Winterblaze (21 page)

When she’d gotten herself reasonably under control, Win took her elbow lightly. “Yes, yes,” he said, guiding them farther away from the komtesse’s residence, for Poppy was still useless with her snorts and chuckles. “It was all very amusing. Have your laugh. I don’t mind.”

With a shaking hand, she wiped her eyes. “Your face,
Win.” She snorted again. “For a moment, I thought you would turn and jump into my arms for safety.”

His lips twitched. “It was a very near thing.” And then he laughed too. Which meant they stood like two jack-puddings, making a racket while the sensible people of London scurried past, lest they be infected too.

Their gazes clashed, and his breath hitched, his laughter dying in a half-cough as he realized how close they stood, hunched over each other, her hand clutching his arm for support. Hers ended on a hiccup, and they stared at each other from across their small divide. No one saw him like this. Sheridan would likely faint on the spot should he hear Winston laughing. Only she truly saw him. Only with Poppy did he feel true joy. Just then, he missed her so much that he hurt, a physical pain that urged him to reach out and pull her near so that he could hold her.

She straightened, bringing herself closer, her expression suddenly as lost and as pained as his surely was. “Win…”

Win didn’t know what had changed, perhaps the sound of a footstep that was too determined or the snick of a knife snapping open, but his attention shifted from Poppy’s delectable mouth to their surroundings. She too seemed to have noticed the danger as well, for her eyes narrowed and her frame grew stiff.

“We’ve picked up an interested party,” she said, as if conversing on the weather.

“Indeed we have.” Taking her arm, he guided her down the path. They maintained a casual stroll, but his hand tightened on his walking stick. Win did not turn to see, but instinct told him there were at least three persons following. The foot traffic had thinned out, leaving them vulnerable to attack. Then again, it left him free to fight
back without worry of hurting an innocent observer. His back tightened when, from the periphery, he saw four thugs fan out.

He leaned closer to Poppy and smiled as though he were paying her a compliment. “When we get to the overpass just ahead, move to the wall behind me and stay there.”

Her brown eyes flashed in surprise. “And do what? Wait meekly until you have bested them?”

“That is the general idea, yes.”

Her lips thinned in a parody of a smile. “How about this? You take two, and I take two.” Her arm moved slightly, and she clutched her fan at the ready. A bloody fan? He almost laughed, only he wanted to strangle her more.

“Might I remind you,” he said through his clenched teeth, “that you are with child.”

“Which makes it imperative that we end this scuffle quickly.”

Her logic appalled him. He was on the verge of pulling her to the side when she spun round to face their stalkers.

“Gentlemen,” she said as the men halted. Four big brutes who looked spoiling for a fight. “I believe you have lost your way. I advise you to turn around before you regret it.”

Win had to give her credit. She was as fearsome as the worst schoolmarm. Only these weren’t boys. And he was certainly going to kill her when they got out of this. He stepped shoulder to shoulder with her, before easing her back. Or tried to; she wouldn’t budge. Grunting in annoyance, he pulled his coat open enough to show the gun he wore beneath it. “You heard my lady. Go on and find easier sport.”

Even as he spoke, the oddness of the men poked at his awareness. They hadn’t said a word, but simply stood, weaving slightly on their feet as though foxed, their eyes unblinking. Beside him, Poppy appeared to notice the same, for she went pale.

“Shit,” she said.

He risked a glance at her as he moved to pull his gun free. Her hand on his arm halted him. “No,” she said. “Won’t do any good. They’re undead.”

“What?” A breeze swept over them, and he caught the scent of rotting flesh.

Poppy backed them up, her hand like a vise on his forearm. “Undead. As in corpses called up from the grave to do their master’s bidding.”

Hell. One day, he’d wake up and it would all be a dream.

“Win, tell me that walking stick has a sword.”

“Of course.” He tensed, his hand going to the head of the swordstick. Now that they were closer, he could see the grey cast to their skin and the bluish rips where flesh had begun to cleave from bone.

“Saber or rapier?”

“Saber. Archer gave it to me.”

Poppy gave a tight smile. “I think I love that man.”

