21. A Gift, a Kiss, Betrayal
A GIFT, A KISS, BETRAYAL
Bran studied the meticulously drawn family tree rolled out on top of the broad, uncluttered desk in the Marchioness of Fordham’s library. There were few branches, but all of them had produced tremendously ripe fruit, an abundance of it.
“I knew,” he said, “that the Pottingers married well, but I had never understood how well until now.”
Beside him, Diana traced the first Earl of Cairnsbury’s line all the way down to Guin. “Every marriage arranged, a business matter. When love is not part of the marriage equation, riches can be guaranteed.”
“Yes.”
From behind him, Diana’s husband asked, “Why are you doing this, Bran?”
Because Guin moved closer and closer to a potion for the queen every day, and Bran needed to find a way to undermine the curse before she did so.
Because she’d leave, and she wasn’t about to let him go with her.
Hell, the only reason she shared his bed each night was because she thought herself safe from loving him, which was…
not ideal. She wouldn’t even meet him mouth to mouth.
Kisses had to be scattered across necks and chests and bellies, the insides of thighs and the curves of hips. God, how he missed her mouth.
Bran turned to face the Royal Alchemist and leaned a hip on the table. “That’s not my story to tell.”
Temple lounged across a sofa, head and feet propped on arms that looked too delicate to support his weight.
“It’s to do with Lady Guinevere.” The alchemist still used Guin’s pseudonym, but he said that self-made title with as much respect as he would have a duchess’s. “Everything you do is about her.”
Bran shrugged. “She’s my wife. Thank you, Lady Fordham.”
“If you need anything else, I’m happy to help.” She wandered over to the sofa and stood by her husband.
That man clasped her hand in his. “The babe is due to arrive soon, though, so there are limits to her kindness.”
“There are not.”
“Well, there are to mine.”
Bran understood Temple perfectly, so he smiled and thanked them, promised he would never burden a new mother, and walked into the early evening, making for Grosvenor Square.
When he reached the house, he sent Bentley to order a coach and gather Guin’s coat and bonnet.
A muff and scarf too because the night was cold, the sky low, and snow was a thick scent in the air.
He headed to Guin, pushing through the thick branches of the conservatory, lit by floating fairy orbs.
She was bent over the worktable, as usual, her hands hovering over a golden bowl.
She must have heard him approach because she looked over her shoulder.
Her eyes were tired. He wanted nothing more than to take her up to bed.
Not yet.
“I want you to come with me,” he said, reaching her side.
She rubbed her eyes. “Where?”
“A surprise.”
“It’s the bedchamber, isn’t it.” Lust and good humor danced in her eyes.
He took her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Not yet. That later. Something else right now. Can you leave that concoction, or must you complete your task?”
“It can sit.” She threw a muslin cloth over it and let him tug her to the entryway where Bentley waited for them, holding everything Guin needed.
She donned it all, and Bran helped her into a waiting carriage, keeping every touch and gesture formal, a matter of business, of safety, when really every single one was for his own aching delight and greedy possessiveness.
He sat next to her as the coach rolled off, resting his thigh snug against hers.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Surprise, remember?”
“I do not like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
She peeked out of the drawn curtains, and he swatted her hands away from the fabric.
“You’ll ruin it,” he said.
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “Knowing which direction we’re going in will ruin the surprise. That’s a clue. Give me another.”
“Let’s talk of something else. Or better, not talk at all.
” He cupped her jaw and angled her face so he could brush his lips across her cheek—the closest she’d let him get to her lips.
Tonight’s surprise could work for him or against him.
It could be another deposit into the never-ending account of forgiveness he’d been adding to.
Nothing would ever fill it up; he’d never fully atone.
But maybe he could shave off enough of her hate so that, when it came time for her to run again, she’d let him come with her.
So that when they finally discovered the reality behind the curse, she’d take her hard-won joy with him.
“I have a question to ask you.” She twisted the fingertips of one glove in the fingers of the other hand, nervous. “The other day, with Lady Sophia… you were wonderful. Were there… are there… many young children in your family?”
“No. But there are many Shadow children.”
She gave a little gasp, more of a shocked inhalation. “How?”
“Families die. Children need a place to go. With the Second Shadows, they can have purpose and family, a safe place in the world.”
