Winterblaze (13 page)

There it was again, that wall he could literally feel shooting up between them. The wall she erected whenever she remembered how disparate their families were. Annoyed, he plucked at her skirt, taking it out on her clothing, but she surprised him and rested her cool palm on the crown of his head.

“Why do you want to do it, Winston? When you could live a life of luxury and comfort?”

He rolled fully onto his back so that he could look at her without craning his neck. Behind the fiery nimbus of her hair, the lacy green branches swayed in the gentle breeze. “That is the first time you called me by my name.”

She pursed her lips. “Shall I stop?”

He lifted a hand and cupped the back of her slim neck. “I want to hear it fall from your lips for all of my days.”

Gorgeous, awkward pink flooded her cheeks. “Romantic drivel.”

“Mmm.” His thumb slid under the tight confines of her high collar and found her pulse. “I like a challenge.” It was an answer to both her question and her statement.

Her laugh was short and a bit breathless. “Yes.”

His fingers pushed through her silky hair. “I find the world a puzzle to be solved.”

“You would.” She leaned in just a touch closer.

Gods but he wanted to nibble at the perky tips of her breasts. He eased her even closer, wanting her to feel the heat of his breath. As if answering his prayers, hard little nipples appeared against her bodice. He smiled. “And I want to do some good in the world, not simply take from it.”

“You would make a fine detective, Win.”

Win. That did it.

It was an easy thing to pull her down and roll her alongside of him. She squeaked as she went. He barred her protest by resting his chest lightly upon hers while his legs tangled in her skirts.

“Winston Lane!” She laughed as he kissed her neck. “Unhand me. You are going to get us arrested for public indecency.”

The light in her eyes and the way her breasts lifted and fell beneath her dress told a different story. One that had him grinning over the possibilities. He nuzzled the spot under her ear before kissing his way up her jaw. “All the better to fully acquaint myself with the law, my dear.”

She laughed but stayed him with her hand, her eyes suddenly serious. “Why do you want to be with me?”

The soft confusion in her voice gave him pause, and he studied her before a tender smile tugged at his lips.
“Because you are honest and direct,” he touched the curve of her cheek, “and, for whatever reason, I feel wholly myself when I am with you.”

A shadow of something flickered in her eyes, and she frowned. “You believe me to be something better than I am, sir.”

The sadness that dwelled in her eyes bothered him. His fingers trailed to the downy red hair at her temple. “And you give yourself too little credit.” He cupped her face when she moved to protest, and he spoke first. “Why do you want to be with me?” No sooner were the words out than he wanted to take them back. Perhaps she did not have an answer. No one in his life ever really wanted to be around him. His studiousness made his brother edgy, and his father had always detested the sight of him. Winston swallowed hard. But Poppy merely smiled, and it was the dawn breaking over a winter sky. Her brown eyes traveled over his face.

“Strangely enough,” she said, “for the very reasons you served to me.”

He grinned wide. “As I thought. We were made for each other.”

Her lips moved as he kissed them.
Trying to talk. Dear girl
. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue home. And she melted against him, her capable hands clutching at his biceps in a way that made him want to protect her, take on the world for her. “Marry me, Poppy.” He kissed her again. Again. “Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.” Soft kisses to underscore the seriousness of his need, and how he’d just laid his heart’s desire bare beneath that tree.

“Win.” Her fingers curled into his hair. She held him still and kissed him with a passion that had his heart racing. But she did not say yes.

B
ugger all.” Winston pinched the bridge of his nose. God, tunneling into Poppy had been like coming home. She was the only woman he’d ever been with, had ever wanted. And he had swived her as if she were nothing more than a whore. He was a bastard to do it. He should not have touched her. Nothing was settled between them, and sex only complicated matters. He should have left the room the moment she’d entered it. Hell, there were so many things he should have done differently, he was losing track of them now. He had become, as Sheridan liked to say, a monumental cock-up.

Winston sank farther back into the corner of his booth in the Grand Salon and tapped a quick rhythm out on the marble tabletop. “Christ,” he said to the tiny reflection of himself that floated along the surface of his coffee, “you have become quite the maudlin sop, haven’t you?” Laughing softly, he rubbed a hand over his face.
Step one on the road back to sanity, stop talking to yourself.

Beyond the lofty silence in the salon, he could hear
the muffled gaiety of his fellow travelers in the dining hall across the way, the occasional clink of china, and the ever-present hum of the engines. And then, over it all, came the sound of footsteps, steady and deliberate. For no accountable reason, the sound had the hairs along Winston’s arms standing at attention and sent a shiver of warning down his spine. Slowly, like a man forced to face his executioner, Winston raised his head.

A man strolled directly down the center aisle of the salon, his reflection wavering in the polished marble floor. Attired in the precise lines of a black walking suit, his only nod to color was a scarlet ascot and the glint of gold from his watch chain. His features were lost beneath the brim of his top hat but a glimmer lit his eyes as they locked onto Winston. His stride was languid, as if he enjoyed having Winston watch him, and Winston’s jaw locked, equal parts revulsion and irritation heating his blood. But years of instinct told him not to look away.

The man moved under a shaft of gaslight, and Winston’s blood stilled. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but, for one sharp moment, the man appeared to have scars upon his cheek just as Winston did. His hair was the same wheat color and shaggy, a waving, rumpled mess that mirrored Winston’s. Then the man came closer, and the illusion faded, revealing close-cut reddish brown hair and a face devoid of scars. He stopped directly in front of Winston’s table.

“Hello, Winston Lane.” The voice was smooth, soft even, and enough to send another tremor of foreboding down Winston’s spine. Christ, was this the demon Poppy had warned him about? Only one way to find out.

“Do I know you?” Winston asked plainly. No chance in hell was he revealing his disquiet to this man.

