Good. Then he could be manipulated just as much as Winston could. “This is impossible.” He tossed the file back onto the table. “Aside from the fact that the case is sixteen years cold, you’ve got no leads save for a name.”
“Come now, it isn’t all that bad. I’ve started a breadcrumb trail for you to follow. See here? Upon arrival in London, you are to visit the Komtesse Krogstad of Chelsea. Call it a gift, if you will.”
Hardly. “And who is this Moira Darling you want me to find?”
“Many things. But above all, she is a woman who has stolen from me.”
“You have not even listed what it is she stole from you.”
“The man can read!” Jones tilted his head. “Are you certain you’ve done this before? I must say, my faith is wavering.”
“Hmm. Perhaps you ought to go with another detective and leave me be.” Winston crossed one leg over the other as he sat back. He itched for a meditative smoke and eyed the cigarette case between them with longing.
Jones tossed the gold case to Winston. “Have one. You are entirely too twitchy.”
Winston didn’t bother to thank him, but took a cigarette. He lit it, and something in him calmed. It wasn’t his pipe but the ritual was nearly the same. “Let me see if I understand this. You have the power to irrevocably alter lives, take souls, and yet you cannot find this one woman on your own?”
Jones stilled, and something mad flared in his white eyes. Win felt the force of the demon’s rage deep in his gut. It took all he had not to cower beneath it. Jones’s jaw twitched, then he spoke, his words oddly flat. “As I said, there are rules which govern me. Moira Darling is out of my reach.”
It might have given Win some satisfaction to see Jones struggle with the confession, but Win was too sick at heart to feel anything other than fear and rage. Yet he affected professionalism, in part because he knew it would irritate Jones.
“Are you telling me this is all you know about the case?”
“No. I’m telling you this is all I’m willing to reveal about the case.” When Winston stared at him, Jones smirked. “Perhaps I don’t want you to succeed.”
“Perhaps you simply like toying with me.”
“That is a given.” Jones laughed then leaned forward, bringing with him the scent of smoke and darkness. “I made you the detective you are today. Now use those skills. You have four days.”
“Now wait just a moment! Four days is hardly enough—”
“Four days to find what Moira Darling stole from me and return it, or I will take your child.”
Chapter Twelve
Poppy was wide awake and doing a horrible attempt at reading in bed when Winston finally returned. He walked on cat feet lately, thus she didn’t hear him coming until the door was opening and he was facing her, his expression grim but careful, as though he expected a fight. But she didn’t have it in her. It had been a mistake to push him. And humiliating to think that she’d believed if he just touched her again, had sex with her, that it would break down the wall between them. If anything, the wall was higher now. Watching him, she set down her book and remained silent.
Broad shoulders squared, he moved farther into the room. Red rimmed his blue-grey eyes, and water clung in crystalline drops to the ends of his hair, turning it the color of old brass. “I took a walk. It’s raining.”
“It usually is.” Her voice was as rough as his in the awkward silence.
Win ducked his head and, frowning, began to pull off his sodden coat. His cravat, waistcoat, and boots followed, all of them carefully placed upon the back of a chair. When he got to his shirt, he stopped and looked back up at her. Poppy couldn’t know what he was thinking. Before, she’d always known his moods and what to expect. Now, she felt unbalanced. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she covered her legs with the billowing folds of her nightgown.
“I think it best that you sleep in Talent’s quarters tonight.” She couldn’t look at him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, but he came closer anyway. When he stopped before the bed, she forced herself to face him, only to find his expression solemn. “If you wish,” he said in a low voice, then his hands went to his shirt.
“If you are thinking of getting in this bed with me, think again.” If he did, she’d lose all sense of herself. Sometime between crying and curling up in a lonely ball upon the bed, she realized that if he could not accept who and what she was, then so be it.
He paused, and his brows lifted. A glint lit his eyes. She’d almost forgotten how Win loved a challenge. Proof, she supposed, of her exhaustion. But he’d have a fight on his hands. The glint in his eyes grew. “Do you suppose I’ve come to ravage you, Boadicea?” His finely shaped lips twitched, and her face heated.
“Again, you mean?”
His smile fell. “I dishonored you. And it shames me to my soul.”
