Chapter 9
Nine
Two nights later, Finn arrived at the gamekeeper’s cottage.
It was situated in the woods behind Bottoms House, and the glow of her lantern revealed the higgledy-piggledy silhouette of its thatched roof.
She didn’t know if she was relieved or anxious when she saw light spilling from the single window.
She’d surveilled Bottoms House for hours and observed Owen returning to the cottage after supper.
He’d been alone, which meant it was time to make her move.
She’d chosen to fly solo this time. The Hawks did not know she’d come. She’d hurt Owen badly—and knowing how private he was, involving more people would be like pouring salt into the wound.
The wound I tore open.
Shame roiled inside her. While she would freely admit to being dodgy, she was a Hawk, and they had their own code of honor. They did what they needed to survive, and they did not target the poor, sick, and young. They were hunters, yes, but out of necessity rather than pleasure.
Hawks did not thrive on cruelty and pain.
This distinguished them from bastards like Alexander Carver—and made them better than their origins.
Better than the brutality of the orphanages and flash houses and brothels they had survived.
While they broke certain laws designed to benefit the rich and powerful, they considered their group’s ethics inviolable.
Finn had dishonored these ethics—dishonored herself.
She could still see Owen’s tormented expression.
Still feel the vibrating fear of his powerful body as he sheltered her from invisible bullets and yelled at her to stay down.
Her chest throbbed with self-recrimination.
These were not the actions of a spoiled lordling playing at war, but those of a brave soldier who’d done bloody battle for his country.
I made him remember. Relive whatever horrors he survived. I used his pain like a weapon—and I felt smug about it.
She closed her eyes briefly. Then, before she changed her mind, she knocked on his door. She could have picked the lock—another one of her skills—but now that she had a glimpse of his past, she suspected that he didn’t like to be taken by surprise.
It was a preference they shared.
The door opened, and the words she’d rehearsed left her.
While Owen was never a dandified sort of gentleman, he’d apparently abandoned any attempt at civility.
His shaggy brown hair looked like he’d dragged his hands through it repeatedly.
Shadows hung beneath his eyes, heightening the glittering grey of his irises.
A night beard—make that two nights’ worth—roughened his jaw.
He wore a linen shirt, open waistcoat, and trousers.
His collar was open, revealing his corded throat and glimpses of his muscular chest.
He was dangerously on edge…and dangerously attractive.
“What do you want?” he said.
She stopped staring at his chest. Squared her shoulders.
“I came to apologize,” she said.
“That is unnecessary. Go away.”
She stuck her foot in the door before he could shut it. Unfortunately, he used more force than she’d bargained for.
“Ouch,” she exclaimed. “Are you trying to smash my foot to smithereens?”
“You put your foot in harm’s way,” he said testily.
“I put my foot in a lot of foolish places. Including my mouth.”
Her candor had the intended effect. At the very least, he didn’t shut the door further.
“You have apologized,” he said curtly. “You can go.”
She wished she could. “I cannot. Not until I—”
“I am not interested in discussing what happened.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I would rather put that incident, and the rest of our unfortunate history, behind us.”
She thought quickly. “I would leave you in peace, but my foot hurts too much to walk.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t close the door that hard.”
“I shall try to walk back.” She took a mincing step. “I suppose if I can’t make it home, I can stop in the forest and try to find shelter until the morning. Do you think it is safe—”
“Fine.” He drew an irritable breath. “Come in, and we’ll see to your foot.”
And that is how one gets one’s foot in the door.
She remembered to hobble as he let her in.
Curious, she took in the cozy, single-room interior.
Unlike the occupant, the fire in the hearth was cheerful.
The rustic furnishings included a cabinet, table littered with papers, and a narrow cot in the corner.
The bench at the foot of the bed held a pile of clothing, a single pair of boots tucked beneath.
She noted that Owen’s feet were large and bare, aggressively planted on the flagstone floor, and had no idea why she found that attractive.
He gestured at the single chair by the table. “Have a seat.”
She complied. “This is kind of you.”
He crouched, reaching for her foot. “Let’s have a look.”
Hastily, she crossed her ankles beneath the chair.
“That is unnecessary,” she said. “Resting for a few minutes will suffice. But if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, I could use a spot of tea.”
