“Do the pretty?” she repeated, aghast.
Win ignored the warning in her tone and smiled at her blandly. “Apologize? Grovel?” His smile grew, but it did not reach his eyes. No, they were full of anger. “Whatever you want to call it makes no difference to me. As long as you do what needs to be done.”
That bloody, smug… Her blood began to boil as she glared at him. “If, for one moment, you believe that I am going to grovel, then you—”
“Belong in Bedlam?” he offered with a sharp bite in his voice.
Damn it, but the man always had a knack for finishing her sentences, and it was bloody annoying.
Cold humor was reflected in his expression, as if he knew he’d irritated her. “Believe me, sweeting, there are days when I wish it were that simple. But madness would be the easy way out, would it not?”
When she simply glared, he launched off the railing and stood before her. “And what is it that you wish for, Poppy? Deep down in that hidden heart of yours?”
He tapped the space between her br**sts with one long finger. The gesture was so easily done, borne of years of constant physical contact, that she knew it had been an unplanned act. And yet she felt the touch with the whole of her body. Like a match strike, a flame flared to life within her, and she held her breath. Win felt it too, for he stilled, his gaze catching hers. She could see the shock there, that he hadn’t meant to touch her, that he too felt that spark between them, as strong as it had always been. The moment pulled taut before anger filled his blue eyes once more. “Well? What do you wish, Poppy?”
What did she wish? The concept of thinking solely of herself was so utterly foreign that she couldn’t begin to formulate a reply.
When Win spoke again, his voice was soft, almost benign, but his anger rang bone-deep. “Do you know what I suspect?”
“I am certain you will tell me, Inspector.” Her mouth was too dry, the imprint of his fingertip still burning its way deeper into her flesh.
An ugly smile rose in the wake of her snappish retort. He bent forward, crowding her with his body and his words. “I think you wish I’d simply come home like a good lad and ignore the fact that my entire marriage was based on deception.”
Pressure built behind her breastbone like a tide pushing against a dam. It was her turn to poke him, rather like provoking a sleeping bear, by the rumble building in his chest. She did so anyway. “What gives you the temerity to assume that I’d want you after the way you have treated me?”
Of all the looks Win had given her over the years, the one he employed now was something she’d never seen, as if he hated her just then. “You’re not sorry you lied, are you? You’re only sorry you were caught in the lie.”
“Of course I am!” Like most deep truths, it was painful to say. But in the cruel hours she’d sat next to him while Archer put him back together, Poppy had vowed never to keep anything from Win again. No matter what the cost.
He was a fool. An arrogant one at that. Temerity indeed. Winston almost laughed. Of course Poppy hadn’t come to beg for his return. Why do that onboard a ship headed to London? It was absurd, but he hadn’t been thinking past the anger. Humiliation rode high on the list now, and he had to wonder, had he been waiting for her to find him this whole time? How disappointing to realize that she’d no intention of apologizing for anything. He looked away, squinting into the hazy sky. Any view was preferable to the sight of his wife just then.
They stood in awkward silence. He wanted to leave but was damned if he would do so now, like a dog with his tail between his legs.
A small tinge of hesitation softened Poppy’s tone when she spoke. “You do not want to ask me why I am here?”
Apparently, I was not even close to getting that right, sweeting. He dragged in a breath, past the pained weight of disappointment. “Well now, let me guess.” Lightly, he kicked the rail post, and the iron clanged as he muddled through the possibilities. “Ian has set Jack Talent on my tail. And now my dear wife, who works for the very organization designed to protect us weak humans from supernatural threats, has shown up on my ship.” His teeth met with an audible click as he forced himself not to shout. “Which leads me to deduce that you too feel the need to protect my sorry hide.” He tilted his head. “Tell me, am I far off?”
“No. I would say you covered the most pertinent points.”
He took a hard step in her direction as blood rushed through his veins. “I don’t know what is worse,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “The fact that you all think I’m so weak that I need several nannies—including my wife—or the possibility that I am, in fact, so very weak.”
“You are.” Her lips flattened at his snarl but she continued on. “No human could properly defend himself against what’s coming for you.”
“And what in God’s name would that be?” If the woman said a werewolf, he’d laugh. Let the bastard come; he was tired of running, tired of being afraid.
She hesitated, just the slightest hitch of breath. “It is a demon.”
“A demon.” Preposterous. “As in spawns of the devil and all that?” A bark of laughter left him, and he dragged a hand across the back of his aching neck. “It just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it?” When she didn’t answer, he rounded on her. “And what next? A bloody vampire? Ghouls? A wee banshee?” He glared out over the sea. He did not want to know. “Enough already, Pop. Leave me be and let me fend for myself.”
“I can’t.” She cleared her throat, and her voice returned with its usual strength. “He is a Primus of indeterminate power and is quite capable of dispatching you.”
“Primus?” Winston really ought to stop asking questions altogether but curiosity was his downfall.
She made a soft sigh, the sort a beleaguered professor might use on a slow student. “When it comes to demons, there are the Primus and the Onus. Humans are born of mothers, but the Primus are the ancients, born of the collective thoughts, fears, and hopes of humanity when it was young. Religions told us there was a type of demon and, through our belief, we created them into existence.” She smiled wanly. “You would be surprised what the power of mass thought can render.”
“At the moment, I am surprised at a great number of things,” Winston muttered.
Poppy nodded as if in sympathy. “Primus demons can have offspring. These are the lesser demons, humandemon hybrids, and shifters. They are called the Onus, as in a burden and responsibility the Primus do not want.”
“And these demons live among us?”
“Many do, but it is always a struggle for them, for despite all of our apparent weakness and their superior strength, demons ultimately owe their existence to us. It chafes at their pride to know this, and some will take out that resentment by attacking humans.”
