Chapter Twenty-Two
Calliope sat a hand-span back from the window, as instructed, her cap pulled low, while the carriage rattled at a steady pace.
Rules. Always rules. She half-imagined him up there on the box, jaw set, eyes forward, reins held like he could muscle the world into obeying if it dared to veer off course.
These men lived by their rules the way other people lived by prayers. They might be outlaws, but they weren’t careless ones.
But still outlaws.
She hoped this plan worked.
Then this chapter of her life would end as well.
She gripped the lapels of Maxen’s jacket covering her and buried her face into the collar, drawing in a long breath. It smelled faintly, impossibly, of him—clean with that stubborn trace of smoke that never seemed to leave him. Solid. Male. Maxen.
How foolish you are, Calliope!
And so? A woman was allowed to be foolish once in a while.
She set her shoulders and let her head rest back on the cushion. But she should remain more alert. And remember the knocks. Two knocks—down to the floor. Three—out the far door and follow Knight’s voice. Or was it Saint? If nothing . . .
Argh.
Something.
Well, it appeared everything might be going according to plan. No knocks were good knocks.
She lifted the hand that his had brushed earlier.
He wore his gloves again. He really never took them off. Well, not in public. Also not in front of his brothers. But that obstinate man hadn’t covered his hands when she’d unexpectedly caught him without a part of his armor, and that made her feel things she ought not feel.
Maxen Fury . . .
Somewhere above and ahead, he sat, reins in his hands, the world in his keeping.
The thought that this was supposed to end things—this day, this plan—flared sharp in her chest. Would she stay in Brighton?
Start over somewhere new? But even as the questions came, so came the unbidden image of her dark landlord.
Maxen, up there on the box, not looking back.
She burrowed deeper into the seat. Leaning into the plush cushion might bring his voice through the wood and leather between them. Nothing came, of course. Only the pulse of hooves, the clatter of wheels.
It was almost worse than danger—the waiting.
A crack split the air. Distant, muffled.
Calliope shot upright. What on earth was that?
Another. Louder. Close enough to feel it.
Her spine went rigid, ears straining. No knocks.
Her pulse hammered. Was that good? Bad? Was nothing the signal to stay put or to move? What were the rules again? The team surged and the carriage rocked. She grabbed for anything, swallowing the cry that leaped to her mouth before it escaped.
Still no knocks.
Argh! What did that mean again? His voice filled her head.
Stay where you are. Let me work.
The roof gave a brutal thud. A man dropping his weight where no man should be. A second blow followed. Deeper, duller. The carriage shuddered as if the sky itself had stumbled. Then another sickening thud as something heavy struck soil beside the road.
Her mouth went dry.
No knocks.
Do not think, Calliope. Remember. Two means down. Three means out. None means stay.
The carriage lurched again.
Oh, lord. Was it over?
A blur streaked past the window—black, swift, unmistakably a horse. She jerked to the other side. Another rider there. Masks. Dark coats. Their movements were too smooth, too precise. Men drilled to breathe as one.
No.
No. No. No.
It wasn’t over.
“Maxen?” she called, small and fierce, to the roof. No answer.
Her hand found the door-latch before pausing. Could she jump from a moving carriage? It hadn’t picked up that much speed yet. What was she supposed to do? Hold fast? What would he do?
Just hold on a little longer.
She let out a shaky breath.
Would that phrase always cling to her? Always with a meaning of survival?
No knocks. The rules were simple.
But she could not abide them. Calliope flipped the latch, shoved her shoulder to the panel, and dropped from the carriage as it continued forward, refusing to think about anything else other than escaping.
The road slammed into her, she into it, jarring her insides more harshly than she anticipated.
White spots danced beneath her eyelids, and she rolled and rolled.
The moment she came to a halt, she stumbled to her feet.
Unfortunately, she didn’t get far.
A gloved hand closed over her mouth. “Easy now.”
She tried to twist, to bite; a man lifted her clean off her feet as if she weighed no more than a shawl.
A cap came down over her head, dark and tight.
The world vanished. Sound crowded in—the thunder of hooves, voices, one last gunshot swallowed by the road—and then there was nothing but the quick, thunderous drum of her own heart.
Maxen was alive, wasn’t he?
The alternative brought a chill to her.
Everything went black.
*
The taste of iron coated in his mouth.
Maxen opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back, the earth uncomfortably hard and the sky above unreasonably bright. A dull, insistent throb pulsed at the side of his skull—steady as a drum and promising to haunt him for the remainder of the day.
He rolled, spat red, and got to his knees.
He was going to kill someone.
He’d only ever killed one person in his life, and he vowed his hands—he clenched them into fists—would never take another life. But he was damn well willing to make an exception today.
He took in the scene around him. There was no sign of the carriage. Of Calliope. The earth showed only the rough churn of hooves and wheels, the track scuffed raw, and the bitter breath of gunpowder that hadn’t faded.
No shouts. No answering thunder of hooves from the Fury line.
