“You may find it hard to believe but I must operate under rules,” Jones said. “I make bargains. I keep bargains. I cannot toy with what is not struck in a deal.”

“You’re right,” Winston snapped. “I find it hard to believe.”

“Fair enough,” Jones answered with a short laugh. “Only it’s true.” He shrugged. “Should we strike a bargain, I will adhere to the terms.” He held Winston’s gaze. “I must.”

“Rather charitable of you to admit to it,” Winston grumbled.

“Also a must.” Jones leaned in. “Now then, what say you? Have we an accord?”

“What is the service?”

Jones tutted. “That you cannot know until you agree.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Winston regarded him. “First you must swear that, if I agree, Poppy will not be harmed in any manner. Ever.”

Jones’s right eye twitched. “You are in no position to throw in terms.”

Winston relaxed against his seat. “I don’t know. We both want something. Which means we both have something to lose.”

The air about them trembled as Jones glared back, and Winston held his gaze.

Jones blinked first. “I will not harm Poppy Lane.” His mouth tightened. “Unless she attacks me.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Win muttered.

Jones sniffed as though insulted. “One must be able to protect oneself.”

“Fair enough.” Nothing about this was fair, but as he was buggered, he’d take what he could. “We have an agreement. Now, tell me what you want.”

Pure satisfaction flashed through Jones’s eyes, and a new qualm of unease rocked within Winston. But what was done was done.

Jones picked up his cigarette and let it dangle in his mouth as he reached into his jacket and pulled a thin file folder from within. Winston blinked. The folder was too large for Jones to have been carrying it inside his coat. Illusions. He knew it, and if he interpreted Jones’s indulgent look, Jones wanted him to know it. The file hit the marble tabletop with a little slap.

“I have a case for you, Lane.”

Winston opened the file but there was only one page attached. Immediately, Winston lifted his head to gape at Jones. “You cannot be serious. A woman?”

Jones exhaled. “You think because I am not human that I’m incapable of love?”

Winston shrugged. He hadn’t been speaking of love, but if Jones brought it up, she must be important to him. “I don’t know what to think, honestly.” Come on, you bastard, give me what I need.

Jones’s thin lips curled. “Let me add to your education. We are more than capable.”

Good. Then he could be manipulated just as much as Winston could. “This is impossible.” He tossed the file back onto the table. “Aside from the fact that the case is sixteen years cold, you’ve got no leads save for a name.”

“Come now, it isn’t all that bad. I’ve started a breadcrumb trail for you to follow. See here? Upon arrival in London, you are to visit the Komtesse Krogstad of Chelsea. Call it a gift, if you will.”

Hardly. “And who is this Moira Darling you want me to find?”

“Many things. But above all, she is a woman who has stolen from me.”

“You have not even listed what it is she stole from you.”

“The man can read!” Jones tilted his head. “Are you certain you’ve done this before? I must say, my faith is wavering.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you ought to go with another detective and leave me be.” Winston crossed one leg over the other as he sat back. He itched for a meditative smoke and eyed the cigarette case between them with longing.

Jones tossed the gold case to Winston. “Have one. You are entirely too twitchy.”

Winston didn’t bother to thank him, but took a cigarette. He lit it, and something in him calmed. It wasn’t his pipe but the ritual was nearly the same. “Let me see if I understand this. You have the power to irrevocably alter lives, take souls, and yet you cannot find this one woman on your own?”

Jones stilled, and something mad flared in his white eyes. Win felt the force of the demon’s rage deep in his gut. It took all he had not to cower beneath it. Jones’s jaw twitched, then he spoke, his words oddly flat. “As I said, there are rules which govern me. Moira Darling is out of my reach.”

It might have given Win some satisfaction to see Jones struggle with the confession, but Win was too sick at heart to feel anything other than fear and rage. Yet he affected professionalism, in part because he knew it would irritate Jones.

“Are you telling me this is all you know about the case?”

“No. I’m telling you this is all I’m willing to reveal about the case.” When Winston stared at him, Jones smirked. “Perhaps I don’t want you to succeed.”

“Perhaps you simply like toying with me.”

“That is a given.” Jones laughed then leaned forward, bringing with him the scent of smoke and darkness. “I made you the detective you are today. Now use those skills. You have four days.”

“Now wait just a moment! Four days is hardly enough—”

“Four days to find what Moira Darling stole from me and return it, or I will take your child.”

Chapter Twelve

Poppy was wide awake and doing a horrible attempt at reading in bed when Winston finally returned. He walked on cat feet lately, thus she didn’t hear him coming until the door was opening and he was facing her, his expression grim but careful, as though he expected a fight. But she didn’t have it in her. It had been a mistake to push him. And humiliating to think that she’d believed if he just touched her again, had sex with her, that it would break down the wall between them. If anything, the wall was higher now. Watching him, she set down her book and remained silent.

Broad shoulders squared, he moved farther into the room. Red rimmed his blue-grey eyes, and water clung in crystalline drops to the ends of his hair, turning it the color of old brass. “I took a walk. It’s raining.”

“It usually is.” Her voice was as rough as his in the awkward silence.

Win ducked his head and, frowning, began to pull off his sodden coat. His cravat, waistcoat, and boots followed, all of them carefully placed upon the back of a chair. When he got to his shirt, he stopped and looked back up at her. Poppy couldn’t know what he was thinking. Before, she’d always known his moods and what to expect. Now, she felt unbalanced. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she covered her legs with the billowing folds of her nightgown.

“I think it best that you sleep in Talent’s quarters tonight.” She couldn’t look at him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, but he came closer anyway. When he stopped before the bed, she forced herself to face him, only to find his expression solemn. “If you wish,” he said in a low voice, then his hands went to his shirt.

