Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(71)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He muffled a shout against her shoulder.

And then she drifted, liquid and soft, nearly insensible from bliss. He was heavy on her back, slumped against her, his breath hot on her ear, but she didn’t care. It was almost comfortable, and a mad idea rushed into her brain to ask him to stay the night. What matter if the maids found him in the morning? It was her house, after all, and she a widow. Surely—

He rose off her in one lithe movement, and her body immediately became chill without his covering heat. Wordlessly, he pulled on his breeches, scooped up his clothes, and picked up the candle.

And left her room.

WINTER SLID THROUGH the night like the Ghost he was. It was long past midnight now, and the streets of St. Giles were grim and black, but he hadn’t been able to sleep after leaving Isabel. He’d thought that he’d try again to find the rumored children living in an attic. He’d followed such rumors before—again and again—only to be disappointed, but that hardly mattered. Tonight he needed physical activity. Tonight he needed to forget.

His beast had escaped tonight. He’d broken his vow to stay away from Isabel simply because he’d found it impossible to continue to do so. And when he’d come to her, he’d made love to her like an animal made mad by lust. She’d been wet, though, beautifully, wonderfully wet, so perhaps she hadn’t been as appalled as he by the primitiveness of his possession of her. She hadn’t been scared and that was good, for the darkness within himself certainly scared him. It was as if she’d unlocked a cage that once opened could never again be shut. The beast was out now, free and untamed, and it adored her. Her snapping wit, the vulnerable place inside her, even the hurt that her barrenness had caused her. And especially the look that came into her blue, blue eyes when he touched her at her center. Oh, the beast liked that especially.

He growled under his breath as he leaped between buildings. The space was too great, the jump too dangerous, yet he landed on the other side easily.

Perhaps love unfulfilled had made him a demigod.

Blasphemous thought. He stood on the roof, the moon casting her light against his back and the angled rooftop door in front of him. He shook his head, trying to clear it of emotion entirely before he drew both his swords and kicked in the door.

It swung inward on broken hinges, crashing against an unseen wall. The room revealed was without light. Several dark forms began to rise, clumsy with sleep and confusion. Winter’s eyes were already accustomed to the dark. He had the advantage of surprise and higher ground.

Always attack from above if you are able.

The ghostly voice of his mentor whispered in his ear even as Winter leaped to the room below. He landed on the largest form—a man with huge shoulders, reeking of sweat. The man had gotten only as far as his knees, but Winter’s weight knocked him face-first to the ground. He wasn’t moving, so Winter swung to the next man, slapping him on the side of the head.

BANG! A gun went off, the flash blinding everyone in the darkness.

Winter closed his eyes and continued fighting. Years ago, Sir Stanley had made him practice his sword craft with a bag over his head for just this reason. He felt a body stumble against his, and Winter elbowed the man high in the belly. There was a thump as the man fell and then he heard the scurry of fleeing feet.

Winter opened his eyes.

The man he’d just knocked down was struggling at his feet. A half-dozen strange machines in the shape of overlarge chairs sat against the walls of the low attic room. Otherwise the room was empty besides the body of the first man, still insensible from Winter landing on him.

Disappointment slashed through Winter, making his grip rougher than usual when he hauled the man to his feet.

“Where are they?” he asked, because there wasn’t anything else to do. “Where are the children?”

To his astonishment, his victim waved to the far end of the room. “There.”

Winter’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Either the man was trying to get rid of him or it was a trap, but in any case he had to investigate.

He took the man by the coat collar and dragged him to the far end of the room. As Winter got closer, he could see that there was a small door in the wall. Hope began to bloom in his chest and he fought it back savagely. He’d found hidey-holes before. They’d all been empty or occupied by adults.

There was a stout wooden bar across the door and Winter lifted it before cautiously opening the door. It was even darker than the outer room, a hellish little pit without light or hope. The air fairly reeked of despair. At first he thought the ghastly little room empty. Then a small shape moved. And another. And another.

A little girl’s face emerged from the pit, thin and starving. “Please,” was all she could say.

He’d found them. He’d finally found them.

“YOU HAVE A visitor, my lady.”

Megs looked up vaguely from the open book on her lap the next morning. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been sitting here in the library with the book as disguise, but there was an empty cup of tea by her elbow, so it evidently had been quite some time.

“I’m not receiving visitors,” she said dully.

“Oh, surely that doesn’t apply to me.” Lady Beckinhall sauntered into the library behind the butler, nodding a dismissal at the man.

He looked relieved as he left the room.

“I’ve come to take you out,” Lady Beckinhall announced, peering at a huge Bible on a stand.

“I’ve got a headache.”

“All the better, then,” Lady Beckinhall said briskly. “Fresh air will do your head good.”

“Usually doctors prescribe bed rest for a headache,” Megs pointed out.

“They prescribe bed rest for everything,” Lady Beckinhall said somewhat obscurely. She turned from the Bible, her expression softening. “Please? It’s been almost a sennight since Mr. Makepeace left the home. I estimate Lady Penelope has about run it into the ground by now. I thought we should at least go see.”

“Mr. Makepeace left?” For a moment Megs felt a stirring of interest.

“Yes. Two days after—” Lady Beckinhall winced and stopped, looking at Megs helplessly.

Two days after Roger died.

Megs looked back at the book in her lap, the words blurring. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

She felt Lady Beckinhall coming nearer. “Why? Why can’t you leave?”

“I just can’t.”

“What is it?” Lady Beckinhall laid a cool hand against her forehead. “Are you really ill? Have you seen a physician?”