The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,64
it had anything to do with sex as we first assumed. I think they were planning on using them for something more occult. Maybe sacrifices.”
“What?” Cecelia drew back, holding the back of her hand against her mouth as though she might be sick.
“These bastards don’t deserve to live,” Redmayne snarled. “Give us names and we’ll hunt them down. Tonight, if we have to.””
Francesca shook her head vehemently. “There are too many.” She turned back to Ramsay. “I’ll tell you everything, but we must wait until tomorrow.”
“What is tomorrow?” Alexandra asked.
“A ritual of some kind. Here at the Kenway estate.” She gathered her Rogues to her, relying upon them to hold sway over their men. “You have to trust me to handle this. I know what I’m doing.”
Ramsay eyed her with a rank glare. “Trust is not a virtue I was born with. Ye’ll need to give me more than that.”
Cecelia—ever faithful, valiant Cecelia—came through. “You can trust Frank. She’s the truest soul in the world.” The statuesque woman leaned in and kissed Francesca on the cheek, smelling of chocolate and wine and hope. “We can be here tomorrow night.”
“You mean Ramsay and I will be here,” Redmayne decreed. “You and Alexandra will be somewhere safe, far away from men who would murder little girls, and from us, when we quite possibly murder them.” The father-to-be curled his hands at his sides into fists.
“No, thank you,” Cecelia said gently. “We’ll be here.”
“We’ll lock you up if we—”
Alexandra put a hand on her husband’s arm, leaning in to press herself against his side. “We’ve never let a Red Rogue march into danger without us.” Her declaration wasn’t forceful, but it was final. “We’re not about to start now.”
“Tomorrow then.” Francesca gave them a full salute before she turned on her heel and made for her carriage at full regimental march.
Bless Cecelia and her blind faith. Bless Alexandra and her undying loyalty.
Because she’d just lied to them all to save them from being anywhere near the Crimson Council tomorrow night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The very devil rode the wind as it whipped through the streets of London that night. Gusting first this way and then that with the chaos of an angry battle. It carried the scents of the river, of industry and bakeries and chimneys. Fetid things and pleasant things.
The Devil of Dorset identified them all as he lurked in front of Francesca’s home.
The structure snuggled with almost defiant cheerfulness against the backdrop of the bleak and lonely night. Little lamps glowed in the front windows, and he wondered if she lit them to give the illusion of a home on alert.
Hers was a modest house for the West End, one with a spectacularly famous garden. It was likely built before the Tudor dynasty and had been lovingly tended to by generations.
He waited to approach until the imminent storm whipped some sense into him. It wailed and screamed in a voice that matched the bleak howl inside of him. Fury and fear were both such powerful emotions, and they warred within him like a tempest of the gods.
Because of her.
She shouldn’t have been at the ritual tonight. She shouldn’t have let Kenway touch her. Every breath that man took in her direction was a blasphemy, and Chandler would be damned before he allowed her to be tainted by his evil.
If only he could make her understand …
She’d glimpsed the darkness of Kenway’s soul tonight, but she couldn’t even fathom the depth of his evil. She’d never borne witness to it.
Not like he had.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the chaos while becoming very still. He was a stone. He’d always been a stone. Heavy, hard, and unable to float. If he were to be dropped in the pool of her eyes, he’d sink.
He’d drown.
But the wind could not move him. No matter how it howled and battered.
For Chandler, it was safer out here on the street, safer to endure the tempest than to approach her lair.
And yet.
She had to be stopped, before she ruined everything. Before she distracted him from his ultimate goal, when he was so very close.
Idly, he rubbed at the place where she’d touched his arm, then lifted his fingers to examine his palm in the lamplight. One of his only scars he never regretted.
The mark had meant more to her than he’d originally thought. Perhaps because her brother Ferdinand’s blood had melded with his. Perhaps because it reminded her of her purpose.