Charlotte grasped the back of his head and pulled him down toward her. Kissing him was like drinking spiced wine—the heat of him dashed through her, burning through her body. Immediately, she wanted him.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. His tongue touched hers, and she shivered. When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her, and this time he did see her.

“You have to leave,” she whispered.

“No.”

“Yes. You must go. What if he goes to find Casside, and you’re gone?”

His eyes turned dark.

“Look at me, Richard. You cannot kill Brennan until we expose him. You can’t do it, or it was all for nothing.” She kissed him again, trying to pull him away from the destructive anger. “You have nothing to worry about.”

He blinked, like a man waking up from a deep sleep, focusing on her.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she repeated. “I love you, Richard. Go.”

“What?”

“I said I love you, you fool.”

“When this is over—”

“Yes,” she told him.

He stared at her.

“The answer is yes, Richard. Yes, I will go with you and live with you in your Lair, because I love you. Now you must leave. Get out of here!”

She pushed him out to the balcony, shut the doors, and made sure to lock them.

Richard looked at her from behind the glass. He had the strangest look on his face, a kind of stunned amazement.

“Go!” she mouthed at him.

“I love you, too,” he mouthed, then jumped and climbed back up his rope.

She crossed the room, fell on her bed, and put a pillow over her face. She felt hot and giddy. He loved her. It made everything worth it.

What if he stopped being there? What if something happened, and he was gone?

The anxiety shot her in the heart. Here it is again. Hello there.

Please, she prayed silently. Please, please, please, let it be all right. Please, let it all work out.

Please.

SIXTEEN

CHARLOTTE sat in a chaise on her balcony, sipping bloodred tea from her cup and subtly watching Brennan seethe in his chair, directly across the coffee table. To the right Sophie sat quietly reading a book. To the left, on the divan, the Duchess of the Southern Provinces lounged, drinking her tea in tiny swallows and carrying on a conversation.

He must’ve expected that Sophie and whoever she had invited wouldn’t be much of an obstacle. He could bully most people out of the way by the simple fact of his birth. But Lady Olivia provided an impenetrable barrier. She was older, well regarded, and her influence and power surpassed his. His Highness was forced to behave, and he didn’t like it. The small talk was clearly grating on him. He was desperately bored.

Almost bored enough to pick up the album she had placed on the coffee table within his reach. A foot long by a foot wide, bound in luxurious brown leather and embossed with a silver serpent biting his own tail, a symbol of the Ganer College, the album held approximately eighty pages of heavyweight paper interweaved with glassine tissue. It beckoned to be picked up.

Just a little more, Charlotte thought. A little longer.

Lady Olivia launched into a discussion of the agricultural properties of oranges.

Brennan hid a yawn, leaned forward . . . and picked up the album.

Lady Olivia glanced at Charlotte and took a moment to snack on cookies.

“What an exquisite book,” Brennan said, obviously relieved at the opportunity to jump-start the conversation. “Are these members of your family?”

“No, my lord.” Charlotte sipped her tea. “They are my greatest triumphs as a healer. The truth is, we are a vain lot.”

Brennan turned the page and winced. “Dear gods, this child is horribly burned.”

“An unfortunate accident,” Charlotte said. “She was trapped in a barn during a brush fire that had overtaken the village. If you turn the page, you will see that she was considerably better after I was done. Burns are difficult to heal completely, but we had a modest success with her.”

Brennan turned the page. “This is uncanny.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my dear,” the duchess murmured.

She had to keep him looking through the book. “I believe there is a worse case a little further.”

Brennan flipped a page. Another. Another. His hand froze.

Bull’s-eye.

“This man.” Brennan turned the album, holding it with one hand so she could see it. A picture of Richard looked back at her. He looked a few years younger. His hair was longer, but the image bore an unmistakable resemblance to the poster of Hunter.

Brennan’s quiet voice held the steel overtone of command. “Tell me about this man.”

Lady Olivia raised her eyebrows. Charlotte leaned forward, looking at the image. “This isn’t one of the worst cases.”

“Please. Indulge me.”

