As her colleague, Hawker knew this. He’d seen her take down opponents, large and small, brutish and crafty. Yet as her lover—and, he thought with wonder and pride, her future husband—he couldn’t quell his surging protectiveness. His need to keep her safe.
“Just be careful,” he began.
“Now who is nagging?” The faint curve of her lips told him she was teasing. “Don’t fret, Hawker. This isn’t my first battle.”
“You know you could start calling me Grant.”
“Right now, you’re Hawker and I’m Peabody. And we’ve a job to do.”
She was right. But that didn’t stop him from stealing a kiss before they reviewed their plan. Hawker was taking the rear entrance. By now, Claude would suspect something was amiss as his lackeys hadn’t returned. He’d likely be hiding at the back of the house, and Hawker wanted first crack at the bastard. Pearl looked ready for action as well. Anticipation gleamed in her whisky eyes as she did a final check of her weapons: a pair of knives tucked in her boots, a pistol in her pocket, and a pair of silver darts tucked in her tidy, chestnut-brown bun.
“Ready?” she asked.
He cupped her cheek. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
When this was done, he never wanted to part from her again.
“I shall take that as a yes,” she said with wry humor. “See you inside.”
Then she was off, moving as stealthily as a shadow. He went in the opposite direction. The falling darkness gave him some cover, but he wasn’t aiming for subtlety. He wanted to create a distraction to give Pearl an advantage when she launched her attack. Spotting the pair of guards at the back door, he sprinted toward them, pistols drawn. He shot one in the side, the villain falling with a cry. Hawker dodged the other guard’s fire and slammed into the brute, knocking him to the ground. He drove his fists into his opponent’s face. Over the other’s groans, he heard the squeal of door hinges.
Instinct made Hawker dive off his opponent. A bullet buzzed through the air where he’d been heartbeats earlier, entering the guard’s chest with a sickening squelch. Hawker rolled to his feet, aiming his gun in the direction of the shooter.
Claude stood several feet away, holding a pair of pistols. Casually tossing aside his discharged weapon, he kept his gaze fixed on Hawker.
“Cousin Grant,” he drawled. “This is a surprise.”
Claude’s taunting voice hadn’t changed much. In fact, neither had Claude. He had the wiry version of the Reid build, his dark auburn hair elegantly pomaded, his face narrow and weasel-like. His foppish clothes and elegant manner couldn’t conceal the chilling ruthlessness in his pale green eyes.
Hawker kept his finger on the trigger. “If you come looking for trouble, you’ll find it, cousin.”
“Youhavechanged.” Claude smirked. “Grown some bollocks at last, eh?”
“You’ve two choices,” Hawker growled. “I suggest you take the first. Surrender and come with me to the magistrate.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you tried to have me killed. Your thugs will attest to it.”
“I’ll deny everything. It’ll be my word—the word of a gentleman—against theirs. You have no proof.”
Hawker itched to punch Claude’s smug face.
“You killed my father and ’alf-brothers too, didn’t you, you murderous bastard?”
“You know our family has a history of untimely deaths. It’s the Reid curse, I’m afraid. Why, recently, even my own brothers succumbed to it.”
This was the first Hawker had heard of his other cousins’ deaths. He was sickened but not surprised. “You murdered your own brothers?”
“Like I said, accidents happen.”
Claude shrugged, but the anticipatory quiver in his arm gave him away. Hawker dove to the side as his cousin fired, twisting mid-air to return the shot. He hit the ground with his shoulder, pain jolting from his wound, but the bullet missed him. Jumping to his feet, he saw his cousin hadn’t been so lucky.
Claude lay on his back, clutching his chest.
Hawker went over. Kicking Claude’s gun out of reach, he knelt beside his cousin and shoved the other’s hands aside to examine the injury. Blood gushed, but the bullet appeared to have missed Claude’s heart—it was possible that the bastard didn’t have one—and made a clean exit.
Tearing off his cravat, Hawker pressed it to the wound and applied pressure.
