As West stepped inside the hotel room, he saw Mary standing over the hotel room’s washbasin. She was stripped down to her corset and chemise, her hands soapy.

He didn’t ask permission, didn’t wait for her to even dry her hands, just strode toward her, turned her around and clutched her to his chest, welcoming the dampness soaking through his jacket and shirt. It told him she was real. Whole. Safe.

It had taken a good deal of restraint to refrain from shouting his objections out on the street, to follow the wagon even as she followed Carlson. He would take a moment and appreciate the fact that she’d survived.

“You cannot imagine,” he said, his voice hoarse, “how happy I am to see you.”

He closed his eyes, savoring the feel, the sound, the scent of her. But as he held her, he became aware of another scent, too, hovering in the background, a coppery tang of violence that did not belong in this moment. Startled, he opened his eyes and forced his gaze further afield. Her dress lay bunched upon the fraying carpet, scarlet smears across the front of her bodice. He glanced toward the washbasin and his hands tightened around her.

The water was tinged pink, with blood.

The walls of the room seemed to swim around him. Blood. Too much of it. The sort of blood one didn’t get from a paper cut, turning the pages of a book.

The only question was, whose blood?

He set her away from him. Noticed, for the first time, her obvious pallor. He could see no bullet wound, no obvious damage, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hurt. “Are you shot?” he demanded. “Injured in some way?”

She shook her head dully. “No.” It was a whisper of a word.

Hardly a reassuring sound.

He picked up her hand, turned it over. Instead of ink stains, remnants of blood rimmed her fingernails. Panic thumped in his ears at the sight of it. He felt yanked straight back to that lower deck on the HMS Arrogant, the blood of innocents spreading around him.

“What happened?” he snarled. “I swear to God, I’ll kill the bastard.”

“I am afraid someone’s already done that for you.” She shuddered, staring down at her hands. He recognized the vacant, glassy look in her eyes, knew what an unwilling battle did to a soul. Knew, too, that he needed to find out what had happened without shoving her back into the thick of whatever memory was causing her to sway like that on her feet.

Leaning over her, he picked up the soap, dipped her hands back in the water, and then began to rub them slowly, working the fine bones and delicate skin with his fingers, as if he could strip the memory away as easily as the blood. “Won’t you tell me what happened?” he asked in a lower voice. “What occured after we separated?”

She stood still, letting him wash her hands like a child. “I . . . I thought I was following the man from a safe enough distance. But Carlson must have realized it. He circled behind me and threatened me.” She shuddered. “I pulled my knife, thinking to bring him back for you to question, but then someone shot him, right in front of me.” She stood immobile as he lifted her hands from the basin and began to towel them dry. “It happened out on the main street.” Her eyes lifted to meet his. “There were innocent bystanders.” She swallowed, and the sound was jagged to his ears. “And I am not entirely sure the bullet wasn’t intended for me.”

“Good Christ,” he breathed, dropping the towel to the floor. She could have been killed. Very nearly had been killed. The knowledge that whoever was caught up in this may have taken a shot at his wife made his blood boil hot. “Did Carlson say anything before he died?”

“He claimed to not know anything about the duke’s involvement. I didn’t believe him, and imagined if I could just get him back here, you might be able to get more out of him, but now . . .” She buried her face in her newly washed hands, hands that West knew from personal experience would take a very long time to feel clean again. “I’ve ruined our chance to find out what they were planning.”

“Mary, you can’t think that way,” he countered. “Carlson was surely shot by Southingham. Perhaps it was part of the duke’s plan to do away with the man all along. He’d not want to leave witnesses lying about.”

Though, that statement was hardly as reassuring as he’d intended.

Because what were he and Mary, if not more witnesses?

She didn’t look at him, just began to breathe rapidly into her hands. “I shouldn’t have pushed him out on the main street. I should have been more careful. . .” Her hands clenched over her face. “I don’t think I realized the full extent of the danger. In books . . .” She hesitated, then breathed out, lowering her hands. “Well. This real-life business of hunting traitors isn’t much like books, is it?”

