Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,59

hug myself tighter, fingers digging relentlessly into my waist, absorbing all the hurt and the agony with a gasp that sticks in my throat.

“Your proof is Henry Godwin.”

I slick my tongue over the dry roof of my mouth. “Another Godwin,” I say, barely above a whisper. “There are so many of you.”

“A Godwin with a big heart, just like yours.” A single step in my direction, the clip of his shoe a now familiar approach. “He had the sort of laughter you could hear from three rooms over. He was . . . a good man. Smart. Innovative. He’d give you the shirt off his own back, if he thought it might help. At the end of the day, though, he was just another spy in a long line of Godwins in service to the Crown.”

Hearing the rueful note in Damien’s voice, I turn my head to the left, just enough to pretend that I can see him standing there out of the corner of my eye. His shadow, the breadth of his shoulders. Anything at all. “What happened to him?”

The laugh that greets my ears is one without mercy. “He made the unfortunate mistake of not finding Princess Evangeline’s killer.”

I frown. “I don’t understand how that—”

“He was killed, Rowena. Henry Godwin was found dead on Marlborough Road, right behind St. James’s Palace, twenty-five years ago.”

My legs grow weak beneath me. “And you think that the king had him . . . murdered?”

“I think we’ll never understand a person’s motives, no matter how well we think we know them.”

“That’s not an answer. Do you really think King John—”

“Perception is the only mirror we’re given. The king didn’t want a crack in the fortress, and my—Godwin—didn’t get the job done. Do I think he killed Godwin himself? No. Do I think he had someone else do it for him? I do. But he couldn’t risk all-out rebellion, couldn’t risk anyone thinking that he’d had a hand in it, so he still allowed Godwin’s ashes to be scattered over Holyrood Abbey, the way it’s always been done. Just like he wanted you to carry out killing me. The man couldn’t stand getting his hands dirty.”

Bring me to Holyrood, Margaret had said at Buckingham Palace.

I thought she’d meant the old ruins in Edinburgh. Had said so out loud, even. Because it wouldn’t have occurred to me, in that stairwell that was on the cusp of going up in flames, that there had been an alternative.

The king never mentioned Holyrood or the Godwins. He’d only talked of assassinations and a madman out for Margaret’s head. Wove the thread of panic so tightly within me that there’d been no other option. How could I let my best friend die? How could I stand aside, in my cocoon of isolation, and let them come for her?

The Priests.

Damien.

“He said you were mad,” I say, turning on my heel so I can face him directly. Because Damien deserves my transparency, my humiliation. And my penance. Every death—Ian’s and Gregg’s and Micah’s—sits at my doorstep. Eight in total. A number that would have come to nine, tonight, if Gregory had succeeded. “I’d heard of you, obviously. There’s not a single person in London who hasn’t. Rebels. Anti-loyalists. Hell, you run a pub dedicated to—”

“It’s always been a way to gather intel.”

Wretched laughter bubbles to life inside my chest, and bloody hell. I press the heels of my hands to my throbbing temple, fingers curled into my palms. A fool. I am an absolute fool. “Of course, it is,” I manage weakly. “Because clearly, it’s not just enough that we came for Ightham Mote tonight when we’ve also spent months targeting an anti-loyalist pub that’s never been anything but a cover. Oh, my God. Oh, my God, I need to—”

Retch.

Spinning on my heels, I stumble for the desk with its rubbish bin.

I barely cover half the distance when familiar hands fall on my shoulders and swing me back around. Warm breath hits my lips while calloused palms surge north to slide against the back of my neck and hold me captive.

“The fire,” Damien growls fiercely. “Was it you?”

This time, I let the hysterical laugh run free. It pours out of me, low and volatile. “Do you seriously think that I would choose to light myself on fire?” In his arms, I’m acutely aware of the blisters peppering my skin. Skin that was, just eight days ago, completely smooth and unmarred. “I’m broken, Damien. Literally, figuratively. In every single way that