Forged by Desire (26 page)

All of the color drained out of the earl’s face. He simply stared, unable to speak or to move, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps.

“Do you have a portrait of her?” Garrett asked instead.

“In the hallway,” the butler replied, peering through the door.

Garrett shot him a glance, then gestured to the earl. “Do you have some fortified blood? Something for him?”

The butler nodded and Garrett strode out into the hallway. Portraits lined it, but he’d not noticed them before. He paced past dozens of them, then stopped, his breath catching. There it was.

Three young girls stared out from the painting, sprawled in a rural scene with an enormous hound at their side. The elder two girls were beautiful, with bright smiles and plump, heart-shaped faces. One wore bright yellow and the other wore pink as she sniffed a handful of meadow flowers, peering mischievously over the top of them.

It was the third girl who stole his breath. She was young, perhaps only fifteen or so, looking solemn and serious as she petted the wolfhound. Silky blond curls tumbled over her shoulder, and her eyes were as gray as a stormy sky, staring out at the viewer as if she could see straight through them. She wore a green gown, as though to blend in with the grass around them, her head tucked shyly against the hound’s shoulder.

“Is it this one? Is this Octavia?” Garrett stabbed a finger toward the girl in green, although he knew. Oh God, he knew. How many times had he seen that exact expression over the years?

The butler followed his gaze toward the portrait. “That is Miss Octavia with her sisters. Directly before she signed her thrall contract with the duke.”

“It’s her, isn’t it?” the earl whispered, taking unsteady steps toward him. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

Garrett gave a short, harsh nod.

The man shut his eyes, pressing a quivering hand to his mouth. “She’s alive,” he whispered. “But she never came home. She never let me know.”

“Maybe she couldn’t,” Garrett suggested. The coldness was building in him again, a thunderstorm flickering within. “If she fled from the duke, then maybe she had cause. And maybe that threat, that fear, included the reason she couldn’t come home.”

“What are you going to do?” The earl’s voice was becoming stronger.

Garrett eyed him. The man he’d first found would be no help to him, but there was a hint of something in the earl’s voice that promised a growing strength. Maybe he needed this too.

“I’m going to find her—” And not wring her bloody neck as he wanted to. “Then I’m going to discover why she’s frightened of the duke…”

“And then?”

“I’m going to make certain he can’t hurt her anymore.” The words were soft, but deadly menace echoed in them.

“Why do this for her?” the earl asked, his eyes keen. “You have to know that the duke will move to crush you.”

There were a thousand things he could have said. A thousand reasons. Instead, he chose the one that burned the strongest within him: “Because I love her.”

“Enough to die for her?” the earl challenged, clearly trying to test how far Garrett’s loyalty would stretch.

“No.” Garrett let out a small, harsh laugh. “I have no intention of dying. Not yet. But enough to destroy the duke. Or anyone who stands in my way.” He stared the earl down. “I will not falter, my lord. I won’t betray her and I won’t turn back at the first hint of danger. Perry is my light in the darkness. I would burn the world to ashes to keep her safe, if it comes to that.”

The earl stared at him for a long moment. “Then you have my blessing—and any help that I may offer you.”

“Excellent. First I need to know my enemy. I need everything you know about Moncrieff. His strengths and his weaknesses.”

“You have it, on one condition.”

Garrett arched a brow.

“The duke is mine,” the earl said grimly. “I failed her once. I won’t fail her again.”

“We might have to flip a coin for that honor.”

Garrett strode into his study, sliding the coat off his shoulders as he raked a hand through his wet hair. His fingers were shaking. Looking at them, he turned and crossed to the decanter of blud-wein, downing two glasses before he could even begin to sort through the mess in his head.

“Bloody hell.” He turned and kicked a chair out of the way violently. The encounter with the Earl of Langford had only increased his tension. The Moncrieff was well nigh invincible. Reportedly the best swordsman in a generation, with the power of the Council of Dukes behind him and as rich as bloody Croesus. In comparison, Garrett had no true power—the duke would crush him if he moved openly—and barely any allies of consequence now that Lynch wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t challenge the duke to a duel, he couldn’t set the Nighthawks against him, and he couldn’t buy him off.

The only weakness the man had was arrogance. Garrett was a Nighthawk, so far beneath him that the duke would barely see a challenge. It was the one thing he could exploit, if only he could think how to do it.

A sharp rap sounded at the door. Byrnes leaned against the door frame, his gaze riding over the bloodied glass on the desk and the forlorn chair on the floor. He said nothing, but it grated on Garrett’s nerves, notching the tension within him even tighter.