West resisted the urge to answer. His agreement here wasn’t needed. Judging by the look on her face, her prior naiveté was a fact she now well understood.

He scooped her up, settled onto the lumpy mattress. Holding her on his lap, he rocked her gently. “Yes, this is a dangerous business. That’s why I have wanted you to be careful, why I made sure you knew how to protect yourself. But you didn’t ruin anything. I don’t know that I would have done anything differently, Mouse.”

And truly, he didn’t. There were no wrong or right choices in those moments—you just went with your gut and hoped for the best.

“But this danger, this uncertainty, is why I don’t like being separated from you,” he told her, brushing his lips across the top of her hair. “Not because I do not think you are brave enough, or capable enough to try to manage things yourself. You’ve proven you are, time and time again. Truly, you are one of the most courageous people I have ever met. But when things go to shite, it helps to have a hand you trust there at the ready. Someone to look out for the person aiming at your back.” He sighed. “If nothing else, Crimea taught me that.”

He felt her tremble in his arms. Knew she was thinking of the man who had just died in front of her, the man whose blood he’d just washed off her hands. “Did you see men die in Crimea?” she asked in a small voice.

“Mary, I killed men in Crimea.” He hesitated. “War is a messy, unpredictable thing, and things go to hell in a hurry when you are trapped on a ship. But thankfully, Grant was there, watching my back.” His arms tightened around her, and his thoughts spun away from that dark time, not wanting to remember. “That is why we need to stick together. Watch out for each other.” His voice cracked. “We need each other to do this properly. Because if you are killed, I swear to God the queen’s health and safety will be the last thing on my mind. I need to know you are whole and standing beside me, helping to do the job before us.”

“Us?” She pulled back, her eyes filled with a sheen of tears. “You mean . . . you still imagine I can help?”

He offered her a grim smile. “Well. You didn’t faint out there today, did you?”

She shook her head.

“You’ve seen and done some things you wish you could forget?” At her nod he lifted a hand and smoothed the dark strands of hair off her forehead. “Well then, I’d say you’ve more than proven your stones.” That brought some of the color back to her cheeks. “There’s no one else I’d want to do this with. In fact, I’d say you are ready for a Victoria Cross of your own.”

That, finally, pulled a small laugh from her. “Well, you did already give me yours.”

They sat for an almost-comfortable moment, the soft feeling of her in his arms nearly heaven. Now that the difficult part of the conversation was over, now that she was returning to some semblance of her normal pattern of breathing, his body reacted with predictable interest.

The soft inward rise and fall of her chest settled her bum more firmly against his lap and reminded him of other things. But as his body hardened—something she could almost certainly feel, with so little clothing separating them—he felt a shift in her posture, a tightening of her spine. Her mind was turning in another direction.

And unfortunately, not the direction his had turned.

Her hands pushed lightly against his chest. “I forgot to ask . . . were you able to find out anything about the wagon?”

He let her slide off him, her bum settling onto the mattress. Watched her dawning self-awareness, the way her hands tugged down the hem of her rucked-up chemise. She looked a bit flushed, truth be told. As if she might be easily convinced to return to his lap. But he didn’t permit himself that thought. He was willing to reach deep inside his well of patience if it meant an eventual return of her faith in him.

Nothing else had ever felt quite so necessary.

“I did not discover much,” he admitted. “The wagon didn’t go far, perhaps a block or two. It stopped in the middle of South Bridge. The oilskin on the back was covering a load of barrels, which the driver carried underground, one by one.”

“I don’t understand. If he stopped on the bridge, how could he carry the barrels underground?”

“The lower arches of the bridge were walled in some time ago, and form a series of vaults below. It’s cool and dark down there, and some of the merchants use them for storage, though you couldn’t pay me to go down in there. Years ago, when the burkers were stealing bodies for the medical school, it is rumored they stored some of the bodies in the vaults. A good many Edinburgh residents think they are haunted.”

