My Lady Quicksilver

He dragged his attention back inside as Mrs. Marberry knelt on the seat beside him, her skirts tumbling across his legs. He shouldn’t be feeling this weak—damn Bleight. Taking a shuddery breath, he peeled his hand away from the wound in his side and winced. The scent of blood flooded his nose, saliva springing into his mouth. His world was spinning slightly, the warm press of the body beside him his only anchor.



So hot. So tempting. The color drained out of his vision, leaving him with the silvery patina of moonlight across the pale skin of Rosa’s throat. Instantly the demon within him leaped to the surface, threatening to drown him. Desire was a sharp ache that cut like a knife, his gut clenching in need. Christ.



He grabbed her upper arm, intending to push her away. The muscle beneath his touch tightened but Rosa didn’t withdraw. Lynch loomed over her, the subtler scent of lemon and linen washing through him.



He shuddered. “Devil take you, leave me be!” The words were a harsh croak as he clung to sanity by the finest of threads.



“Here,” she said grimly, withdrawing something from her reticule. Silver flashed in the moonlight as the steam carriage lurched into motion with a teakettle hiss. The sound of a flask being unscrewed drew his focus and then Rosa was pressing it to his lips.



Blood washed over his tongue. Lynch caught her wrist in surprise, then tipped the flask up. He needed blood. Lots of it—anything to focus his mind and leash the demon within.



Draining the flask, he collapsed back against the plush carriage seats, panting. Rosa took it from him and neatly screwed the lid back on.



He could feel her watching him. The world seemed to fade until it was just the pair of them, breathing softly in the dark interior. Even the pain in his side ebbed to a dull throb as the craving virus began to heal him. Come morning there wouldn’t even be a scar, courtesy of his high CV levels.



“Thank you,” he said.



Rosa let out a low breath. “I should be thanking you. That blade was meant for me. Here.” Leaning closer, she fumbled at his chest. “Let me have a look at it.”



“It will heal.”



Tugging at her gloves, she eased them off, her pale hands finding the buckles to his body armor and snapping one open. Even in the faint moonlight, he caught a glimpse of the scarred back of her left hand and the paler skin. My father… He suddenly wanted to know what the man had done to her but he didn’t ask. This was the first time she’d ever removed her gloves in front of him and as he glanced up, he realized that she knew he’d been staring at her slightly thickened fingers.



Rosa swiftly glanced down, tugging at another buckle. Heat darkened her cheeks as if embarrassed by his attention. Lynch didn’t give a damn about the deformity, but he would respect her wishes in the matter and not mention it.



He winced as the leather breastplate gave way. Built to stop a knife or a blow, it had been poor defense against Bleight’s sword.



“Why did he do it?” she asked softly. Taking hold of his undershirt in both hands, she ripped it up the side, baring his skin to her gaze.



Lynch shivered at the chill, feeling the cool blood pulsing down his hip. The blade had taken him high, just beneath the ribs. “Do what?”



Gentle fingertips probed the slash. “Attack you. Why did he think you had something to do with his son’s death?”



“I told you, Alistair and I were cousins.” Lynch bared his teeth in a silent hiss as she touched a particularly tender spot. “Bleight has long held the position that I desired Alistair’s place as heir of the House.”



“That couldn’t be further from the truth.”



“It was the truth,” he told her, watching her expression in the flickering light from the passing gaslights. “Once.”



Her silence was almost unbearable. A hungry, curious yearning filled her expression. “Of course. You were Lord Arrondale’s cousin—which makes you the duke’s nephew.”



“Third in line to the duchy,” he said with a bleak smile. “My father and Bleight were never friends. My father was born an hour after Bleight and he never forgot it.”



Her gloved thumb stroked against the bare flesh of his side. “He wanted you to be duke?”



“He pushed me to compete with Alistair in all things, to prove myself. Alistair was heir by right of birth, but I could overthrow him if I chose. All I had to do was duel him in front of the court when we came of age. And kill him.” Memory was a sharp stab. He would have done anything for his father, but not that.



Lynch looked down beneath his lashes at the soft fingers that unconsciously stroked his hip. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”



“You’re weak,” she said, her white teeth flashing a quick smile. “And I’m taking advantage of the moment.” Sitting back with a sigh, she tugged her skirts up.



The sight stilled him. Acres of frothy white petticoats gleamed in the weak moonlight, revealing smooth, stocking-clad calves. Taking hold of the hem of her petticoats, she tore them with a sharp rip that made his gut clench.



“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.



“I’m not taking advantage of you in that way. You may relax.” Wadding the fine linen into a ball, she tore another long strip, yanking sharply on the material with little care to the fact that his eyes were locked on her ankles.



Tossing her skirts down, Rosa knelt on the seat, bending forward. Shadows enveloped her upper body, but he could still see the faint outline of her breasts as she pressed her makeshift pad to his side. Sliding her arms around his waist, she tugged the long piece of linen around his back and dragged it clear with a determined expression.



Her teeth worried at her lip as she worked. Lynch watched, entirely frozen. He could feel the heat off her body and sense the scant inch between them. She was nothing but darkness and warmth, a shadow of a woman who ignited his desire, his dreams. And instantly he knew that when he was finally alone, he’d dream of her like this.



The thought shocked him. It had been Mercury on his mind, night after night, but there was something about the shadow-wreathed woman in front of him that drew him. A sense of…tenderness.



His own secretary. Bloody hell. If he was one of his men, he’d have strung himself up by the heels.



