Her Dark Curiosity (The Madman’s Daughter #2)(30)
Author: Megan Shepherd

I felt hot tears on my cheeks, and then Edward wiped them away with the one clean patch of fabric on his cuff.

“It’s my fault,” I choked. “If only I was smarter, if I could have already cured you.”

“You’ve done everything you can.”

“Father would have figured it out by now.”

He pushed back his shirt cuff and brushed my cheek with his thumb instead. “Your father had a lifetime of knowledge. You’re only starting. And we’re getting closer.”

“But how many people must die first?”

“I’m trying,” he murmured, smoothing my loose hair back with both hands as the fire in the woodstove cracked and sparked. “Don’t you think that I would have stopped him if I could? I told you, I’ve tried to take his life by taking my own. He won’t let me.”

There was so much pain in his voice, so much self-hatred and guilt.

“That isn’t what I want,” I said, letting my fingers intertwine with his soaked fabric, holding him close so that he couldn’t slip the chains of my hands. “I don’t want you to die, Edward.” My voice had a breathlessness I hadn’t intended. His eyes found mine, asking a question, and I blinked.

“I mean . . .”

I started to clarify that I only meant he shouldn’t die for Father’s sins. Not that I wanted him to live because I cared for him, because I felt a strange sort of kinship to this boy torn apart by my father, just like me, just trying to find a place in the world between the dark shadows and the too-bright sunlight.

“I mean . . .” I started again, but my words faded. With the smell of roses around us, and his strong hands around my own, I wasn’t sure what I meant. My life with the professor was so fortunate, so fragile, and half of it was a lie. I could only be that proper young lady during the day. But at night . . .

I let my fingertips trail over the folds and valleys of his shirt, coming away with another man’s blood.

“In a way, I envy your other half,” I whispered. “At least he’s free to do what he wants.”

Edward watched me staring at my fingertips. “No, he isn’t. He’s as much a prisoner as I am, beholden to his own sick desires. The sooner he’s gone from me, the better. I want to be just a man, that’s all, who isn’t marked with bruises, who can walk the streets without worry that he’ll kill someone.” He swallowed, as his hands again closed over mine. “Who can love you as you deserve to be loved.”

My breath stilled. He’d made no secret of his feelings for me. Even on the island, behind the waterfall, he’d intimated that he’d loved me. I’d never given him any indication—not in words, at least—that I returned those feelings. Still, I couldn’t deny that someplace deep, my thoughts had often wandered to him. Even in death, Edward Prince had been a difficult young man to forget about.

“Edward, don’t talk like that,” I whispered.

But he touched my cheek gently, turning my face back around to look at him. The blood on his shirt mingled with the smell of roses, making me dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with my illness. He was so close that his warm breath dusted my cold neck. It stirred something inside me, as though the animal within now sensed another creature like itself and was waking.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he whispered. “I told you I came back to London to find Moreau’s colleague so I could cure myself, but that’s not the only reason. Nor is it the only reason I befriended Lucy. I had to see you again. I had to hear news of you, even if only bits of gossip from your best friend. I tried to stay away from you—to keep you safe from the Beast—but I couldn’t bear it. All I thought about was you.” He leaned his forehead against my own, and this close to the window his breath fogged in the space between us, but I didn’t feel cold.

“I came back to London for you, Juliet,” he whispered.

Words I’d once wished to hear while staring at my bedroom ceiling, whispering he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not into the silent air, but from someone else. In the small space of my workshop, tucked away amid the roses, it didn’t seem to matter as much who said them, as long as they were said. Edward loved me. Edward had risked everything to come here, to be with me. Life in London had always been lacking some critical piece, like a piano missing a single key. And here was Edward, who knew my secrets and didn’t judge me for them, desperate to fill that void in my life.

And I was desperate for him, too.

I tilted my head to look up at him, and our eyes met as my fingers coiled in his bloodstained clothing. I wasn’t certain who moved first, after that. We were already so close, his arms already around me. Not a far change to press our lips together, to slide my hands around his neck and tangle them in his dark hair. He responded instantly, breath ragged as he kissed me.

Heart pounding, I slipped my fingers between the buttons of his shirt to pull away the bloody reminder, but he held my hand. “Slowly, Juliet. I’ve wanted this a long time. We don’t have to rush.”

He kissed me again, achingly slow. But his breath was as ragged as mine, and his loneliness and desperation as deep as mine, and it wasn’t hard to make him forget about childish desires like chaste little kisses. Once I whispered his name and pressed my body flush with his, he was broken.

We found our way to the wooden bed beside the woodstove, where warm flames splashed on both our faces. Our limbs tangled together, our lips found each other feverishly. The smell of blood was choking my lungs, and I helped Edward out of the stained clothes and threw them on the floor, and then my own, never wanting to think of the blood on them again. My bare skin slipped against his under the patchwork quilt, and without the barrier of my corset and skirts and chemise I felt a million miles away from London and all the propriety the city required, and I gave myself to Edward.

We fell asleep like that, tangled together, lips bruised, the worn old quilt thrown around my waist. I dreamed of a sea of blood, and Edward in a bobbing dinghy, and an island made of bones.

SIXTEEN

WHEN I WOKE, I was alone in the workshop’s single bed. Edward was gone, though Sharkey was curled in a tight ball atop the quilt, stirring when I did, and blinking contentedly a few times.

I sat up, breathing hard, trying to sort through last night. What had been real, and what had been imaginary? The bedsheets were stained with blood from Edward’s victim, as was my dress crumpled on the floor. I’d have to burn it, just like the coat.