Page 44 of Immortal Rose

“No,” he bit out. “No. We’ll walk to—to Foxcourt House. It’s not far.”

Foxcourt gritted his teeth, patting at his jacket with his free hand. From a hidden pocket, his trembling fingers pulled out a handkerchief and a small black bottle—a flacon of Rosebourne perfume. He dropped the latter into the muddied grass with a curse.

I retrieved the bottle for him. The first hint of the perfume revealed itself before I removed the stopper. It was an invigorating herbal blend of rosemary and peppermint, with a warm, sweet shimmer of magic.

He gripped my wrist, lifting the bottle toward his face and inhaling deeply. A powerful shudder rolled through him, and his eyes fluttered shut.

A breath later, the telltale warmth of magic curled in my own chest, shimmering through my blood. Unable to resist its drugging pull, I trailed some of the perfume up my forearm, until my skin felt encased by sunlight. The magic spread sparkling tendrils through me, pushing out the smoke from my lungs, easing the ache in my throat. My exhaustion receded, leaving me clearheaded and steadied.

I reached for the earl before he could pull away, turning his gloved hand up toward me. He tried to tug it free, but just then, I was stronger. I pushed the layers of ruined clothing up his arm, and heat—the magic, no doubt—kissed my cheeks, gifting me an almost drunken feeling of power as I revealed him: the hard muscle, veins, a dusting of dark hair. A spark seemed to leap from my fingertip as I drew a featherlight touch of the perfume onto the hot velvet of his skin.

Foxcourt pulled his arm back as though I had scalded him, clearing his throat roughly.

“The Healer’s Hand,” he said, and I was relieved to find that he sounded more like his usual ornery self.

His gray gaze was clearer now, too, darkening to that of cut steel as he surveyed the burning wreckage of the curricle. Foxcourt smoothed a hand back over his mussed hair, and it was impossible to tell if he was angrier at himself or whoever had attempted to kill us.

A morbid curiosity overcame me. “Why did it take so long to detonate?”

“There was most likely a fuse hidden near one of the wheels, as it was on your grandfather’s coach. The park’s gravel can spark if it strikes the wheels with enough force, lighting the fuse. The earlier rain meant less loose gravel, but we were likely saved by the simple luck of a long fuse.”

“And the linseed oil?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“I believe the fuse was coated with it, as was the explosive’s casing. Boiled linseed oil can waterproof cloth while still remaining highly flammable,” he said. “There . . . wasn’t much left of Rosebourne’s coach to study.”

I sidestepped that dark thought. “Foxcourt, who is behind this? Why won’t you just come out with it?”

“Because all you truly need to know,” he said, the words searing, “is that I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

“Until I’ve completed Immortal Rose,” I finished. When this business between us would, mercifully, be at its end.

He nodded, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We’d best make for Foxcourt House.”

I gave him a doubtful look. “Are you certain you’ll be all right to walk?”

“Lockwood”—he lowered his hand—“do you really believe I’d risk lying at a time like this?”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, giving him one last narrow look. It wasn’t a show of martyred stoicism, then. “Besides, when has a man ever suffered in silence?”

A bark of surprised laughter made me turn, but Foxcourt had already moved past me, walking stiffly in the direction the curricle had been heading. Realizing I wasn’t behind him, he glanced back.

“Well?” he called, arching a brow.

It was strange the way my heart fluttered then, alive with dread and anticipation, making each step toward him feel more fateful than the last.

“I will protect you,” Foxcourt murmured as I walked beside him. “You need only to concern yourself with the perfume.”

And, together, we made our way through the waking streets of Linden.

Part Two

The Queen of Flowers

Chapter Ten

Of all the many ways I’d been rudely woken over the last week—bellowing from the street below my flat, the slam of cell doors, the reek of a poxed guard striding down the hall—it was the sudden smell of fur and a warm, wet tongue licking my nose that startled me most.

My eyes snapped open, and for one disorienting moment, I couldn’t recall where I was or why my body ached like I’d parted company with a horse mid-gallop.