you.”
“They will understand why I had to do it.”
Miss Westlock is right; he’s a complete madman. In Payne’s mind, he would have shot the false Mac, and Isabella would welcome him into her arms for it.
The thought of Isabella waiting for Mac, perhaps in that dressing gown that clung to her body like water, made the berserker in him roar to the surface. Mac knocked his elbow into Payne and ducked as the pistol exploded in his ear. He fought through the ringing in his head, trying to knock Payne away. The hansom spun sideways as the horses bolted at the sound, the driver’s shouts dim in Mac’s deadened hearing.
Mac had no way of knowing what had happened to the damn pistol, but the mad Highlander in him didn’t care. Killing the man with his bare hands would be so much more satisfying.
Payne slithered from Mac’s grasp. As the hansom rocked, the door flew open, and Payne scrambled to the pavement.
“No ye don’t, ye bloody bastard.” Mac leapt after him. He yanked at Payne’s coat, but Payne gave a mighty twist, plunged in front of a cart, and darted into a narrow passage on the other side of the street.
Mac went right after him. Rain poured down, blotting out all light. Mac had no idea where they were, but the streets were rubbish-strewn and narrow, and Payne ran through them with the ease of familiarity. Mac ran fast, faster, pounding through puddles and filth, rain pouring into his face.
Payne kept darting through the maze of passages, the man surprisingly swift on his feet. They crossed a wider street filled with carriages, too damned many for this time of night.
Payne put on a burst of speed, but Mac had plenty of energy to keep up with him. After Payne died, then Mac could rest.
Payne charged into another narrow lane, and Mac sprinted behind him. This passage was dark and noisome, with the skittering of rats to go with it.
Rats in a hole, Mac thought grimly. Payne kept good company.
He reached the end of the passage, a blank wall with no doors. And no Payne.
Damn the man, he’d doubled back. Mac turned to run after him.
A light flashed, followed by a horrible noise that penetrated even his deafened ears. After two steps, Mac’s feet no longer worked. His knees buckled against his will, and the pavement rushed up to meet him.
What the hell? What the hell? Mac put his hands on the cold ground, trying to push himself up, but his breath was gone. A large wet patch stained his side—he must have fallen into a puddle. He’d let Payne face Bellamy for that. The former pugilist enraged about Mac’s clothes was a fearsome sight.
Payne’s footsteps echoed as the man walked down the passage to Mac. Mac smelled the acrid stench of a pistol that had just been fired. He opened his mouth to shout, but his lungs wouldn’t work. For some reason, he could barely breathe.
And then pain came. Terrible, blossoming pain, spreading from his side up into his arm and down his leg. Damn it to hell.
Payne, silhouetted by the brighter street beyond the passage, holstered his pistol, scooped Mac up by his armpits, and began to drag him away.
“I don’t know where he is,” Inspector Fellows repeated in irritation. “We hadn’t found Payne by three, and Lord Mac said he’d go home to tell you. He got into a hansom cab, and that was the last I saw of him.”
Isabella rubbed her hands and paced the drawing room. She’d barely been able to stay still while Evans dressed her, but she reasoned she couldn’t rush downstairs in her dressing gown. She was a proper Englishwoman, an earl’s daughter, and an aristocrat’s wife. She could not appear in undress in front of visitors. Both Fellows and Cameron had answered her frantic summons, arriving very quickly after her messages.
“He never came home,” she said in a bleak voice. “Morton and Bellamy were looking out for him especially.”
She did not want to voice the thought that Mac could be dead. The world would cease to turn if that happened. As fear welled up in her, Isabella knew that she loved Mac with all her heart, and she did not care whether he wanted to live with her forever, or run back to Paris to paint, or stay out all night with his friends, or spend all day in bed with her. She simply wanted Mac home, whole and safe and sound.
“We are looking,” Fellows said.
Isabella clenched her hands. “Look harder. I don’t care if every man in Scotland Yard must be out on the streets searching for him. I want him found. I need him found.”
“I’ll find him,” Cameron said. “I’ll make damn sure.”
“I’m coming with you,” Isabella said. As the two men exchanged a glance, she swung from them in irritation and called to Evans to fetch her coat.
Cameron stepped in front of her. “Isabella.”
“Don’t ‘Isabella’ me, Cameron Mackenzie. I am coming with you.”
Cameron’s scarred cheek twitched, and his eyes, more golden than Mac’s, regarded her steadily. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you are.”
Mac’s first thought upon waking was surprise to be alive. His second was terrible need to see Isabella.
He peeled open his eyes, wincing when bright gaslight stabbed through them. He lay on a floor, and though he felt the prickle of a thick woolen carpet, the flat surface was hard. His side hurt like hell. He made the mistake of moving and groaned out loud when pain raked through him.
Mac let his head drop back, trying to calm his breathing. He needed to think, to figure out where he was, to decide how to get away.
The smell here was stuffy and wrong, like a house too long shut up. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that the colors of the room were garish, the walls done in bright pinks and reds and covered with gold-framed paintings his eyes were too blurred to make out. Money had gone into making this room, but his artist’s soul cringed at the gaudiness. Cost without taste. A bloody crime.
His vision began to clear, and Mac saw the pictures.
Hell.
They were Mac’s. At least some of them were—originals he’d done years and years ago. Many were paintings done in Mac’s style, but he knew he hadn’t painted them. There were pictures of Kilmorgan, of the house in Buckinghamshire, various views of Paris and Florence, Rome and Venice, of Cam’s horses, of the Mackenzie dogs.
Two whole walls held nothing but Isabella.
Cold seared Mac’s stomach. Every painting portrayed Isabella nude. Isabella sitting on a straight-backed chair with her legs spread, Isabella reclining on a sofa, Isabella stepping out of a bath, lying on a rug, standing outside naked with one hand on the branch of a tree.
She’d never posed for these, Mac knew she hadn’t. Mac knew she wouldn’t. Likely Payne had drawn a model, probably Mirabelle, Aimee’s mother, then had painted in Isabella’s head, the opposite of what Isabella had asked Mac to do with the erotic pictures.
Mac wanted to be sick, and at the same time his rage rose so swiftly that his entire body pulsed with it.
“You’re a dead man.” Mac drew in as much air as he could and shouted it. “Do you hear me? You’re a dead man!”
The door swung open. Mac couldn’t screw his head around to see who’d entered, but he heard a man’s tread move toward him. Booted feet stopped at Mac’s side, and Mac stared up at Payne.
Now that he had light, Mac saw that the man did resemble him, at least superficially. Payne’s eyes were brown and set deeply into his face; his hair had been brushed the way Mac wore his, but it fought a widow’s peak. His cheeks were more hollow, and Mac suspected that what Fellows had suggested was true: that he filled them out with cotton wool when he needed to. He hadn’t at the moment, and the hollow cheeks gave his mouth a drawn look.
He wore a full dress kilt of Mackenzie plaid, formal coat, and polished boots. Seen at a distance or in the dark, or by someone who did not know Mac well, Payne could easily pass for him.
“You have it wrong,” Payne said coldly. “It is I who will kill you.”
Mac laughed. It came out feeble and hoarse. “Then why haven’t you already?”
“Because I need her to come to me.”
Mac’s blood chilled as he understood what Payne had done. He hadn’t planned to shoot Mac in the hansom