The man’s thin lips furled into a smile. “Now there’s a question.” Without waiting to be asked, he pulled out the chair across from Winston and sat. The scent of coal smoke and patchouli tickled Winston’s nostrils. Crossing one leg over the other, the man sat back and regarded Winston with shadowed eyes. “
Do
you know me?”

The man was either mad, or he was the demon. Win didn’t like his odds at the moment.

When Win didn’t answer him, the man made a sound of amusement. “Since you have no memory of our earlier meeting, which,” he pulled a thin, gold case from his coat pocket, “is in truth my fault entirely, you may call me Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones,” Winston repeated dubiously.
My aunt Fanny
. Out of reflex, Win’s hand moved to the place where he kept his gun, only to realize, rather belatedly, that he’d left his coat behind.

“I’ve gone by many names, Loki, Dolus. You might even call me the devil. Which would be missing the point. Who I am is not as important as what I do. I grant bargains in exchange for souls.” With precise movements, the man took out an Egyptian cigarette and lit it, filling the space between them with an aromatic perfume. His thumb drew across his lower lip to catch an errant flake of tobacco before he spoke again. “Ask me next why I am here.”

“How about this,” Win snapped back, “what the bloody hell do you want?”

Abruptly, Jones sat forward, and his eyes were entirely colorless, like chips of ice in a glass. “I’ve come to collect my due.” With that, he reached into his suit coat pocket once more and produced a rolled length of old foolscap. The roll of paper called to Winston in a way he did not
understand, nor like. But he felt the familiarity of it with a soul deep shudder.

“Your due?” This was new. Poppy hadn’t said a word about debts. His mouth went dry.

Jones drew on his cigarette again and exhaled slowly, sending interlocking rings of blue smoke drifting into the air. Quite a trick. The man tapped out a line of ash. “It is like this,” Jones said. “On April the fifth, eighteen sixty-nine, you signed this contract.”

“Bollocks! You’re having me on.” But he did not miss that the date was precisely fourteen years prior to the date that he’d been attacked by the werewolf in a dank London alley.

Taking one more draw on his cigarette before setting it down, Jones carefully unrolled the foolscap and pushed the paper forward. One long, polished nail tapped the document that lay between them. “Read it.”

Nothing on Earth could induce Winston to touch that paper. “You’re mad. I’ve never even seen you before.” Shit. But the denial
felt
like a lie.

Jones took up his cigarette again and inhaled with almost indecent pleasure. “That is your signature, is it not?”

Winston’s own, familiar signature was slashed across the bottom of the paper. Ignoring it, Winston leaned in, and the paper crinkled under his forearms. “I would have remembered
this
.”

“Ah, now that was part of the agreement. You were to forget everything upon signing. After all, if my clients remembered their deals, they might try to find a way out of them before payment.” Cigarette dangling between his pale lips, Jones bent over the table to peer at the contract. “See there. Paragraph 13?” Jones pointed to a particular
paragraph. “Upon signature, the principal—that would be you—shall lose all memory of the agreement—”

“Why in the bloody hell would anyone in their right mind agree to forget what they’ve signed?” It was all too fantastic. He did not do such things. Christ, but his heart was pounding again.
This
was why the demon tracked him down? Did Poppy know of it? Nausea boiled within his stomach.

“Well, that is rather the point, isn’t it?” Jones crossed one leg over the other. “You weren’t in your right mind at the time. A fact of which I took advantage. This human notion of fairness and honor makes you weak.” He blew out another chain of smoke rings. “I snare more ‘gentlemen’ this way than any other.” With a snap of his fingers, a waiter appeared with tray in hand.

The waiter set down two double-tiered glasses and a small carafe of water. A clear colored liquid winked and swayed in the bottom of each glass. The ingenious little liquor glasses, with their top tiers filled with ice, were made for only one drink: absinthe. The waiter’s movements were precise yet held a bit of theater, as if he knew well that his patrons expected it in this moment. He’d be correct, generally. Only Winston was in no mood. Such excitement had long dimmed for him. Even so, his eyes stayed on the waiter’s hands as he lifted the water carafe and poured it into the top tier of the glass, which served as a filter. Slowly, the water filled up the tier before dripping down into the lower glass. The second the water hit the absinthe, everything transformed, the liquid turning a luminous and milky peridot color. No sugar was used; this was a high-quality brew. The warm scent of anise drifted up, and Winston’s mouth watered even as his pulse quickened.

Too many days and nights had he lost to the Green Fairy. He’d almost succumbed to her long ago, drowning himself in the euphoric haze she provided. Because he had wanted a woman that he could not—A memory slammed into him, fragmented but strong.

Running a hand over his face, Winston fought for control as the waiter departed. His mind was a fog. Jones’s white eyes bore into Winston. “No more games. You will remember it all. Now.” Jones pushed a glass closer to Winston. “Drink and remember, Winston Lane.”

“No.” A cold sweat broke out over his brow. Winston would not drink. To do so would be his undoing. He knew it instinctively.

Jones’s icy eyes went crimson. “Drink it, or I’ll do it the hard way.”

Winston considered the hard way, but his hand moved of its own accord, as if compelled to obey. Absinthe spilled over his lips, pouring down his throat in a river of fire. The glass teetered as he gasped. Images flashed before his eyes. Drunken laughter, a haze of smoke, Poppy’s smiling eyes, his father’s scowl.
You will not marry the daughter of a merchant. Win, I cannot marry you; your father will destroy my family.
Jones’s long-fingered hand offering up a bone quill.
Sign it and start anew, Winston Lane.

Winston’s thighs banged against the table as he surged up, toppling his glass and sending absinthe across the marble. Jones’s hand snatched up Winston’s wrist and yanked him back down with bone-crushing force.