My Lady Quicksilver

So many times she’d fought and argued with this man.

“We both made mistakes,” she admitted. “I should have included you and your brother in my schemes when you asked.” She took a deep breath. “I let pride and mistrust make my decisions, instead of thinking them through rationally.”

Interest flickered in his dark eyes. “That an apology?”

“The only one you’ll ever get,” she replied tartly.

A soft laugh. “And now you want me to admit I shouldn’t a gone against you? Bugger that.”

“I understand why you did.”

“All them years…” He shut his eyes and tilted his head back against the timber slats of the walls. “Locked in the enclaves, servin’ me time for a limb I never e’en wanted.” Bringing his iron fist up, he clenched it, staring at the shifting metal. “They said I owed ’em fifteen years for this. Fifteen years in that hell.” A harsh laugh. “Then you with your pretty promises. All I e’er wanted was some action. Some way to even the score. And you kept urgin’ us to wait, build yon fuckin’ metal army.” He spat to the side. “I worked metal for o’er ten years. What you wanted would ’ave taken at least another three. I couldn’t wait that long.”

“If you did, perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

“Aye.” He rubbed at the bruise on his face absently, then winced. “Got a mean right ’ook, you do. Never seen you in action afore. You could ’ave done some damage.” Scraping his thumbnail against his mouth, he looked considering. “The Echelon, they want Mercury bad, don’t they?”

She nodded.

“Then answer me this; why you given ’er to ’em?”

The look in his eyes was surprisingly astute. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I saw the way that dandy ’anded you up in ’ere. Whatever you’re plannin’, ’e don’t like it none.” Narrowed eyes. “What are you plannin’?”

He thought this a ploy. Rosalind looked away. “I’m planning to give myself up in exchange for Lynch. They want Mercury, so I’ll give her to them.”

“What?” Mordecai looked incredulous, then a canny expression crossed his face, a smile. “Tole you a woman ought not be in charge. Them weaker emotions be the death o’ you.”

“I know.”

He shook his head. “A blue blood, eh. A bleedin’ Nighthawk.”

“The Nighthawk,” she corrected.

“Aye. And still a bleeder.”

“So I used to believe.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. “They’re not like the Echelon.”

“No?”

“No.” A small smile crossed her lips. “If it makes you feel any better, I quite suspect the greatest threat to the Echelon won’t be you or I. It will be the Nighthawks. They’ve already got an army; they don’t have to build one.”

Silence greeted this statement. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. “You believe that?” No matter his bravado, she sensed the need in him. The desire to know that this wasn’t all for nothing.

“I do.”

“You ain’t so bad,” he muttered. “When you ain’t so cold. A pity. We coulda worked well together.”

A humorless smile touched her lips. “I set the Nighthawks on you,” she reminded him.

Despite the bruises, he almost smiled back. “That were clever. I ain’t never suspected that.”

The words trailed off as both of them peered through the barred window at the back of the prison cart. Her stomach fluttered. Getting closer now. They were nearly at the tower. She could almost feel the looming shadow of it over the prison cart.

“What would you ’ave done, if this ’adn’t ’appened?” Mordecai suddenly asked. “If ’is lord Nighthawk were free and you weren’t facin’ the guillotine?”

She had to think about it. Indeed, she’d had so much time to think lately—about everything she’d done wrong or right, everything she might have done differently. “I wouldn’t start a war,” she said. “Not in the streets. Not the way I planned. There was something Lynch said…about war not being the way to win. The Echelon are so strong because they are feared, because no one dares to speak against them.”

“You’d speak against them?”

“I’d find a way,” she said. “Perhaps I’d join the Humans First Party.”

“Join?” He laughed, a rough burr. “You wouldn’t follow. Not for long. You’d want to lead.”

“Perhaps I’ve learned my lesson,” she replied. “Or perhaps not. Who knows? The point is moot.”

The prison cart slowed down, someone shouting in the background. Then Garrett’s voice, cutting through the shouts as he proclaimed, “Prisoners. For the tower.”

Their eyes met. Mordecai paled beneath the swarthy layer of grime. “Do you think they’ll call us ’eroes out in the streets?”

“Anything is possible.” Rosalind’s breath caught. She could taste fear, see it in his eyes and knew he saw it in hers.

“Always wanted to be a ’ero.” He took a deep breath as the lock on the back of the cart rattled. “Guess this is it. A damned shame—after all we did—that it ends ’ere.”

“With nothing gained,” she agreed hoarsely.

Their eyes met. Mordecai nodded slowly, thought racing behind his eyes. “They don’t even want me, do they? All they want is Mercury.”

Rosa nodded.

Mordecai licked his lips and shifted in his seat. “Guess I’m dead then and the bastards won’t even remember me name. Curse ’em. Curse ’em all to ’ell.”

Twenty-seven

“This is ridiculous,” Barrons snapped, stepping to the front of the dais in the closest he’d ever come to confronting the prince consort.

“You dare defy your prince?” The Duke of Bleight asked.

Of course that vulture would be here. They all were, Balfour taking the place left vacant by the demise of the House of Lannister. He drummed his fingers on his chair, the only sign of movement apart from the eagle dart of his eyes.

Lynch stood with his shoulders squared and his head high. He couldn’t quite control the racing beat of his heart. Death would never have been his choice, but then he had no choice. He could have handed the mech leader over in some attempt to sway the prince consort’s mind but that was dangerous. Too many people knew who Mercury was and Mordecai was the only one whose tongue he couldn’t control.

“I offer council,” Barrons replied icily, “when the rest of you would rather bite your tongues and bob your heads for fear of offending.” He turned to glare at the prince consort. “I know I’m not the only one who thinks this is foolishness. I’m just the only one who dares voice it.”

The prince consort cut him a sharp look. “You’re very close to crossing the line, Barrons.”

“And then we would be down two council seats. Perhaps you would prefer a dictatorship?” Barrons replied.

A dangerous move. But Lynch saw the thoughtful flicker in several of the councilors eyes. They were clinging to power and they knew it. All it would take would be for them to unite against him and the prince consort’s stranglehold would be over. But that would never happen so long as every councilor served his own purposes first.

As if he couldn’t control it, Lynch looked at Bleight. The duke was getting older, perched like a vulture in his chair as he glared at Barrons. Firmly in the prince consort’s pocket. For the first time, Lynch wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t refused to duel his cousin. If that were him sitting up there, trying to hold the Prince Consort at bay.