The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,83

ground.

He ran from the soft, clinging arms of Pippa Hargrave. From her trusting, round face and toothless smile. From her peppermints and her punches and her little-girl love. From the hole in his heart that belonged only to her.

She was his greatest failure. His most profound regret.

Most of all, he ran from his nature, his choices, and his very name.

He ran until the distressed snorts and breaths of the athletic horse beneath him permeated the fog of rage and pain and loss.

Reining in the steed, he walked the horse around the downs for several laps, cooling them both.

The race hadn’t exactly the desired effect, but then, he’d not expected it to. If life had taught him anything, it was folly to try to outrun the past.

And impossible to outrun the truth.

The Mont Claire Massacre had been his fault.

* * *

Francesca had built part of her pain tolerance from the years and years spent suffering beneath Serana’s tending of her hair.

Though her locks had darkened from the silver blond of her youth to a darker gold, she never caught a glimpse of the undergrowth before the Romani woman hustled her into a chair and ground the terrible-looking and foul-smelling paste that stained her hair such a vibrant red into her scalp.

Tonight was to be important, and since Francesca was perhaps the most impatient woman on the planet, she decided that she could busy herself with the necessary evil of personal grooming while she waited for the directions to the next Crimson Council gathering.

Devotion had been a heavy thing to witness. But tonight was desire …

At least she wouldn’t have to put on an act.

After just one taste of Declan Chandler, her desire had turned from a curious hunger to an insatiable craving. She’d picked the right stag, of course … a stag that was still missing, even as the afternoon hour turned late.

“Were you careful, Francesca?” Serana’s Eastern European accent had never quite faded, even after all this time in England. Her blazing gold eyes skewered her from the mirror as she pinned her pasted hair tightly to her head with ruthless jabs.

“I’m not certain to what you’re referring, but the answer is more than likely no.” Francesca busied herself brewing her own concoction of sodium bismuth, vanilla, coconut, and a few other exotic oils that would strip her hair of the smell once the henna dye was washed away.

“I’m asking if you took measures to make certain you and the tiger did not make a child last night.” Ever since learning of Declan Chandler’s survival, Serana had taken to calling him “the tiger,” as she did not like to keep track of his innumerable names.

She’d insisted none of them belonged to him, anyhow.

The woman seemed pleased, though, to hear that she’d been wrong about his death.

Francesca didn’t look up as the woman nearly finished toiling behind her, reaching for a scarf to wrap around the muck as it set in the color over a few hours.

“No,” Francesca admitted with a rueful twist of her lips. “We were not careful.”

“Ah, I see.” Though Serana rarely ever made her thoughts known, she was a woman Francesca had always found easy to read. Not that she needed to guess now, as the woman made her judgments perfectly clear by the brutal knots she pulled in the scarf, jerking her head this way and that.

“I will make you tonic,” she said crisply. “There will be no child.”

“Wait.” The word escaped Francesca’s lips before she could stop herself. She and Serana stared at each other in the mirror, holding silent court.

Serana reminded her that she’d never wanted a child. That her life was strictly inconducive to motherhood. That every day she lived as Francesca Cavendish was borrowed from a lie, and if the council didn’t get her someday, the Crown might.

“I know,” Francesca said aloud. “But just … wait.”

“Where is your tiger, by the by?” The brackets of age around the woman’s mouth deepened as she frowned. “You could be called away at any moment by your enemy, and he has left you without a word all because your father once desired to be kind to him? To offer him a home?”

Francesca itched a place where the paste dripped against her scalp, puffing out a beleaguered breath. “It’s more than that…” It didn’t take a genius to realize why he’d escaped her company a few hours ago. He’d learned not only that his entire hypothesis had been incorrect about the Mont Claire Massacre, but that