Someone kicked him in the head and then the side.
Hugh grunted. Got to one elbow and both knees and started crawling, awkwardly holding Peter in one arm.
Dragging three men on top of him.
And then all hell broke loose.
Two shots rang out in rapid succession.
Hugh jerked at the sound, nearly falling on his face. He glanced up in time to see Exley lurch, his eyes wide in astonishment, as he fell backward, scarlet spreading over his chest.
Bloody hell, maybe they were about to be rescued after all.
Then he caught sight of Riley, grinning as he holstered his pistols and drew his sword. The Lords were shouting, some fighting, though by no means all. Some seemed stunned by this turn of events.
Hugh grinned.
He bent to Peter and kissed his cheek. “Listen to me. Stay down, cover your head, and close your eyes. Do you understand?”
The boy immediately screwed his eyes shut. “Yes, Papa.”
Hugh unlooped his arms from Peter’s body, clasped his fists together, and slammed them into the side of Mole Mask’s head. He shook off the man still on his back, elbowed him in the throat, making the man gag, and then brought both fists down on the back of the man’s head.
Two down.
He turned to his third assailant, but Jenkins was already there, clubbing the man down. “Is the boy all right, sir?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied. “He’ll be fine as soon as we can get the hell out of here.”
The gray-haired man nodded, unperturbed. “We’re working on that, sir.”
Hugh staggered upright, his feet braced over Peter’s prone form to guard him, and saw Talbot, wading into the black-robed figures, his bloodstained sword swinging.
A man in a badger mask charged him. Hugh put his shoulder down and braced himself, catching most of the force of the attack. The man reeled, his mask falling off. Hugh caught the back of his head, looked him in the eye, and slammed his forehead into the other man’s nose.
Badger crumpled to the floor.
Hugh glanced up again and finally saw Alf. She was whirling, graceful and free, both swords working at once, one blocking, one thrusting, laying her enemies out with ruthless, feminine precision.
“I think it’s time to leave, sir,” Jenkins said.
Hugh picked up Peter, holding him close. “Are your eyes still closed?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Hugh put his head down and ran to Alf with Jenkins by his side.
“This way, guv,” Alf said, pointing to a side door.
Talbot and Riley were covering their retreat.
They ran, Hugh clutching Peter, aware of his son’s legs wrapped around his waist, of the boy’s wet face pressed against his body, of how glad he was of the slight weight.
A carriage was outside the ruined church, but as they came abreast of it, another vehicle rumbled up, accompanied by the thunder of a dozen mounted soldiers.
“Kyle!” Shrugg was waving to him from the open carriage window, his gray wig slightly askew. “I say, Kyle! Are you and the boy well?”
“We are indeed,” Hugh called back. “But if your men would care to do the honor, there are the remains of the Lords of Chaos to be cleaned up inside that ruined church.”
Shrugg looked positively gleeful. “Consider it done!”
Hugh turned back to his own waiting carriage, where Talbot swiftly sawed through his bindings. His men scrambled to climb on the outside, and he and Alf ducked inside with Peter.
The carriage jolted off.
“Peter?” Hugh said, prying the boy’s face away from his chest. “Are you all right?”
The boy inhaled noisily on a sob. “Uncle David said he’d buy me a bag of sweets but then he wouldn’t take me home, and he went away and left me with those bad men. I don’t like Uncle David anymore!”
“Neither do I.” Hugh sighed and kissed the boy’s sticky, sweaty face. “Did the bad men hurt you?”
Peter looked up, his big blue eyes betrayed, his lower lip trembling. “They hurt my arm when they made me go to that place.”
Hugh closed his eyes, thankful that had been the only damage done to Peter.
Then he took his son’s face in his hand. “No bad man will ever hurt you again.”
Peter frowned as if he wasn’t entirely certain. “Promise?”
Hugh nodded.
“Good.” The little boy put his head back on Hugh’s chest, then rolled his eyes to look at Alf. “Can you sing me the moon song, please?”
