Doused with a fear colder than the Baltic Sea, Cole summoned a burst of speed like he’d never done before, tormented by the knowledge that if Jeremy dropped her now, not even he would make it in time.
“She’s not dead. But take one more step and she will be.”
The threat planted Cole’s feet to the ground, his every muscle strung tighter than a crossbow. His temper and desperation pushed the pressure needle to red, heat gathering in his blood with no release. He needed to think. He needed to stay calm.
Imogen’s life depended on it.
“I love her. Loved her longer than you, I expect,” Jeremy called down casually, and Cole had heard enough lies in his life by now to ascertain the truth. “But I’ll send her to heaven before I let you soil her again. See if I don’t.”
Another truth.
Cole put up both hands, the metal of his prosthetic glinting a little in the moonlight. He hoped it made him seem less threatening somehow. He noticed that, though Jeremy was holding the sheets in both hands, his boot braced against the ledge, he didn’t seem to be straining beneath her weight.
“How are you holding her secure?” he asked, fighting to control his voice as terror threatened to steal it from him.
The man’s disarmingly young face split into a sneer. “You work the docks long enough, you learn a bit ’bout leverage, don’t ya? Though I doubt a toff like you done an honest day’s work in his bloody life.”
Cole let the taunt go. “Have you harmed her?”
To his astonishment, Jeremy let out a harsh bark of laughter. “That’s bloody rich, coming from you.” He sneered down at him, his lip curled in disgust. “She was pure as an angel before she met you, before you turned her into a whore.”
Cole was well aware of that, and shame needled in beneath his rage and panic. They both loved her. It was something he could use. “Why isn’t she moving, Carson? Are you certain she’s alive?”
The villain made a derisive noise. “Just dosed her with a bit of chloroform I bribed off of that bitch nurse, Molly, at St. Margaret’s before I did her in.”
It was difficult to process all the information that sentence contained while simultaneously swallowing the bile churned into his throat by the brick of fear that landed in his belly.
Chloroform was a powerful anesthetic, when used properly. He’d employed it himself, in his tenure as a spy. But in large doses, it would be lethal, especially when mixed with alcohol.
“You murdered Lady Broadmore, and the others.” Another bit of knowledge permeated his fear.
Roman Rathbone slid from the garden door, remaining concealed beneath the balcony. He’d removed his shirt and shoes, and was clad in only a pair of dark trousers, shadows, and skin the color of carob.
If Cole could keep Jeremy talking, Rathbone might have a chance to position himself beneath Imogen’s body without the madman noticing.
“I did it to save Ginny’s life,” Jeremy said. “They wanted her, wanted to take her, to watch her suffer, but I wouldn’t let them. I gave them substitutes and kept them fed. Flora first, the cheeky whore. That washerwoman in her building. The nanny and the nurse. I didn’t want to, you see. But they made me. They were hungry for it.”
“Who are they?” Cole asked evenly.
“They. Them.” Jeremy hit his temple with his palm repeatedly. “They. They. They.” He chanted in time to the strikes.
Cole took an involuntary step forward as the vulnerable bundle that was Imogen swayed precariously now that she wasn’t stabilized by both hands.
“I said stay back!” Jeremy looked wild now, his sanity slipping.
Rathbone made progress against the wall, but Cole began to despair that he wouldn’t reach her in time. Even if he did, they couldn’t be sure the two-story drop wasn’t enough to cause them both irreparable damage.
“Jeremy.” He stopped. “Mr. Carson, we both love that woman, and want to protect her—”
“You don’t love her!” Jeremy produced a gesture of scorn with his free hand, and his grip slipped, dropping Imogen several inches before he grabbed on with both hands again.
Cole died a little in that moment.
“You don’t even know what she’s been through because of you, do you?” The astonished disgust in Jeremy’s voice dishonored him.
Did he? “I never meant to hurt her.”
