“Do you own it all?” I ask quietly, aware of Peter and Josie, who have already made themselves at home in the back of Saxon’s sleek car with our single duffel. Our entire lives—all three of ours—shoved into one bag of poorly sewn polyester. “The street, I mean. Do you own all these houses?”
His hand finds the small of my back, beneath the fabric of my shirt. “Yes.”
Startled by his unexpected honesty, my gaze lifts to meet his. “All of them?”
“All of them on this block.”
Camden might not be Notting Hill or Mayfair, even, but it’s not dirt cheap either. There must be at least ten properties on this block. Maybe even more. Questions fly at me from every angle, my curiosity begging to be satiated, but only one seems important enough to ask: “Do you live on this street?”
Though his face remains expressionless, his fingers give him away.
They flex against my skin, the roughened pads of each digit digging into my spine. He’s not pushing me into the car, no matter how he might be tempted to do so, but it feels like an involuntary response. One that segues into uncomfortable silence before a slamming door steals my attention.
“Avoid the tolls,” Guy calls out as he pounds down the front steps and strides across the narrow street. He throws a set of keys in the air, then snatches them mid-flight as they fall victim to gravity. “We can’t risk anyone taking a good peek.”
Like a naughty schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn’t, Saxon drops his hand away from me. “We’ll see you there.”
“Don’t be late.”
With that, the eldest Priest brother climbs into an equally sleek, two-seater vehicle. The hum of the engine sounds impossibly loud against the otherwise quiet street. Not two seconds later, he’s ripping down the road and disappearing around the next block.
Saxon clears his throat. “Get in the car, Isla.”
I stand my ground. “Answer the question and I will.”
“You touched my scars in my bedroom,” he mutters, his voice low and painted with exasperation, “and I made you come on my sofa.” Jaw tight, his impatient green eyes flit over my face. “Will that suffice?”
“I—”
My mouth clamps shut as the words sink in. Really sink in.
He took us into his home, no questions asked. He fed us, let us sleep in his guest rooms, and never did he ask for anything in return. And, if I hadn’t pressed just now, I have no doubt that he would have been content to let this information go unsaid—forever.
Temptation sweeps through me, demanding that I stand on my toes and press a kiss to his mouth. A thank you kiss. An I see you for who you really are kiss. A kiss that reflects trust and loyalty and, bollocks, I can’t find the inner strength to stop myself. Rising onto my tiptoes, aware of Peter and Josie probably gawking from the backseat, I leverage my weight with a hand on his ripped waistline and brush my lips to the underside of his stubbled jaw. Then another, this one to the corner of his mouth after I gently angle his head so I can touch his lips with mine.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Long fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me away. “We have to leave.”
This time, I don’t ignore the husky command.
Climbing into the front passenger seat, I slide the seatbelt home and fold my hands in my lap. Immediately, I sense the stares from Peter and Josie. One curious, one judgmental. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher which vibes are coming from whom.
Peter wanted me to stay away from the Priests.
Josie just wanted me alive.
I disappointed them both but for entirely different reasons.
As quickly as Guy fled Camden, we do the same. Saxon keeps the radio turned off, leaving the four of us to sit in awkward silence for the entire length of time it takes to leave the City and merge onto East Rochester Way, heading southeast toward Kent.
Beyond the motorway’s guardrails, we pass open fields and quaint farms. Cows and sheep dot the landscape, along with a few old cottages that seem as blended with the scenery as the animals themselves. The weather is forgiving today, considering the time of year: bright blue skies matched with warm temperatures that allow us to crack open the windows.
Inside this car, and despite the fresh air, it’s utterly stifling.
A short breath expands my lungs, and I drop my chin, my fingers lifting to massage my temples. “Ask me,” I edge out, over the rush of wind tunneling into the car, “ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer.”
Peter doesn’t miss a beat. “What did you do with the gun?”
“I threw it in the Thames.” As if it happened only yesterday, I struggle not to succumb completely to the memory. The cold breeze teasing at the hem of my coat. The pinch of my toes, from wearing a pair of shoes a size too small. The utter terror of possibly being caught as the metal railing dug into my belly when I hurled the stolen rifle into the black water. “By the Middle Temple Gardens,” I add, my mind’s eye still replaying those crucial moments when I tossed my trainers into the river, as well. “I wanted to get farther away—my plan was to toss it near the Royal Airforce Memorial. But all I heard were sirens and screams and I panicked.”
“You came home late that night.” Josie’s sweet voice rises to be heard over the wind. “You told me that you’d met a man at a pub.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Saxon’s grip on the steering wheel turn impossibly tight. Jealousy, maybe? One glance at his face reveals nothing—as expected—and I force myself to answer my sister’s question instead of alleviating Saxon’s concern. There have been no other men but him, not since Stephen.
“I booked a room at a hotel. It was cheap and not particularly clean, but it had a fireplace . . . I, ah, burned my clothes. Every last stitch that I wore.”
“Clearly, you thought of everything.”
At the slightly caustic remark, I cut my attention to the man driving the car. Strands of dark hair fall across his forehead. On anyone else, the unkempt look might appear boyish, but it does nothing to soften his hard edges.
I’m starting to suspect nothing can, not even me.
Tucking my fingers between my thighs, I keep myself fully on this side of the center console. “I planned. Ever since it was announced that King John would be speaking at St. Paul’s, I tracked every possible route away from the cathedral to the Thames.” Pausing, I clasp my hands. Do my best not to recall every fraught moment of that day, as if it hasn’t already been imprinted on my brain. “I ran those routes for three months. In the morning, late at night, until I had each one memorized.”
“Æthelred,” mutters Saxon, shaking his head.
Blankly, I stare at him. “Who?”
“Nothing.” He guides the car onto the off-ramp and circles an empty roundabout. “It’s nothing. We’re almost there. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
He says it with all the excitement of a prospective visit with the dentist. Clamping my hands down on my opposite forearms, I tip my head back against the plush headrest.
“There was no boy,” I tell Josie, looking into the rearview mirror so I can glimpse her face, “and there were no late nights spent at the network. I lied. I lied for years and I can’t take back any of that.” Swallowing tightly, I rub my thumb against the jut of my elbow, needing to do something with my hands. “I thought . . . I thought, maybe, that with the king dead, the country would revert back to how things were before. Parliament at the forefront of our politics. Nights where we didn’t worry about hearing the sirens, announcing another death at yet another riot. I thought we’d be safe. Maybe not me, but you, Josie, and you, Peter. I thought the two of you would be safe.”