He gave her an impassive look, and for an instant, she feared he would call her out on her ploy.
Instead, he rose and went to the cabinet.
When he opened it, she saw it held cups, plates, and assorted foodstuffs.
He set a kettle on the hob and added tea to a sturdy pot.
She felt her eyebrows rise at the quantity of leaves he added.
Completing the task, he poured out two cups, plunking one in front of her.
“As I was not expecting company,” he said, “I am out of cream and sugar.”
“I enjoy my tea plain.” It was a lie, but she was determined to be polite. “This is lovely, thank you.”
His reply might have been a snort. Leaning against the cabinet, he drank his tea and studied her. She took a sip—and nearly choked.
“Not to your liking?” he inquired.
It’s fine. If you like tea you can stand a spoon in.
“The tea is quite refreshing,” she said.
“That is the goal. To refresh you so that you may be on your way.”
Her facade of civility slipped a little. “That isn’t very nice.”
“Why are you here, Seraphina?”
The sharp edge of his stubbled jaw told her he was in no mood for games.
Do what you came to do. Make amends.
She set down her tea. “I told you. I came to apologize.”
“And I told you that is unnecessary. Yet you have done so, and now you may leave.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she blurted.
Pain flashed in his eyes, a quicksilver tell.
“You didn’t,” he said tersely.
Because that was clearly a lie, she rose and went to him.
He set his cup down, crossing his arms as they faced one another.
For a mad instant, she wondered how he would react if she told him the truth—about her desperate mission to save Iris—but she couldn’t risk it.
If Owen or his family discovered that priceless gems were cached on their property, they would see the jewelry as rightfully theirs.
Finn couldn’t think of a single reason why they would help a stranger and a member of a notorious gang at that.
No, she couldn’t reveal the truth. But as part of her apology, she could give him pieces of it.
“In my profession, I see what others do not,” she said. “That does not give me the right to expose the demons I see. Especially without permission.”
He curled his lip. “You expect me to believe that you saw my past?”
“Your reaction to my vision spoke volumes.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, verifying how it had achieved its tousled state.
“Your vision, as you call it, was not the result of communion with spirits,” he said bluntly. “It was the result of your scheming brain and excellent imagination.”
Well. At least he thinks my imagination is excellent.
“Believe what you will. The point is that I trespassed upon your privacy. I am ashamed of my behavior—and sincerely sorry for it.”
He said nothing. The silence was filled by the crackling of burning logs and the thumping of her heart.
“Apology accepted.” He released a breath. “If you’ll accept mine for jumping on you like a lunatic.”
“No harm was done.” She hesitated before giving in to impulse. “While I have not been on the battlefield, I know what it is like to…to be under attack. I know how that experience can shape one’s instincts.”
He raised his eyebrows in silent question.
“I was raised in an orphanage,” she said.
Dread slithered through her insides at the mention of that prison. Outside of the Hawks, she never spoke of her past. The last thing she wanted was to revisit the horrors. Even worse, she might be greeted by pity, which her pride could not abide.
Yet it was recognition, not sympathy, in Owen’s eyes.
“That could not have been easy,” he said gravely.
“It wasn’t.”
Understatement of the century.
“How old were you when you arrived?”
She shrugged. “Young enough that I have no memory of how I came to be there. Apparently, someone left me on the doorstep. I know nothing of my parents. All I had with me was this.”
She tapped her rusty tin pendant with a touch of defiance, watching his reaction.
“You were a babe,” he murmured.
She had been. Young and defenseless, she wouldn’t have survived the dark lessons of the world if not for Iris.
“I adapted quickly. My survival depended upon it.” She looked at him directly. “I imagine you understand.”
She saw the tug-of-war in his stormy gaze. He didn’t like talking about the past any more than she did. Yet he felt that strange pull between them as well…that overwhelming desire to let down one’s guard, if only for a moment.
“I was eighteen when I left for Afghanistan,” he said.
Her eyes widened as the implications plowed into her. Blooming hell, everyone knew about that disastrous retreat from Kabul. It had resulted in the massacre of the British army—some sixteen thousand lives had been lost. Owen had been there…but how?
“I didn’t know there were survivors,” she said slowly. “Other than the physician.”
“William Brydon.”