His Fire Maiden

Chapter 8

With the moon waning and heavy clouds threatening to let loose at any moment, it was gloriously dark. Almost palpable, such darkness. A town house loomed before him, quiet in the dead of the night. Reginald went slowly to avoid discovery, scaling the smooth limestone brick wall like a spider. His fingers and toes sank into the mortar as though it was soft butter.

Balancing on a windowsill with his toes, he reached for the Chatellerault in his coat. The black enamel hilt felt at home in his palm. A smile pulled at his lips. Her blade. Not a day had passed since she gave it to him that he did not hold it and twirl it round his fingers as he thought of her.

He shoved the knife in between the window and casing. With a gentle nudge, the window eased up a fraction, and he slipped his fingers under to lift it.

Nothing stirred as Reginald crept inside. A large bed dominated the room, its curtains drawn tight for the night. Very quaint. Reginald slowly pulled back the curtain, the knife still in hand. The man within had shrunk with age, the muscles and heft of his once powerful body now withered into a ropy mix of hardness and slack. Soft skin hung around his neck and jowls. But for all that, Maurus Lea, Earl of Leland still held an air of dignity and strength. Reginald could barely tolerate the sight of him.

He leaned forward, hovering just over Leland's sleeping form. The man's long bumpy nose whistled as he slept, stirring the white mustache hanging over the corner of his gaping mouth. The smell of camphor and old velvet drifted up. Reginald's nostrils pinched against it, but he found himself grinning.

"I say, Lilly, where the devil are my boots?"

Leland surged forward at Reginald's shout, his hands grasping for his robe, words of apology falling from his lips. Reginald pocketed his knife and took a step back, smiling behind the mask as Leland came to his senses. Leland cursed roundly and fumbled for the clutch of matches tied near his bed.

"Allow me," Reginald said, smoothly taking the matches and lighting the lamp.

"Devil take you, Reginald," Leland bit out as the light hit his eyes. He blinked hard and swung his feet off the bed to sit up. "You scared the life out of me..." He looked up at Reginald, and his long face went slack. "Good God, it is you."

Reginald set the lamp down on a table and retreated to the armchair by the cold hearth. "So it is."

"I heard you had returned." Leland pulled a silk dressing robe over his bony shoulders and stood. "I would say it was your sick sense of humor that bid you wait until now to hunt me down and bedevil me, but you're too methodical."

Leland went to a small bar and poured himself a measure of brandy. Reginald watched without comment. The man's hand shook badly as he lifted the glass to drink.

"What is it, then?" Leland set his glass down with a thud. "Why have you come back?"

Anger surged. Reginald should not have come. Questions he had wanted to ask filled his throat like a blockage. Why did you turn from me? Was my fate so very distasteful?

"England is my home," Reginald said from the comfort of his seat.

"Bollocks. We had an agreement." Leland studied the glass before him.

"You had a hope," Reginald retorted. "And if you thought I was a problem neatly swept away and forgotten then you are a fool." He checked his temper with a deep breath. "The question is—are you foolish enough to challenge me now that I am here?"

A white brow rose high. "And if I were," Leland asked softly, "what then? Would I find myself a bitter end? My body one of the many left to rot in the Thames?"