A tendril of hair brushed his cheek in the dark interior of the carriage, silky-smooth and lemon-scented. With Rosa busy tending his wound, she barely noticed as he turned his head and breathed in the scent of her. Whatever perfume she used, it bathed her skin and drenched her hair as if she’d washed in it. He could barely discern her natural scent. His mouth went dry at the thought. He yearned to press his face to her throat, to drink in that scent, his body reacting with swift need.



“There,” she murmured, tying off the ends of the piece of petticoat. The instant she was done, she tugged her gloves back on as if the lack of them left her vulnerable. “That should hold until we get to the guild.”



Lynch sucked in a shaky breath. “Thank you. You’re most efficient.”



“In all matters.” She shot him a soft smile, her dark eyes flashing in the silvery moonlight. Her gaze slowly lowered as she sobered. “You knew Lady Arrondale.”



The words were no question.



“Annabelle?” The thought sheared through his desire like a knife.



“You were very gentle with her body.”



He sucked in a sharp breath and dragged himself upright. Annabelle. Guilt was a sour taste in his mouth. “She was my cousin’s consort.”



He knew she heard the sharpness in his voice and cursed himself for a fool. He despised speaking of himself; the story had been all through the papers at the time, with every journalist taking it upon himself to form an opinion on the circumstances. Few of them had come close to the truth, but that didn’t matter. He’d suspected Bleight behind half of the damned stories, and truth was but a varnish to the duke.



He’d never given a damn before, but something about the close nature of the carriage and Mrs. Marberry’s curiosity bit at him.



“Why do you want to know?” he asked her.



“Because…” She floundered for words, a flush of color darkening her skin. His gaze charted the path of it, across her throat and cheeks.



“Idle curiosity is not something I encourage.”



The words might have been a slap. Her magnificent eyes jerked to his. “Because I suspect you took more than one wound today. I wanted… I was offering comfort, nothing else.” Shoving away from him, she leaned against the door of the carriage and peered out, limned by soft shadows and moonlight.



“You’re not curious?”



Lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks as she gazed down at her lap. The line of her nape drew his eyes. He wanted to press his lips there, to lick the lemon scent from her skin and taste her body’s salt.



Lynch stilled, arrested by his hunger again. The roar of it surged through his veins. Just one little taste…to have her beneath him, the knife to her throat, hot blood in his mouth as she struggled weakly. She was a temptation he never should have brought beneath his roof. For forty years he’d contained his blood urges, and she stomped all over his control as if it were worth nothing. The thought was troubling.



I will beat this.



“I’m curious,” she admitted. “Of course I am. But the motivation is not vulgar.”



“So your curiosity is personal?”



Silence. It lingered for long moments, during which he found himself examining her again, his fingers tightening their grip on the carriage seat.



“Yes, it’s personal.” A sharp look away.



He wasn’t the only one afflicted by this madness. Fighting his body, he forced himself to think of Annabelle, lying on the floor with betrayal written all over her face.



It worked, like a splash of ice water to the face.



“I told you,” he said simply, “Alistair and I competed in all things.”



“You loved her?”



“I don’t know. I was fifteen.” He breathed a harsh laugh. “I was consumed by her with all the rabid fascination of a young man. And I wanted to win her. Neither Alistair nor I wished to push our rivalry so far as a duel, so Annabelle became the prize.”



“And he won?”



Silence. This time of his own making. Lynch slowly shut his eyes, the image of Annabelle painted behind his eyeballs. He hadn’t seen her in years. The shadow of age had surprised him, but he could recognize her still, in the elegant lines of her cheekbones and those lips that had been made to laugh. Guilt was a twisting sensation within his chest. Guilt, regret, and sorrow…



“My apologies,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize how strongly you still cared.”



“I’ve not seen her in more than thirty years,” he replied. An old wound, but this had only seemed to knock the scab off it. “They tell me he was kind to her.”



Rosa seemed to wrestle with something. Slowly she reached out, her hand sliding over his. A gentling touch, but still a tentative one, as though she had to force herself to do it.



“My husband…” she began, and faltered. “It wasn’t…wasn’t love for me. Not at first. Indeed, I set about luring him into the marriage quite purposely.” At this, she darted a glance at him, as if to see how he took this revelation. “I hate that now that he’s gone. He loved me so much and I regret…so many things.”



Lynch stroked her thumb through the kid leather, simply listening.



“The guilt never goes away but the feeling fades,” she admitted bleakly. “At the end, when he realized what I’d done… I saw it in his face, you know? He hated me in that moment. But if he had survived, I wouldn’t care if he still hated me. As long as he were alive. That’s all that matters.”



Her voice trailed off, and he listened to the sound of her breathing, the feel of her hand anchoring him.



“What do you think happened?” Rosa whispered. “If your cousin cared for his wife, as you say, what could have made him kill her?”



“I don’t know.” Lynch’s gaze drifted to the window. He squeezed her fingers, feeling strangely vulnerable. “But I intend to find out.”



Rows of gaslights gleamed in the night as the carriage rolled past a park. Something caught his eye as his gaze lowered to Rosa’s hand and Lynch’s head snapped back to the window. There, standing by a grove of trees was a familiar figure smothered in a black silk cloak.



Mercury.



His heart leaped into his throat, throwing off the pall of grief. Exhilaration flooded through him. “Stop the carriage!” he bellowed, yanking at the door and dropping Rosa’s hand.



The masked figure blew him a kiss, then stepped back into the grove. Lynch opened the door while the carriage was still moving and leaped out, staggering as he landed. He clapped a hand to his ribs. Cursed weakness. Of all the times for his body to give out on him.

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