“If you bide your time, perhaps I’ll show you.”
He grinned. “You’re going to make it into a game, aren’t you?”
“If you choose to look at it that way.”
“I love games.” He leaned forward, picked up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “I never lose.”
She leaned toward him and said, pronouncing the words very clearly, “Go to bed, Your Highness.”
He smiled, a self-satisfied, happy baring of teeth, and headed down the hallway.
“Thank you,” she said to the escort.
“Of course, my lady,” they chorused.
Charlotte shut the door, locked it, turned, and ran into Richard.
“I told you to leave.”
He stared at the door with that familiar predatory focus. “I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you won’t. You will climb your rope and leave.”
He wasn’t listening to her. He wasn’t even looking at her. He simply moved to the door, and she knew that she had to stop him now, or he would chase after Brennan and fight him, and their entire scheme would crumble.
Charlotte grasped the back of his head and pulled him down toward her. Kissing him was like drinking spiced wine—the heat of him dashed through her, burning through her body. Immediately, she wanted him.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. His tongue touched hers, and she shivered. When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her, and this time he did see her.
“You have to leave,” she whispered.
“No.”
“Yes. You must go. What if he goes to find Casside, and you’re gone?”
His eyes turned dark.
“Look at me, Richard. You cannot kill Brennan until we expose him. You can’t do it, or it was all for nothing.” She kissed him again, trying to pull him away from the destructive anger. “You have nothing to worry about.”
He blinked, like a man waking up from a deep sleep, focusing on her.
“You have nothing to worry about,” she repeated. “I love you, Richard. Go.”
“What?”
“I said I love you, you fool.”
“When this is over—”
“Yes,” she told him.
He stared at her.
“The answer is yes, Richard. Yes, I will go with you and live with you in your Lair, because I love you. Now you must leave. Get out of here!”
She pushed him out to the balcony, shut the doors, and made sure to lock them.
Richard looked at her from behind the glass. He had the strangest look on his face, a kind of stunned amazement.
“Go!” she mouthed at him.
“I love you, too,” he mouthed, then jumped and climbed back up his rope.
She crossed the room, fell on her bed, and put a pillow over her face. She felt hot and giddy. He loved her. It made everything worth it.
What if he stopped being there? What if something happened, and he was gone?
The anxiety shot her in the heart. Here it is again. Hello there.
Please, she prayed silently. Please, please, please, let it be all right. Please, let it all work out.
Please.
SIXTEEN
CHARLOTTE sat in a chaise on her balcony, sipping bloodred tea from her cup and subtly watching Brennan seethe in his chair, directly across the coffee table. To the right Sophie sat quietly reading a book. To the left, on the divan, the Duchess of the Southern Provinces lounged, drinking her tea in tiny swallows and carrying on a conversation.
He must’ve expected that Sophie and whoever she had invited wouldn’t be much of an obstacle. He could bully most people out of the way by the simple fact of his birth. But Lady Olivia provided an impenetrable barrier. She was older, well regarded, and her influence and power surpassed his. His Highness was forced to behave, and he didn’t like it. The small talk was clearly grating on him. He was desperately bored.
Almost bored enough to pick up the album she had placed on the coffee table within his reach. A foot long by a foot wide, bound in luxurious brown leather and embossed with a silver serpent biting his own tail, a symbol of the Ganer College, the album held approximately eighty pages of heavyweight paper interweaved with glassine tissue. It beckoned to be picked up.
Just a little more, Charlotte thought. A little longer.
Lady Olivia launched into a discussion of the agricultural properties of oranges.
Brennan hid a yawn, leaned forward . . . and picked up the album.
Lady Olivia glanced at Charlotte and took a moment to snack on cookies.
“What an exquisite book,” Brennan said, obviously relieved at the opportunity to jump-start the conversation. “Are these members of your family?”
“No, my lord.” Charlotte sipped her tea. “They are my greatest triumphs as a healer. The truth is, we are a vain lot.”
Brennan turned the page and winced. “Dear gods, this child is horribly burned.”
“An unfortunate accident,” Charlotte said. “She was trapped in a barn during a brush fire that had overtaken the village. If you turn the page, you will see that she was considerably better after I was done. Burns are difficult to heal completely, but we had a modest success with her.”
Brennan turned the page. “This is uncanny.”
“You give yourself too little credit, my dear,” the duchess murmured.
She had to keep him looking through the book. “I believe there is a worse case a little further.”
Brennan flipped a page. Another. Another. His hand froze.
Bull’s-eye.
“This man.” Brennan turned the album, holding it with one hand so she could see it. A picture of Richard looked back at her. He looked a few years younger. His hair was longer, but the image bore an unmistakable resemblance to the poster of Hunter.
Brennan’s quiet voice held the steel overtone of command. “Tell me about this man.”
Lady Olivia raised her eyebrows. Charlotte leaned forward, looking at the image. “This isn’t one of the worst cases.”
“Please. Indulge me.”
“Very well. He was a soldier, one of those extremely dangerous, covert types. You know, the sort who are released into the woods with nothing but a knife and a length of rope and retrieved a week later, after they have single-handedly demolished an enemy legion. He’d been very badly wounded. His liver and kidney had been sliced through with a spear, and by the time he was brought to me, he was delirious. He kept recounting his proudest moments in life—being chosen for his unit, his son’s being born, and Lord Maedoc presenting him with the Shield of Valor.”