Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

If Alastair died, his blood would be on her hands as surely as Robert’s had been. And that . . . That would be one regret she couldn’t bear to live with.

She made it back to the bed before the tears started. Then she curled up on the quilt and let them come. For the first time since her mother’s death Claire allowed hair maerself to truly cry—not just a few hot tears, but great, gulping sobs wrenched from the bottom of her soul.

By the time the ship docked in London, Claire had pulled herself together, though her eyes were still scratchy and a little red. She was taken from the cabin by Captain MacRae and escorted to the deck where she was handed over into Warden custody. A woman of obvious Indian descent met her. The moonlight turned the woman’s hair almost blue and added a surreal element to the scene.

“Miss Brooks, I am director of the W.O.R. Thank you for your assistance in apprehending Stanton Howard. Given the circumstances, you have the sincere appreciation of the entire Warden agency.”

So the Wardens knew Howard was really Robert. Of course they did. Nice of her not to refer to him by his proper name. “Is Alastair all right?”

The woman’s face tightened. “He’s in Dr. Stone’s care now. We have every confidence that he will make a full recovery.”

Claire’s weary gaze lifted. “Meaning you have no idea whether he’ll live or not.”

She pursed her full lips. “You’ll be taken back to your accommodations at our headquarters. I will meet with you tomorrow for a debriefing.” Then to the captain she said, “Thank you for your assistance, Mac.”

He merely nodded before turning his back on them both and walking away. The guards led Claire to the other side of the boarding plank where the director waited—with another two guards, both heavily armed. Did they think she’d try to escape?

Then she heard it—the subtle click of an aether pistol being primed.

“Get down!” one of the guards shouted. He shoved Claire toward the other woman, using his own body to shield them. Claire watched in horror as his body stiffened and his eyes rolled back into his head as the smell of burned flesh rent the air. The guard crumpled to the ground.

Claire didn’t think; she just acted. She yanked open the door to the waiting carriage and shoved the woman inside, quickly jumping in behind her. Another aether blast scorched the door panel—she felt the heat of it against her skin.

“I assume that welcoming party was for me?” she demanded.

The dark-haired woman shot her an arch look as she shoved scatter shot into a pistol. “Do you? How very astute you are.” She passed the gun to Claire and began loading another. Then she banged on the roof with a fist. “Go!”

The carriage lunged into motion. Thank God it was a steam carriage and not dependent on horses, which would run wild at the sound of gunfire. There was a loud boom, and the vehicle took off like mad.

Another blast hit the roof—they were firing at the driver. The back window shattered as a finger of lightning-like energy struck it. The other woman cried out, shielding her face from the shards. Then with a strange synchronized motion, the two of them rose up and returned fire out the destroyed window.

Claire grinned as the man in the road fell to the ground. Wardens converged on him as the carriage carried her and her companion farther away.

“Good shot,” the woman commented, a little breathless.

Claire offered her the pistol. “I think you might have been the one to get him.”

The woman stared at the pistol as she took it from Claire’s hand. “This would be a perfect opportunity for you to try to escape.”

“I’m done running,” Claire responded, using her skirt to brush glass from the leather seat. “Besides, I have a lot of information in my head that you might find useful, and I can tell you how to get to my brother. Pain won’t work on him, but spiders will.”

Dark brows rose. “So you have no plans to escape?”

“No. I’m done. I’ll give you everything you want. I would like something in return, though.”

The woman didn’t look surprised. “I’m not sure what I can . . .”

“Please, you’re the head of the Wardens. You can do whatever you want.”

A droll expression took hold of her exotic features. “What are your demands?”

“No demands. I’ll be much less a madwoman if you can keep me in a cell with a view of some sort, and I would like to be kept updated on Lord Wolfred’s recovery.”

After a moment of silence the woman raised a brow. “That’s it?”

“One other thing.”

“Of course.”

Claire almost smiled at her. “Should Lord Wolfred recover and ever want to see me, I want you to forbid it. He’s never to see me again. Do we have an agreement?”

The woman looked stunned, mixed with a healthy measure of curiosity. Then all that melted into resolution. She offered her hand, and Claire took it.

“We do, Miss Brooks. We do.”

They told him he was lucky to be alive. They told him that if Brooks had aimed just a little bit to the left, he would have been killed. They told him Claire had damn near sliced her own brother’s hand off to save him—and then shot the bastard herself.

And when he asked about her, all anyone would tell him was that she was in custody, cooperating with the Wardens, and being well treated.

That had been over a fortnight ago.

Alastair was almost completely healed now, thanks to Evelyn and her miracle elixir. The burn on his chest from the aether blast had shrunk and was a healthy pink scar that he had to rub special oils on every day to promote healing. The skin felt almost perfectly normal—no pain at all, despite having to heal from the inside out. The scar would last, but it wouldn’t be of much significance.

Evelyn visited his home every day to check on his progress, and she usually took tea with him and his mother, who had canceled her trip to America the night he’d been shot and returned to England with him. She’d even hand-delivered the information he’d hidden ie him and n her hatbox to Dhanya. And God love her, she took care of putting out the rumor that he’d suffered an injury whilst hunting, so people wouldn’t ask unanswerable questions. It wouldn’t do for people to find out the Earl of Wolfred had been shot. They might ask why, or better yet, speculate on whether or not it had anything to do with the shooting on board that steamship where they captured a spy. . . . The Wardens had made certain the ship’s passengers and crew were well contained, but it wouldn’t take much to start tongues wagging.

He’d asked Evelyn about Claire only twice. The first time she told him she was doing well. The second time she said, “She’s asked me not to tell you about her.”

Those words—however reluctantly spoken—were like a punch to the throat. “Ah” was all he could think to say in response. He felt like a proper twat. It couldn’t have all been pretend, could it?

Or did she blame him for having to injure her own brother? He should have been the one to do it. Instead, he stood there, listening as they spoke and needing to hear that she was as shocked as he was—that she hadn’t known her brother was Howard all along and that she hadn’t meant to double-cross the W.O.R.

No, it hadn’t all been pretend, because he had seen the look on Claire’s face when her brother turned the pistol on him. He would never forget it, because that was the awful moment when he realized he was in love with her. It was reckless and foolish and positively juvenile of him and he didn’t care. He’d fallen in love with the wrong woman—again. Only this time . . . This time he knew it was wrong, and he didn’t care.