“Haunted?” She gave him an odd look. “Surely you don’t believe such a thing. And how do you know so much about the bridge?”

“I studied its architecture when I attended university here. The vaulted arches support the bridge, and without them the bridge would come down. But the city decided to wall them in, thinking to make more usable space for commerce. Unfortunately, walling them in rendered them nearly unusable. They leak terribly from whatever is flowing across the top.” He shrugged. “Rainwater, sewage, it all filters down into the vaults.”

She pulled a face, and he was at least glad to see she was no longer looking at him as if he might have sprouted an extra limb.

“So, the driver carried the barrels down into one of the vaults,” she said, frowning. “What do you think they contained?”

“The shop on the top of the bridge belonged to a wine merchant, and the barrels had the name of an Italian vineyard stamped on the barrels. I presume they contain wine.”

“An Italian vineyard?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but we no longer suspect the Orsinians anymore, remember? It is the Freemasons who are involved.”

“But we don’t think the Freemasons are at the heart of the plot. They are simply the face the assassins planned to pin it on. Southingham has to have a political or personal reason to want to kill the queen. Perhaps we’ve overlooked an Orsinian connection there.” She slid off the bed and began to pace. “You have to admit, it is an odd thing to imagine a wine shop might receive such a large delivery of unbottled wine. Wine is most often bottled at the site of the vineyard, or at the port, where it is unloaded.”

Once again, she surprised him. He realized, then, that he’d only been watching the wagon and cataloging its contents, not thinking properly about what either could mean. “How do you know that?” he asked, shaking his head in awe.

She waved a dismissive hand in the air, her brow scrunched in thought. “Oh, I once read a book featuring a vintner as the villain. He stuffed his victims into empty wine barrels, then shipped them overseas.” She turned toward him, the hem of her chemise swishing about her calves. She looked fierce in her musings, well-recovered from her earlier brush with terror. “If the barrels contained something other than wine . . . guns, for example. Ammunition.”

“Southgate Bridge would be a convenient staging place,” West agreed, still trying to catch up with racing thoughts.

“They could be thinking to arm a makeshift army on the morrow. Or . . .” She stopped. Gasped. Rummaged through her valise and yanked out a clean dress, pulling it over her head.

“Mary, what is it?” he asked, concerned.

“Can’t you see?” Her hands began to fly over the buttons marching up to her throat. “The plot is larger than a single assassin, and larger, even, than the queen, it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever is in those barrels, they are stored under Southgate Bridge. The Queen will cross over it on her way to Holyrood Palace, where the Freemason procession will start.”

Understanding dawned. “You think they plan something with the bridge?”

“I don’t know.” She frowned. “But I think we need to find out what is in those barrels.”

A rumble of thunder greeted them as they stepped outside the hotel.

The air smelled of coming rain, which was preferable to the less palatable undertones of Edinburgh’s streets. Night had fallen, an inky darkness. The threatening weather had driven most of the earlier revelers indoors, and the streets had an eerie, deserted feel. She was reminded of West’s terrible description of the vaults, of the dank, dark space and the bodies that had once been stored in them.

She shivered against the thought. We need to stick together, he’d told her.

And for the rest of this adventure, she intended to be a bur by his side.

As they hurried down the city’s narrow cobblestone streets, the darkness seemed nearly overwhelming. In Mayfair, the gaslights lent some warmth to the night, but here, in Edingburgh’s back alleys, there was no more light to be found beyond the occasional streak of lamplight, filtering through a shuttered window.

And in truth, there was nothing warm about a night that might see a monarch dead with the sunrise.

Somewhere above her head, she heard the scrape of a shutter opening. A shout of “Gardyloo!” sang out, several stories up. Mary leaped forward just as something was tossed out, splashing out onto the streets behind her. She plastered herself against West’s strong back, crying out in surprise. “What was that?”

