Who Speaks for the Damned (Sebastian St. Cyr #15) - C. S. Harris Page 0,59

the wailing of the child receded into the distance, and he heard his wife scream.

“Hero!”

He awoke with a jerk, his heart pounding in his chest and his mouth dry. Turning his head, he saw Hero lying awake beside him, her eyes wide and still in the darkness.

“Bad dream?” she said.

He reached for her, pulling her to him. She came hotly into his arms, her mouth opening to his as his head came up off the pillow seeking her hungrily. She slid on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, her naked breasts heavy against his chest. He ran his hands up and down her back, finding solace in the solid warmth of her bare flesh beneath his touch.

“I lost you,” he said. “You and Simon both. You were there, and then you were gone.”

She took his face between her hands, her breath warm and soft against him as she gazed solemnly into his eyes. And he felt his love for this woman swell within him so powerful and frightening that it hurt.

“It was a dream,” she said, and kissed him again.

Her lips were soft and tender, her hands seeking, her body opening itself to him. They moved as one, slowly at first, then quickening, lost in the heat of their passion and their need. He found himself swirled away, surrendering to the joy of the moment and the ultimate rapture of release. Then she smiled, murmuring, “I love you. I love you, I love you,” and he held her tight against him.

But the lingering whispers of that all-consuming fear remained.

* * *

Tuesday, 14 June

“You seem to have hit a nerve with someone,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy the next morning as they walked through the crowded piazza of Covent Garden. “Any idea as to your assailant’s identity?”

“None whatsoever.” Sebastian gazed out over the colorful, bustling, brawling, shouting crowd of the marketplace. “The rifle was a common enough one, and I’m fairly confident the actual shooter was only a hireling. I’ve never known a man who could get off two shots in less than twenty seconds who wasn’t a rifleman at some point. And even then it’s rare.”

“Ah. Goodness knows there are more and more ex-soldiers flooding into London every day, most of them desperate for work.” Lovejoy paused, his face even more serious than usual.

“What?” said Sebastian, watching him.

“I heard the other day that Titus Poole has been going around bragging about hiring ex-soldiers. Seems he has ambitions of expanding his operation into something similar to the Bow Street Runners, only private. Those who are becoming increasingly frustrated by Britain’s lack of a proper police force are actively encouraging him—despite his past history.”

“Huh. Sounds like something Theo Brownbeck would support. I wonder if they know each other.”

“Surely not.”

Sebastian watched a ragged little girl steal an apple from a stall, and said, “I think I need to have another talk with Mr. Poole.”

* * *

Titus Poole was behind the bar in the taproom of his wife’s inn when Sebastian walked up and ordered a pint.

Poole pressed both hands flat on the polished surface of the bar and leaned into them, his small, nasty eyes narrowed in pugnacious hostility. “Ye ain’t welcome here.”

“No?” Sebastian gave the man a smile that showed his teeth. “Then let’s drop all pretense of civility and simply have a frank, straightforward conversation, shall we? Word is, you’ve recently hired yourself an ex-soldier or two.”

Poole’s jaw tightened. “Ye got a problem with that?”

“On the contrary, I find it commendable. Any of those ex-soldiers happen to be a rifleman?”

“Why ye askin’?”

“Because someone took a shot at my carriage last night. Someone who’s obviously very good at what he does.”

Poole smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth and a half-masticated plug. “Scared ye, did he?”

“He nearly hit my wife.”

“Ah. Now that woulda been a real shame.”

Sebastian felt the skin of his face tighten, the blood pounding in his neck. “Let me make myself perfectly clear: If anyone harms, threatens, follows, watches, or even comes anywhere near my wife again, I’ll hold you responsible. And you won’t live long enough to hang—you or whoever is paying you.”

Poole’s color was high, his big head thrown back, his nostrils flaring. “Ye can’t talk to me like that.”

Sebastian adjusted the tilt of his hat. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.” And then he turned and left before the urge to do this man damage became overwhelming.

Chapter 36

T he painted wooden sign outside Mahmoud Abbasi’s Turkish Baths in Portman Square was small and discreet, but Sebastian knew he