Alf blinked hard and smiled. “Of course.”
Peter sighed and thrust his grimy thumb into his mouth as Alf began to sing huskily about a moon and seeing someone you loved. At any other time Hugh would’ve reprimanded him.
Not today.
Instead he wrapped one arm around his son and the other around Alf and tugged them both closer to his heart.
Chapter Eighteen
After that the Black Prince rode by his father’s side, silent and grave and feared, and if he sometimes seemed to search the sky for something, no one made note of it, least of all the Black Warlock himself.…
—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon
Alf watched from the doorway as Kyle laid his hand lightly on first Kit’s and then Peter’s back.
The boys’ bedroom was lit only by the banked fire, the embers glowing warm in the little fireplace. Despite their being tired from the drama of the day, it had taken a long while for the children to fall asleep. Kyle had read to them and Alf had told them heavily edited stories of growing up in St Giles.
Now the boys lay curled together in the same bed, Pudding the puppy a little furry lump against Peter’s bottom. Alf smiled crookedly at the sight. Kyle hadn’t said a word when Peter had lifted the puppy into the bed.
Her smile faded when she looked at him again. Kyle’s men were still celebrating their victory downstairs with the help of a half-dozen bottles of wine, but he had grown quieter and quieter as the day had worn on. She didn’t quite understand his mood, but it made her uneasy. Shouldn’t he be happy—or at least relieved? Peter was safe. The Earl of Exley was dead. All the Lords of Chaos who had been at the ceremony at the ruined church were either dead or injured and captured by Shrugg and his soldiers.
Kyle had done his job, just as he’d vowed he would. He had brought down and destroyed the Lords of Chaos. He’d avenged not only his own near assassination but also the murder of his wife.
He should be glad.
But he was brooding instead.
She watched him, this aristocratic man, born to an actress and a king. This man who had joined his flesh with hers. This man who had fought alongside her, who had forced her to confront her deepest fears and overcome them.
This man she loved.
This man she’d almost lost.
This man she still didn’t understand. Strange that you could love a man with every particle of your being and not know why the corners of his mouth turned down.
The thought made her sad. “Are you coming to bed?”
He glanced up at her.
“They’re safe now,” she said gently. “You can leave them here for the night. The nursemaids are next door, and two footmen are on watch.”
A muscle bunched in his jaw, and he nodded tightly before straightening and walking to her. They went down the stairs and he was silent, but he didn’t send her away, so she was content.
He opened the door to his room and stood aside as if she were a proper lady.
That amused her. She trailed a fingertip across his chest as she walked by him. “Thank you, guv.”
She stopped short when she saw that Jenkins was in the room, holding a pile of cloths by a steaming copper tub of water.
She suddenly wondered if she’d taken too much for granted. She wanted to be here in his room with him, tonight and all the nights after, and she thought that was what he wanted, but he’d never said that aloud to her.
Perhaps she’d mis
read him.
“I think we’ll have no more need of you tonight, Jenkins,” Kyle said from behind her. “Go and have a drink with Riley and Talbot—and make sure that Bell doesn’t have more than half a glass of wine.”
“Sir.” The former soldier bowed, casting a very small smile in her direction before setting the cloths on a chair and letting himself out.
Kyle cleared his throat, gesturing to the bath. “It’s for you.”
She looked from him to the tub, her heart shriveling small like a salted snail. “Do you… do you think I smell?”
“No!” He thrust his hand into his hair. “I thought…goddamn it, I merely thought you would like a bath after today. If you don’t want it, I can…”
He cut himself off, maybe because she’d walked past him and was peering in the tub. It was lined with fine white cloths, the water clear and hot. She’d never had a bath before.
Alf took off her coat and tossed it over a chair.
“Ah,” he said behind her, “do you want me to leave?”
She glanced at him. “Why?”
“So that you might have some privacy.”
She shrugged off her waistcoat, biting back a smirk. “Why?”