“Have you found her?”

Byrnes’s left eyebrow inched toward his hairline. “No.”

“What do you mean?” Garrett froze.

“No sign of her. No trail, not even a hint of one.” Byrnes held up a knife, the one with the tracking beacon inside it. “Found this near Covent Garden, tossed in an alleyway. No sign of a scuffle. Why? What’s going on? Has she run again?”

“Nothing is going on,” Garrett murmured, accepting the knife. One he’d designed himself, just for her. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’ve got four hundred Nighthawks out on the streets and you can’t find her?”

“My, my, aren’t we in a fine mood?”

“Now is
not
a good time.”

Byrnes stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, blatantly ignoring the warning. “It would help the search if I had all the pieces of the puzzle. Something’s bloody going on. You looked white as a ghost the instant Doyle handed you that book.” His hand slipped into a pocket inside his coat and came up with a small piece of parchment. “Perhaps this has something to do with it.”

“What is it?”

“Lynch arrived an hour ago. He’s still here somewhere, but he grew tired of waiting. You know what he’s like. Went to see the lads. He left this for you.”

“Give it to me,” Garrett demanded, his gaze narrowing on the piece of parchment. What could Lynch want? He’d made it quite clear their friendship was over. Something fisted tight in Garrett’s gut. Longing. Christ, he wanted so badly to be able to ask what the answers were, to talk this through with the one man he’d admired above all others, but that was over now.

Every action had a consequence. At the time, he’d thought the price was one he was willing to pay, but now he wasn’t so certain.

“No,” Byrnes replied, circling the room with the piece of parchment still between his fingers. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“That’s not your place.”

“Then what the hell is my place?” Byrnes snapped. “I kept an eye on Lynch, helped him when he needed it, did what I was supposed to do as one of his lieutenants. I can’t do that with you because you don’t trust me. I might as well be just a damned tracker.”

“You might have thought of that before you made my bloody life difficult when I accepted this role,” Garrett snapped. “If I don’t trust you, it’s because you earned it. Give me the note.”

Byrnes held it out to him, his lips firming. Garrett snatched it, recognizing the elegant writing immediately.

I’m sorry. I know I promised I would help you, but I have decided to resign from the Nighthawks. I can’t come back. Lynch will explain what he ca
n.

A strange ringing filling his ears. This was good-bye. Again. And she hadn’t stayed to say it to him; she’d sent him a fucking note. His fingers curled into a fist, crumpling the letter in his hand. He could barely see for the sudden fierce wash of blackness that swept through his vision.

“Why is she leaving?” Byrnes asked, his voice coming from a great distance. “What the devil is going on between you two?”

Garrett was moving toward the door, but suddenly something shoved him back. Byrnes. His gaze focused again, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

Garrett caught the other man by the lapels, dragging him close and snarling in his face. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

Byrnes’s fingers wrapped around his wrists. “Not when you’re like this.”

Suddenly the other man was flying through the air, hitting the desk and rolling across the top of it, papers scattering everywhere. The inkwell rolled, black ink dripping like viscous blood from the edge of the desk. Garrett’s gaze focused on it. Blood. He wanted blood. And he knew where to get it.

The world faded. The next thing he knew, he had Byrnes by the throat, forcing his chin up. The other man kicked out, legs wrapping around Garrett’s hips, twisting, flinging him off balance. Then they were rolling across the timber floor, smashing into a chair and sending pieces of it flying.

“What the hell—?” Doyle’s voice reverberated through the roaring in Garrett’s head.

He turned, tracking the man. If he wanted human blood, it was right there in front of him.

“Get Lynch!” Byrnes hit him hard, his shoulder driving into Garrett’s midriff. They went over the desk, Byrnes snarling down at him as Doyle fled. “I’m doing you a bloody favor!”

Garrett drew his arm back and punched him. Blood spattered across the wall and Byrnes shook his head, his fists tightening on Garrett’s shirt.

“Is that the best…you can do?” Byrnes spat blood, laughing down at him.

He wanted to kill. Wanted to tear someone apart and Byrnes was there. Byrnes, who’d been the thorn in his side for the past month. Byrnes, who’d taunted him for years in the ring because Garrett refused to push himself to the edge, refused to hurt his comrades in what he considered sport. Perry flashed through his mind. Gone. He had to get to her, take her back. Lock her in the fucking cells if he needed to, so that she could never escape him again.