He’d have to address that remark later, for the thugs chose that moment to attack. He pulled his sword free with a ring of steel as Poppy shouted, “Aim for the throat. Decapitation is the only way to stop them.” And then she was stepping in front of him to engage.

For a taut moment, he could only gape at his wife. She was poetry in motion, moving in a way he’d never before seen. One thug made a grab for her, and she struck the crook of his elbow with the blunt end of her fan. Two
more moves, and his arm was broken. The fan snapped open, and Win realized that the slats were actually steel blades. With a whirl of red hair and blue skirts, the silver fan sliced through the thug’s neck, and his head hit the ground with a
thunk.

It happened in the blink of an eye, and then Win had his hands full. Bloody hell but these things were fast, and strong. One struck him on the side of the head, and he saw stars. Win reacted, his training setting in. Then it was a blur. His body moved through the macabre dance without forethought. Kick, swing, duck, step, swing. He decapitated an undead, and then there were two.

Poppy moved behind him, working in tandem with her back to his so that they were a singular force. A blow to his guts had Win tasting bile. He punched back, his fist connecting with cold, dead flesh. Behind him, Poppy staggered as one thug smashed his massive hand into her. She did not make a sound, but black rage took hold of Winston. With a roar, he swung around, moving Poppy out of the way as his sword cleaved the undead’s head from its neck in one clean swipe.

He might have roared again in victory were it not for the shadow bearing down behind him. A knife headed straight for his heart. He had no time to move or block the blow. Win braced himself, but the hit never came. His wife snarled like an enraged cat and lashed out. Her slim arm deflected the hit. Another blow and she decapitated the thug with her clever fan.

And then it was over. Winston was battered. Every inch of him ached as he took in the carnage. Four undead lay sprawled on the ground. All were missing their heads.

His chest heaved as he straightened and looked at his wife. She was panting as well, her hair in a red tangle
about her slim shoulders. A smear of blood marred her cheek, but the cut was shallow. She was glorious. He glanced about one more time, making certain they were well and truly alone. Nothing stirred.

“Are you harmed?” he asked. “Did they hit…”

“The child is fine.” She smoothed hair back from her face. “You?”

“Not yet.” His sword clattered to the ground. He took the two steps to close the distance between them and hauled her against him. Lust slammed into him at the touch of his lips to hers. Hard enough to make him stagger, taking her with him. He fell against the brick wall of the overpass as he cupped her cheeks with his hands and devoured her mouth, needing to touch her, taste her, more than he needed to breathe. This was what he’d been missing. This was what made him feel whole. Her fingers tangled in his hair and tugged hard as she kissed him back, biting his lower lip.

His head spun with want, and he took a shuddering breath to ease the tightness in his chest. He had to stop. He knew this. But for the moment, he closed his eyes and simply reveled in her. His tongue played with hers, a slow, torturous slip-slide, and he groaned. Then he let her go. And it was painful.

They panted for a moment, and her eyes were wide with surprise and wonder as he tenderly caressed her bloodied cheek.

“What was that for?” she said after a moment.

He rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip and told her the truth. “For being alive.”

With the heat of battle still running riot through her veins, Poppy’s hands were unsteady as she started to go through the undeads’ pockets. Win had kissed her. She
knew enough of combat to understand that the need for physical contact, or a sexual release, went hand in hand with the aftermath of getting one’s blood up. She ought not make anything of it. Only her heart pounded, and she couldn’t think straight.

He knelt next to her, his trousers straining against his powerful thigh muscles. How he had moved in the fight. She had never seen him like that, his body a lethal weapon, gliding and striking as though he owned the very air around him. It made her dizzy with lust.

“What are you looking for?” His smoky voice was low and even.

She reached into an inner coat pocket. “A guide. The undead cannot think for themselves. They’d need something to guide them to us. Something that identifies what victim they sought.”

Beside her, Win began to do the same, his shoulder brushing hers as they worked. He sat back on his heels as he pulled out a folded piece of what looked like sheepskin paper. Poppy stopped and leaned into his shoulder to watch him unfold it. A coil of red hair fell out and onto his roughened palm.

“Well, that explains it,” she said through her teeth. “They have my hair.”

Win clutched the clump in his fist. “How?”

