Kiss of Steel (46 page)

A little stirring of panic started to tighten her chest. “No,” she whispered.

“For Blade’s sake, keep your mouth shut.” Leo relinquished the weight of his burden to Will, who had forced his way through the crowd. Then he stepped forward. “Bloodlust presumes that one cannot return from such a state. The lucidity in the man’s eyes begs to differ.”

“By what right do you dare speak?” Morioch’s lip curled in disgust. “This is a matter for the council.”

“True. However, my father, the duke, is indisposed. In his absence I have been granted right of vote according to law.”

A little flicker appeared at the prince consort’s lips. Almost a smile. Honoria’s heart fluttered in her chest. Behind him the queen stood quiescent, her head slightly bowed. She had dared much today. There would be no further assistance from that quarter.

Morioch held Leo’s gaze for a long moment. “So be it.” He turned to address the rest of the council. “Does he live, or does he die?” He held his hand out, fist clenched. Then he slowly turned his thumb down. A whisper started in the gallery.

Leo held his chin high and responded with his thumb firmly pointing toward the ceiling.

Honoria held her breath. Blade stirred, his gaze barely focused as he studied the scene. She shot Will a frightened look over Blade’s head then pressed her hand against one of the worst of his wounds, to stem the sluggish blood flow.

“Who speaks for the House of Lannister?” Morioch called.

Alaric Colchester stepped forward, his gaze burning with hatred as he stared at Blade. “As the late duke’s heir, I so claim the right. Let the mongrel die.”

The young duke of Malloryn, Auvry Cavill, gave a shrug and a rueful grin. His coppery hair gleamed in the sunlight, and he stood, the height of fashion, as he faced the crowd. “I make it two all. For sporting odds.” He shot Honoria a grin, full of amusement and mischief.

Gazes turned toward the middle-aged duke of Bleight standing on the far side of the dueling ring. He stared hard at the prince consort then slowly turned his thumb down.

Oh, God
. Three to two, with two of the remaining council left to vote. Honoria’s head swiveled toward the dais. The duke of Goethe and the duchess of Casavian could have been carved from marble, their faces carefully neutral as they surveyed the scene. If only one of them voted for death, it would be a simple majority.

Barrons swore under his breath.

“They ain’t no friends o’ mine,” Blade managed to whisper. “Neither of ’em.” His weight was starting to grow heavier. Honoria didn’t know how he held himself up.

“I’ll get you out,” Will promised in a low, firm voice.

“No. Get ’er out instead. You stand between us, and they’ll go after you as well.” Blade and Will exchanged glances and Will slowly lowered his eyes—but not before she saw resentment burning in them.

Blade turned to Honoria.

“No,” she replied to the unspoken demand in his eyes.

“What about Charlie? And Lena?” he reminded her.

Honoria shuddered under his weight.

Before she had time to deny him, the duke of Goethe stepped forward. “A curious spectacle,” he murmured. There was a look of uncertainty on his face, unusual in the stoic duke. But, then, some said that he still grieved for his beloved consort. He climbed down the steps and circled the three of them, his hands clasped behind his back. “Before today I have never seen a man come back from the depths of his bloodlust.” His voice softened and he looked Honoria in the eye. “You remind me of Sophia.” A flicker of grief went through his pale eyes, and then he looked at Blade for a long moment. “We still have blood between us. But not today. For your young woman’s sake.”

Turning on his heel, he strode back to the dais. “Let the man live. It shall prove interesting if nothing else.”

Honoria exchanged shocked glances with Blade. “Three to three,” she whispered, shooting the duchess of Casavian a terrified look. The woman became the center of all eyes as she graciously soothed her violet skirts. A fine shawl of black lace dangled from one slim shoulder.

Honoria’s breath caught.
Please…Oh, God, have mercy…

The duchess examined them with her stunning, brandy-colored eyes. At long last her gaze settled on Leo, as though some challenge shot between them. And Honoria remembered how much the duchess hated the House of Caine. Her hope stuttered. Would the duchess vote against them simply because Leo had voted for them?

