He glanced at her, delight in his strangely pale eyes. “Are you about to give me a lecture about my evil ways, Miss Russell? Oh, please do. It will be a waste of time, but it might enliven things. Why do you ask?”
“Four people died in this fire. A fire I presume you started.”
“I did indeed. Well, not me personally—you can really hire someone to do just about anything in London if you have the money. And your father’s money paid for the arsonist—an amusing piece of irony, don’t you think? And do I lament the loss of life? Why should I? People die every day. I didn’t know them—to pretend sorrow would be hypocritical.”
“And God knows one should never stoop to hypocrisy,” she muttered.
“You really are entertaining,” he marveled. “Here I am, about to kill you, and you’re being positively confrontational. No wonder Kilmartyn was so fond of you. He didn’t want me to kill you, you know. He thought he might keep you around for a few weeks longer. I know it will make you feel better to know that he found you quite enjoyable. But in the end he agreed with me that you were… shall we say… de trop?”
“I don’t believe you.” She looked up at the back of the house. It seemed like only a frame of the place, though the last time she’d been here the front staircase had remained, leading upward into the ruins. The back looked only slightly more sturdy—the framework reached the full four stories, though the windows and doors were wide open to the elements.
“Of course you don’t, my dear. And I’m perfectly happy to have you die with your illusions intact. We do have a problem though. This place is littered with broken glass, and I don’t want you cutting your feet to ribbons on the way in.”
“We’re going in?” she said, startled. “I thought you’d simply strangle me in the back garden and have done with it. I do understand that a gun might be too loud, though considering how deserted this particular area of the square is, you might very well get away with it.”
“Of course we’re going in. I have no interest in hauling your body around—do you have the slightest idea how much a dead body weighs? It’s quite extraordinary; even someone as light as Cecily’s scrawny little French maid seemed to weigh twice as much once I’d stabbed her. By the time I finished moving the bodies from Kilmartyn’s house I was so prostrate with exhaustion that I couldn’t move.”
“You have all my sympathy. Why do you care whether I cut my feet or not? If I’m about to die I wouldn’t think you’d be that concerned for my comfort.”
“Oh, it’s not your comfort, my dear. It’s the fact that you might leave tracks.” He peered upward, into the rapidly darkening sky. “However, it does look like rain, and a good London soaking will wash any telltale blood away. Come along.” He dragged her forward.
It could have been worse, she told herself, trying not to weep. If she wasn’t going to cry over dying she certainly shouldn’t cry from her feet being cut. She needed to get things in perspective.
The charred wood crunched beneath her bloody feet as he pulled her inside, and she shook herself free from his tight, smothering grip. He laughed softly. “Why, it appears you aren’t fond of my touch, Miss Russell. I’ll have to take that into account.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m planning to take my time with you. You’ve caused me no end of aggravation, and I promised myself a little treat when it came time to finish with you. And if I can perform with a foul cunt like Cecily then I can certainly perform with you. Particularly since Kilmartyn has already broken you to the bridle, so to speak.”
She almost screamed then, but he moved the gun front and center. “I wouldn’t if I were you. You never know whether some miracle might happen and you might be saved. Why throw away your life before it’s absolutely certain?”
“To avoid a lot of pain and degradation?” she said caustically, knowing she wasn’t going to do it.
“Oh, I’d shoot you in a spot that was extremely painful, I do promise you that. And just because you’re dead doesn’t mean I can’t degrade your body. I told you, there’s nothing that can keep me from performing if I have a good enough reason. And I must confess that hurting you is a very good reason indeed. Start climbing. We’ll take the servants’ staircase—you should be used to that by now. I’m not certain how it’ll hold up, but we can consider it an adventure.”
She had no choice—she started up the narrow, winding staircase ahead of him, the only light coming in from above, where the roof had already collapsed.
The first drops of rain splattered down on them, and she heard Brown curse behind her. By the time they reached the first-floor landing her feet were becoming numb—she should count that as a blessing. The doors and most of the walls were gone, and she could recognize the blistered outlines of the wallpaper her mother had chosen, before he jabbed her with the gun once more, and she continued upward, higher and higher.
There were more walls on the second floor, and part of the floor remained. “Keep climbing, my dear. I have just the place for us. Out of this wretched rain, where we can be quite cozy, you and I.”
She kept climbing. The stairs felt spongy beneath her feet, and the entire staircase seemed to sway as they climbed steadily upward. Was it going to hold up long enough, or would it collapse beneath them? If she was going to die she wanted him dead too.
Maybe she could kick back when he wasn’t expecting it, sending him tumbling down the stairs? But then, where would she go? He was blocking the only way out, and he was the one with the gun.
“I do have a little treat for you,” he said in a merry voice, sounding slightly breathless as they neared what remained of the top floor. Clearly he hadn’t been in service or he would have built up more stamina, she thought sourly, thinking of those endless trips up and down Adrian’s stairs. “Just to provide the coup de grâce to the day.”
“And what exactly is that?”
She’d just reached the top floor, when she saw the shadow beneath what was left of the eaves. A shadow that moved out into the storm-infused light, a tall, lean form that was instantly recognizable, despite the incongruous policeman’s jacket he wore.
