Chapter Thirteen
Calliope hurried through the Lanes of Brighton, Prince loping faithfully at her side, cold biting at her cheeks.
Wind rose, whipping at the cloak she’d snatched up in her flight.
She was only glad she’d left it draped forgotten over a box of candles in the first place.
Her heart galloped like a runaway horse, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow.
She didn’t even know where she was going, where she could go.
An inn, certainly, but one far enough away from the shop she’d pulled together with her own hands.
Away from the life she’d tried to carve.
Away from Maxen Fury and the madness she’d stumbled into.
She and Prince rounded a corner near the edge of the market district when a carriage pulled up beside them. The man from inside waved for her to stop. Calliope slowed instinctively, clutching her valise tighter. This was not her landlord or any of his brood.
The door creaked open.
“Miss Turner?” A voice, smooth and startled, carried down the street. “What a surprise.”
Of all the men she could’ve run into tonight . . . “Oh, Mr. Peregrine.”
His features shifted from curiosity to something almost like concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . .” How to answer that?
“Are you in trouble? I can help if you are.”
Prince growled. Calliope placed a hand on his head, reassuring him.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he glanced up and down the street, then back at her, “but it’s not safe to walk about on your own, even with your hound and dressed like that. Let me offer you a ride.”
Calliope really wanted to take him up on the offer. It was cold, night, and she wasn’t certain how long her hostage would stay tied. “I’d hate to be trouble . . .”
“Nonsense.” He stepped out and held the door wide open for her. “Where are you heading?”
Calliope hesitated. “I need to find lodgings for the night.”
“Ah. You’re in luck. I know an excellent place, and best of all, they take hounds as well.”
Relieved, Calliope nodded. Honestly, if she didn’t have a pistol tucked in her valise, she would never have agreed. The weapon, along with Prince, gave her just enough ease to accept his offer. “Then I shall rely on you just this once.”
“Of course.”
Prince hopped in first, and Calliope followed.
The moment the wheels began to roll, she let herself exhale.
Mr. Peregrine, who had settled across from her, rested a gloved hand casually on his knee.
She couldn’t help noticing the blunt difference in his soft, brown leather gloves and Maxen’s dark, black ones.
But then, these men were day and night, were they not?
Even Mr. Peregrine’s eyes were a soft brown and his hair fair.
Did all the men here dress to match their features?
How peculiar.
“You look pale,” he said after a moment. “Are you sure there isn’t anything amiss?”
He must know there was, or she wouldn’t be looking for lodging this time of night. “I’m truly fine. There’s no need to worry about me.”
A soft sigh escaped him. “If you need help, Miss Turner, whatever it may be, I am at your disposal.”
Trust me, Mr. Peregrine, you do not want me to ask for help. She would only prove troublesome yet again. “Well, thank you. I shall keep that in mind.”
He inclined his head. “I heard an intruder broke into your shop.”
Could she even be taken aback at this point? “Word travels fast.”
“Indeed, though I’m not surprised. That shop has a rather interesting story.”
“Oh?” Her brows lifted in spite of herself. Hopeless, Calliope!
He nodded. “Rumors of buried treasure.”
Heh? Given the owner, such rumors shouldn’t come as any form of shock, she supposed. However, “Treasure in a shop in the middle of Brighton?”
“You don’t believe in pirates, treasures, smugglers, and loot?”
Well . . .
Dark eyes flashed in her mind.
Yes. She did. “It’s not that I don’t believe, but I’ve found keeping to my own business a much more prudent venture.”
He chuckled. “Prudent you say.”
Calliope arched a brow. “Are you not prudent, Mr. Peregrine?”
A low laugh this time. “I don’t believe I possess even an ounce of prudence.”
Calliope found herself returning his grin. “I don’t suppose you do.”
He leaned forward slightly, extending a hand toward Prince, who sniffed it with mild interest before accepting a brief pat. “I adore dogs, but my work doesn’t allow me to keep any.”
“That’s a pity. Dogs are the best companions.”
He agreed with a slight nod. “I travel too much.”
“I see. That must be tiring.” And disruptive, surely. Just look at her and Prince now. Displaced and unsettled. At the same time, she still recalled her thrill on the road between London and Brighton. She supposed there were advantages and disadvantages to both staying still and being on the move.
He studied her. “I can’t tell whether you enjoy it or not—traveling?”