He shook his head at her and sighed. “I’ve no idea.”
After that he simply watched as she swiftly shed the rest of her clothes. Maybe she should’ve tried to do it seductively, but she wasn’t some fine lady or courtesan. She was just Alf. And she wanted that bath.
She shivered in anticipation as she crept up to it naked and set her hands on the warm sides. Maybe there was a graceful way to get in, but she just shoved a leg over and climbed in.
And oh, but it was fine! Lovely hot water all around her, lapping at her shoulders and warming her bones. This was what queens must feel like in their palaces. The copper tub was probably only big enough for Kyle to sit in, but she could draw up her knees and dunk her entire head.
She pinched her nose and held her breath and did just that, and the warm water closed over her ears and mouth and eyes and it was as if she were in her own little cave. No sight, no sound. Just warmth.
But then she ran out of air and had to come bursting out of the water, sputtering and laughing.
Kyle was staring at her, his coat in his hand as if forgotten. His black eyes held an odd light. He threw the coat aside, not even seeming to care as it fell to the floor, and began working on the buttons of his waistcoat.
She eyed him for a moment and then shrugged and reached for the soap sitting on a small stool next to the tub. It was lovely soap, fine and white. She held it cupped in her hands and brought it to her nose. Oh, it smelled of flowers and rich things, and when she dipped it in the water it made a creamy lather. Not like the nasty brown lye-and-animal-fat soap she’d sometimes used. This soap was fit for a queen, and she sighed as she smoothed it over her face and arms.
Kyle was down to his breeches, his chest hair dark and curling against his skin.
She shivered.
“We used to dream of this, Ned and me,” she said softly as she cleaned between her toes. “Enough hot water to fill a tub full, and soap so fine it was white and pure.”
“Did you?” he murmured as he poured water into a basin. He wet a cloth and washed himself with efficient briskness. “What else did you dream of?”
“Oh, all sort of things.” She sucked in a breath as she passed the soapy cloth over a scrape on her knee. It stung. “Tables crowded with roasts, meat pies, gravy, and cakes. Shoes that fit and had no holes. Warm coats. A bed.” She shook her head because her voice had cracked on that last one. She didn’t want to think of sad things tonight. She cleared her throat. “Once when I was ten or so Ned and I saw a lady with such a beautiful muff. It was a deep red—so elegant!—and embroidered all around the hand holes in gold thread. Oh, I dreamed on that muff for years afterwards. I wanted one made of cream silk with violets embroidered all over it. I used to lie awake and imagine my muff until I could picture it, so real in my mind I could almost touch it.” She sighed, remembering, and then looked at him. “Did you dream of things when you were little?”
He raised his head, dripping, over the basin, and reached for a cloth. “No. I had everything I needed.”
“But…” She wrinkled her nose in thought as she looked at him. He was an educated man, she knew that. An aristocrat who had been sent to the finest schools in the land. And yet, she thought, in this she might have the better learning. “But isn’t dreaming about what you hope for, not what you need?”
He stared at her. “Why would I hope for more than I need?”
“I don’t know,” she said gently. “But it seems like something people do, dream. It’s just the way we are. After all, I never needed a muff when I was but a little thing running the streets of St Giles—not like I needed food or shoes that didn’t have holes in the soles or a proper bed. What would I have done with a fine embroidered muff except maybe sell it? But that isn’t what mattered. I knew I wasn’t ever going to have a pretty muff, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t dream about having one of my very own. It passed the time, didn’t it, when nights were so cold and bleak? Thinking and hoping for something better than what I had.” She looked at him, so strong, so implacable. Was he ever weak or worried or sad? “If you can’t dream of something you don’t need but want so much it makes your heart sing, well, you might as well just lay down right there and breathe your last, I reckon. Some things are worth more than bread or shoes or a warm bed.”
