Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,9
security cameras. Cameras which, in the last seven months, have become my only lifeline into Buckingham Palace.
Over a hundred years of serving the royal family, and the lines between Holyrood and the Crown have finally blurred.
Unless Rowena Carrigan is lying.
With my hands planted firmly on the exam table, I piece together my limited memory of her—the smooth, porcelain skin, and the vivid violet eyes, and the hair so deep a shade of black that it encompassed all color—with the woman seated before me now.
That thick mane of hair is gone.
The striking eyes are concealed behind white bandages wrapped around her head.
And her skin, once so perfect, is mottled with blisters from the fire.
Still, she manages to glare down her nose at me like I’m nothing but the grime beneath her shoes.
I’d expect nothing less from the prime minister’s only child.
“Does your father know where you were last night?” I ask, keeping my voice purposefully low in a smooth taunt that I know, deep in my gut, will shred that prim composure. Give me your secrets, Miss Carrigan. And if she doesn’t hand them over, I’ll take them, each and every one, until she has nothing left to give. “Or do you spend your days pretending that your old man doesn’t want your friend stripped of her crown?”
“Stripped of her . . .?” The muscles in Rowena’s upper back flicker as she jerks her head to the side. “Why would you say that?”
“Maybe we both know things that the other doesn’t.”
“You’re wrong,” she utters tightly, twisting her broken body around to face mine. “There’s no pretending. My father has always supported the royal family, and that didn’t stop with the king’s death. He’s loyal to Margaret.”
Edward Carrigan is loyal to no one but himself.
It may have been Marcus Guthram who put out the warrant for my arrest, sealing my fate to a life on the run, but it was Rowena’s father who appeared from the shadowed wings of the House of Commons to cut me a deal.
Take out the king, he’d said, and no one will ever know what you’ve done here tonight.
And when I told him to shove the offer up his ass, Carrigan ensured that I would be forever remembered.
The Mad Priest.
The terrorist who stormed Westminster and struck the match of rebellion.
My fingers twine around the thin sheet in a pitiful attempt to ease the rage battering down my veins.
Since that night, I’ve lived for nothing but vengeance. Against Guthram, who turned on us all and served my head on a platter to the Metropolitan Police. Against Edward Carrigan, who dealt his power like a king, though I could crush his throat with a twist of my fist—if only the chains were cut from my wrists and I could leave this godforsaken house.
And here I’ve been gifted his daughter.
Now blind. Now ruined. Now mine.
A good man would ignore temptation.
A better man would turn Rowena Carrigan over to her father—or to someone, at least, who cares to keep her alive—and wash his hands clean.
But I’m not a good man; not a better man either.
Not anymore.
“My father was best mates with the king,” Rowena adds, as though uncomfortable with the lingering silence. “It wouldn’t be in his best interest to see Margaret deposed.”
“Wouldn’t it?” I stare at her, at those bandages that reveal nothing of her expression but the fullness of her mouth and the hollows of her cheeks. I drag my fingers over the sheet, crumpling the fabric within my grip, because it’s either that or strike her down. Now, while she suspects nothing. “No king,” I say, barely leashing the bite in my voice, “no queen—who’d be left to lead the country?”
That full mouth of hers pulls sharply to one side. “You’re speaking treason.”
“Or just stating the facts.”
“You can’t just . . . just imply that my father wants the throne!”
“I’m not implying a damned thing. Ask yourself what the PM has to gain with the queen dead. There’s no other heir, no one to stand in the way of taking what he wants for himself. Maybe some random cousin, farther down the line, but who’s to say that he wouldn’t take them out too?”
“Stop.”
Her hand flies out, and it takes two attempts for her to make contact with the back of mine. Instead of letting go, her slim fingers glide north, linking around my wrist to squeeze tight.
A warning, a silent threat.
I lower my head. Brush my mouth over the shell of her ear. “If you’re looking to