Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,32

painful. But not nearly as painful as the knife that plunged into my right shoulder a moment later—then twisted.

Fire engulfed my body. My voice gave away to a groan. And my hands, always accustomed to building and deconstructing, went limp as I hit the pavement. Carrigan’s men had dragged me into the alley behind Christ Church Spitalfields. If they’d been smart, they would have stabbed me again, just to make sure that I wouldn’t come back from the grave to tear them each limb from limb.

Except they’d done nothing but lean over my paralyzed body, dig the knife deeper into my flesh, and laugh.

Guy found me. Matthews saved me.

Rowena can say all she wants that her father and the king were best mates, but if that were true, John would have told Carrigan about Holyrood, about us. He would have stayed lenient with Parliament, allowing MPs the autonomy they’ve had for centuries. He wouldn’t have sent me to the House of Commons at Westminster because he suspected the prime minister of foul play.

And I never would have been left for dead.

Rage blurs my periphery, and, for a moment, I allow myself to sink into its embrace.

Its claws grate down my spine and its heat wraps like a vice around my heart and I breathe the anger in, swallowing it deep into my lungs until I’m forced to grit my teeth to smother the furious scream demanding release.

Reaching out, I snatch the next sheet of paper from the desk and press it flat before me.

Force my eyes on the words, and stop, dead-cold, at the mention of a name I recognize. A name that, as of a month ago, anyone in London would recognize from the news.

Ian Coney.

12

Damien

“Back so soon?” comes an accented voice.

Stopping in front of Rowena’s door, I spare Hamish a sharp glance. With his mobile in one hand and a tumbler of whisky clasped in the other, the Scot peers up at me from the plush armchair he clearly commandeered from the library. “Ye can’t tell me to leave, ye know. Guy assigned me.”

As if I need another reminder that my brother’s word is law around here. “I’m aware.”

Looking contemplative, Hamish idly taps the corner of his mobile against his thigh. “I’ve lost count. Is this yer second visit with her? Third?”

“It’s not a—” Realizing that he sounds a little too cheerful, I narrow my eyes and fight the urge to flip over the armchair, just to wipe that godawful smirk from his face. “This isn’t a social visit.”

“’Course it isn’t.”

“She’s a prisoner,” I edge out thinly. “I’m interrogating her.” Hamish only makes a dramatic show of drinking his whisky, which has me praying for some bloody patience. “Spit it out, MacDonald.”

Clearly recognizing that I’m this close to introducing my fist to his face, Hamish sets the tumbler down on the flat armrest. Then, like a proper wanker, he steeples his fingers and taps his knuckles against his mouth. “All I’m saying is, fuck a woman isn’t generally something I bring up in interrogations. New tactics of yers, maybe. Keep me updated on how they work, yeah?”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

He doesn’t even have the good grace to look sheepish. Rolling one shoulder in a lazy shrug, he props up his feet on a matching ottoman. “I’ve a lot of time on my hands now that Guy’s promoted me to nanny duty. Can’t say I miss being out in the field when the alternative is this.” As if to make his point, he waves a hand at the elaborate setup—the armchair, the telly he’s brought in from God-knows-where, and the magazine featuring a naked woman on the front. The latter he tosses onto the ottoman, out of my line of sight, when he catches my hard stare.

“Hamish?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah?”

“You have five seconds to leave or I’m going to murder you.”

“So defensive,” he tsks. “Keep that up and I’d almost think that ye didn’t like me anymore. Which would be a bloody shame, really, because who else will watch tennis with me if not—”

“Four,” I growl.

“Ye’re really counting down? My heart is broken, Priest. Ye’ve gone and shattered it.”

“Three.”

“I suppose this means that ye don’t want to hear about Miss Carrigan’s latest visitor?” When my mouth promptly snaps shut, his curves in a grin that toes the damn line at gleeful. Clearly intent on testing the threadbare limits of my patience, the bastard offers a silent toast of his whisky. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs with an infuriating