“Whitehall?” Biggs cocked his head.
“Yes. You know, cravat, black coat, that sort of thing.”
“I know that, sir. But what’s in the fryin’ pan at the government offices?”
“It would seem our old friend Merót is in London.”
Biggs stared openmouthed before cursing roundly. “The devil, you say.”
“Precisely.”
Late that night, or rather, very early in the morning, Valen slipped quietly through the front door at Alison Hall, exhausted, but not wishing to disturb the servants. It had been a hellish sort of night. The war office had issued him fifty men to do a job that easily might have utilized three hundred. He’d set them to scouring the docks and wharfs, searching every outgoing ship in port, and questioning landlords and innkeepers. About midnight, they thought they might have located Merót’s lodgings.
With a dozen men, Valen rushed into a tenement in Blackfriars. They burst through the door and found the small room vacated. Heaven help him, he could almost smell the bloody French spy. Merót’s cologne was not musk or sandalwood, like most gentlemen wore, but a spicy floral scent, almost feminine. It clawed at Valen’s nostrils—sickening him. The bed had been fastidiously made up, and in the corner lay a stack of neatly folded silks. Valen had angrily shoved the chair posed at a perfect right angle to Merót’s desk. So close.
He organized a net of men encircling Blackfriars and the surrounding streets. No one would come in or go out without his men searching them. He also positioned men at the docks. They waited in vain. Merót was probably tucked up in bed somewhere snickering at their ineffectual attempt to capture the blighter. Valen changed out his sentries at three o’clock and decided he might as well slog home and get some rest.
After locking the door, he strode quietly up the marble stairs. Moonlight slid through the glass dome illuminating the rotunda with soothing silver light. Valen needed a few hours of solid rest before renewing his search in the morning. He felt certain Merót had slipped through his grasp. The net was simply a precaution, but with the ports sealed off, where would he go? Would he try to flee England? Or...
Merót’s history of vengeance gnawed at Valen.
He remembered all too well the tortured bodies of several of his paid informers. And then there were the bodies of several of Valen’s men. Men ordered to simply follow Merót and track his movements from a distance had fallen prey to a knife or pistol. Always the bastard left their bodies with a mocking message for The Red Hawk. Valen should have disregarded his orders and killed the madman long ago.
Valen stepped onto the second floor landing and heard her scream. A soft cry, muffled. Then louder. He raced up the next set of stairs to Elizabeth’s room and threw open the door. She screamed again, a breathy, helpless noise, as if the throat would not allow the sound to take full force. Pure panic.
He scoured the shadows as he rushed to her side and saw nothing out of place. “What is it!?” he demanded, taking hold of her shoulders. He saw none of the familiar arrogance in her face, no pride, just ravaging fear.
She gulped for air, gasping, and pointed toward the window. He saw nothing there. In his most soothing voice, he asked, “What was it? Tell me. What did you see?”
Her shoulders quaked in his hands. “Him. In the window.”
A nightmare. He understood then and hugged her against his chest, petting her hair. “Shhh. It’s gone. You’re safe now.” He would make certain she was safe. Her quivering subsided as he held her and stroked her hair and back. He listened, waiting for her breathing to calm down.
She clung to Valen as if her life depended on it. “I saw him. The murderer. At my window. Come to finish killing me. I know it.”
“Shhh. Breathe, Izzie. I’m not in a mood to have you cascade down the front of my shirt just now.”
That did it. She let go of him and leaned away, leaving his arms feeling regrettably empty. “You don’t believe me?”
It nearly broke his heart, that expression on her face. He’d wounded her. “I believe you. You thought you saw something.”
Her brow pinched together. “I did see something, I saw him! Merót.”
He nodded, unwilling to upset her any further. As she labored under the weight of so many emotions, her breasts rose and fell, innocent of the enticing effect it had on him. Gad, she was bewitching. Silver light floated over her, touching her hair and skin as he only dreamed of doing. He brushed back a dark tendril from her cheek. “You’ve been through far too much today. You must rest.”
“He’s going to kill me.” She lowered her eyes.
He lifted her chin in his hand. “I won’t let that happen.”
She met his gaze. “I would think you’d only be too...”
He appreciated that she had the good sense not to finish the ridiculous statement, but he did it for her. “...glad to be rid of you?” He trailed his fingers over her cheek. “You cannot really think so?”
He left the question hanging and leaned toward her lips, capturing them in his. He did not plunder her mouth as he had last time. Although he knew instinctively she would let him. Knowing made him ache all the more to do it. But he held back. Kissing her as softly as the moonlight he was so jealous of, gently caressing her lips with his, scarcely holding her in his hands, leaving her the freedom to escape his grasp, or his kiss, at any time if she willed it.
She did neither.
When he reluctantly pulled away from her mouth, he realized he had completely forgotten to breathe. Now he was the one gasping, desperate. Reckless behavior. Foolish. Unfortunately his treacherous body was ordering him to do it again, and unless he beat a hasty retreat,