The duchess held out one small, perfectly formed fist. The crowd leaned forward, hungry for the result. The sound of Honoria’s heart pounding in her chest filled her ears, a slowing, marching beat that seemed to halt the stem of time around them.
Please
.

Slowly, the duchess’s thumb tilted upward. “Let him live,” she called in a commanding voice. The prince consort shot her a dark look, tempered with surprise. The duchess’s cool expression never changed. Her catlike gaze flickered over the three of them as if weighing and measuring them and then finally settled on Leo.

Honoria’s knees nearly buckled beneath her.

“Let it be known,” the queen announced. “The Devil of Whitechapel has been granted leniency.” A slight pause. “But not without reservations.”

Chapter 32

The first thing Blade felt was sunlight, warm and golden on his skin. His eyelashes flickered against his cheeks, the sudden flood of light making his pupils retract painfully. The air was redolent with rose-scented soap, a hint of crisp linen, and the fresh, clean scent of sunshine. Blade opened his eyes and winced.

A throaty, low-voiced hum came from the corner of the room. He blinked up at the red velvet curtains surrounding the bed and rolled his head to the side. His cushions. His bed. His room. And Honoria, muttering under her breath as she folded something by his armoire.

Sweet
lord
. A spear of pain shafted through his head, the remnants of a headache. The last he could recall, he’d been standing in the atrium, the floor rushing up to meet him as the queen pronounced her sentence.

Blade shifted. Honoria was oblivious. The lacings of her gown pulled tight. It was new. Printed lavender cotton, the swells of the skirt sweeping in loose waves toward the floor. Little silver fleurs-de-lis graced the fabric, and there was a pretty, silvery pin in her neat chignon. She had begun to fill out, her frame no longer bearing the gaunt, starved look she’d first worn. Beautiful.

He stared at her for a long, painful moment. A muscle clenched in his chest. So beautiful. And he was going to have to let her go.

No
, the darkness within whispered.
She
is
ours
.

Not
ours. Mine
. His fingers curled into his palm at the thought. He shut his eyes against the sudden hot dryness. There were no tears. He could not cry, just another piece of humanity that his illness had stolen from him. Not for Emily, and not for Honoria. But he could still feel the crushing burden of grief deep within.

Honoria’s head slowly lifted, her hands stilling on the shirt she held. As if she sensed his gaze, she glanced over her shoulders, her eyebrows drawn together in that serious expression he so adored. The shirt dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. “Blade,” she whispered, a smile lighting up her face with a radiance that almost made him change his mind.

Three steps and he was engulfed in a tangle of warm skirts. Honoria caught his face in hers and kissed him. He couldn’t help himself. He caught her to him, arms gripping far too tightly, and kissed her back. Their tongues clashed and he tasted the sweet dash of cinnamon on her lips.

“Oh, Blade. You’re awake,” she whispered.

He drew her face against his shoulder so he would not have to look at it and held her close. She was safely away from Vickers and the monster. Now he had to keep her safe from himself.

“Aye.” His throat was hoarse, but he cleared it. Honoria sprang from the bed for the pitcher of blud-wein and poured a glass for him. Somehow he found the strength to sit up. The scent of the blood stirred hunger through him, dark shadows chasing his vision. His hand snatched at the glass and he paused, forcing himself to move with controlled slowness as he brought it to his lips. A tremble started in his fingers and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. Avoiding her glance, he drank deeply.

The bed dipped slightly beneath Honoria’s weight as she settled on the edge of it. Too close. His nostrils flared, filling themselves with the heady scent of her warm skin. Strength was returning in leaps and bounds as the blud-wein filled his cramping stomach. He drained the cup and stared at it, his thirst barely quenched.

“More?”

Honoria dutifully filled two more glasses until even he was sated.