But first…

He smashed Byrnes across the face again. And again. Blood painted his knuckles, some of it his, some of it Byrnes’s. It felt so damned good, he kept going, until Byrnes’s hands weakened on his shirt and suddenly Garrett was on top, his fingers digging into the other man’s throat—

Something hit him with the force of a train, driving him straight into the wall, his arm yanked up behind his shoulder and his face ground against the embossed wallpaper. The ringing in his ears got louder, his entire vision washing with darkness. He was going to kill whoever thought they could stop him from getting to Perry—

“Breathe.” The voice was shockingly familiar. “Breathe through it, damn you.”

Lynch.

Garrett’s body jerked, heat and shame flushing furiously through his face. He bucked hard, but Lynch pinned him ruthlessly, forcing his arm higher until the screaming pain in his shoulder cut through even the black haze that blinded him.

“You’re not alone,” Lynch whispered in his ear. “I’m here. And I know how you feel. You need to breathe through it. Nice and slow. Let it in. And out again.”

A hiss of breath escaped Garrett. He shoved against the wall but Lynch held him firm. No escape. Not from this, or from the black haze in his mind.

“That time that the humanists drugged me into a blood frenzy and you had to chain me to the bed, I remember you sat beside me the whole time,” the voice said in his ear. “You wouldn’t let Doyle or Byrnes kill me, because you knew that I could come back, that you could hold me there until I did.” Lynch’s grip shifted on Garrett’s arm. “I’ve got you, lad. I’ve got
you
now. I won’t let you lose control.” He squeezed again. “She needs you to hold on. Perry needs you.”

Not
alone
. Garrett collapsed against the wall, Lynch’s body pressed against his. He sucked in a huge breath, feeling it expand against the tightness there until he felt like he could breathe again. Heat flushed behind his eyes, bringing with it a surge of shame.

“Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”

He could hear Byrnes getting slowly to his feet, could smell the blood in the air. His body tightened and Lynch felt it.

“Get out of here,” Lynch ordered, “and clean yourself up. I want you back here in ten minutes.”

Garrett tracked Byrnes through the room by sound, relaxing only when he was gone. He slumped again and opened his eyes, blinking through the shades of gray.

Lynch’s harsh face came into view, examining him for a moment. Then the pressure was gone and Garrett collapsed to his knees, pressing his forehead against the wall. There was blood on his hands, his knuckles split. He had to get rid of it. Had to stop breathing in the scent of it. Garrett wiped his hands on the carpets, again and again, until his hands were crusted with dried blood. They shook.

A hand came out of nowhere, an offer of help.

“Why are you doing this?” Garrett asked hoarsely.

A considering look flashed through those gray eyes. Something he thought he’d never see in his master’s eyes. “Because I abandoned you when you needed me,” Lynch replied quietly, “and someone we both know reminded me of that fact.”

Perry.
Garrett stole another slow, steady breath, trying to fight the urge to descend back into the pit. They were words he’d hungered for, knowing that he didn’t deserve them. That didn’t stop the sound of them from aching like a knife to the chest. Lynch had turned his back on him, and he was right. Garrett
had
needed him. He was the only man Garrett had ever trusted—someone Garrett thought of as the father he’d never had—and he hadn’t been there.

“You doctored her case file,” he said, instead of everything he wanted to say. “You knew who she was when you declared the case unsolvable. You removed the photograph of Octavia Morrow so that no one would ever realize who she was.”

“Ah.” Lynch caught Garrett’s hand, knowing he wouldn’t take it. He hauled Garrett to his feet. “I wondered how much you knew.”

“Not enough.” Christ, the room was a mess. The desk was cracked right down the middle, the splintered remains of a chair scattered across the floor. He couldn’t recall doing any of it. Garrett raked a shaky hand over his face. “I don’t know why she fled from him or why she was so frightened.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know where she is.”

“She’s gone back.”

Back.
There was a hand on his arm and Garrett looked down, blinking through the sudden rage. Lynch’s grip was a reminder. He needed to control himself right now.

“She’s gone back to Moncrieff,” he echoed. “Why would she do that?”

“That’s what we need to discover,” Lynch replied. “I never asked her about what happened all those years ago. I never let her know that I’d realized who she was. I should have.”

“Perry wouldn’t have answered anyway.”

“No. Probably not. And she would have never completely trusted me again.” Lynch frowned. “But how do we find out?”

Garrett stared at the destruction in the room. “We go to the source.” His voice hardened. “Perry owes me a damned good-bye.”