Page 57 of The Hunter
“What?”
He leaned forward, releasing his features from the light. “Her name was Christine, and she was a whore.”
Millie blinked, her breath faltering as he leaned closer in the darkness. “Why would you say that to me?” she whispered.
He shifted. “I don’t know. I’ve never said it to anyone else. Perhaps I told you because I wanted you to understand that I meant you no offense. I don’t share society’s opinion of prostitutes. Because of the lustful nature of a man’s needs, or maybe because of the intrinsic beauty of the fairer sex, a woman’s body is a commodity, one that men barter for with land and titles and sometimes even kingdoms. So why then, when a woman sells her own body for food, or survival, or even pleasure, is it called a sin? Or a crime? What has marriage become but sanctioned prostitution, the buying and selling of female flesh for the begetting of heirs and so forth?”
Millie understood in that moment that Christopher Argent would never cease to astonish her. She couldn’t even begin to answer that question. Partly because his point made a great deal of sense, and partly because he’d left out so many variables. What about love? What about two souls, andyes, bodies, committing themselves to each other for the entirety of their lives? There was protection of joint properties, and the promise of a man to hold to one woman and care for the children they had together.
But, in all honesty, how many marriages did she know of that had more of a basis along his perception than hers?
Well. Drat.
The carriage rolled to a smooth stop, blessedly cutting off the need for a reply.
But then, a new fear arose. They’d arrived… somewhere. The place he’d planned on stashing them until he could guarantee their safety.
Until she’d fulfilled her part of the bargain. Before they embarked, she had to know what had happened this afternoon. “Did you murder Mr. Dashforth?” she repeated.
His jaw worked over the answer before he gave it to her. “Yes.”
“Why?” She hoped—no—prayed that he’d give her the answer she needed, the one that could appease her smarting conscience. That would calm her growing panic.
Argent leaned forward, eyes leaving the slash of light and his great body invading her space, her air, until she could feel his warm breath on her chilled skin.
“Because he threatened your life, hired Dorshaw to kill you, and take your child. He told me he wouldn’t relent.” His hand lifted, and Millie flinched, so it dropped back into the shadows. “I’m going to kill anyone who means you and your son harm.” His voice was hard as stone in the darkness. “Can you live with that?”
Millie considered for a few shaky breaths. Her son was draped limply in her arms, secure in the notion that she, his mother, would protect him. She was all he had in this world, and she had to accept that she didn’t have the skills or the necessary brutality to keep him safe during this nightmare.
“I—I can.” Millie wanted to take the words back, but knew she’d never be able to.
Knew that she’d meant them.
She started when he opened the door and leaped to the ground without the need of the steps. Turning, he held his arms out and gestured for her to hand him Jakub.
Millie hesitated, feeling as if she were about to put a bunny in the jaws of a wolf. But, she realized, she was in for a penny, might as well be a pound. He’d promised not to hurt them, and he’d proven himself by his treatment of Jakub thus far.
Lifting his shoulders, she rolled her son so Argent could lean in and take the boy, one arm beneath his knees, and the other behind his neck. Jakub twitched and snorted loudly, but settled into Argent’s heavy arms, and turned his head into his suit coat, where he promptly drooled on the lapel.
If Argent noticed, he paid it no heed.
The driver lowered the steps for her, and she thanked him as he steadied her until she was on solid ground.
Millie straightened the skirts of her costume, looked up, and gaped.
Pillars the color of rich cream provided a contrasting circle to the precise angles of stories and stories of pale stones. Neat hedgerows provided friendly cover to imposing iron gates. Millie reached out and used one of those stones to prop herself up.
“You…livein Belgravia?”
He nodded as the driver unlocked the gate and pulled it open wide enough for them to enter. “Blackwell thought it best if one of us were stationed at each end of the park whilst in London. He’s in Mayfair, and I’m here in Belgravia keeping an eye on things, as it were.”
“And this isyour… house?” At his urging, she stumbled through the gate and made her way on unsteady legs to the arched front door. To call it a house seemed like a sacrilege. A Grecian temple was more apropos.
He followed with his usual long strides. “I believe most of us here in Belgravia lease from Lord Grosvenor, the Marquess of Westminster,” he mused.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges and a tall, white-gloved butler stepped out with the march of a soldier.
“Master Argent, welcome home.” His voice seemed to propagate mostly in his astoundingly large nose.
