Heart pounding, she raced from her chamber and ran down the hall to find him.
Chapter Sixteen
“It is fortunate indeed, Miss Montgomery, that you discovered the device when you did,” announced Colonel Olden, the Home Office Chief Inspector of Explosives. “You had but an hour to spare before detonation.”
An hour.
Fucking hell.
A flurry of Scotland Yard investigators and Special League agents had combed Lark House in search of the villain responsible for the device Hazel had found beneath her bed, and for the possible existence of additional bombs. Their exhaustive explorations had turned up nothing, and no one.
Which meant the bastards responsible were still out there, somewhere. Still capable of attempting to hurt Hazel again.
A chill settled over Lucien. Though he stood in the familiar confines of his study along with Hazel, Colonel Olden, and Winchelsea, the four walls seemed suddenly foreign. Someone had trespassed upon his home. Someone had infiltrated his staff, breached his defenses, and roamed the halls of Lark House in his absence, with the intent of murder and destruction.
There was no truer way to bring home the grim reality of the war they were waging against their faceless foes than this. The battle had been waged beneath his roof. But this battle was personal, because it had been an attack, not just upon him, but upon Hazel. Someone had hidden a bomb beneath her damned bed.
Someone had meant to kill her. The thought of Hazel sleeping peacefully in her bed when the device beneath it exploded sucked the air from his lungs. He felt as if a vise was squeezing his chest. A great roaring sound rushed in his ears, and for a moment, his vision darkened.
“Arden?” prompted Winchelsea.
He cleared his throat, realizing belatedly he was staring at Hazel, consumed by old fears and ghosts that were mingling with new. She was pale, all the joy from their earlier romp at Madame Tussaud’s vanquished by the horror of having discovered the bomb beneath her bed. Thank God she was as skilled an agent as she was, and she had taken note of the subtle indications someone had intruded in her chamber. Lesser detectives than she may never have noticed.
But three pairs of eyes were upon him now, awaiting his reply, and he could not afford to continue to wallow in the unexpected feelings assaulting him. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Winchelsea. What was the question?”
“The timing of the invasion of your home,” Winchelsea elaborated, looking as grim as Lucien felt. “What would you aim it to be? You mentioned that both yourself and Miss Montgomery had been away on an outing this evening. Do you believe it occurred then?”
“Unquestionably.” He nodded, resisting the urge to pace the length of his study. Or worse, to take up some helpless object and send it hurtling through the mullioned windows overlooking the street.
“I do not believe you mentioned the nature of your excursion,” the duke said.
Blast.
“Miss Montgomery and I had concluded our investigative toiling for the day, and we aimed to seek some distraction by paying a visit to Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition,” he explained, careful to keep his tone and expression neutral. The last complication he needed was to cause issues for Hazel by allowing the Home Office to discover they had been intimate.
“Waxworks?” Winchelsea’s brows lifted simultaneously.
“At my request, Winchelsea,” Hazel chimed in, lying, presumably to protect him. She worked her lips into a thin attempt at a smile. “Arden was kind enough to indulge me in my childish fancy to explore London as a tourist for a few hours.”
“Ah,” Winchelsea said, his expression guarded, his gaze quizzical as it met Lucien’s. “How good of Arden.”
Devil take it. Winchelsea was not a stupid man.
“Arden is very kind,” Hazel said, her accent more pronounced with her heightened emotions. “I am thoroughly sorry I am the cause of such danger being brought to Lark House. If those men had not recognized me at the hotel, this never would have happened.”
“You cannot blame yourself for your attack,” Lucien countered. “Your courage and intuition in attempting to find the suspects has given us the best information we have thus far in finding the men responsible for the railway bombings. You suffered enough as a result of that mishap.”
Though the wound on her head was nicely healed, the reminder of her suffering filled him with a surge of impotent rage. Coupled with the fury resonating within him—the daring of these bastards, infiltrating his home with the intent to do Hazel harm—he was left feeling as if he needed to smash something. Or someone.