Stifling another curse, Winston rubbed along the stiff line of scarring at his temple. It throbbed there, and he yearned just then for a strong drink. “Bugger all.” His hand fell away, and he regarded his wife in the ensuing silence, wondering where to begin.
She was almost a stranger now, and yet the person who knew him better than anyone else. Hell, he needed to move. Like him, Poppy was a creature who could not stand being idle. Always moving, always in action, his Poppy. “Come and walk with me,” he said.
Chapter Three
London, 1869—Courting
Winston was taking the object of his affection for a stroll in Hyde Park. Having never courted a woman, Winston did not know much about the business, but he knew that there ought to be a chaperone involved. However, Poppy Ellis had been the one to greet him in the parlor after he’d given his card to the footman. Indeed, she appeared to be the one responsible for her two younger sisters—a little one, no older than ten with golden-red hair and a curious stare, and a young lady nearing her fifteenth year with curling blond hair and an altogether too-knowing smile. That one had given him a saucy look beneath the fan of her golden lashes, as if she knew exactly what he was about and was glad of it. They’d been introduced as Miranda and Daisy before Poppy shooed them off with orders for Daisy to watch after “Panda.”
The girls complied but not before he heard Miranda whisper, quite loudly, “What does the man want with Poppy?”
Daisy answered sotto voce, “I suspect he wants to play with her.”
“Like capture the pirate and such?”
Daisy had given him one last sidelong glance as he felt his face heat. “Something like that, dearest.”
He needn’t have looked at Poppy to know she was just as red-faced as he, and Winston ushered her out of the town home with haste.
Walking alongside her now, Winston did not feel discomfort so much as a stirring anticipation to know her better. He glanced at her strong, clean profile, and his heart beat faster. As if feeling his gaze, a small smile curved her soft lips, but she kept her eyes on the path before them.
“Daisy takes any chance she can to needle me.”
“That is the way of siblings, I fear,” he said.
“When my mother died a few years ago,” she said, “the role of mothering went to me. Daisy had a hard time adjusting.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She inclined her head. “It is hard. My father isn’t the most attentive parent. But life goes on.”
“I lost my mother five years ago. Influenza. I suspect it is not the same, as she treated me more as a…” He trailed off, his insides twisting.
“As?” Poppy prompted.
“As her pet, truth be told.” He grimaced. What man wanted to admit being treated as a precious thing by his mother? “She doted on me, but whenever I opened my mouth to express an opinion, she closed her ears. The idea of me was far preferable to her than the actual man.”
He’d never told a soul about his mother, but it hadn’t occurred to him to keep it from Poppy. He knew her on some fundamental level that put him at ease and yet filled him with a gripping sense of anticipation.
They were silent for a few steps, and then she did something that had him nearly faltering. She laid her hand upon his arm. The gesture was what any young lady might do when being escorted, but he felt it as though she’d stroked her fingers along the whole of him. Pleasure rippled through him like a shockwave.
Aside from the brusque care of his nanny and occasional pats on the back from his brother, he’d never been touched. Not deliberately, not from someone seeking any meaningful connection. His mother might have bussed his cheek now and then, but she’d never laid a finger on him. As for his father? The very idea of a tender touch from him was laughable. Oddly, he hadn’t realized this lack of touch until he’d received Poppy’s. Now he wanted to purr, demand she touch his chest, anywhere and everywhere.
Poppy appeared oblivious to his struggle. “From the moment I was born, my mother had expectations of who I should be and how I should act.”
Winston cleared his throat and focused on their conversation. “Did you object to those expectations?”
Her thin shoulders lifted. “How should I know? I’ve only now begun to live my own life. Nor were they necessarily bad expectations. They were simply…” She shrugged again. “Hers.”
He needed to tell her everything. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Winston took a breath and pressed his arm closer to his side, trapping her hand there. Not very gentlemanly, but he didn’t release her. “The other night, when we met, I did not give you my full name. I don’t know why…” Her eyes were on him now, boring into him in that direct way of hers, and he forged on. “That isn’t correct. I do know.” Damn. “My father is the Duke of Marchland.”
She walked on for a beat before speaking. “As in Marchland, cousin to the queen and one of the oldest titles in England?”
“Yes.” His collar felt too tight. “I am his second son. Winston Hamon Belenus Lane, to be exact.”
The hand at his arm gripped harder for one moment before slipping away. He felt the loss acutely.
“Mmm.” She kept walking, not altering her pace, but not looking at him either. She glanced at the distant waters of the Serpentine where small canoes were out in droves as people took in the pleasant spring weather. Light danced off the water, and she squinted. “My father was born in the East End. Bethnal Green, to be exact.” He winced at the way she mimicked his speech and the meaning behind it. “My mother was the seventh daughter of the Earl of Lister. But he disowned her when she chose to marry my father.”
“Did she regret the decision?” A sinking feeling labored his steps.
“Yes.” Again her eyes scanned the park, looking everywhere but at him. “Eventually, she realized that their worlds were too far apart.”
“Perhaps it was not their worlds but their temperaments that were at odds.” He was grasping at straws but he did not like the expression on her face nor the hard set of her shoulders.
Finally, she turned to him. “My lord—”
“Winston.”
“Lord Winston. What is it you hope to accomplish by walking with me?”
Unable to take the cold way in which she spoke, he caught hold of her hand and tugged her beneath the canopy of a willow tree. Quiet surrounded them, and her bright hair turned bronze in the shadows. She glanced pointedly at his hand clutching hers, but he did not let go. “I want to get to know you.”
Beneath her straight red brows, her brown eyes studied his face. “What is the point of getting to know someone whom you could never…” She sucked in a sharp breath, and her jaw went tight. “With whom you could never have a relationship?”