her, his gaze burning through her. “You puzzle me, Mrs. Marberry—or whatever your name is—”
“Rosalind. My name is Rosalind.”
“Rosalind.” He seemed to be considering something. “I’m not quite certain if you are playing games or if you truly do care. I thought you were rather enamored of him.”
She kept silent, despising the probing nature of his question.
He let out a low breath. “As impenetrable as a damned sphinx. I see. You don’t give a damn what I think of you, do you?”
The boxcar came to a halt, its doors opening to reveal another set of clockwork doors. Rosalind met his gaze. “Not at all, sir.” After all, she’d been hated and feared and worse in her time. She’d grown used to the sensation, to the thick callus that seemed her only form of protection.
Or had been once.
The only one whose opinion mattered wasn’t here.
Garrett turned several of the cogs in the door—she tried to watch this time—and the mechanism swept into a whirling, dizzying dance again.
“We don’t often keep prisoners,” he said, gesturing her through the doors. He wouldn’t stop looking at her, as if trying to puzzle out some mystery. “Only the five of us who make up Lynch’s Hand know of the existence of this one—and have the code to the doors.”
“Are you trying to suggest that there’s no one here to help me escape?”
He stopped in the middle of the corridor, a row of gaslight’s gleaming on the shiny black leather of his body armor. A moment of surprise, then he bowed his head. “My apologies. I hadn’t realized that you don’t understand his intentions. We’re not here to lock you in a cell, Rosalind.”
“Though your opinion differs from his.”
“No,” he said. Again he seemed on the verge of saying something, then shook his head with a frustrated