“Mouse,” she heard him chuckle, his voice low and warm. “It’s just a pot of piss. Nothing you haven’t seen before. In fact, I seem to recall something of that sort on the day we met.”

Slowly, she peeled herself off him. “Well, I certainly don’t recall seeing a chamber pot that morning,” she shot back. But the small joke helped to dispel the tension. “How much farther?”

“Nearly there now,” he said, threading his fingers into hers. “Are you ready?”

It was then she realized his other hand was holding his pistol, raised and at the ready. She nodded, unable to speak. She couldn’t exactly admit she was frightened when this was all but her idea. Or that the sight of his pistol terrified her nearly as much as their mission. He called her courageous and brave, but in this moment, she felt anything but.

As they turned onto South Bridge, she could see the shops on each side had already been completely shuttered and locked up for the night. He stopped beside an unpainted door, then cocked his head, listening a long moment. “I do not think anyone is here,” he finally said, putting his gun away.

She loosened a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Heard him fiddle with the latch on the door, the creak of rusty hinges. Felt the first cold drops of rain pelting her face. And then he was lacing his fingers into hers, tugging her inside.

Immediately, she was enveloped by smells.

Musty and dank, with an echo of something sharper, hanging on the edge of each breath.

As West pushed the door shut behind them, the darkness inside covered her like an immense, unmovable blanket. “Oh,” she gasped, her heart galloping up another few degrees. Had she thought it dark outside, in their mad dash through the dimly lit streets? She would have given anything to have that meager light now.

She had never seen or felt anything so complete.

“West . . . do you have a match?” she whispered.

She heard soft noises, clothing rustling. A muttered curse, delivered into the darkness. “There are none left,” she heard him say. “I used them all the night I snuck into Southingham’s study. Besides, I don’t think an open flame is a particularly good idea in here. We don’t know what we are dealing with yet.” She felt his hand bump into her arm, then trail down to curl over her hand. “So, no light then. Down we go. Stay close.”

She followed him blindly down what seemed like an endless set of stairs, her free hand braced against the cold stone wall. It felt as if they were descending into hell itself—if hell were made of stone walls three feet thick, and composed of a silence nearly as complete as the darkness. She couldn’t see anything beyond her imaginings, couldn’t hear so much as a peep from the outside, though the storm must certainly be close over the top of them now.

Finally, they emerged into a more open space. They stood a moment, hand in hand, ears cocked toward the open darkness. Mary heard nothing beyond the labored sound of their own breathing, but her imagination was helpfully supplying some terrifying ideas about what awaited in the looming darkness.

Bodies. Ghosts.

Guns.

“Perhaps we should split up,” she offered in a small, terrified voice.

“Mouse,” she heard him sigh. “I hope you are joking.” She felt the punishing but welcome grip of his fingers, knew the relief of his pulse, steady, if a bit fast, there through his fingers. “We stick together, no matter what.”

“Agreed,” she breathed.

Together, they stumbled along the perimeter of what turned out to be a small room, feeling their way, using the wall as a guide. In spite of his admonishment to stay together, once they’d made a circuit of the small room and found nothing more interesting than cold stone walls, they aimed toward the center of the room, until her questing fingers dragged across a bit of rough wood and metal. “Barrels,” she called out. “Here, in the center.”

She fanned her fingers out to see the shape and scope of her discovery, imagining what might be inside. The scent she had noticed abovestairs was stronger here, clearly emanating from the barrels themselves.

She sniffed, trying to place the sharp, acrid scent. “Definitely not wine.”

“No,” he agreed, just to the right in the darkness. She felt the air move. Heard him grunt, and then a mighty crash made her nearly jump out of her skin.

“Bloody hell,” she heard him snarl as bottles spilled out of the knocked-over barrel, some rolling loudly across the stone floor, one or two breaking in sharp, tinkling notes.