“Is that you, Kilmartyn?” Mr. Brown called out, as she froze, blocking him. “I thought young Jem would be able to lead you here. He didn’t want to, if that’s any consolation.”
“It’s not,” Adrian snarled from across the darkness. “Who the fuck are you?”
“You don’t have to play the game anymore. She knows the truth, don’t you, my dear? Now don’t keep the man waiting. I’m sure he’d love a kiss good-bye.” He put his hand in the middle of her back and shoved her, and she went sprawling on what was left of the attic floor.
“No!” Adrian shouted, moving toward her, but then he stopped, holding motionless, as the floor beneath her shifted and creaked.
“I’m afraid the floor might not be strong enough for you over here, Kilmartyn.” Mr. Brown hadn’t emerged into the light, his voice eerie and disembodied. “That’s why I sent you that way. You won’t be able to reach her. I didn’t want you to change your mind.”
“Change my mind? What are you talking about?” Adrian’s voice sounded almost unnaturally calm.
“Tsk-tsk. You don’t have to pretend anymore. She knows you’re working with me. Don’t become tiresomely sentimental, old boy. We’ve planned this for too long to let a little bit of crumpet interfere.”
She heard the words with numb dread. It couldn’t be possible. She had gotten to her knees, looking at Adrian from across the gaping chasm of the missing floor. He looked the same, beautiful, cynical, though in the shadows his eyes were dark and unreadable.
“Tell me you don’t believe him, Bryony,” Adrian said. “But of course you do. Your face says it all. You think I’m a thief and a murderer who fucks his victims before he sends them to their death. You’d believe your unseen friend before you’d believe me.”
“Why should I believe you?” she cried out, knowing Brown was behind her, the gun trained on her. She could
feel the floor shifting beneath her, creaking dangerously. At least this way it would be fast, she thought miserably, and she might take Brown with her.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said, his voice cool and emotionless. “But you’re going to—”
There was a sudden terrific creaking noise behind her, and Brown’s high-pitched laugh was eerie. “I do believe we’re running out of time. I had hoped for more heartwarming theatrics, but I’m afraid this place isn’t going to be standing for very much longer. If you won’t shoot her, Kilmartyn, then I will.”
Bryony didn’t move. She could see that Adrian held a gun, and it was pointed in her direction. Or was he pointing it at the man who stayed at the top of the stairs, still in the shadow, her body shielding him?
“I’m not going to shoot her,” Adrian said flatly.
“You don’t need to pretend anymore, Kilmartyn. I’ve told this little fool the truth.”
“What truth?” Adrian snarled.
“That you were using her. That you lied to her, seduced her, while all the time you were covering up your involvement in her father’s murder.”
“And why would I do that?” Adrian sounded very calm, and through the miasma of doubt and pain Bryony felt the faint flowering of hope.
“For entertainment, of course. But this grows tedious, old man. Enough is enough.”
She heard an ominous clicking sound, and she froze, knowing she was going to die, when another gust of wind hit the side of the house, shaking the entire building. There was a sudden great rending noise, as if the world were being split in two, and then his scream, high-pitched and panicked. She whirled around, looking for the monster who’d brought her to this death trap, but the stairs were empty. In fact, the stairs were gone, taking Brown with them, and she stared in horror, feeling the floor shift beneath her feet.
“What was that?” Adrian snapped, moving closer.
He was still holding the gun, she realized. Would he be able to hit her from across that open stretch of flooring? Would it matter? There was no way out for her.
“The stairs have collapsed,” she said in a dull voice. “I’m afraid your friend is gone.”
“He’s not my goddamned friend. I have no idea who that man is, and I don’t care. If he’s gone then there’s nothing to stop you from coming over here.”
She gave him a look of stark disbelief. “Are you mad? There’s a gaping hole between us that goes all the way down to the basement and the bodies of your wife and her maid. You’ll just throw me down there anyway—why not save you the trouble and wait for the floor to finish collapsing?” Her voice was bitter.
“If you keep talking we won’t have long to wait,” he snarled. “You have to trust me. In truth, I don’t care whether you do or not, I’m not going to stand here and watch you plummet to your death. Get on your feet and jump, damn it, or I’ll come over there and get you.”
“Even if I wanted to I don’t think I could,” she said, and the numbness that plagued her feet seemed to have traveled to her heart. She no longer cared what happened to her, what happened to him. She’d given up fighting. She sat back, sticking her bloody feet out in front of her. “You were supposed to follow my bloody footprints. If I knew you were going to be here anyway I wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to slice up my feet.”
“Get up,” he said, his voice so cold and lethal that she found herself reaching for a handhold automatically, starting to pull herself up, only to feel the fragment of floor tip forward, a few remaining pieces of charred furniture sliding down the angle and plummeting into the darkness. “Now move as far back as you can go. Carefully.”
For a moment she didn’t move, staring at him. “You must be mad.”
“You have no choice, Bryony. You can trust me, or you can take your chances on the house not falling down.” There was no gentleness in his voice, no persuasion. Simply a statement of fact. “Which do you think is more likely?”