“Empty words, they say.” Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as though trying to clear it. “Empty words from an empty man. Did you know saving your worthless life cost her her position at the hospital? She came to me when it happened. Not you. Told me the sad tale, that she worried her family would starve. That night, she was attacked in an alley and she stabbed the man. Almost killed him. But I finished the job, so the blood wasn’t on her hands. So she could still go to heaven. So they wouldn’t take her back to where they are from.”
“They?” Cole asked.
“Demons. Demons. Demons Demons…” Jeremy said the word faintly at first, then repeated it louder. “They want her. They want her light. But I protect her from them. That’s why I’m taking her, don’t you see? I’m taking her somewhere they can’t find her.”
Sweet Christ, he was truly mad. “Who are these demons?” Cole asked, gesturing to Rathbone to hurry. “Where are they? I’ll help you fight them.”
Jeremy’s face fell. He didn’t look young anymore.
A cloud crossed the moon, casting the night in pure shadow. Cole dropped his arms while simultaneously unsheathing his hidden blade. He worked to free it from its coil in his prosthesis, his fingers slow with mounting terror. He couldn’t see Jeremy any longer as the window had become a black void of shadow.
His eyes tracked where Imogen swayed limply in the white sheet; only a fall of red-gold hair and one delicately arched foot were visible. He’d never been a praying man, but as he carefully and quietly worked on freeing the knife, he prayed to every deity he’d ever heard of in his extensive travels. He bargained. He pleaded. And he vowed.
I would have your forgiveness, God, but I’d side with the devil to save her.
“We all have demons, don’t we, Your Grace?” The voice came from the window. It was no longer Jeremy. But someone else. Someone who resided inside of him, a construct of his diseased mind.
Cole knew there was no bargaining with this iteration. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he ordered, letting the fury seep into his voice. “Whoever you are, it’s not worth what I will do to you if any harm comes to her.”
“I am one of them,” the voice confirmed, disappointingly undaunted. “I don’t know which I find funnier, the fact that Jeremy thought he could hide her from me, or the fact that you think you can save her from me.” The evil laugh that rolled from the darkness twisted the knife in Cole’s gut.
She slipped farther down, before stopping with a jerk, her body swinging against the side of the house.
A raw growl escaped Cole, and he rushed forward.
“No you don’t,” the voice taunted, releasing her once more, and again catching her with a cruel yank.
Barely controlling the tempest inside of him, Cole again planted his feet. “What do you want?” he asked tightly, feeling at once helpless and homicidal.
“I want to decide what would be more fun. Making you watch her die like this, or pulling her back up and seeing if you can race up here before I crush her windpipe with my bare hands.”
Cole’s breath caught, his eyes swinging wildly to the clouds, to Rathbone, to his knife, and back to Imogen.
“You die tonight,” he vowed. “But I’ll give you one chance to go to the grave with your limbs attached. Let her go. Now. Or the consequences will be more painful than you can imagine.”
“Let her go, you say?” The clouds shifted, just enough …
“You choose.” Cole’s voice was hard. Violent. Almost as demonic as the man holding her hostage. “Release her, and you die quickly. Do anything else, and you die screaming.”
“Very well…”
Jeremy’s voice turned serpentine. Almost gleeful. “You’ve talked me into it. I’ll release her.”
And he did.
Cole threw the blade with lethal precision as three things happened with perfect, simultaneous fluidity. Rathbone caught Imogen, rolling them both to the ground to minimize impact. O’Mara splintered open the door to the countess suite with a powerful kick. And Jeremy pitched forward out the window as the knife he’d not seen found purchase in his chest, before he landed in a broken twist of limbs.
Gasping her name, Cole sprang for Imogen, grappling her away from Rathbone and gathering her to his chest.
He checked her in the dark, running hands over her naked body, searching for bumps or breaks before tenderly pulling the sheet tighter around her.
“She didn’t fall far,” Rathbone confirmed. “He’d lowered her enough while taunting you for me to safely catch her.”
Then why wasn’t she moving?
“Is she breathing?” Rathbone’s voice deepened with anxiety.
Cole put his cheek next to her ear and held it there for longer than he needed before summoning the strength to lift his eyes. “Get a doctor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Imogen was tempted never to wake. In dreams she found what bliss had been denied her for so long. What might remain lost forever.
