Free In Your Arms Again by Kathryn Smith Page B

Harris to see that. Why would anyone think he could make a difference? Right now he certainly didn’t think he could.
    He couldn’t even keep a whore alive. What could he do for an entire country?
    It would mean facing society again. It might mean being granted entrance. It might mean acceptance. It might mean rejection as well.
    “I will think about it,” he mumbled.
    The expression on Duncan’s lean face was dubious at best. “That is what you always say.”
    It was. North shrugged. What was he expected to say? He couldn’t even think right now, let alone think of anything intelligent to say.
    “I have to go,” he said finally, rising to his feet. His legs were shaky—from the shock of hearing about Sally and Harris, no doubt. Over the years, North had seen plenty of death—victims, witnesses, criminals, and runners, but this was the first time he had ever lost one of his own men, and the first time he had failed to protect someone he’d sworn to keep safe. He felt the weight of their deaths as keenly as if he had run the blade across their throats himself.
    “Do you need someone to take you home?”
    North scowled. “I am not an invalid, Duncan. I believe I can survive the short walk back to my house.”
    If Duncan was taken aback by his sharp tone, he didn’t show it. “Suit yourself. I will let you know what evidence we turn up.”
    North nodded. There wouldn’t be any evidence. Harker would be certain of that. He would know that North would assume he was the culprit.
    “And North?” Duncan’s voice stopped him as he reached the door. He turned, saying nothing.
    “Be careful,” his friend and former employer urged, real concern coloring his tone. “If you press this investigation, Harker will eventually come after you.”
    North’s hand turned the doorknob. He smiled bitterly. “I hope so.” Right now, facing Harker was the one bright spot in his life—the one thing he had to truly look forward to. Catching criminals—the ones who honestly deserved to be caught—was what kept him going, what made his job worthwhile in the end. Putting an end to Harker’s career would be the only way Sally and Harris’s deaths would not be in vain.
    Outside the day was off to a bright and sunny start. It had rained the night before, giving the air a slight, fresh chill that was already losing ground to the warmth of the sun. Usually he loved these kinds of mornings, but the drying puddles beneath his feet were merely reminders that any evidence with Harris and Sally’s bodies would have been long lost, washed away with their blood, as insubstantial as their dying breaths.
    God damn Harker. He would make him pay for this.
    From Bow Street, it was a short walk back to his house. He walked slowly, his head filled with thoughts of Sally, Harris, and how he was going to nail Harker to the wall. His resolvegrew with the warming of the sun, and by the time he took a right on Russell Street, into the heart of Covent Garden, he was still struck full of mourning for both dead, but his complete sense of loss had been replaced by sheer determination. He would let neither Sally nor Harris die for naught.
    The market was bustling with activity, as it always was. A sense of joviality mixed with the frustration of poverty as business started for the day. As usual, the sight of it buoyed his heavy heart. He would mourn Harris and Sally, but he would not let the hate and anger cloud his perception. There was good in this world, and that was what he worked for.
    He exchanged some coin for wares with an orange girl and removed the peel as he neared his house, tossing the discarded rind into the gutter. He was home by the time he finished, his hands full of ripe fruit and sticky from his efforts.
    He had just taken a bite of the orange, spraying his face with the sweet juice, when someone called out his name.
    Turning on the steps to his front door, he was already reaching for the pistol strapped beneath his coat when he