Page 66 of The Devil in Her Bed
She could never read his thoughts, and he never guessed her emotions.
She knew nothing about him really… Only that she wanted him. Desired him.
His skin responded to her touch, little bumps of gooseflesh rising to meet her palm. His muscles twitched and warmed wherever her fingertips ventured.
And when she looked down at where their hands were joined, it was impossible to miss another appendage of his. Thick and impressive, jutting toward her from narrow hips lined with lean muscle.
She’d selected him now… which meant tomorrow they must—
“Excellent.” Kenway stepped behind her, and Chandler wound impossibly tighter, his muscles bunching like a stallion ready to take a leap. Waves of menace rolled from him, emanating with such strength, she was astonished that Kenway wasn’t toppled over by the tidal force.
Even she had to stop herself from taking a step in retreat.
“The selection is made,” Kenway said with encouragement. “You will receive a summons and a map to the next meeting place.”
“We will not be here tomorrow?” Francesca dropped Chandler’s hand, and it seemed it would not return to his side for a hesitant moment as she turned to Kenway.
“No, my vixen, needs must that we conduct our rituals in several expedient places.”
She merely inclined her head, almost dizzy with relief to find that she’d be leaving this place tonight.
Alive.
Kenway seemed as if he would move on before he paused. “Feel free to take one home with you, if you’dlike.” He motioned to Chandler with his chin. “Not him of course, but if I know you, you’ll want an amuse-bouche before the main course.” He leaned in. “Or, perhaps, you would stay here tonight. With me.”
Chandler almost stepped out of the circle, a low noise escaping his throat, and Francesca panicked. Her hand collided with his chest, but she softened the touch as she raked her fingers down the many corrugations of his ribs in a show of lust that wasn’t exactly a performance. “I believe I will take the night to prepare.” She shot Chandler a pleading look from beneath her mask, knowing it was hopeless. “I think we should all recoup and ready ourselves for what we must do next.”
If Kenway thought her reply odd, he gave no indication. “Indeed. Until we meet again, my Crimson Countess.”
When he left through the same large door through which the Lord Chancellor had gone, the council dispersed in no particular hurry.
Chandler said nothing to her, following the stags in their procession, taking with him any sense of protection she’d felt.
It would be folly to wait around here for him, though Francesca did what she could to linger. Finally she gave in to the parts screaming at her to run. To get out.
Eventually, she followed a couple who kept their arms interlocked as they were ushered down a barely lit corridor. The dim glow hardly reached the walls, but plush carpet muted the sounds of the people being led to who-knew-where.
“The council has become so secretive since those girls were found,” the woman in front of her said inmuted tones to her companion. “Too careful, if I’m honest. Seems to go against the creed, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps,” her fellow replied in a waspish voice. “But think about how many of us have been befallen by some sort of calamity or other. Colfax, Murphy, and scores of others. Not to mention the Lord Chancellor.” A shudder went through him. “I’ll be honest, whatever befalls Sir Hubert won’t keep me up at night. Sometimes the fate of those poor girls has stolen my peaceful slumber in the past. It is a true and ingenious test of our devotion, to watch the sacrifice of innocents, an unnecessary one, I feel. I’ve always been rather glad it is quick and painless.”
The girls he spoke of, girls not yet become women stashed in the basement of the high-end den of vice that had abutted the Kenway estates. The Red Rogues had always assumed the girls were meant to be used as objects for the perversions of powerful men. Francesca was certain Ramsay and Cecelia had saved the young ladies from molestation.
To think there was something worse in store for them. A sacrificial death, perhaps. It was enough to chill the bones.
To wonder if she’d ever be warm again.
“Tosh,” the woman reprimanded. “Those girls were always nothing more than immigrants and East End rubbish. The Lord Chancellor was part of the Triad. If he can so be discarded, then we should all fear for our own necks.”
Francesca had to stop herself from snorting aloud. The Lord Chancellor, in her opinion, was fortunate toescape with his life. He’d gotten off rather lightly, in her opinion.
For now. She was going to take down the rest of these deviants if it was the last thing she did. The Lord Chancellor would be first on her list.
“We do not protect our necks, my dear,” said her husband. “We go for the throats of others.”
“Absolutely.” She patted the man’s arm as they turned a corner and filed through a narrow door to the gardens across which a gate stood ajar.
What they saw through slats in a wrought-iron fence to the north was the only thing that kept Francesca from clawing the insufferable woman’s eyes out.
