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Sabrina closed her eyes. Saw once more the hard, arrogant beauty of the man as he’d caressed her. Experienced again the persuasiveness of his kisses. And remembered the complete contentment she found in his arms. As if she could live her life within that powerful embrace.
“It doesn’t matter. It was a stupid idea.”
Daigh paid off the hackney. Still four or five blocks from the room he’d taken in Wood Street, but he needed the air. The time. The space to think.
He’d held a dream when he held Sabrina. Insubstantial as cobwebs. Fragile as foam upon the waves. It didn’t matter how certain he was of her place in his previous life, she was as out of reach as his half-forgotten past.
A blast of wind curled down his collar. Rattled shutters. Trash skipped and swirled down the street. But beneath the normal night sounds came a faint rattle. A slide of a broken footstep. A held breath.
He sensed it all between one heartbeat and the next. Battle intensity reining him to a quivering tension of muscles in anticipation. Passing an alley shrouded in wraith-like shadows, he glanced within. Someone watched. Someone followed. His hand fell to the dagger at his waist, but he kept his pace even and unhurried.
A carriage clattered to a stop at the next corner, and a man stepped down into the light of the pavement lamp. The coachman slapped his reins, the carriage barreling off.
Bile chewed its way through Daigh’s gut. A horrible, crawling, humiliating disgust, but he faltered for only a moment before resuming his long, easy stride.
“Did you see our little sparrow home?” St. John’s smile beckoned with angel innocence. Only his pale eyes, reflected in the glow from the lamp, chilled with their malice. “How chivalrous of you.”
Daigh collared him. “Come near Lady Sabrina again and I’ll take you apart piece by bloody piece.”
“Don’t tell me you have feelings for the girl. Fascinating. The monster in love. Does she know what you are, Lazarus? Can she smell the reek of the grave you give off? Or is she smitten by that sensual animal beauty of yours and doesn’t care?” He raked Daigh with a gaze that held the leering sexuality of Cork, leaving Daigh nauseous and shaking with rage and embarrassment. He released him on a muttered oath. “Easy to lose one’s perspective when confronted with six and half feet of pure animal magnetism. I should know.”
Daigh snorted his lack of concern. Began walking, but St. John wouldn’t allow his escape. Kept apace with him.
“Does she know where Douglas is hiding?”
“Leave her alone, St. John,” he growled.
“Perhaps I will. Perhaps I won’t. It all depends on you. You’ve maneuvered your way into the little sparrow’s confidence. So, you can find out what she knows. Lead me right to Brendan Douglas.”
“You’re the bounty hunter. Find him yourself.”
St. John opened his arms in a surrender gesture. Sighed. “He proves more elusive than expected. But with Lady Sabrina’s assistance—willing or . . . unwilling. And perhaps unwilling might be more fun—I shall capture him.”
Daigh grabbed his shoulder. Spun him around. Pulled him close. “Touch her, and you’re dead as I was. And no Máelodor to bring you back.”
St. John’s mage energy crackled along Daigh’s nerves like acid. Burst at the base of his brain like a hammer blow. He saw nothing but a crimson haze. Heard nothing but St. John’s hissed curses. Felt the glide of a cold hand upon a chest that only minutes earlier had burned with Sabrina’s tender touch. Cold lips pressed to his mouth, making choking vomit rise into his throat.
He fought back. Broke the binding restraining him. Tore himself free of the hands gliding over him with a sexual insistence. He doubled over, retching into the gutter. Heaving. Sick. Furious.
“See? You do care.” His hand rested possessively upon Daigh’s back. “My sweet deathless beast, you forget what you’ve so recently learned. That I can bring you a pleasure no woman ever could. Or I can break you.” Again the cool fondling hand, but this time it hardened. A weapon appeared. A dagger. It punched into Daigh’s gut. He arched away from the explosion of pain. But it came again. This time to the small of his back as he fell. And again to his ribs.
He dropped to the ground. Blood running in rivers from his wounds, the hurled curse slowing his healing. Pushing him toward shocky numbness.
St. John bent over him. Stabbed him between the ribs.
Nowhere for Daigh to escape. To recover.
Blood filled his mouth. His vision closing in on him until all he saw was St. John’s pale soulless eyes. His gleaming angelic demon smile. “Lady Sabrina will find me Douglas one way or another.”
“Whoreson,” Daigh mouthed.
The kick that followed brought a scream to his lips. He reared up against the inferno of agony. His lungs starved for air. His nerves shriveling against the next attack.
“You search for Douglas?”
A deep voice sounded from somewhere to Daigh’s right. St. John’s attention shifting immediately to a nearby alley.
“Then you’ve found him. But finding and catching are two different things.” The words taunted their challenge yet held an unyielding strength. Whoever this was, he was well able to take care of himself.
