Eve Silver (28 page)

He tightened his embrace, and she felt the coiled tension in the arms that held her.

“Trent will only allow us fifteen minutes,” she choked out, her voice muffled in the folds of his shirt.

Taking a step back, Damien held her at arm’s length, but did not break contact, keeping the fingers of one hand curled around her shoulder. He watched her intently, running the side of his thumb along her cheek.

“My God,” he whispered brokenly, disbelief etched on his face, “you are truly here.”

She turned her face into his hand, and pressed her lips to his palm, her eyes never leaving his.

“Of course I am.” The words caught on a sob. She clung to him, her hands fisting the loose material of his shirt as she struggled for control. Leaning forward, she rested her weight against him, taking comfort from his solid form and sharing her own strength in return. “I came to tell Trent that he should concentrate his efforts elsewhere.”

She felt his lips curve where they pressed against the top of her head. Drawing back enough to look upon his face, she found him smiling tiredly at her weak quip.

“I know who you are, Damien Cole. You are not a killer.”

“You unman me,” he rasped, his voice taut with barely suppressed emotion. “When Trent pulled the scalpel from his bag—” He paused, his expression pained. “Darcie, I am not the monster that Trent would paint me.”

“Shhh.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. “You need not defend yourself to me.” Hot tears snaked a path along her cheeks.

Damien made a strangled sound, low in his throat. “Do not cry for me. I do not deserve your tears.”

She shook her head from side to side. So many words tumbled to the fore, eager to be spoken, but she couldn’t seem to wrap her tongue around a single one. Instead, all she could do was stand before him, silent sobs wracking her frame.

“I…
huh, huh
…I—I came to reassure you.” She released a shuddering breath as she struggled for control. “T-t-to offer comfort and support”—she lifted her arm, drawing his attention to the basket—”and food.”

The corner of his mouth curved in the hint of a smile. He took the basket from her and set it on the table, the fingers of one hand laced with hers. He drew her with him as though he was loath to let her go. Turning, he stared down at her, his gray eyes fathomless. “I have let you down.” A hiss of frustration escaped his lips. “My promises of protection are as worthless as lead coins, as worthless as those I made to Theresa. I cannot even protect myself from false accusations.”

She flung herself against him, twining her fingers through his hair, tugging on the silky strands. At her silent urging, he lowered his lips to hers. Oh, the feeling of him against her. Warm, strong, alive. She would not lose him to this madness.

Darcie poured her love into him, opening to his caress, meeting the thrust of his tongue with a poignant and sharp urgency. His big hand stroked the length of her back, coming to rest on her buttock, pulling her closer. With a soft whimper she molded herself to his frame, trying to achieve a closeness that would sustain them until this nightmare ended. The dingy room faded from her awareness, and there was only Damien, solid and strong.

They stood still, silent, wrapped together as one, drawing strength from one another.

A series of sharp raps sliced through the silence as Inspector Trent, or perhaps the guard, sounded a warning on the door. How long did they have left? Five minutes? Three? Darcie choked back a strangled moan.

“Shhh.” Damien pressed one last kiss to her lips, and then drew back. She watched the subtle shift in his expression, the tightening of his mouth as he studied her face. She knew her cheeks were pale, her eyes shadowed by purple crescents of fatigue. She sighed.

“Darcie, listen to me. There is one protection I can offer.” His tone was resolute. “If aught goes awry, there are funds—”

“No,” she cried, turning her face aside so he would not see the renewed rush of tears that filled her eyes. “Nothing will happen to you. Nothing. This is all a terrible mistake. A miscarriage of justice. They will realize it. They will.” She blinked against the beads of moisture on her lashes. “Trust me.”

“Trust you.” He whispered the words as though they held some secret meaning.

Reaching up, Darcie cupped his face with her palm, at a loss for words.

“You, who know the darker side of life and the nature of men, you still believe in the good.” It was not a question, though his tone was incredulous.

Darcie leaned forward, resting her cheek against his warm chest, rubbing it back and forth. She thought of Steppy and his bitter betrayal of her, the memory of his terrible treachery like a yoke about her shoulders, and she thought of her own sister, Abigail, whose trust in a man had led to her devastation.

