Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,51

“You look lost.”

Oh, hell.

I pin a smile on my face, turning toward the stranger. “No! Not at all. I’m attending a meeting, but I’ve never been and I’m gathering the courage to—”

Every word dies on my next breath.

Brown eyes. Dark hair tucked under a tweed flat cap. A weathered face that appears no older than mid-forties.

I know that face.

I know that face.

How. Where. When?

The man readjusts the hat, rain catching on his short lashes, and—

The bloke I played side-shuffle with on the front stoop of The Bell & Hand. As in, The Bell & Hand, home to anti-loyalists everywhere. Relief floods my system so hard that I nearly gasp and throw my arms around this man I’ve only ever seen in passing.

He reaches down, flicks his brolly open, and positions it above my head. A smile curves his thin lips as his brown eyes hold mine. “First time coming to Queen Mary, eh? I’m a professor here.”

My breath catches in my throat. Don’t think the worst. Don’t you dare think the worst. Right. I’m letting the paranoia take root again. The likelihood of him being the same professor that Father Bootham mentioned is—

“Ian Coney,” he adds, instantly shattering all hope.

Fuck.

I dart a glance over to The Octagon, then the drenched walkway that leads to freedom. There are two options here. I play the flighty sort, thanking him for stopping to check on me, and continue on my merry way. I’m only a matter of blocks from being home, safe and sound, and putting this all behind me.

Or I do what I came here to do.

In the end, Professor Coney, leader of the loyalist group out for Saxon’s blood, makes the decision for me. With the brolly still over my head, he says, “Come inside and get out of the rain.”

I swallow, thickly, and choose option three. “That would be so lovely!” I smile, all teeth, and shiver for dramatic effect. “It’s only that”—I wave at The Octagon—“I’m meant to be attending a meeting. My brother comes here for university and thought I would find the group . . . enlightening.”

Coney’s brown eyes drift over my frame. “And he pointed you here, to The Octagon?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Interesting you should say that.”

“Oh?”

He gives the umbrella a little shake. “It’s where I’m heading too. Please, let me escort you.”

The idea of having Professor Ian Coney at my back sounds less enticing than bathing in a pit of poisonous snakes. I hold my breath, keeping count of every step that brings me closer to learning of their plans to kill Saxon, all while praying that I won’t end up dead in the interim.

Coney steps to the side as I open the door, but instead of letting me through, he blocks my entrance with the closed umbrella. “I didn’t ask. What is your name?”

Rain soaks the earth, a cacophony that fills my ears as loudly as the blood thrumming in my temples. “Beth,” I lie smoothly, “Beth Linde.”

“You’ll need a password to proceed, Beth Linde.”

I stare at the clear, plastic brolly in front of me. It might as well be a broadsword, for all the good it does in appearing harmless. With the umbrella to my front and Coney at my back, I’m well and truly stuck. “A password?” I echo.

“Yes.”

Neither Peter nor Father Bootham mentioned anything about a password. Peter didn’t because he’d only overheard a few of the members while searching for a book at the university library. Father Bootham didn’t because that boy had been too blasted drunk to mention it to his mother.

Think off the cuff!

A bunch of loyalists who want Queen Margaret to keep her throne would use something related to the royal family, I’m sure of it. The possibilities are endless, and time is ticking down. I feel Coney’s breath on the back of my neck, and the rain seeping into my clothes, and my own heart threatening to fly from my chest.

Do it. Just say something!

“God save the queen.”

Coney laughs, like it’s all in good jest, and lifts the brolly blockade. “A lucky one, you are.” I nearly collapse against the door frame, I’m so surprised. It must register on my face because he taps my leg with the umbrella, good-naturedly. “Don’t look so startled, Miss Linde. Your brother didn’t set you up for failure, if that was your worry.”

It wasn’t at all.

Instead I’d been prepared to find a knife shoved into my back. One wrong move, one wrong word . . . I shiver, for real this