And like that, her ire left her. He spoke of honor. She had clearly forgotten hers as well. Blast it, but she shouldn’t have let him wander the ship alone. No matter what personal strife had arisen between them, it was still her duty to protect Win. Even if he hated her for it. She could only be thankful that he’d returned in one piece. Damn it all.
He did not give her a chance to reply before he whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it away.
Her breath left her. Not since he’d first been attacked had she seen his torso. He hadn’t allowed it. He stood stock-still and let her drink in her fill of him. Despite his sudden reveal, or perhaps because of it, she looked not at his chest, but at his face. His jaw was set and hard as he gazed at a spot on the wall.
“Go on,” he said, “look at me.”
Good God, but he’d changed. Gone was the lithe torso. In its place, a network of corded muscle reigned. He was still lean; his body would never run to pure bulk, but the definition and the strength had increased, and he’d added a good fifteen pounds to his frame. She’d known this before he’d taken his shirt off, but seeing the bare results was another matter. A part of her mourned the loss of his earlier self, though this newer Win intrigued her as well. He was a study of power tempered by grace. “You’re bigger,” she said inanely.
He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort. And she realized that she’d missed the point of this exercise entirely. Taking a breath, she looked over the scars that marred his fine, ivory skin. It had been bad, his attack. Thick, ropey scars covered his left pectoral muscle, shoulder, and forearm, while thinner, redder slashes crisscrossed over his rippling abdomen and the swell of his biceps. He’d been so close to death.
Unable to help herself, she rose onto her knees and reached out to trace the thick slash just over his heart. His warm skin twitched at the contact, but he held still.
“You’ve healed well, Win.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “You keep saying that. Don’t.” His voice was a whip of censure.
“It is the truth,” she snapped back.
He took a step forward, the action sending her palm against his chest. “Don’t patronize me. Just look at me. Look at what I’ve become.”
White lined the livid red scars on his face as he glared at her.
“I am looking,” she said, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her hand. “What would you have me say, Win?”
“That I am deformed. That I will never be the same again.”
“No. That would be patronizing you. And what I cannot understand is why you want me to do so.” His breath left in a hiss as he stepped even closer. So close that his nose almost bumped hers. Poppy did not back away. “Why do you want my pity, Win? Or is it that you want me to turn away in disgust?” Her eyes searched his, and it became a chore to speak. “Do you want me to be the one to end this so that you don’t have to?”
They stared at each other, neither of them daring to move. And then he took a deep breath as his eyes closed. “I don’t know.” His head fell forward, and his forehead rested on hers. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Nothing could stop her then from wrapping her arms about him and pulling him closer. He fell into her, his arms twining about her waist in a hard grip, his fingers grabbing the loose folds at the back of her nightgown. Something within her sighed in relief at his hold and the feel of his body pressed against her. They’d always fit together so well. Hugging him made her feel safe, feel needed as well. So many people needed her, and yet never for this basic sort of comfort. They needed her to fix things. Only Win had needed her heart.
His lips pressed against her neck as they held each other up, and his breath warmed her. Poppy closed her eyes and let herself relax further into him. When he finally spoke, his words were muffled by her skin. “You were always my anchor, Poppy. Now I am adrift.”
Gently, she touched the cool strands of his hair, still damp from the rain. But his body was so nice and warm. “I am unmoored as well, Win. And I don’t know what to do. For it was you who cut the ties.”
A deep, shuddering sigh left him, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “I am not… I have spells, Poppy. I become unable to breathe; I fall ill.” She felt him swallow against her shoulder. “I am not the man you knew. I am not—” He stopped abruptly and took another breath. “I was angry and embarrassed. I could not face you.”
Anger stirred within her breast, and she tried to pull back. But he held tight and wouldn’t let her go. “It isn’t logical. Hell, it isn’t fair, the way I feel.” Only then did he move away enough to look her in the eyes. His were pained. “I am ashamed, Pop. And yet every time I try to govern my feelings, I fail.”
Poppy broke free of his grip, realizing belatedly it was because he let her. With a sigh, she sank down onto the bed. “You hurt me, Win.” She swallowed hard. “And I hurt you.”
He moved as if to touch her cheek but let his hand fall. “Yes.”