“How can you trust a man who is held on suspicion of murder?” Damien rasped, mistaking her silence. The question hovered, the stark reality of this terrible situation laid bare with a few simple words.

“I—” she began, but her words died as the door opened with a creak and Inspector Trent stepped into the small space.

“Your time is up.”

Darcie sent a single agonized glance at Damien, wishing there was one moment more to share the touch of a hand, the warmth of an embrace, the passion of a kiss. Oh, God, when would she see him again?

Chapter Fifteen

 Damien took a step back, the tension pulsing from him in waves. Darcie felt the loss like the slice of a blade. She glared at Inspector Trent. “Just a little more time,” she said.

But Trent only beckoned to the guard she had seen earlier. “Johnson, take Dr. Cole to the other room. I’d like a word with Miss Finch.” Returning his attention to Darcie, he continued, “I have questions. I had intended to come and see you this morning. You have saved me the trip.”

Stepping forward, Damien used his body to shield her. “She has nothing to do with this,” he said.

With his head tipped to one side and a sardonic expression on his face, Trent studied Damien for a protracted instant. “That may be the case, but I shall speak with her all the same.”

Sensing some undercurrent passing between the two men, Darcie stepped between them. “Please,” she said, resting one hand on Damien’s arm. “I have nothing to hide, and if any information I may unwittingly provide helps bring the
real
murderer”—she shot a speaking glance at Inspector Trent—”to justice, then I am happy to comply.”

The inspector’s lips curved in a hard smile. “Your kitten has claws, Cole.”

“I am no one’s kitten,” Darcie said firmly. “But I do have claws. And intelligence enough to recognize a man’s innocence.”

Trent inclined his head. “Your conviction and faith are admirable. For your sake, Miss Finch, I hope they are not misplaced.”

Darcie sucked in a breath, angry at Trent’s tone, for he seemed to imply that she had foolishly sided with a guilty man. Holding back an angry tirade, recognizing that Trent’s intent was to befuddle and confuse her in order to extract information she might otherwise choose not to reveal, she turned to the guard, Johnson, and gestured toward the basket on the table. “Please, take that with you. Surely you have no intention of starving an innocent man?”

When the guard hesitated, she turned her head and looked over her shoulder at Inspector Trent. He nodded his agreement, and Johnson lifted the basket. Her heart wrenched as Damien moved past her, pausing to brush his thumb gently across her cheek. She longed to fling herself against him and sob out her terror and despair. It was so difficult to put on a brave face.

Damien’s eyes met Trent’s, and again something passed between the two men, a powerful current that pulsed with meaning. Damien’s expression was not exactly threatening, but something about the way he looked at the inspector held a warning. Lord, the man was vexing. He was not in a position to try and protect her, and angering the inspector was certainly not a worthy plan. She glanced nervously at Trent and found him regarding Damien with what appeared to be grudging respect.

Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, Damien preceded the guard and left the room.

“He is very protective of you,” Inspector Trent observed as he pulled one of the chairs away from the bare table and gestured for Darcie to sit. “I wonder, is his concern for you, or for what you might reveal?”

He was baiting her. She pressed her lips together, determined to speak only when she must, for though her instinct was to continue to bombard the inspector with avowals of Damien’s innocence, she realized now that it would do little good. The man had a job to do, and he would do it in his own time, in his own way. Living on the streets had taught her patience—sometimes one had to wait for hours before the opportunity to pinch a potato from a stall presented itself—and at this moment she was heartily glad of those lessons.

“What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Dr. Cole, Miss Finch?” Trent asked, taking the seat opposite her, dangling his hands between his parted knees. There was an edge of sarcasm to his words, an unspoken implication that he knew quite a bit about the nature of her and Damien’s relationship. One more tactic meant to unsettle her.

“I am his assistant.” She met his gaze, keeping her answer as concise as possible.

The inspector leaned against the seat back. “How do you assist him?”

“I draw.”

“What exactly do you draw?” There was a thread of impatience there now.

“Pictures.” She kept her tone even, calm. In the alleys of Whitechapel she had faced more frightening threats than Inspector Trent.

