Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

Why couldn’t Robert have shot her instead? It wouldn’t have hurt any more than realizing he hadn’t cared about her the same way she had about him. He’d not only betrayed the Company; he betrayed her as well, by turning into such a beast their father would be proud to call son.

Slowly the sparrow ascended. Alastair grew smaller and smaller until there was nothing but the ship and its lights below her, and even those were becoming tiny and distant.

She didn’t cry. The wind stung her eyes and made them water a bit, but that was the extent of tearing. Even when the sparrow docked in the lower decks of a large Warden dirigible, her eyes remained dry. The pack containing the canopy was removed from her person and her hands were bound with what appeared to be garters. They were the ones she’d been given before the mission—the ones that had a multitude of uses. Obviously someone had retrieved her reticule from the deck.

Her pistol had been taken from her when they nabbed her on the ship, as had her fan, leaving her defenseless—not that she was of the mind to defend herself. She was too . . . shocked for that.

Robert, the one person she thought she had in this world, the person she had depended on, who had looked after her, was not what she thought he was. Maybe as a young man he had loved her and wanted to do what was best for her, but the life he’d led as a Company agent had destroyed the boy who used to rescue her from the closet. He used to stand up to their father, and now he had become him—or something even worse.

The truly awful part was that she wasn’t even completely surprised by it. Part of her had known he wasn’t the hero she made him out to be. Hell, she’d almost killed her own brother. She would have killed him if she had had to.

To save Alastair. And now he was gone, too. Perhaps even for good if that wound got the best of him. Ah, the thought of a world without him in it proved that her tear ducts still worked. She blinked the tears away. Men like Alastair didn’t die without a fight, and if they got him to Dr. Stone in time, she would save him. If anyone could save him, it was Evelyn.

“Where do you want me to put her, Captain MacRae?” the guard asked a tall, well-built man with sandy brown hair and dark blue eyes.

The captain lookedcap t at her, the blood on her hands and face, the state of her gown. “Put her in my cabin.”

“Sir?” The guard sounded just as astounded as Claire was.

MacRae’s features hardened. “She just cut off a man’s hand and shot the son of a bitch to save one of ours. Give her my damn cabin. Never mind—I’ll take her myself. And get those restraints off her.”

“As a Warden, I can’t do that, sir.”

“Then get the hell out of my sight.” MacRae took her by the elbow. “This way, Miss Brooks.”

“How do you know my name?” Claire asked.

“When I intercepted the Wardens’ call for a ship, they told me it was you I’d be picking up. You’re the Dove, right?”

“Yes.” It hardly mattered now. “Are you going to kill me?”

He shot her a frown as he led her down a set of narrow steps, belowdecks. “Hadn’t occurred to me, no. My job’s to return you safe and sound to the Wardens.”

“You’re not British.” Inane, but it was what came to mind. She should ask why he was being so nice to her, but she could assume only that it was a lie or he was getting paid a lot to deliver her.

“No, ma’am. My father was Scottish, my mother American, and I grew up in Canada, Australia and China and other parts of the world. My father’s business didn’t exactly lend itself to living in one place for very long, if you take my meaning.”

Claire smiled. “I believe I do. You don’t have to give me your cabin. Just put me in a cell if you have one.”

He steered her left at the bottom of the stairs, toward the back of the ship. “I’m putting you where you’ll be safe, and my room’s the safest I’ve got.”

As they passed by a door, it opened and a gentleman stuck his head out. “Everything all right, Mac?”

The captain waved at him. “Brief detour, Theo. Don’t worry, I’ll have you where you need to be on time.”

The man smiled, his relief almost palpable. He gave a nod to Claire before he closed the door. She caught a glimpse of an attractive blond woman in the room as well. It was none of her business, so she didn’t ask.

Captain MacRae slipped a punch card into the lock of the last room at the end of the corridor and opened the door. He stood back so she could enter first.

The room was large, with dark wood and richly colored fabrics. It was neat—for a man—and smelled of sandalwood and leather.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “We’ll be in London in less than two hours.” He withdrew a wicked-looking blade from the sheath at his waist. “Let me get those restraints off you.”

Claire extended her arms. MacRae slipped the tip of the blade into a small notch on the clip of the garter and turned. There was a soft click, and the bonds slid open, releasing their bite on her wrists.

“Thank you.”

He took the deceptively strong piece of ribbon and tucked it in his pocket. “You’re welcome. There’s whiskey if you want, some shortbread in the box on the desk and a few books on the shelf. If you need anything, just ring.”

“Just like Evelyn,” she murmured as she looked around the room.

“What was that?” MacRae asked. His tone was clipped, his shoulders suddenly very straight.

“Nothing,” Claire replied, stunned by his sudden change in demeanor. “Just that you’re being so kind. The only other Warden to show me such concern was Dr. Stone.”

“I’m not a Warden,” he informed her coolly. “And I’m not like Dr. Stone. I keep my promises. Make yourself at home.” With that, he closed the door to the cabin, leaving her alone and locked in—if the sound of the punch lock was any indication. Obviously he didn’t want her wandering around on her own or escaping. Chivalry went just so far.

It was only then that Claire allowed her spine to sag. A wave of weariness washed over her, driving her to the bed, where she sat down on the soft mattress. She looked up and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Damn. She looked like something out of a nightmare. Blood smeared her face, dappled her gown and stained her hands.

Her brother’s blood. The memory of slicing through his flesh rolled her stomach, but she would have slit his throat if it meant saving Alastair. Robert had betrayed her deeper than anyone else—betrayed everything he swore allegiance to. How could she have loved him? Believed he loved her? Perhaps he had once, but he’d changed into something hard and selfish—and insane.

Had she become that as well? Almost. She’d been willing to put her own desire for vengeance ahead of capturing a vicious spy, above saving the lives of many. The Wardens would manage to get secrets out of Robert. She’d heard they had some sort of device that could literally suck memories out of a person’s head. Perhaps they’d use it on her and take away the moments she’d spent with Alastair.

Of course, the thought of him brought all those moments rushing to the front of her mind. Claire rose from the bed and crossed to a narrow door that opened as soon as she turned the handle. It was a small water closet with a shower-bath stall and a small sink. She washed her hands and face with cool water, scrubbing as best she could so she didn’t leave rusty stains on the towel.

It was because of Alastair alone that she hadn’t killed her own brother. Even before she knew his true identity and still thought of him as Howard, she hadn’t pulled the trigger because Alastair wanted him alive. She might have actually done the deed, but now she would never know for certain. It had been a selfless moment—something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Hell, she’d had sex with him out of purely selfish reasons, and now he was wounded—maybe even dead—because he had protected a friend and ended up stuck with her instead.