He stared at her, looking puzzled, almost as if he didn’t know what to make of her. “Maybe for you. As for me, longing for something more than I need, something that is unattainable…” He trailed away, looking down as he began unbuttoning his breeches. “That way leads to… dissatisfaction. Unhappiness.”
She felt her pulse beating so very near the surface of her skin, like the fluttering of a bird, trapped there. “But if the thing you longed for were attainable, surely then—”
He glanced up, his brows drawn together quite fiercely. “You just said you could never have a muff.”
She felt a sad little smile curve her lips. “I wasn’t sure we were still talking about muffs, guv.”
He didn’t answer her.
Well, and that was answer enough, wasn’t it? She let out a breath, her heart aching something fierce inside her breast.
He shed his breeches and smallclothes and turned to his dresser, naked.
She watched him as she lathered his fine white soap between her palms and washed her hair. He had a lovely back, had Kyle. Broad and muscled, narrowing to fine trim haunches. She’d never ogled a man’s buttocks as much as she had since meeting him. He had a way, when he wasn’t in a great hurry, of ambling. It was a very male walk. It caught a person’s—a woman’s—eye, especially from the back. Pity gentlemen wore such long coats, hiding all the best parts of themselves.
She leaned back in the bath and dipped her head below the water to rinse her hair, and when she straightened again he was beside her, holding out a drying cloth.
“Are you done yet?” he asked, his voice gruff.
His cock was half-hard, though, so he wasn’t as uninterested as he pretended. And she hadn’t forever with him in which to sulk.
So she smiled at him, just for having a cock that couldn’t hide his fondness for her. “Yes.”
She stood in the tub and he steadied her as she climbed out, but as he made to wrap the drying cloth around her, she simply twined her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“You’ll get me wet,” he said against her lips, but neither he nor his cock seemed to mind, and then he opened his mouth over hers.
He was slow as he explored her mouth, and for a long minute she forgot all about the drying cloth. About dripping on the floor. About tomorrow and the world outside.
About everything else except his tongue sliding against hers. His hands holding her face. His chest hair rasping against her wet nipples. His hot thigh nudging confidently between her
legs, rubbing against her mound, making her gasp into his mouth. And still he kissed her slowly, his mouth open on hers, his tongue thrusting inside. It was luscious and sweet. Explicit and thorough.
“God, how I want you,” he raised his face to whisper. “I can’t seem to help myself, no matter how I try.”
He nipped her bottom lip and plunged in again, angling his head over hers.
She felt surrounded. Protected.
Cherished.
He wrapped the cloth around her and bent suddenly. He picked her up, high in his arms, cradled like a child, and she gasped, startled.
He raised an eyebrow at her, his beautiful lips quirking just a bit, and she thought, oh, if only this could be forever. Hoping, because she was the one who still longed and hoped even if it was impossible.
He laid her on the bed as if she were something special to him, and she smiled up at him, holding out her arms.
“Your hair is wet,” he said.
“I don’t care,” she replied, because she didn’t.
“You’ll catch a chill.” He bent over her, an intent line between his brows, and blotted her hair with the cloth. “It’ll tangle.”
“Are you a lady’s maid now, guv?”
He winced and stood, crossing to his dresser to bring back his comb. “Why do you never call me Hugh?”
He sat down on the bed beside her.
She blinked at him, sitting up so he could comb her hair. “Do you want me to?”
He drew the comb through her hair so gently it didn’t even pull. “Here, in my bed, yes.”
She inhaled and said carefully, “Well, then. Will you make love to me, Hugh?”
He tossed aside the comb. “God, yes.”
He sprawled back against the big headboard and pulled her into his lap. She didn’t know where to put her legs at first, but then he showed her, carefully drawing them over his thighs so she was almost astride him.
She looked down at him gravely and took his face in her palms. The scar from that first night in St Giles when she’d been the Ghost and he’d been fighting off a pack of footpads was nearly healed. It was a pink scrawl against the upper corner of his forehead. In another month or so it would be barely noticeable.