Hold Your Breath 01 - Stone Devil Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  She jumped from her perch, talked to the boy for a few minutes, then scurried alongside the stables away from the street. Devin cut in past the house he stood by, pulling back into the shadows just as the girl walked in front of him down the alley.

  She was in the alley lane of the next street when her feet stopped. She swayed for a moment, looking for balance, and then grabbed a wrought-iron railing next to her. Turning and gripping the railing with both hands, she leaned over and threw up.

  Hands still locked onto the railing, she sank, sitting on her heels, and Devin could see sobs racking her body.

  He fought the urge to go to her, as an uncharacteristic sense of protectiveness swept through him. He resisted, but he could feel himself becoming involved. Hell, he was involved. No woman should have to handle such a threat to her life and family alone. And she would no longer.

  He was part of this, whether she knew it or not, and he would finish it for her. It would take minimal effort on his part to have the last two men found and taken care of.

  With a heave, the girl pulled herself upright and continued down the alley. She crossed three more streets, then ducked into the back door of a townhouse.

  Devin walked from the alley to the street side of the house she disappeared into. He stared at her door, attempting to figure out why he even cared. He didn’t take kindly to kittens. It wasn’t in his nature.

  Her eyes flashed in his mind. That instant. That instant she defended her father, green eyes flashing hell and brimstone. She was so quick to defend his honor, and that most likely meant she had a code of honor herself.

  But she was clearly in more trouble than she could even imagine, and was either too dumb or too stubborn to know it. Devin figured on the latter. He sighed. Dumb was easy to help. Stubborn was an entirely other matter.

  A sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He knew her name. Knew her address. That was enough for a man with his far-reaching capabilities.

  The smile found way to actually form.

  { Chapter 3 }

  Aggie ran up the back stairs of her family’s townhouse. It was no small feat that she had kept her curdled stomach from upending before she could get away from the stables. She didn’t want to add more worry onto young Tommy’s never-ceasing concern for her. Now she just needed to get upstairs and into bed.

  She clicked the door closed as quietly as she could with her clean hand.

  Moving through the house, she turned up the stairs, her boots thudding on the carpeted treads. She tried, but didn’t manage to step light enough to avoid the squeak on the fourth step.

  It made her pause, and in the early morning rays coming from the window above the staircase, she caught a glimpse of the dried blood still marring her left hand. She crumbled.

  Sinking to the stairs, she leaned on the cherry staircase railing, legs drawn close to her body, breath choking off. The sun had risen, but the house remained achingly silent. The staff wouldn’t be moving for another half-hour or so.

  She was a murderer.

  She had tried not to think of it while she was still dealing with her fare—she couldn’t have the poor man believing she didn’t know what she was doing. Even if she sure as hell didn’t. And she felt horrible about his involvement.

  So she had tricked herself into avoiding the severity of the situation by just not thinking about it. And by repeating over and over why she was doing this—why she had to do this. She needed to protect her family.

  But the trick only lasted so long. Her throat tightened.

  She had killed another human being.

  Her eyes slipped down to her left hand. She couldn’t avoid it any longer. The dark red had crusted into the corners of her fingernails. Human blood.

  Her soul was marked forever. He was breathing, then cold. Her fault. Her conscious decision. And unforgivably, she had forced her fare into the same fate.

  She leaned over as her stomach flipped again.

  Worse, she would have to do it again. There were still two left. And then, their leader. He wasn’t with them tonight, and he was the most important one.

  Her head began to swim. The resolve she depended on to continually push her forward had just, quite cruelly, disappeared, stranding her on the stairs.

  Numbly, her brain tried to talk sense into her body. She needed to harden herself now. It was her duty. Her family’s lives depended on it.

  “My lady?”

  Aggie jumped, then sank back to the step, pulling her cloak around her breeches. She slipped her blood-encrusted fingers into the folds of the black fabric.