Where the devil were his brothers? They’d been following at a distance, Saint and Knight riding flank, Reaper holding the rear. They should have been here by now. Unless . . .
Bloody everlasting hell.
His jaw tightened. Unless those blackguards had struck them too.
Someone betrayed them.
There was no other explanation for what had happened here.
He cursed again, his gaze hunting down the evidence layered in the tracks.
Six sets of hooves’ imprints came in together, close, tight, moved as one, then split like a forked stream.
He glanced in the direction they moved. Damn it.
If they hurt his brothers . . . if they hurt Calliope . . .
Their world would burn.
The ground beneath him swayed, but he forcibly held himself upright by sheer willpower and rage. Hoofbeats approached, and through the haze of red hurtled Reaper, his black gelding slick with sweat, nostrils flaring. His brother swung down before the horse had even fully halted.
“Frère.” His gaze swept the road. “Where is the mouse?”
Maxen didn’t answer.
Reaper’s jaw worked before his eyes narrowed on Maxen’s temple. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not enough to matter.” A little blood wouldn’t stop his fury.
Knight arrived, galloping over, his coat streaked with mud and his pistol drawn, a fierce scowl in place. “Where is she?”
“Gone,” Reaper answered for him.
Maxen just couldn’t say that one word. Couldn’t accept it.
Knight’s gaze slashed toward the tracks before coming back to him. “Are you all right?”
Maxen gave a single, sharp nod.
Moments later, Saint thundered up the road, his eyes roaming over Maxen’s face. “The girl?” he demanded before the horse had even stopped moving.
“Taken,” Knight said, his voice steel.
Saint slid from the saddle. “You hurt?”
Maxen’s hands curled into fists. “No,” he said again, though the steady drumbeat in his skull disagreed.
Dagger and Drake arrived next.
“Calliope?” Drake asked.
Maxen shook his head.
Drake gave a curt nod, while Dagger’s face turned thunderous. A woman had been taken on their watch. This wouldn’t sit well with any of them.
“What the devil happened?” Reaper demanded. “How the devil did it happen?”
“Your boy,” Knight said. “He betrayed us.”
Saint swore softly.
“Impossible,” Reaper snapped. “And he’s not my boy. He’s our boy.”
“Knight is right,” Drake said. “He is the only one who could have sold us out to the enemy. The only one besides us who knew.”
Maxen turned to Reaper. “Wasn’t he with you?”
Reaper scratched his head. “His mother has been sick. Perhaps he was lured over to the other side with promises.”
“This should never have happened,” Dagger said.
Drake nodded. “Agreed. We need to find the boy.”
“Who would have thought we had beneath our nose the very thing we sought?” Dagger muttered.
Maxen’s gaze swept over the road once more, the hoofprints, the splintered twig off to the side—anything that might tell him where they’d taken her. The sight of those tracks still made his gut twist.
“Find his mother,” Maxen said. “Then we’ll find him.”
“Hopefully he can be convinced without blood,” Dagger muttered.
Reaper scoffed. “You’re too hopeful, frère.”
Saint’s lips twisted. “I’m in the mood to convince.”
“No blood,” Maxen said. “And we need a plan. If we move too soon, we lose them both.”
Knight’s brow furrowed. “Both?”
“Calliope,” Maxen ground out, “and the blackguard who planned this.”
Reaper let out a short, harsh laugh. “Your trap turned into a trap?”
“I think,” Maxen said, meeting his brother’s stare head-on, “someone went to a lot of trouble to show we are not untouchable.”
Dagger’s eyes narrowed. “Then they don’t know you very well.”
“Well,” Reaper drawled with a sneer. “I hate to point this out, but we are not untouchable. And we were taken down shamefully easily.”
Knight nodded.
“We were betrayed,” Saint said.
Yes, and that should never have happened.
Betrayal was unacceptable. Loyalty was above all else.
Tom had to know that he’d be outed the moment their enemy struck.
Which meant he was either extremely desperate, or their enemy was more convincing than they thought, or Tom had been loyal from the start, but never to them.
A little rat.
A little spy.
And he’d been in their house.
But his mind circled back to the irrefutable truth—she had been taken on his watch. His. That was a failure he could neither forgive nor forget.
“Reaper, Drake,” Maxen said. “You follow the tracks with me. Knight, Saint, find the boy. Dagger, they might have a decoy.”
“If they have, I’ll be happy to deal with them.” Dagger’s lips lifted like a hound scenting blood.
Saint strode over to swing onto the back of Knight’s horse, nodding Maxen to his own. “Don’t lose him too.”
Reaper whistled. “Poking the bear already.”
Maxen glared at his brothers. However, some of the tension left his body, replaced by determination. He strode over to the horse and swung into the saddle, the movement sending a fresh pulse of pain through his skull. He ignored it and fixed his eyes on the narrowing strip of road ahead.
“Let’s move,” he ordered.
Mud flew under pounding hooves, the wind biting at his face, the world reduced to one single thought. He would find her. Every yard he covered was one less between him and the woman who’d slipped—no, been ripped—out of his reach.
They would pay for taking her.