Poppy rested an elbow on her thigh. “Taken from my hairbrush? I do not know.”

Win rose to his feet and held out a hand. Poppy did not need help, but she took it because she wanted to keep touching him. Foolish. She could not afford to be so weak. She let go as soon as she stood and then glanced down at the undead. “I would say it was Isley, but this is not his modus operandi.”

“Do you believe someone else wants to hurt you?” His cool eyes grew hard and angry. “Have you an idea of who it could be?”

A short laugh escaped her. “The list is long, dear husband.”

His jaw tightened. “You find this amusing?”

No. She found it wearying. Worse, she wanted to punch something, for he had been in danger too. By associating with her. Damn it all. She glanced up to find Win watching her. She’d seen the soft heat in his eyes just after he’d kissed her. The tenderness. He’d looked at her as he used to look at her. Before. This was her life now. Before discovery. After discovery. She wanted that look back.

“Why did you pull away?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but now that she had, she would not flinch from it.

His expression closed down. “What is it that you want me to say, Poppy?” The scar on his lip was white as he searched her face. “That I am human? You know that all too well.”

Her breasts lifted and fell as she fought for breath. “Perhaps that you wanted to kiss me?”
That you miss me the way I miss you. So much that it hurts.

His expression was so stern that he might have been a marble carving. “I wanted to kiss you.” He backed her up against the stone wall leading onto the Embankment. “I want you every thinking moment I have. I want you near. I want to hear your voice. Feel you.” He leaned in, drowning her in his scent and his heat. “I want to take you hard, slow, every way in between. And the piss of it is, it’s always been this way. From the moment I saw you.”

She gaped up at him, and his scowl grew. “I want you always. In all things. I want…” He exhaled unsteadily. “It is pain, this wanting you. And I wish it were gone.”

Her breath left in a sharp rasp. But he was past hearing. “Because it isn’t about wanting, is it? A man gets to a point in his life when he realizes wanting isn’t everything. There needs to be more.”

“You will never forgive me, will you?”

His head snapped back, those deep eyes of his clouding for a moment. And then he sighed. “It is not a question of forgiveness. I lied, you lied, we both lied.”

“Are you conjugating? Or is there a point? For I confess, I cannot understand what you are about.”

His mouth twisted as he leaned in. “It isn’t real. What we had was never real. It was an illusion. Our life. Our love.”

“How dare you say that! How dare you belittle all that we had.” He might as well have punched her in the chest.

“How can I not? Everything we are is a result of my folly and Isley’s bloody machinations.”

She hit his shoulder. Hard. “Fool! Your bargain reset your life’s course. It did not make me want you afterward. It did not make us happy. It did not make me lo…” She swallowed. “It did not make me love you, Win. You did that, you ass.” She shoved him again, hard enough to make him step back, which was good, for she could not stand another moment in his presence. “And if you cannot see that, cannot accept what we were, then our continued association is pointless.”

He grabbed her upper arms. “It is you who cannot see!” When she tried to move, he held fast. “You kept turning me down when I first proposed. Do you remember that at least?”

Stiffly she nodded, not liking the hard, black feeling swelling within her chest.

His grip tightened, his eyes wild with pained frustration. “I thought you did so because of who I was. But it
wasn’t that, was it? I understand now. It was because of who you were.”

The blackness turned to pain and pushed against her ribs, filling up her throat. “I did not want to love you. I did not want to risk you.” She still did not want to face that risk.

Redness swarmed in his eyes as he looked at her. “I know, sweeting. I know it now. Can you not see it? I took away your choice.” Softly, his thumbs caressed her. “Ask yourself this. Would Boadicea, Mother of the SOS, have given in and said yes to me?”

A garbled sound broke from her lips as all that black, raging pain became too much to hold in. She sucked in greedy pulls of air, but it was no use. The truth came whether she wanted to say it or not.

“No.”

And then she was running. From him. From herself.

He watched her go. Every forceful stride she took drove a stab of pain into his heart. He bit his bottom lip to keep from calling her back. To keep from shouting out the truth. That he did not care if she wasn’t truly his. He loved her. He always had. He’d die loving her. But she’d said her truth as well. She would not have chosen him. Absently, he rubbed his chest.