She rested a hand over Prince’s body. “I haven’t had much chance to travel in the past, though I doubt I’ll do so in the future either.”
“And here I believed all women liked to travel.”
“I like home.” Though she didn’t have one. Hadn’t had one since her father passed away. Urgh. The word alone was enough for her heart to sink into the soles of her feet.
“Seems to me,” he said softly, “you’ve yet to find one.”
She met Mr. Peregrine’s gaze. “You do not mince words, do you? Is that a Brighton thing?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s simply a man thing.”
She scoffed. “Certainly not a gentleman thing.”
“Oh, Miss Turner,”—he flashed his teeth—“I am no gentleman.”
Were it not for his amusement, she might have been alarmed. “I seem to have a knack for attracting rogues.”
She had believed Brighton would be her home.
The shop. Her candles. Prince. Morning walks on the beach, though she’d yet to do that.
The only significant thing she’d ever accomplished in her life had been escaping her old house.
Nothing had gone to plan after that. Was that the grand sum of her life’s accomplishment?
Just that one thing? Would she have to live her life always escaping one circumstance after the other?
But when she thought of home, truly thought of the meaning, the feeling, what flashed before her wasn’t the shop at all.
He filled the space.
Maxen Fury.
The way he’d wrapped his coat around her. The way he’d stood still as a rock when she’d asked him what she was to him. The way his eyes had burned, even when his lips hadn’t moved.
The throb in her chest was sharp. Immediate. Unwelcome.
“Miss Turner?”
“Oh, my apologies,” she said quickly. Her face must be giving away her state of mind more clearly than before.
“Thinking about ruffians?”
A quick laugh burst free. “Something like that.”
He didn’t press. Just leaned back and glanced out the window, murmuring, “I’ve never had a home. Not a proper one.”
Calliope studied his slanted face. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. My circumstances . . . Well, let’s just say, I never met my father. And my mother refused to admit she even gave birth to a son. I was passed from family member to family member. Different estates, different counties. Until my uncle took me in on a more permanent footing.”
“That must have been difficult.”
He shrugged, meeting her gaze. “It made me the man I am today.”
“A ruffian?” she teased.
He grinned. “Exactly so.”
The carriage slowed.
“Ah, we seem to be arriving. I’ll make arrangements with the innkeeper. You’ll have complete discretion, no questions, until you decide what you want to do.”
“That’s unnecessary, Mr. Peregrine.”
“On the contrary, I find purpose in helping you with this small matter.”
What a peculiar man. “Are you staying at the inn as well?”
He winked at her. “I own this inn.”
Calliope’s jaw slackened, but before she had time to respond, the carriage came to a halt and Mr. Peregrine jumped out and offered his hand.
Prince hopped out first.
Calliope hesitated. What if she was making a mistake?
They were certainly not in Maxen’s territory anymore .
. . She had no idea what she was doing. No idea if she’d made the right choice.
All she knew was that she hadn’t expected her heart to pinch like this.
All for a man whose world was chaos. A man she’d walked away from.
A man she hadn’t stopped thinking about for a single breath.
She placed her palm in his and stepped out from the carriage.
*
Maxen tore through the streets of Brighton, his boots striking the ground with the fury of a man barely holding himself together. And he was barely holding himself together. By a thread thinner than the last miserable wisp of a man hair on a balding man.
She was gone.
Gone.
And he hadn’t the faintest bloody notion where.
He hadn’t felt this unmoored—this utterly lost—since he’d stood on the scorched earth of his youth, broken, beaten, and furious, with nothing but the name of his father on his tongue and a fire in his chest that refused to die. That fire had led him to them.
To his brothers.
One by one, he’d found them. Hunted them down.
Claimed them. The duke thought them weak.
And alone, they were, but together, they would always be stronger.
Stronger than any opposition. At first, it had only been a mission.
A purpose. But then, as he collected his brothers, came the first shared drink.
The first fight. The first laugh. And suddenly, they were his.
His bloody, scarred, ill-tempered brothers.
His world.
His family.
The similarity was bloody hard to deny, so he wouldn’t deny it any longer.
She was his.
“This is driving me insane,” he bit out, glancing at Drake, who’d finally showed his face, jogging up beside him.
They’d split up to cover more ground, but now they’d completed the circle.
People had never vanished this fast from his turf.
Not without a damn witness in sight. Someone had to have seen something.
“We’ve gone over this area twice,” his brother said. “Nothing.”
“The boys?”