  “My lady, are you well?” Peters, one of the three men she hired to protect her family both day and night, stared up at her from the bottom of the staircase, concern etching his brow.

  Aggie couldn’t unclamp her throat.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you my lady. I saw you coming ‘round the back and was just going to check on the lock.”

  Thankfully, he chose not to mention her attire or her soot-covered faced. Reasonable, for she was paying for discretion, as well as protection.

  Aggie took a deep breath, forcing her throat to open. “I am fine, Peters, just tired.” She stood up, body angled to hide her hand.

  “Are you sure you are not sick? You look as death had snuck up and spit on you.”

  Aggie looked him in the eyes, stilling her rolling stomach. Peters was the quietest of the men she had hired to protect her family, and by far, the strongest. She had come to like him the most, and she must truly look atrocious for him to openly question her.

  “No, I am fine. Thank you for your concern, Peters. My mother and my sister?”

  “Both sleeping in their rooms. All is well.”

  “Very good. Thank you. That will be all.” Aggie turned with a nod, dismissing Peters, and trudged up the final stairs.

  Her step faltered in the hallway outside of her mother’s room. While Aggie didn’t want to wake her, she had to consciously stop her heel from clunking onto the wood floor. Even if her mother did wake up, Aggie knew the questions about her attire, about her whereabouts until sunrise, would not come. To her mother, a blank wall held far more interest than her daughter.

  Aggie’s chest tightened, the bitterness warring with heartbreak as she silently lifted her heel.

  Continuing down the hall, she peeked in on her younger sister, Lizzie. Her sister’s nine-year-old slip of a form made only a slight mound under the covers, her breathing even. As hard as Aggie tried, she knew she was a poor substitute for their physically present, but mentally absent mother.

  Aggie couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her little sister laugh. Lizzie had withdrawn into her studies and rarely visited their mother, and then, only in the company of Aggie.

  When this was done, things would be different, Aggie repeated to herself for the thousandth time. She would have the time to draw Lizzie out of her shell, and their mother would get better, come back to the land of the living. When this was done.

  When they were safe.

  Out in the hall, she moved back past her mother’s room to her own, which was situated closest to the staircase. It had been Jason’s room, but Aggie had taken it out of the necessity of being the last defense between an intruder and her mother and sister.

  A man’s room, dark mahogany furniture and paneling, polished off with deep maroons and emeralds. Just being in it made Aggie feel much closer to her big brother. She had so little of him left. And every day, she feared she lost more and more memories of him. Two years was a long time to keep hope alive. But it helped being in his space.

  Aggie slipped into the room, noting immediately the ball gown she had worn much earlier in the night had been pressed and hung from where she had carelessly thrown it on a side chair. Dismissing her maid for the evening had obviously not squelched the girl’s need to keep order in her mistress’ life.

  The gown hung by her dressing mirror, waiting to be inspected by Aggie before being placed with the rest of he
r assorted wardrobe. Aggie would have preferred to be able to skip the social activities of the ton altogether, but she had needed an excuse to be in London in order to track down her father’s killers—her killers, if she didn’t do anything about it.

  Aggie went to the washstand and pushed up the too-long sleeves of the cloak and the black shirt underneath. The pale yellow gown hung next to her, a startling contrast to her current attire.

  Bent over the porcelain basin, Aggie began to scrub ferociously at the dark red residue sticking deep into the cracks on her hand and nails. A splatter of the red water landed on the gown, and Aggie bit her lip, hoping it wouldn’t stain. She didn’t have the energy to deal with the gown.

  Why had she bowed to her aunt and uncle’s pleadings for her to bring her mother, sister, and herself to London for the season? It had seemed like the perfect cover, but now Aggie wished she had devised some other reason for coming to London.

  Her aunt and uncle were determined that she have a fine season because of her traumatic last several years, and, Aggie presumed, marry her off in the process. Generous, but a complete intrusion on where Aggie needed to be spending her time—tracking down the men trying to kill her.