Cole, wrapped around her like a long, sinuous protective shell. Sharing his warmth while whispering soft, longing, unintelligible things in her ear.
Sometimes others would visit her dreams, would tempt her back to consciousness. Her mother, anxious and encouraging. Her sister, shy and tearful. Her friends. Dr. Longhurst with his short, pert directives. Argent’s smooth and sinister voice punctuated with Millie’s lively alto. Scottish brogues and soft words of support.
But then his dark presence would drive them away, and his shadow would settle upon her with a delicious intimacy. She knew it was Cole because even though God painted him with the sheen and strength of alloy, he was a creature of this place. Of the darkness.
And she was not. She wanted sunlight and bright colors and soft comforts.
But she didn’t want to leave him in the dark. And so she’d stay a little longer, as long as she could. Stay here where he’d say things against her ear. Beautiful, wondrous words she’d always fantasized she’d hear from him.
“I do love you, Imogen. You. Not your memory. Not Ginny.” A gentle weight would depress her mouth, and she’d feel such intense joy, but only for a moment.
Because that spike of pain would return, and she’d remember this was a dream.
“Wake up,” Cole would coax her softly, his hand a gentle demand against her own. “Wake up, Imogen, it’s time.”
“Must I?” she queried groggily. “Must I wake? Must I leave you in the dark?”
“It’s not dark,” said the dream voice, a little curtly now. “It’s day. And I need you awake so I can examine you. Can you open your eyes? Can you squeeze my hand?”
She did as he asked. Well, that was uncharacteristically sweet of him to offer to—
Imogen slammed into awareness. She’d squeezed his hand. His left hand.
Her eyes flew open and met the relaxed, gentle gaze of Dr. Longhurst, who was bent over her, framed by the familiar canopy of her own bed.
Bugger. She blinked away tears of disappointment, staring at the motes of dust dancing in the silver dawn.
“Welcome back,” he said, as gently as he ever said anything.
She tried to hide her distress, but she could tell by the twitch of concern on his brow she’d not succeeded.
“How do you feel?” he asked alertly.
She took stock of her body. Wriggling her hands and toes, tensing her muscles, testing her joints. “Other than a touch of queasiness and a very dry mouth, I feel fine. Maybe a little bruised on my shoulder.”
“May I?” He held up the stethoscope, and she nodded, submitting to his examination.
Finally, after he’d used almost every instrument in his bag but the sharp ones, he poured her a glass of water from the pitcher someone had thoughtfully perched on her bedside table.
She pushed herself up to sit against her mountain of pillows and accepted the drink. Tears stung her eyelids again, and Imogen wiped at a stabbing itch in her nose.
“Lungs are clear. Reflexes good. Skin shows signs of normal blood flow. Your pulse is steady, if a little slow,” Longhurst informed her, his eyes sweeping away from her apparent emotion as though it made him uncomfortable. “It is believed that when chloroform is lethal, it’s because it damaged the heart. But I’m confident that yours is strong.”
“Are you?” she whispered, trying to breathe through the cavernous pain in her chest. “I’m not so sure.” It didn’t feel strong. Only broken. Truly damaged. She’d known to expect devastation when all was said and done—when Cole had uncovered her secrets—but not this harrowing desolation.
Someone entered the room so violently, her bedroom door crashed against the wall.
Imogen started, gasped, and clutched a hand to her chest. Her heart certainly worked now, as it was thundering like an entire herd of galloping wildebeests.
And not just because of the startlement. But because Cole stalked to the foot of her bed, looming with a barely leashed, aggressive emotion vibrating in the air around him. He stood over her, dressed in only a rumpled white shirt and dark trousers, scanning her with sparking copper eyes. He reminded her once more of an archangel, possessed of such flawlessly rendered features that only those heavenly warriors dared to demonstrate, as no human deserved them.
He certainly didn’t, she thought mulishly.