“That’s a full pint and a half,” she noted, a flash of seriousness filling her dark eyes.

Blade couldn’t stop himself. His fingers found her cheek, stroking the smooth skin. “Aye, luv.”

She slid her hand into his, drawing it between her clasped palms. The heat was intoxicating. He bathed in it, wanting to draw her down, rub his naked flesh against hers, and steal more of it.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

Blade dragged himself upright. The sheets pooled around his waist and he realized he was naked, the silken drag of the sheet an exquisite torture against his engorged cock. He bent his knee up to hide the evidence. “The council voted on whether to allow a monster to live.”

A flash of confusion lit her eyes. “You’re not a monster.”

“Honor.” He dragged her hands to his mouth and kissed the knuckles. “You know what I am.” A pained whisper. “I lost control when I saw Vickers with you. And I lost it again—willingly—when I thought ’e was goin’ to kill you.”

“But you came back.”

The touch of her hair was soft as he stroked it. Imprinting the feel of it into his memory. “I can’t control meself ’round you.” A first sign of the Fade’s nearness. Despair was a heavy weight in his chest. “I came back. This time.”

He could see his words start to penetrate. Honoria dragged herself into his lap, a fierce little twist of denial on her face. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare do this to me! I fought for you, damn it! Now you fight for me.”

“I am.”
Fighting
for
her
life
. Another kiss, full of thwarted passion and tinged with pain. Honoria wrapped her arms around him and straddled his hips, her mouth firm and demanding on his.

The heavy skirts rode up. Blade’s hand ran over her stockinged thigh, clenching in the smooth curve of her bottom. He groaned, pressing her hips against him. Burning need tightened in his groin. What he wouldn’t give for just once more…

Honoria’s greedy little mouth possessed him. Her hands plucked at the sheets, at her skirts. He shook his head, coming up for breath. “No.” Grabbing her wrist, he froze as he felt the smooth, wet skin of her quim brush against his heated cock. “Honoria.”

Another kiss. He couldn’t resist her. Groaning, he gave a little half thrust, feeling the skim of her curls and then the teasing breach of her body.

“Damn it.” He rolled them both, pressing her into the bed. Her skirts splayed over the red silk sheets, her thighs wrapping around his hips and trapping him. Pinning her wrists to the bed, he tried to ignore the intoxicating feel of her.

Just
once
.

No
. He buried his face against her throat. “We can’t do this. I’m a danger to you. To me people.”

“You would never hurt anyone you’d sworn to protect.”

He met her passionate gaze. She was so fierce, so protective of those she considered her own. And she would fight where there was no longer any cause.

“Me CV levels ’ave been at seventy-eight percent for the last three months,” he growled. “Tell me, what does that mean? How long ’ave I got—you, with all your numbers and facts?” He saw her lips firming and shook her lightly. “Damn you, Honor. You know what that means. Don’t turn a blind eye to it.”

“They’re not at seventy-eight percent,” she replied stubbornly. “They’re—”

“I took a friggin’ measure a week ago,” he yelled, pushing away from her. Ignoring the sudden dash of tears in her eyes, he turned away, wrapping the sheet around his waist as he staggered from the bed. The room seemed to tilt. He barely saw it, stumbling over furniture and even his slippers as he tore a small diary from the drawer of his escritoire.

He flung it at her. “I can’t read or write much. But I always knew numbers. I jot ’em down each week.” The anger faded from his voice and he sank into a chair, dropping his face into his hands. “They’ve been risin’ steadily for years. I’ve told Esme. If they ’it eighty, then I’ll give meself up to Will.”

Silence. Then the sound of her fingers rifling through the pages. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“O’ course it does,” he snarled. “It’s the course o’ the disease. The body can only ’old it off so long, then the decline starts.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can see me ’air and skin gettin’ lighter. I can feel me body gettin’ colder. I ain’t a fool. I knew what was ’appenin’.”