Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,100
strength to stop myself. Rising onto my tiptoes, aware of Peter and Josie probably gawking from the backseat, I leverage my weight with a hand on his ripped waistline and brush my lips to the underside of his stubbled jaw. Then another, this one to the corner of his mouth after I gently angle his head so I can touch his lips with mine.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Long fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me away. “We have to leave.”
This time, I don’t ignore the husky command.
Climbing into the front passenger seat, I slide the seatbelt home and fold my hands in my lap. Immediately, I sense the stares from Peter and Josie. One curious, one judgmental. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher which vibes are coming from whom.
Peter wanted me to stay away from the Priests.
Josie just wanted me alive.
I disappointed them both but for entirely different reasons.
As quickly as Guy fled Camden, we do the same. Saxon keeps the radio turned off, leaving the four of us to sit in awkward silence for the entire length of time it takes to leave the City and merge onto East Rochester Way, heading southeast toward Kent.
Beyond the motorway’s guardrails, we pass open fields and quaint farms. Cows and sheep dot the landscape, along with a few old cottages that seem as blended with the scenery as the animals themselves. The weather is forgiving today, considering the time of year: bright blue skies matched with warm temperatures that allow us to crack open the windows.
Inside this car, and despite the fresh air, it’s utterly stifling.
A short breath expands my lungs, and I drop my chin, my fingers lifting to massage my temples. “Ask me,” I edge out, over the rush of wind tunneling into the car, “ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer.”
Peter doesn’t miss a beat. “What did you do with the gun?”
“I threw it in the Thames.” As if it happened only yesterday, I struggle not to succumb completely to the memory. The cold breeze teasing at the hem of my coat. The pinch of my toes, from wearing a pair of shoes a size too small. The utter terror of possibly being caught as the metal railing dug into my belly when I hurled the stolen rifle into the black water. “By the Middle Temple Gardens,” I add, my mind’s eye still replaying those crucial moments when I tossed my trainers into the river, as well. “I wanted to get farther away—my plan was to toss it near the Royal Airforce Memorial. But all I heard were sirens and screams and I panicked.”
“You came home late that night.” Josie’s sweet voice rises to be heard over the wind. “You told me that you’d met a man at a pub.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Saxon’s grip on the steering wheel turn impossibly tight. Jealousy, maybe? One glance at his face reveals nothing—as expected—and I force myself to answer my sister’s question instead of alleviating Saxon’s concern. There have been no other men but him, not since Stephen.
“I booked a room at a hotel. It was cheap and not particularly clean, but it had a fireplace . . . I, ah, burned my clothes. Every last stitch that I wore.”
“Clearly, you thought of everything.”
At the slightly caustic remark, I cut my attention to the man driving the car. Strands of dark hair fall across his forehead. On anyone else, the unkempt look might appear boyish, but it does nothing to soften his hard edges.
I’m starting to suspect nothing can, not even me.
Tucking my fingers between my thighs, I keep myself fully on this side of the center console. “I planned. Ever since it was announced that King John would be speaking at St. Paul’s, I tracked every possible route away from the cathedral to the Thames.” Pausing, I clasp my hands. Do my best not to recall every fraught moment of that day, as if it hasn’t already been imprinted on my brain. “I ran those routes for three months. In the morning, late at night, until I had each one memorized.”
“Æthelred,” mutters Saxon, shaking his head.
Blankly, I stare at him. “Who?”
“Nothing.” He guides the car onto the off-ramp and circles an empty roundabout. “It’s nothing. We’re almost there. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
He says it with all the excitement of a prospective visit with the dentist. Clamping my hands down on my opposite forearms, I tip my head back against the plush headrest.