“What is he doing here?” she breathed, not realizing she addressed Longhurst instead of Cole. She wasn’t ready for this … She was barely awake, and should like to fall back into a coma any moment now.
The man in question drew cruel brows together in a scowl.
“He hasn’t left since he saved your life,” Dr. Longhurst informed her with a long-suffering exhale. “Good thing you survived,” he muttered, glancing at the duke. “For both our sakes.”
“How is she?” Cole demanded, also addressing Dr. Longhurst though his eyes would not leave her, would not stop drinking her in.
He’d saved her life? Jeremy had been in her room when he attacked her which meant … Cole had come back after he’d left.
“I—I’m fine,” she stammered.
He held up a hand to silence her, and Imogen’s astonishment turned to something like outrage.
“How is she?” Cole asked again in the voice of a man unused to repeating himself. “Was she injured in the fall? Any permanent damage done?”
“The fall? What fall?” Imogen’s question fell on deaf ears.
Dr. Longhurst furrowed his brow. “The chloroform mixed with the alcohol in her system seemed to intensify the other’s effect, resulting in a longer loss of consciousness. Though she was dropped from the window, her lax pliability may have been what saved her life—”
“I was dropped from the window?” she asked, a great deal louder this time.
“How is she?” Cole exploded, taking a threatening step toward the doctor.
Longhurst leaped up, obviously glad her bed was in between them. “In a word. She’s fine.”
“Good. Get out.”
Imogen made a few stupefied sounds of disagreement as the doctor gathered his instruments. Finally she found her voice. “I already said I was fine. I want someone to explain to me what happened.”
Longhurt froze, forehead creased with indecision.
“Get. Out.” Cole’s teeth no longer separated, and his lips drew back with a snarl. The good doctor abandoned her to Cole’s smoldering glare and ticking jaw with undue alacrity.
Imogen closed her eyes to summon strength, but found her reserves depleted. “I know you’re still angry.” She sighed. “But I simply don’t have the strength to listen while you—”
“You will listen to me, woman, and you will lis
ten well.” His tone brooked no argument, his eyes glinting with a warning to rival the sparks from Hephaestus’s hammer as he tempered Zeus’s thunderbolts. “You are going to marry me, Imogen, and this is why.” He ticked the reasons with the touch of his index finger to that of his alloy ones. “Firstly, because I want you to, and I happen to be a very powerful duke who is in the habit of getting what he wants. Secondary, because you will find it easier to attain more of your philanthropic objectives as a duchess rather than merely a countess.”
“M-merely a countess?” Had those words ever been spoken before? Had he just … proposed marriage? Surely that couldn’t be right.
“I’m not finished,” he said curtly.
She made an astonished sound somewhere between a squeak and a groan. Was it possible she was still dreaming? That she was having some strange and ill reaction to the chloroform? Surely that had to be the case, as it sounded like he was agreeing to her charity work, offering his title as support.
“Tertiary.” He sent her a quelling look. “After the events of last night—no, strike that—due to your terrifying and infuriating tendency over the past few years to attract various enemies and obsessed lunatics—not to mention your affinity to find yourself in dangerous situations—it only makes sense that we reside together so I no longer have to rush all the way next door in order to continue to save your life. Which is, apparently, my new vocation and takes up entirely too much of my time. And in conclusion because—”
“Because you love me?” Imogen asked, gasping in a breath tinged with that very thing she’d thought had abandoned her.
Hope.
His lashes lowered over his eyes, as his gaze slid elsewhere to avoid hers. “Of course I love you,” he told her bedpost, worrying at something imaginary in the woodwork with distracted, anxious fingers. “I informed you and your entire household of that only a million times last night when I thought…” His sentence trailed away as Imogen watched his throat work as though to swallow shards of glass.
“Cole,” she murmured gently. “Look at me.”
“I can’t.” He stood staring at her bedpost, waging a silent, desperate struggle with his greatest opponent. Himself. “I can’t fucking survive something like that again,” he finally admitted in a suspiciously husky voice. “I’d return to prison before I ever saw you in danger like that. It was the singular worst experience of my life.”
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