  The blood along her nails was not coming out easily. Aggie grabbed a small brush and scrubbed harder. Her true purpose for being in London took so much energy and concentration, and the parties were a nuisance. Aggie was not in the market for a husband—taking care of her mother and sister needed to come first—nor was she enamored with the manufactured smiles and tedious gossip that seemed to entertain the masses.

  Her hand rubbed raw and clean, Aggie unhooked her cloak and pulled off the comfortable black breeches, black shirt, and muddy boots, wrapped them in the cloak, and hid them in the back bottom of her wardrobe. Although certain that her overzealous maid had discovered them on more than one occasion, for the items were often much cleaner and more neatly folded than Aggie would ever bother with, she still wanted to maintain the pretense of secrecy with the items.

  A shift went over her head, and Aggie went back to the washstand. She forced herself to look in the mirror she had avoided while washing her hands. She looked hideous. The black soot she used around her eyes had smeared to every inch of her face, save the streaks where tears had run. Two skunk tails on her face.

  With a heavy sigh, she pulled off the black cap that had mostly hidden her hair. The water in the wash-basin was now pink with blood, so Aggie poured fresh water from the pitcher onto a handkerchief and dabbed at the dirt on her face. It was tedious—the soot didn’t like to budge—but Aggie didn’t stop until her face was rubbed pink, no trace of blackness.