“Give me one good reason to trust you,” she said, gimlet-eyed.
“I can’t think of one,” he said. “Except that I love you. Now run, damn it, and jump to me.”
She stared at him, shocked. “Now’s a fine time to tell me,” she finally managed to snap back.
“I’ve been busy,” he growled.
“I suppose you expect me to tell you I love you too.”
“You could,” he agreed. “I’d much rather have you move your bloody arse and get over here and we can argue about the details later.”
“Let me think about it.”
He cursed, the words so foul she was impressed. “If you don’t move now you won’t have a chance to ever have a thought in your clever little brain again.”
“You’re right,” she said judiciously. “Besides, it’s really very simple.”
“It is?” He sounded no more than slightly harassed.
“Of course. If you want to kill me then I’d just as soon be dead. So either catch me or you’re lying and you’ll let me fall, but make up your mind.”
“There was never any question on my part,” he said. “Trust me, Bryony.”
It was the third time he said it, and that third time gave her wings. She took a running start and leapt across the cavernous hole, closing her eyes and praying as she went sailing through the air.
She crashed into him, and he went down beneath her. Catching her in his arms, he rolled them both away to the far wall, keeping her still beneath him as the building creaked and shifted ominously. The remains of the house across the divide began to crumble, and a moment later it collapsed into the basement with a thunderous noise and a huge cloud of dust and soot, burying her would-be murderer. Slowly, slowly he loosened his death grip on her. She opened her eyes to look up into his blazingly furious ones.
“I don’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you,” he muttered.
“I thought you told me I could trust you?”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not tempted to beat you within an inch of your life. ‘Let me think about it,’” he mimicked. “I’ll give you something to think about, my girl.”
“Let’s wait until we get out of here, shall we?” she said. “Or aren’t there any stairs left?”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You mean you jumped across that gaping hole and you didn’t even know whether or not there was a way to get down?”
She smiled up at him, and finally her eyes began to fill with tears. “I love you too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THREE DAYS LATER Bryony Arielle Josephine Russell Bruton, Countess of Kilmartyn, stretched out in the bunk, warm and catlike. “Thank God I don’t get seasick,” she said. “It’s bad enough that I can’t walk and can’t use my left arm—if I’d been casting up my accounts all over the place I really couldn’t bear it.”
Her husband gave her an indulgent smile from across the wide cabin. “I rather like it that you’re currently forced to stay in bed. It’s the best way to enjoy a honeymoon, such as it is.”
“It’s lovely!” she protested.
“Well, running from the law and leaving everything behind and not knowing if or when we can ever return isn’t quite my idea of lovely,” he said. “And you’re worried about your sisters.”
“I know, but I needn’t be. I sent them a letter telling them that we know father wasn’t responsible, but the man who was is dead and we can’t prove anything. Not good news, and I expect they’ll be horrified that I’m married.”
“Horrified?” he echoed, affronted. “Why?”
“Because I told them I was never going to marry. I was going to live in happy seclusion in a little cottage for the rest of my life once everything was settled.”
“You can live anywhere you want as long as the seclusion includes me.” He crossed the room in a few strides and caught her face in his hands. “Foolish girl,” he whispered, and deliberately turned her face to one side to kiss the scars. “You are such an idiot for such a smart woman.” He kissed her eyelids, and then
her mouth, a deep, possessive kiss that had her rising up to meet him. He climbed onto the bunk with her, tucking her against him, and she felt that strange, wonderful calm envelop her once more.
“It’s actually the staff at Berkeley Square that I’m worried about,” she said after a few quiet moments. “I hate it that we just abandoned them without a word.”
“They have word, darling. My lawyer has seen to it that Mrs. Harkins… or for all I know she’s Mrs. Collins by now… has charge of the household money, and they’re taking good care of Jem. I imagine they’ll have a lovely time having the house to themselves and not having to look after anyone.”
“I hope they all get a chance to use the bathtub,” she said. “You really should put one up in the attics as well.”
“We will. When we get back.”
She was silent for a long while. “Will we get back?”
He slid his arms around her waist, leaning over and giving her ear a tiny bite, sending shards of warmth through her. “You know we will. We have the Pinkerton Agency’s best man in England working on it. If the man survived they’ll find him. If he crawled off to die they’ll find him. Either way, they’ll find out who he is and get the proof they need so we can return home.”
“What if he is still alive? What if he goes after my sisters?”
He kissed the side of her face tenderly. “Why would he? And how would he even find them? They’re buried in the countryside somewhere, aren’t they?”
She nodded, still uneasy. “Nanny Gruen won’t let anything happen to them.”
“They’re with your old nanny? Then I tremble to think of anyone interfering.”
She turned her face to smile at him. “You know nannies very well.”
“Fiercest creatures on the face of this earth,” he said promptly. “So they’re safe, the staff at Berkeley Square is safe, and we’re going to travel to Venice and France and Vienna until Scotland Yard gets the proof that I never killed anyone…” He hesitated. “Well, that at least I never killed my wife and her maid.”