“If you are thinking of getting in this bed with me, think again.” If he did, she’d lose all sense of herself. Sometime between crying and curling up in a lonely ball upon the bed, she realized that if he could not accept who and what she was, then so be it.

He paused, and his brows lifted. A glint lit his eyes. She’d almost forgotten how Win loved a challenge. Proof, she supposed, of her exhaustion. But he’d have a fight on his hands. The glint in his eyes grew. “Do you suppose I’ve come to ravage you, Boadicea?” His finely shaped lips twitched, and her face heated.

“Again, you mean?”

His smile fell. “I dishonored you. And it shames me to my soul.”

And like that, her ire left her. He spoke of honor. She had clearly forgotten hers as well. Blast it, but she shouldn’t have let him wander the ship alone. No matter what personal strife had arisen between them, it was still her duty to protect Win. Even if he hated her for it. She could only be thankful that he’d returned in one piece. Damn it all.

He did not give her a chance to reply before he whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it away.

Her breath left her. Not since he’d first been attacked had she seen his torso. He hadn’t allowed it. He stood stock-still and let her drink in her fill of him. Despite his sudden reveal, or perhaps because of it, she looked not at his chest, but at his face. His jaw was set and hard as he gazed at a spot on the wall.

“Go on,” he said, “look at me.”

Good God, but he’d changed. Gone was the lithe torso. In its place, a network of corded muscle reigned. He was still lean; his body would never run to pure bulk, but the definition and the strength had increased, and he’d added a good fifteen pounds to his frame. She’d known this before he’d taken his shirt off, but seeing the bare results was another matter. A part of her mourned the loss of his earlier self, though this newer Win intrigued her as well. He was a study of power tempered by grace. “You’re bigger,” she said inanely.

He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort. And she realized that she’d missed the point of this exercise entirely. Taking a breath, she looked over the scars that marred his fine, ivory skin. It had been bad, his attack. Thick, ropey scars covered his left pectoral muscle, shoulder, and forearm, while thinner, redder slashes crisscrossed over his rippling abdomen and the swell of his biceps. He’d been so close to death.

Unable to help herself, she rose onto her knees and reached out to trace the thick slash just over his heart. His warm skin twitched at the contact, but he held still.

“You’ve healed well, Win.”

His eyes flicked to hers. “You keep saying that. Don’t.” His voice was a whip of censure.

“It is the truth,” she snapped back.

He took a step forward, the action sending her palm against his chest. “Don’t patronize me. Just look at me. Look at what I’ve become.”

White lined the livid red scars on his face as he glared at her.

“I am looking,” she said, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her hand. “What would you have me say, Win?”

“That I am deformed. That I will never be the same again.”

“No. That would be patronizing you. And what I cannot understand is why you want me to do so.” His breath left in a hiss as he stepped even closer. So close that his nose almost bumped hers. Poppy did not back away. “Why do you want my pity, Win? Or is it that you want me to turn away in disgust?” Her eyes searched his, and it became a chore to speak. “Do you want me to be the one to end this so that you don’t have to?”

They stared at each other, neither of them daring to move. And then he took a deep breath as his eyes closed. “I don’t know.” His head fell forward, and his forehead rested on hers. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Nothing could stop her then from wrapping her arms about him and pulling him closer. He fell into her, his arms twining about her waist in a hard grip, his fingers grabbing the loose folds at the back of her nightgown. Something within her sighed in relief at his hold and the feel of his body pressed against her. They’d always fit together so well. Hugging him made her feel safe, feel needed as well. So many people needed her, and yet never for this basic sort of comfort. They needed her to fix things. Only Win had needed her heart.

His lips pressed against her neck as they held each other up, and his breath warmed her. Poppy closed her eyes and let herself relax further into him. When he finally spoke, his words were muffled by her skin. “You were always my anchor, Poppy. Now I am adrift.”

Gently, she touched the cool strands of his hair, still damp from the rain. But his body was so nice and warm. “I am unmoored as well, Win. And I don’t know what to do. For it was you who cut the ties.”

A deep, shuddering sigh left him, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “I am not… I have spells, Poppy. I become unable to breathe; I fall ill.” She felt him swallow against her shoulder. “I am not the man you knew. I am not—” He stopped abruptly and took another breath. “I was angry and embarrassed. I could not face you.”

Anger stirred within her breast, and she tried to pull back. But he held tight and wouldn’t let her go. “It isn’t logical. Hell, it isn’t fair, the way I feel.” Only then did he move away enough to look her in the eyes. His were pained. “I am ashamed, Pop. And yet every time I try to govern my feelings, I fail.”

Poppy broke free of his grip, realizing belatedly it was because he let her. With a sigh, she sank down onto the bed. “You hurt me, Win.” She swallowed hard. “And I hurt you.”

He moved as if to touch her cheek but let his hand fall. “Yes.”

“How do we get past it?” Poppy’s fingers clenched. “Do you want to, Win?”

His expression darkened, making his patchwork of scars appear twisted. “Move over.”

She scuttled to the other side of the bed, and her back met with the pillows piled high behind her. To her surprise, he sank down and rested his head upon her lap. The warm weight of him seeped through her thin gown as he looked up at her, his winter eyes clear yet unreadable. Then he turned and curled in on her, his face pressing against the small swell of her lower belly. His breath left in a gust of warm air as he slowly lifted his hand. Everything in her stilled. The tips of his fingers stroked her, a violent shiver wracking his frame as he made contact.

Her chest tightened, and she blinked up at the ceiling, knowing that if she looked at his face just then she’d fall apart. His raspy voice drifted up through the thick silence. “Were you going to tell me?”