“You train children to be killers?”
“No. We train children to be curious and kind and maybe a little cunning. We train them, hopefully, to know right from wrong. And then, when they are eighteen, they may choose—join the Shadows or find some other calling.”
“Do most of them join?”
“Yes. Their first assignment is to care for the children younger than themselves—play with them, understand their needs, protect them. In fact, that is the first task of all new Shadows. If we can understand how to protect and nurture the most vulnerable, we can always keep our mission in mind, even in the hours of our darkest deeds.”
Her hands had stopped fidgeting. They lay still atop her skirts. Then she lifted one hand and rested it on top of his. But she turned away from him, looking through the smallest sliver of space between curtain and window.
She jumped up. “Are we…” She threw the curtain back and stared out the window. “We are! Why are we in Finsbury Square?”
The carriage stopped, and he helped her down. As she stepped onto the road, she looked up—at the yellow door, the swinging sign, the several floors of brick and marble and shining glass windows, the bare rooftop garden, everything new and waiting for Guin’s touch.
“It’s my shop,” she breathed, covering her mouth with one trembling hand.
He handed her the key from his greatcoat pocket. “It is.”
The shop glowed brand new despite the lack of moonlight. Snow threatened, but nothing could make Guin cold. Excitement and longing warmed her.
A key waited for her in Bran’s ungloved hand. She took it and let herself inside despite the trembling in her hands. Fairy orbs flared to life as they entered, revealing a naked room furnished with long worktables and empty shelving.
She turned in a circle. “Everything just the same as before.” She ran to the back and threw open the double doors there, revealing the large oak desk, the comfortable red chair. Hers, just as it had been before the fire.
Bran followed her inside and took up sentry in the old, familiar corner he always used to lurk in, and she slipped behind the desk, eyes brimming with tears. Everything smelled of sawdust and paint, but once all the plants and ingredients were moved in, it would smell of soil and sunshine.
She sat slowly, sweeping her hands across the silky smooth top of the desk, pausing at the far right corner where there was a little golden perch shaped like a tree branch for Artemis.
Finally, she looked at Bran, wiping a tear off her cheek. “How did you… Last time I was here it was an empty lot. Not even the remnants of the fire remained.”
“I own the building. Always have. Everyone in this row pays me rent, including you.” Another secret, she’d never forgive him for. Even though resentment had begun to feel like absolution.
“I wanted you to be somewhere safe,” he said. “I wanted to know you could trust your neighbors.”
“I hate you.” But she said it with a watery laugh and a wobbly smile.
“I know.” No smile on his lips. No laugh parting them. “It has taken alchemists and woodworkers working round the clock, but they finally finished. You can re-open as soon as you finish the queen’s potion.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “Can I? I’m a duchess now. Everyone knows. Before, I had the benefit of mystery.”
“Now you have the benefit of novelty—a duchess potions mistress. And you have the protection of the Braxton name.”
“Yes. Perhaps.” She rose. The chair wasn’t as comfortable as before.
The desk wasn’t quite at the right height, either.
As she wandered back into the shop’s main room, she touched everywhere she could—every corner of every worktable, every shelf, the walls, even the floor right in front of the door.
She walked the balcony that circled the room and visited the stillrooms lined there.
Her Shadow followed, as he always did.
The shop was perfect, absolutely perfect, but she left sooner than she should have. She locked it up tight and stepped back to look up at it.
“You hate it,” he said, standing beside her.
She shook her head. “Not even a little bit.”
“You wanted to pay for it yourself, I know. But I’ve brought you so much pain, I wanted to…
I know it doesn’t make what I did right.
Think of it as part of my atonement. The next time you open this shop, it could be without a lying Shadow right behind you.
You could be entirely free of me this time.
From me. From the curse, or whatever you want to call it. ”
She looked up at Bran, putting the shop behind her. “Thank you.” No idea what else to say, everything within her a storm, a discordant orchestra, and she couldn’t pick one melody from another. “I’m tired. Can we return home?”
He smiled, the tiniest lift at the corners of his mouth as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and bundled her into the waiting carriage. When he sat next to her on the forward-facing bench, she moved abruptly to the opposing one.
“I need some space.” she said.
He nodded. And the coach rumbled forward.