Mary stooped down and rubbed a finger against the liquid now soaking the floor. “Well.” She sniffed her finger, recognizing the scent. “Unless they plan to pelt the queen with whisky bottles in the morning, I would say we have dodged a catastrophe.”

A low chuckle rose somewhere above her head. “If Grant were here, he’d complain about such a bloody waste of whisky. Still, we ought to check the others.”

Working together this time, they carefully opened the other barrels. Reaching inside, her hands met a surprisingly fine powder. She sneezed as it puffed up into the air, choking on the invisible assault. “What . . . is that?” she gasped, trying in vain to see something other than the black curtain that currently enveloped them.

“Gunpowder.” West sounded grim. “And a good lot of it.”

They checked another barrel, and then another, all full of the same powder. She realized, then, why West had wisely refrained from her suggestion to light a match.

The entire place might have gone up in flames.

“Oh, good heavens.” She stared into the blackness, wishing she could see West’s face, imagining it bore the same look of horror that was surely claiming her own. The realization of where they were and what eleven barrels of gunpowder might achieve in this location sent a chill rippling through her. “They are going to blow up the bridge.”

“With a crowd of hundreds and the queen’s entourage on top,” he agreed grimly.

Mary stared into the darkness, her thoughts sifting through the pieces. “We have to do something. This is finally the evidence we’ve been needing. Surely the authorities would believe us now, if we lead them here so they can see for themselves.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Or else they might arrest us,” West said slowly, “and presume we had a hand in all of this.”

“We have to at least try,” Mary pointed out. “I won’t have the deaths of innocents on my conscience. I’d rather be charged with treason than live with the knowledge I didn’t prevent a tragedy when I had the chance.”

“I know.” His hand looped against hers. “And for once, I agree with your plan. But I will take the blame if it comes to it. It was all my idea, and you knew nothing about it. Agreed?”

“No.” It was a word he’d once teased her about using, but it had never been more appropriate. “You yourself said we need to stick together. Whatever happens, we will face it together.” Still, his offer unmoored her. She leaned toward him, into the darkness, her throat tight. He had already sacrificed his freedom, to marry her. Now he was offering to sacrifice his very life, his family’s reputation, to protect her? He might not be fashioned like the heroes from the pages of her books, but he was indubitably a hero.

Her hero.

Somehow, through the darkness, her lips found his. His hands came up to frame her face, demanding, desperate, and she hung there, lost in the moment. It was tempting to imagine sliding back into his arms, letting him push her against the stone wall, dispensing with three days of doubt in a moment of pleasure. But instead, she reluctantly pulled away, her lips moist, her heart tipping toward truth. They couldn’t do this, not with so much at stake.

Still, she turned her face into his palm, trembling. “I wish . . .” she sighed, but then stopped the trajectory of that hope. She wished theirs was an ordinary marriage. She wished West was an ordinary man, and she was an ordinary woman, and they were here to do ordinary things, like make love to each other in the darkness.

“I do, too, Mouse.” His voice sounded hoarse. “And perhaps we can figure out how to make that wish come true, once we’ve dispensed with our assassin.” His hand fell away from her face. She let his fingers curl into her hand, tightening protectively.

And then she followed him up the stairs as fast as their lightless path permitted.

As they reached the small landing where they had come in, she girded herself to step out into what must by now be a raging storm. But instead of rain and thunder, they were met with a door that wouldn’t budge. “What in the devil?” she heard him growl.

She heard the rattle of a latch. “If the wind’s blown it shut—”

“It wasn’t the wind. It’s bloody locked.” She heard him hurl himself against the stubborn wood, his shoulder landing with solid whumps, three in all, each more painful to hear than the last. “God damn it.”

“What are you saying?” she asked, her heart twisting in fear.

“I am saying”—she heard him snarl through the darkness—“that someone has come back and locked the place up for the night. We are trapped in here until morning.”