“Miss Montgomery, we are grateful for your presence,” Winchelsea assured her, smiling smoothly in Hazel’s direction. “Your service has been invaluable. Our goals moving forward are twofold: to find the criminals responsible for these outrages, and to keep you safe. It is apparent Lark House will not be suitable any longer.”
“I must agree,” Colonel Olden said. “The devices are getting more complex, and the danger is real. The bomb discovered here this evening is the first I have seen of its kind, with a mechanical means of enabling delayed detonation. An alarm clock was rigged to a pistol inside the box. The likelihood of severe damage is undeniable. If they are capable of breaching the defenses here at Lark House and planting bombs such as this, I shudder to think what else they are capable of.”
So did Lucien. An even greater fear was blooming inside him, the fear the men who had recognized Hazel and attacked her in the hotel would not give up until they got what they wanted. And that appeared to be her eternal silence, since they had failed previously.
“I propose you stay at my townhome,” Winchelsea told Hazel, “as an honored guest. We will keep your whereabouts a secret, and no one will be the wiser as to where you have gone.”
“No,” Lucien found himself saying quickly. Far too quickly.
But the thought of Hazel sharing a roof with Winchelsea? The possessive beast inside him roared in denial. He would not allow it. She was his responsibility. After all, she was his partner, was she not? She was his to keep safe.
He ignored the part of him, deep inside, the primitive beast, that said she was his. That she was his, full stop.
He had no right to lay any claim upon her. And neither did she wish him to. She had been clear in her rules. He was clear in his. Except somehow, along the way, his rules had become rather murky. Somehow, the incessant need to have her, to touch her, to kiss her, to be inside her, had driven his blasted rules into the muck.
He ought to allow Winchelsea to harbor her at his townhome. It would be the sensible thing to do. Rational. Reasonable. Best for the both of them, quite likely. He could turn his full attention back to the gravity of the menace facing them, and the real possibility the men responsible for the railway bombings were still in their midst.
To hell with that.
Sensible, rational, and reasonable could sod off. He wanted Hazel at his side. Not just in his bed, but…he had rather grown accustomed to sharing his days with her. He looked forward to seeing her each morning, to dining with her, to sharing part of himself. More than just the physical. They had a deeper joining. And it ought to alarm him, but damn it, he could not deny the way he felt.
“I will see to Miss Montgomery’s safety,” he added hastily, lest Winchelsea add further logic to bolster his position.
“I can see to my own safety,” Hazel interjected, scowling at him, as of course she would.
Yes, he and Winchelsea were fighting over her as if she were a prized painting which needed preservation and an armed guard to stave off thieves, rather than a woman with a reputation a mile long as one of the best damned agents in America.
“Of course you can, Miss Montgomery,” he reassured her apologetically. The apology was for the delivery, though not the sentiment. He still intended to look after her, whether she liked it or not. And whether she needed it or not.
“Perhaps I will stay at a hotel,” she said, frowning and crossing her
arms over her middle in a protective gesture.
The bomb hidden beneath her bed had affected her. He could not blame her, for it had done the same to him. The notion one of the villains who had bombed the railway and brutalized Hazel had infiltrated his home with the intent to murder her was enough to make him want to tear the plaster from the framework of his study with his bare hands, until no trappings of civility remained. Nothing but sticks of wooden framework.
“You will do nothing of the sort,” he snapped at her. “I forbid it.”
Her eyes flashed, heralding the return of the fiery woman he had come to know and admire. “You forbid me, Arden?”
“Yes,” he bit out. “You will not be safe on your own.”
“You do not have the right to forbid me to do anything, Your Grace,” she told him with the icy aplomb of a queen.
He would be damned if he was going to allow her to put herself in danger to assuage her pride. “I beg to differ,” he told her, forgetting they had an audience for a moment. He settled for conveying the rest of what he had been about to say with his gaze.