After a moment’s pause, Trent changed his tack. “You said that your sister was acquainted with Sally Booth. Did you know her?”

“Yes.”

Trent waited a heartbeat, and seeing that she would not elaborate he continued, “How did you come to meet her?”

“I accompanied Dr. Cole to my sister’s home where he treated a carbuncle on Sally’s leg.”

Resting his forearms on his thighs, the inspector leaned closer. Darcie swallowed, and edged back in her seat, pressing her spine against the seat back.

“Sally worked for your sister?”

Darcie nodded.

“Did you work for your sister?”

Her gaze shot to his. “No.”

Inspector Trent smiled tightly. “I meant no offence.”

He
had
meant offence. Not maliciously, she thought, but rather as a means to an end. He meant to chip away at her until she revealed some secret that he could use against Damien. Clenching her hands in the folds of her skirt to hide their quaking, Darcie bit back a reply.

“How did Dr. Cole behave on the occasion you saw Miss Booth at your sister’s home?”

Darcie stared at him. “He behaved like a doctor.”

“Did he seem agitated? Angry?”

“No.”

“Has he ever behaved oddly?” the inspector asked.

“I don’t know what you mean by oddly.” Darcie met his gaze unflinchingly.

Inspector Trent nodded. “Fair enough. Did you see Dr. Cole on the night Sally Booth was murdered?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

Darcie was carried back to that night. She could see Damien’s bloodied shirt, licked by flames as he tossed it in the fireplace. Mayna’s blood, splashed on Damien as he struggled to save the girl’s life. Whatever suspicions Darcie had harbored that the blood was Sally’s were gone now. Had anything out of the ordinary happened that night? Nothing that should interest Inspector Trent.

“No, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary,” she stated firmly.

Darcie leaned forward. He did not retreat, and they sat, inches apart, caught in a silent contest of wills.

“Has anything happened that would cause you to say that you fear Dr. Cole? Any strange happenstance, however inconsequential you might think it?”

Darcie hesitated, thinking of the attack on Mary, and her bizarre conviction that the assault had some bearing on the murders. She could feel the scrap of cloth she had found in Damien’s chamber, still tucked up in her sleeve. She thought about revealing her concerns to Trent, considered the possibility that he would follow the lead and search for the true perpetrator of the crimes.

Sensing the shift in her mood, Trent attacked with the speed of a striking cobra.

“Tell me.” He shifted even closer. She could smell coffee on his breath. “
Tell me!
Do not protect that monster. Think of Sally Booth, her heart ripped from her breast. Think of Margaret Bailey, her body slit open like a gutted fish.”

Darcie turned her face away, the horror of his words too vivid to be borne. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping her breakfast inside of her as it wriggled and turned in her belly, threatening to climb up her throat. Whatever she said now, he would twist it back on Damien. She swallowed and turned toward him once more, her tone even, her words steady. “Inspector Trent, there is nothing I can tell you about these terrible crimes, save that Damien Cole is not capable of murder. I would stake my life on it.”

Something flickered in his expression at her words. “Stake your life on it?” he mused, leaning back in his chair. “You may very well be doing just that.”

Clapping his palms down on his thighs, Inspector Trent bent forward at the waist, bringing his face close to hers. He opened his mouth to speak, eyes flashing his ire, when a knock at the door interrupted him. He made a sharp sound of impatience.

Darcie watched nervously as he rose and strode to the door. Fragments of his low-voiced conversation drifted to her. She heard a name, Margaret Bailey, and another, Mrs. Zeona Brightly. The first was one of the murdered women. She furrowed her brow in concentration as she tried to recall why the second name sounded familiar.

Inspector Trent returned to her side. She could feel his presence, feel his eyes on her, though she shifted her gaze and held it fixed on her clasped hands. After a moment, he spoke.

“Please come with me.”

Maintaining an outwardly calm demeanor even as her heart pounded in her breast, Darcie rose. She made a show of shaking out her skirt, buying herself time to rein in her heightened emotions as she wondered where he was taking her. Trent gestured for her to precede him out the door.