  Dazed, she turned from the washstand and trudged to the bed, falling on the cool covers.

  ~~~

  Gasping for breath, terror gripping every muscle, Aggie shot out of the suffocating nightmare.

  Sitting up, grasping her chest, a moment passed before the smell of roses filtered into her nose and she opened her eyes, realizing she wasn’t alone.

  “The dream again, dear?” Aunt Beatrix patted her leg through the royal blue blanket Aggie had shoved halfway off the bed.

  Aggie closed her eyes, nodding, tears stuck in her throat.

  “I guessed. You scared poor Hilde into scurrying out of your room and downstairs. She was afraid to wake you with you screaming.” Her aunt squeezed her leg.

  “I was screaming again?”

  “Dearest Aggie, when will you share with me what makes you scream so? It cannot be good for your mind. You are so serene—too serene, truth be told—when you are awake. I know you cannot talk to your mother. It distresses me that you refuse to share what burdens you. Your father would be tormented were he here to see you in such a state.”

  Torment. That was a good word for what her mind manifested nightly. Not that she could tell her aunt of the demons that haunted her sleep.

  There was a reason she remembered the faces of her father’s killers so clearly. She saw them every night in her sleep. Coming at her. Guns drawn. Attacking her. Every vivid detail. Her father’s cold hand slipping from her grasp.

  Aggie braced herself, eyes closed. She couldn’t think about it when awake. She may have no control over her dreams, but lucid, she had control. When they were dead, maybe, just maybe, she would find peace in sleep again.

  “Please dear, I can already see that you plan on avoiding the subject once more, but I beg you to consider sharing. This does you no good. Your health is worrisome—you have been so tired these past weeks. And you sleep so late.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It is after one. My dear, you must tell me.”

  Aggie opened her eyes and looked at her aunt. Those blue eyes, the same as her father’s, held nothing but concern for Aggie. How could she tell her beloved aunt that she was only here to kill the men that murdered her father—that threatened her family—that threatened her? That she was the only one that could do it.

  No, she couldn't tell her aunt that. Her father had demanded she tell no one. Only trust Jason, he ordered. Dying words.

  She would honor that.

  Not trusting herself to open her mouth, Aggie just shook her head with a weak smile.

  With a tongue cluck, Aunt Beatrix pulled back from the bed to settle into her seat, and clasped her hands in front of her robust frame. “Well, if you will not talk, then we will move onward. Although you made an appearance at the ball last night, it was dreadfully short. And the two previous ones you missed with headaches. This will not do at all for your season.”

  “I am sorry. You and Uncle Howard have been so generous with your time, coming back from your travels, and I have been nothing but a burden.”

  “Posh. We are here for one reason alone, and that is to give you the season you deserve after the atrocities you have endured. We both do it with joy, but missing these important events—it does you no favors in meeting possible suitors.” Aunt Beatrix studied Aggie’s face. She leaned forward, seeing something above Aggie’s eyebrow, and wiped it away.

  “That’s odd.” Aunt Beatrix rubbed the black from Aggie’s face between her thumb and forefinger. “It looks like ash.”

  Aggie’s hand flew up, rubbing the spot Aunt Beatrix wiped. “I dropped some pins by the fireplace last night. I must have had some on my fingers.”

  Her aunt nodded. “You are a beautiful girl, Aggie, even after a horrible night’s sleep, and not quite fully aged-out of marriage material. But time is gaining on you, my dear. I know you would like to wait until Jason comes home, but we cannot afford to wait for your brother to reappear.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Aunt Beatrix. I am tremendously grateful for you and Uncle Howard, but—”

  “No. Nothing more. No excuses. The Samuelson ball is tonight, and I understand the guest list is most impressive. You will take an additional nap and we will be by at eight to escort you.”

  Aggie gave her aunt a half-smile. Aunt Beatrix was so very like her father. Always moving forward and allowing very little to veer her off-course.

  “Yes.” Aggie nodded. “I will be ready. Thank you.”

  Aunt Beatrix stood. “Delightful, dear. Until tonight.”

  Aggie stared at the mahogany door as Aunt Beatrix closed it behind her. All Aggie wanted was the serenity the country estate could afford her and her family. Serenity without the threat on her life, of course.

  Life was so much easier outside of London. Aggie certainly hadn’t been able to enjoy any of the season’s events over the past several weeks, not as she had during her debut several years ago. In that carefree time. Before Jason disappeared. Before her father’s murder.

  The simplicity of that long-ago life hit her, and Aggie slid back down on the bed, pulling the blanket tight under her chin. If only.

  Her mind wandered over memories of that simplicity, and before she knew it, she was drawing comparisons of the men of the ton she met years ago, to her dark-haired fare last night. He was of the peerage, that she e
asily deduced by the coat-of-arms on his carriage, but he was not the slightest like the easygoing men she had once flirted with.

  Her fare had a darkness about him. It wasn’t merely his dark hair and eyes, it was in the way he moved so easily in the night, like the darkness was where he belonged. The hooded expression on his face.

  He had secrets—that, she could tell. Secrets that haunted him. She knew, because she saw that same look reflected back on her every time she looked in a mirror.

  But whatever darkness he sheltered, he kept it in check. At least long enough to graciously help a complete stranger who—she hated to admit—needed his help in the midst of a skirmish that had her outnumbered four to one. She had come dangerously close to failing her family—and dying in the process.

  And then he was kind enough to put up with her inexcusable breakdown after feeling the dead man’s blood, still warm, on her hand.

  Gracious, kind, and clearly dangerous.

  Aggie realized she hadn’t even asked for his full name. Rude. But no matter. It was clear he wasn’t going to share, and she would not see him again. They clearly ran in different circles. Plus, after she found the remaining two men and their leader, she would go back to Clapinshire, back to the country. But she still said a silent prayer in thanks for the man’s fortunate presence in her coach.

  Aggie rolled over in bed, squishing her face deep into the soft pillow, as the image of the tall man with the dark grey eyes refused to leave her mind. She couldn’t help but imagine the peace and security the man’s family must feel, knowing that he was protecting them, and always would.

  The imaginings made her heart ache for the peace she feared would never be hers again.

  If only.

  { Chapter 4 }

  Devin’s ire instantly elevated when he entered the ballroom, for the crush was thick and sure to hinder his search for Aggie. He moved down the marble staircase with cat-like ease, graceful and aloof.