Her chin went up. “You may beg to differ all you like, Arden. I alone am responsible for myself.”
Her tone remained cool. Her independence was important to her. But her safety was equally important to him. He would make certain no one could get near enough to her to cause her harm again.
“We did not bring you to England to aid in our investigations so that you would become the target of attacks yourself, Miss Montgomery,” Winchelsea interjected then, eyes traveling between Lucien and Hazel in a manner which suggested he suspected there was something simmering beneath the surface of their dispute. “I must insist you defer to reason. The Home Office is responsible for your well-being, and I hold the duty in the highest regard.”
“I would argue the Special League is responsible for Miss Montgomery’s safety,” he said to Winchelsea.
This, here, was where he drew the line. He would not reveal the nature of his relationship with Hazel. But neither would he allow the duke to sweep her away. She had nearly been killed on his watch, and he would stop at nothing to protect her. Winchelsea was a statesman. Lucien was a warrior. The difference was distinct.
“And again, I would argue that I am responsible for myself,” Hazel interrupted. “The two of you can speak about me as if I am not present in the room all you like; it will not change the way I feel on the matter.”
The colonel, who had stood silent for the bulk of the discourse, chose that moment to intervene. “Wherever you choose to go, Miss Montgomery, you must be vigilant. The nature of the device hidden in your chamber leaves no question that someone wants you dead.”
But Hazel did not shrink from a challenge. She was no wilting flower beneath the heat of a summer sun. She was more like a rattlesnake, prone to striking when riled. Her shoulders were stiff, color blazing on her cheekbones, and she was ready to fight. Lucien was grateful the shock of the discovery of the device beneath her bed had dimmed, and she had returned to herself, but he was not going to allow her obstinacy to determine the outcome of this argument.
“A word alone with Miss Montgomery,” he said suddenly, “Winchelsea and Colonel Olden, if you please.”
Olden inclined his head. “I must see to the testing of the explosives in the device. The sooner we are apprised of the quality and type, the better for our investigations. I suspect it is American in origin, but time will tell.”
Winchelsea’s lips compressed into a fine line as he cast Lucien a disapproving glare. “I do not see the necessity, Arden.”
“I do,” he returned smoothly. “A moment, if you please. That is all I require—the opportunity to speak with my partner alone. You will grant me that, will you not, Winchelsea?”
Winchelsea’s jaw clenched. He certainly looked as if he wanted to argue, but in the end, he did not. Lucien watched with satisfaction as the other two men left his study. He waited until the door was firmly closed at their backs to descend upon Hazel.
He reached her in three strides. And though he had intended to be gentle and coaxing, to persuade her with logic and reason, now she was within his reach at last, he could not keep himself from touching her. His hands were on her waist, hauling her against him, and then, he was embracing her.
Burying his face in her dark, sweet-scented hair. Holding her to him as if he feared she would be wrenched away at any moment. Perhaps that was part of the emotion squeezing his chest. Perhaps it was the reason for his shaking hands stroking over her back, up her spine.
That old fear, the one that had nearly swallowed him whole when he had been a young lad, searching for his mother’s lifeless body on the shores.
“Lucien,” she said on a sigh, but her arms tightened around him too, and for a beat, they simply held each other.
“Hazel.” He kissed the crown of her head, unable to help himself. If something had happened to her tonight… “I want to look after you. Will you not allow it?”
“I look after myself, Lucien,” she said. “You know that. Nor can I thank you for the manner in which you and Winchelsea were all but growling at each other over me, as if you were dogs in competition for a bone.”
“Come now, sweetheart.” He continued stroking her, as much to console her, as himself. “You do not resemble a bone in the slightest.”
He was not certain where this newfound capacity for levity originated. But he wanted to hear her laugh. Wanted to bring her a moment of lightness in the midst of such darkness. And he succeeded at that, his reward the hitch of her breath and a reluctant chuckle, before she squelched the sound.
“You know what I meant to say,” she returned without heat. She showed no indication of pushing him away. Indeed, her arms had tightened.
