Free Brighid's Flame by Cate Morgan Page B

his forehead. One arm curved protectively about Tara’s shoulders, whose rough construction worker’s jacket swamped her small frame, the hood up to conceal her face. She rested against Stephen’s shoulder, her body tucked neatly at his side. His free hand slid into her overlong sleeve and cradled hers, his fingers smoothing across the dancing pulse in her wrist.
    â€œI haven’t been ill in a long time, Tara. Not since the night Gwen found us.”
    Tara’s head shifted, his voice drawing her out of her drowse. Her eyes were dull with weariness, lashes dry against her skin. She muffled a yawn against her sleeve and blinked up at him. “I know that, Stephen,” she replied, wondering where he was going with this.
    â€œThen why do you still act as though I’m going to drift away at almost any moment?” There was no accusation in his voice, only a genuine need to know.
    Tara considered the truth in his words, knowing he deserved an honest response. “I don’t know,” she finally said, looking up into intense, intelligent green eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”
    His hand slipped from her sleeve so he could touch her cheek. The crowd and rocking forced them to bundle closer together for privacy’s sake, their faces close to keep their voices within the intimate proximity of their head coverings. “I’m a complete man, Tara, healthy and whole. I know I don’t possess Julien’s obvious…vitality, but I’m educated, cultured, and—I’m told—not terribly difficult on the eyes.”
    No, he didn’t have Julien’s shining golden charisma. But neither did he have Julien’s capacity for greed or betrayal. Stephen possessed a beauty that was quite different, one not diminished when compared to Vincent Dante’s would-be usurper.
    She knew now that Julien’s gilt was only a mask to hide the tarnished truth of him, like a gold-plated nickel watch going for a twenty on any street corner in the city. Stephen’s gilt, though not as bright, shone all the more for being genuine. And if Julien hadn’t been there to draw her focus, if she’d insisted on knowing Vincent’s plans instead of making her own assumptions, she may have realized it sooner.
    â€œI think,” she said slowly, as the glacier of Julien’s actions filling her began to recede beneath Stephen’s warmth, if only a little, “the thing that scares me most out of all of this—all the changes, the secrets, Julien and the future—is the fear of losing you. I can’t bear the thought of it.”
    They sat, motionless and silent, for some time, Stephen’s warm, dry palm cupping her cold cheek. Then Stephen drew her closer still and brushed his lips against hers, seeking permission. Always the gentleman, her Stephen.
    Her Stephen.
    The grain of his chocolate corduroys pressed into her palm as the fingers of her other hand grazed his lower jaw with the most tentative of touches. His breath caught, and he exhaled her name. “Tara.”
    The train lurched, tearing them apart. They came to a screeching, stunning stop.
    Julien watched the surveillance video playing in a four-by-four square foot mockery of him over his marble office floor. Mockery, because none of his security force had been able locate his rogue guardian or her companion. His jaw ground heavily in frustration.
    â€œOh, she’s good,” Agent Carson observed as they witnessed, for the third time, Tara and Stephen reappear in different outerwear in the midst of the teeming throng migrating west from the Bloody Square. He didn’t bother disguising the admiration in his voice—there was no point.
    â€œThe Underground is helping them? Why?”
    Carson shook his head and turned away from the feed to address his boss’s furious heir. “Couldn’t say—you don’t suppose she knows something we don’t? Maybe