“No, no, it’s…Cordelia isn’tmarried.” Miranda almost laughed, because the idea was…unthinkable. He had to be mistaken. “Nothing was planned until months from now.”
His harsh brow furrowed, “Strange. I read only just this morning that the pair eloped.”
Miranda’s heart squeezed and the blood drained from her skin. “She…what?”
Alderman North continued as if his wordshadn’tknocked the wind from her. “Elopement. The announcement was inthe papers this morning. I don’t forget and I’m rarely wrong. Though I’m surprised you weren’t aware, as her sister. Perhaps a long night has kept you from your family?” His gaze slid to Devin, and there was no smile or sneer, but somehow she was certain he knew what had kept her away the previous night. If she were not in the midst of panic, she might have cared.
“I…” she reached out to steady herself, for a wall, a chair, anything. A warm hand caught her and Miranda fell into Devin’s strong, solid body.
“Thanks, North, was it?” Devin interrupted, drawing a sharp look from the Alderman, “It’s been a pleasure, but I think I’d better see the lady home now.” Devin’s voice was clipped, impatient.
Miranda’s legs weren’t working properly. She felt wobbly. Unstable. Devin guided her out of the building and began to hail a cab for them with his free arm, his other remained wrapped around her waist.
“It’s alright, Mira. We’ll get to the bottom of this. It has to be a misunderstanding.”
“Or, Graves has found a way to kidnap my sister without raising suspicion.” Her chest felt hollow, raw. Had she eaten today? Her head started to swim, the world blurring into a mess of colors.
“Mira?” Devin caught her as she swayed. “Mira, hold on.”
He lifted her, tucking her against his chest like she was fragile. She wasn’t fragile…but maybe she could be for the moment. She set her ear against his chest, soothed by the sound of his heart that drowned the rest of the world. Devin’s voice was muffled and indistinct. She sensed him lift her into a cab, sensed him cradle her in his arms, his cheek on her head and his hands attempting soothing, stroking motions.
Had she eaten today?
Miranda’s last conscious thought was of Cordelia, and the overwhelming fear that she was too late to save her.
Chapter Eleven
TheridethroughtheGarrison was hell. It wasn’t the fear of losing Miranda that tortured Devin with each sway and dip of the carriage, it was how scared and useless he felt despite being certain that she would recover. She was breathing, whole, her aura strong as ever—though a muddied panicked shade of violet was coiling around her like an oil spill in clear water.
It was likely just the overtaxing of her emotions combined with little sleep and no breakfast that caused her to collapse into his arms. All Miranda needed was some water, a hearty meal, and to check on her sister. With any luck, North had been misinformed and Cordelia would be happy and well when they arrived.
Yet, there was a tremble in his hands and dread had locked around his heart, squeezing with each frantic pulse. What was he supposed to do?
He held her. That much was simple. He tried to soothe her, but aside from a gentle stroke of his hand he didn’t know what else he could offer her.
When the driver had asked for the destination, Devin briefly considered givinghisaddress in the Garrison. A brief, selfish impulse to keep her to himself, as if he were responsible for her welfare and he alone held the right to her care—however out of his depth. But it’s not where she needed to be. Miranda would want to check on her sister. She needed to go home. And he was her only means to get there.
Biting out the words, he had supplied her address and tried to keep calm. In a practical sense, there was nothing he could do. But in an emotional sense his body was shooting out adrenaline that settled in his limbs as nervous energy with no outlet. And he cared, so much more than he thought possible, that she opened her eyes again.
He didn’t know where they stood with each other, not with any certainty. The words that would label his relation to her were murky, unclear, and who-the-hell-knows. Though, the words that might fithisattachment were closer to consuming, maddening, and too-deep-to-recover.
For as long as he could keep this going, he wanted to be with Miranda. It was pointless to pretend otherwise. Somehow, she had twisted her knives into all his buried, locked away pieces and pried them free with as much care and force as explosive powder excavating a mine. If he lost her, orwhenhe lost her, there would be nothing left but gaping holes and he didn’t think he was strong enough to attempt to patch them this time.
All through that blasted meeting with Gideon he’d had to stop himself from taking her hand or pulling her closer. Touch, as he knew it, had always been a tool for either violence or sex and the idea of wanting to feel her skin just for the warmth of it, because that warmth trickled into him and somehow made theache lighter, soothed the doubt and self-deprecating voices of his inner demons, was as foreign to him as tea services and dinner parties.
Her aura had been steadfast in Gideon’s office and his touch had only elicited colors of comfort or joy. But even his Sight could be misleading. His mother had always burned with one singular, solid color over all others, a maternal pink that flared whenever she was with him. But it wasn’t enough. Her love for him never wavered while all her other colors grew muted, dull. Her care and ability to show him affection weren’t stronger than the weight of everything else.
And colors of emotion could be fickle. Strong one minute, gone the next. Even a strong emotion might be ignored or pushed aside if they conflicted with someone’s goals or ingrained beliefs. As a teenager he’d watched auras pulse with desire for him, even as they sneered and mocked him. Or a stranger’s snap of pitying cyan before pretending they hadn’t noticed him. Gideon was a master of changing colors. Crimson-indigo-vermillion-violet. He could whisk through several fleeting emotions in the span of a moment.
Devin’s heart ached to hope.
The carriage finally stopped outside her home. He felt her stir and called to her softly to no answer. Oh well, looks like it was the front door then. He steeled himself for the rage that was sure to hit him when he knocked on the Wilde’s door with their run-away daughter unconscious in his arms.
He kicked the door in the pattern of a knock, since his arms were occupied, and the butler answered with a look that suggested he did not appreciate his master’s door being kicked, no matter how practical.
“Can I hel—” The butler’s eyes landed on Miranda and a burst of alarming goldenrod blinded Devin for a moment. “Miss Wilde!”
The butler leaned, reaching out as if to save her from the scary villain, but Devin pulled away. Villain he may be, but he refused to let them take her inside and shut him out. He intended to be there when she opened her eyes, whether the Wilde’s wanted him or not.