He held her now as he should have earlier. But her discovery of the device beneath her bed had led to a frantic race to notify Scotland Yard and Winchelsea. Thank Christ the colonel lived nearby. If he had not been present to disable the infernal death machine…
Concern for someone beyond the circle of his small family—essentially his sister Violet and their Great Aunt Hortense—was foreign for him. He did not like it. Vulnerability had not been a mantle he had worn in years.
“I know what you meant to say,” he answered her at last, his voice thickened by worry and guilt. “But please understand me, Hazel, the thought of you being injured or killed on my watch is enough to make me want to retch. Already, you were attacked by these bastards, and now they have trespassed in my home with the intent to murder you. Let me make this right.”
“We must make it right together,” she said, a stinging note of censure in her voice. “We are equals, Lucien. Partners, if you will recall.”
“We are partners, yes, but that does not mean I do not want to see you safe,” he returned, his words muffled by the top of her head.
He inhaled her scent, holding it in his lungs. She was special to him. More than just his partner. More than a fellow agent he respected and admired. He did not merely care for her. She had somehow come to mean so much more to him. She had smashed through his protective turrets with her cannon balls, and he was not certain he wanted to rebuild them.
“I do not need anyone else, Lucien.”
But though she protested, she was still clinging to him, as he was to her, as if they were adrift together in the sea, and releasing each other would be the end of them. She was stubborn…and strong, so strong.
Stronger than he was, he began to suspect.
“Hazel,” he said, pulling back so he could look down into her face and meet her gaze. He cupped her cheek in one hand, unable to resist tracing the high arch of her cheekbone with his thumb. “I have never met another woman more capable of taking care of herself. Nor have I known another as fiercely determined. I admire you, I respect you, and in the time since you first walked through the door of this very room, you have astounded me. But you cannot truly believe I will simply allow you to leave me now, after all that has happened b
etween us.”
“I gave you my body, Lucien, not sovereignty over me,” she countered in return. “You cannot allow me to do anything.”
“You are correct.” Devil take it, he was making a hash of this. When had he ever blundered so much? “You entrusted yourself to me, did you not?”
Her striking eyes burned into his. “Yes.”
“Then trust me now, Hazel.” He would not plead, would not beg. But neither could he let this go. Let her go. He wasn’t ready, and he could not shake the feeling, if she either set out on her own or stayed with Winchelsea, she would be forever lost to him. “Trust me, please.”
“Why do you care so much?” she asked, searching his gaze, as if she would find the answer there.
He did not think she would, when he little knew the answer himself. In lieu of a response, he pressed a reverent kiss to the cool smoothness of her forehead. “Please,” he repeated.
She sighed, then nodded resolutely. “I trust you, Lucien.”
Relief and gratitude flowed through him. He would have kissed her lips, but for the presence of Winchelsea on the other side of the door. Instead, he settled for a chaste kiss on her cheek. Just one.
“Thank you,” he said, and he had never meant two words more.
Chapter Seventeen
The hour was late by the time Lucien escorted Hazel and Lady Beaufort to the townhouse of the Duke of Strathmore. His august aunt was fidgeting with the ribbons of her black bonnet, clearly in high dudgeon after the unprecedented events of the evening. Hazel could not blame her, for she felt shaken herself.
Beyond shaken, if she were honest.
“How are we to ever believe we are safe again, Arden?” Lady Beaufort demanded of Lucien, who sat opposite them, grim and silent in the low lamp of the carriage light. “Now they are hiding dynamite in your very home. When will it end?”
“Strathmore will make certain you are safe. I dare not entrust the welfare of you and Miss Montgomery to another,” Lucien said, though the admission sounded grudging, as if torn from him. “You cannot remain at Lark House until I can determine precisely how the blackguards were able to enter undetected and plant a bomb in Miss Montgomery’s chamber. As for when this will end, I very much fear none of it will until those responsible are commended to prison where they belong.”
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