Her mouth forms what looks like the words four days then hitches into a smile that exudes no humor. “So, you go to confession?”
Stiffly, I nod. “Twice a week. Sometimes more.”
“And he wants the queen off her throne.”
“The man’s an Anglican priest, Isla, a dedicated member of the Church of England. Do you really think he wants Margaret gone?”
A frown tugs that humorless smile of hers into nonexistence, and my jaw stiffens as I hold her gaze. Slowly, as though she’s working out a difficult maths problem in her head, she says, “I don’t understand. You want the queen dethroned and he wants her to stay exactly where she is. Which means he would only be feeding you information on anti-loyalists, which tells you nothing new. Am I missing something here?”
“Knowledge is power.” I twist my body so I can indicate Christ Church with a tip of my chin. “Father Bootham only wants peace. He’s . . . kind. Too kind. His parishioners know that, and they feel comfortable coming to him. His first loyalty is to God, his next to the queen. And it doesn’t hurt that he thinks my brother once worked for MI5.”
“What?”
“He never has.” I study Isla’s face. Working for Holyrood means bending the truth to fit a particular motive. Father Bootham is a diehard loyalist who feels threatened by the violent uprisings. All of London may see the Priests as men running campaigns against the Crown, but not the good father. To him, Damien’s warrant for arrest is a clear front that he must have been acting on behalf of the Security Service to gather intelligence on a divided parliament that’s determined to do away with the monarchy, for good.
Father Bootham’s not completely off course with that assumption—though the Security Service has no idea Holyrood even exists—and I use it to my advantage. I pay my penance, sitting in that damned confessional twice per week, and play the part of misunderstood loyalist. Bootham reports his findings, and I promise to pass the information along to Damien.
But Isla . . .
She’s sharp, quick on her feet. Any run-of-the-mill excuse will send off alarms, and she’ll be breathing fire down my neck within days of Father Bootham telling her one thing and me saying another.
I settle for a half-truth: “He believes Damien is loyal to the queen.”
Isla’s mouth falls open unceremoniously. “Loyal,” she says, disbelief echoing in every syllable, “to the queen.”
“Yes.”
“Has he heard nothing of what you all have done? Half this city is prepared to kiss your feet while the other half wouldn’t mind stringing you up by your necks.”
My nape itches at the thought. Over the years, I’ve found myself imagining how I’ll end up going—stabbed to death like Pa, shot to death like the king. Being hanged wouldn’t be my first choice. “A person hears what works in their favor—what aligns with their personal beliefs. And, in me, the priest hears a man who’s finally found the right path after a sinful past.”
“And you’re wanting me to . . . what, do the same? Lie to Father Bootham for information?”
“You were sacked from the news network.”
Her gaze leaps to mine, shock swirling in those blue depths. “I-I never told you that.”
“You admitted as much just now.”
A blush stains her cheeks as she twists her face away. “All right,” she says, her voice hushed, “yes, I was . . . let go.”
“Because?”
Her shoulders rise with a sharp inhale. “Because I wanted to do more to show the world what was really happening. I was—am—tired of the fighting and the violence and the fact that the queen sits inside her palace, impervious to it all.”
Except that the queen isn’t impervious to anything.
It eats at her just as it eats at the rest of us, but I keep those thoughts to myself as I nod along, playing the part required of me. Because it’s a role. My entire life is a continuous string of roles that I feed small portions of myself to, for the greater good of Britain.
The queen.
Holyrood.
“You get me every bit of intelligence Father Bootham is willing to reveal, and I’ll give you what you want in return.”
Isla visibly swallows. “Aren’t you curious as to what I want to propose? So we can even the score? I don’t do well with owing a debt—to anyone.”
Something tells me that whatever she plans to offer would pale in comparison to what I’m doing for her—and what she’s giving me in return. Father Bootham may choose to see me as a man worth saving, but the rest of London doesn’t feel the same. Continuing to visit him would not only put an eventual target on his back, but another on mine. As it is, I’m walking a tightrope that might snap at any moment.
Isla working as a go-between nets me the continual information from Bootham while keeping me out of the limelight. It’s a perfect arrangement, and I’m not interested in learning anything that might fuck it up.
I shake my head. “No debt owed. Attend confessional, put on your best redemption tour, and I’ll see that you get paid.”
It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to read the relief that spears Isla’s expression. “How much?” When I list off a sum, her eyes go saucer-wide. “Saxon, no. I-I can’t accept that. That’s way too much.”
My skin prickles at the sound of my name coming off her tongue, and I force myself to take another step back. “It’s not nearly enough. The wrong person catches wind of what you’re doing, and you’ll be wishing you hadn’t agreed to a blasted thing.”
Her gaze finds mine, wary and bold, an alluring combination that tugs at the frayed strands of my conscience. “I can handle the pressure. I don’t crack.”
I think of the way she held the knife to my throat. A wry smile tips the corner of my mouth and Isla stares at me, as though she’s witnessed a ghost. Or just what’s left of my humanity. “Monday,” I tell her, letting my arms fall to my sides as I head for the pub. “Come to me immediately after confession.”
A second passes, and then she calls out, “Am I to call you boss now?”
My shoulders stiffen at the unknowingly suggestive tone in her voice.
I will never sleep with you, even if you get down on your knees and beg.
I didn’t lie when I told her she couldn’t handle a man like me. A woman like Isla Quinn will want to make love, and that act doesn’t belong in my limited vocabulary.
I don’t kiss.
I don’t whisper sweet words guaranteed to make her come.
I fuck.
I rut like a wild animal.
I’m the devil in disguise, and it’s best we both remember that.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find her standing in the same spot I left her, her hand loosely wrapped around her strawberry-blond hair to keep the strands at bay. Her features are drawn, suspicious, despite the fact that she’s essentially placed her life in my hands, and I nearly bark out a laugh.
To think, for even a second, that she might be insinuating something more—I’m the one living in the fanciful world. Me, not her.
“Call me whatever the fuck you want,” I tell her, voice curt, because it won’t make a difference at the end of the day.