“Very well. He was a soldier, one of those extremely dangerous, covert types. You know, the sort who are released into the woods with nothing but a knife and a length of rope and retrieved a week later, after they have single-handedly demolished an enemy legion. He’d been very badly wounded. His liver and kidney had been sliced through with a spear, and by the time he was brought to me, he was delirious. He kept recounting his proudest moments in life—being chosen for his unit, his son’s being born, and Lord Maedoc presenting him with the Shield of Valor.”

“Are you certain?” Brennan’s face had gone completely flat.

“Yes. Fever does strange things to the mind. He went on and on about his son’s eyes and Lord Maedoc’s demeanor. I believe he got to spend some time with Lord Maedoc after the ceremony, and it was the highlight of his service. His healing took approximately sixteen hours. I was exhausted and had to rest. When I came to check on him the next day, some soldiers had collected him and left.”

“Maedoc?” Brennan repeated. “Was that their commanding officer?”

“Yes. I was upset that the College released him—he was in no shape to travel, really—and so I made the staff get the release order so I could check the seal on it. Is this important?”

“Not at all.” Brennan shut the album and turned to Lady Olivia. “You were telling us about oranges, Your Grace?”

* * *

RICHARD studied himself in the mirror. The man who looked back at him was nothing like him. Stolen face, stolen clothes, another man’s sword. They were tools, he told himself. Tools of his trade. She loved him anyway. She loved him.

Someone knocked on the door in a rapid staccato. Kolin, his second cousin, glanced at him. Richard nodded. Kolin swung the door open.

Brennan strode in, almost knocking Kolin over. His face shone with grim determination. Behind him Rene paused at the doorway, his face bloodless.

“Get your sword and come with me,” Brennan said.

“Did something happen?”

“Casside, get your sword.”

Richard belted his rapier on. Brennan spun on his foot and marched out. Richard followed him, striding side by side with Rene down the hallway. They climbed the ladder, crossed another hallway, and stepped into a metal-and-glass lift. Brennan punched a code into the panel, and the small cabin slid upward. Stone flashed by, then daylight streamed in. They were rising straight up the side of the castle.

“Hunter belongs to Maedoc,” Brennan said. “He’s his creature.”

“Are you sure?” Rene asked.

Brennan turned to him, his face skewed by fury, and Rene took a step back.

“It was quite clever of him. Use the Hunter to destabilize the slave trade, make me appear weak, foster the discontent as all of us lost money. I thought he was too limited for a plan like this, but he fooled us all.”

“What are you going to do?” Rene asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Not just me. All of us.”

The cabin stopped. The gears in the wall turned, the doors opened, and they stepped out onto a narrow balcony, overshadowed by a spire. Far below, the river glistened. They were at the very top of the castle.

At the other end of the balcony, Maedoc and Angelia stood by the stone rail. Angelia’s face was bloodless. Fear shivered in her eyes like a small animal trapped in a corner.

“What was so important?” Maedoc asked.

She pointed at them.

Maedoc turned. “Brennan? What’s going on?”

“We have a traitor,” Brennan said, closing the distance between them. “The one who’s behind Hunter and the attack on the island.”

“Who?” Maedoc frowned.

Brennan jerked a dagger from his sheath and thrust it in Maedoc’s right side.

Angelia choked on a scream.

Brennan pulled the dagger down through the flesh with a sharp jerk, his face inches from Maedoc’s shocked eyes, and pulled the blade out. The initial thrust probably punctured the lung, Richard decided. The rip lacerated Maedoc’s liver.

“What are you doing?” Rene squeezed out. “Robert, what are you . . .”

Maedoc sank against the rail, struggling to stay upright. Brennan stepped over to Rene and thrust the bloody dagger into his hand. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“Your turn, you spineless shit. We’re in this together. Do it or join him.”

Rene stared at Maedoc. The big man raised his left hand, his right clutching the rail. “Don’t . . .”

“I will not suffer traitors in my house! Do it!” Brennan barked.

Rene stabbed Maedoc in the stomach. Blood spurted, drenching the dagger’s handle.

The soldier cried out.

Rene dropped the dagger and stumbled away. Brennan picked it up and turned to Angelia. “You’re next, my lovely.”

“No.” She backed way. “No.”

“Yes.” Brennan’s voice vibrated with fury. “I’ll help you.”

He grabbed her hand with his bloody fingers, slapped the dagger into it, and locked her fingers around it with his hand, moving behind her, pushing her toward Maedoc.