Still St. Silas stood motionless where he was, pistol clenched tightly in his hand. “I’d much rather fight.”
Leena threw him a sharp glance, but there was no time to ask any questions. “What are you doing?” She grabbed him by the arm and tugged him toward the tomb, but he would not budge. “St. Silas!”
“…the tomb—” His voice was strangled.
“Will beourfinal resting place if we don’t move now.” Leena spoke between her teeth, pulling at his hand with all her strength. “Don’t force your haunting on me.”
At this, he startled and stared down at her. Swallowing harshly, he nodded. Leena wasted no time in following him, squeezing herself into the tight space, wondering how they’d manage to fit all three of themin.
“Come on, Rami,” she urged, her breathing harsh.
Rami shook his head even as he started to move the cover above them. “Someone has to push the lid over you.”
“No—”
“I owe you both, for that night with the Black Coats.”
“Rami—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, with the glint of a feral grin. “I’ll find somewhere to hide.”
“Rami—”
It was too late. He pushed his weight against the stone lid, plunging them into darkness save for a tiny slit for air. Rami extinguished the last remaining lamp, then came the sound of scattered footsteps running.
Silence.
Leena counted her own wild heartbeats.
One. Two. Three—
Sudden brilliant light speared the space between coffin and lid.
Voices.
Leena prayed furiously that Rami was hidden.
She was aware that she was pressed closely against St. Silas as the tomb seemed smaller than average, designed to fit a small person—a child?
St. Silas took up most of that space. Her cheek lay against his hard chest while she continued to count with the rhythm of his breathing. He was warm, in a way that made Leena want to tunnel closer to him until he had suffused her entirely. Without realizing it, her hands were gripping his shirt as if her body was afraid to be torn from his, and she had to consciously unlatch her fingers.
Seven. Eight. Nine—
Leena was not expecting the distinctly rough voice that echoed in the chamber to be that of Mr. Martin, followed closely by Lord Kilworth’s. She stifled her gasp against St. Silas’s shoulder.
“…Orley offers the best guarantee. I won’t go over his head for some harebrained scheme of yours.”
A cultured accent, slippery as oil.Kilworth.“Why go through a middleman? Why sell the Tar to the Black Coats when it wasyourboat that took the risk to smuggle it, and it wasmycapital that bought it in the first place?”
Leena’s brows shot up.Tar?They were smugglingdrugs?
Martin snorted. “Canyoupackage that Tar and convert it from powder to liquid? Bribe the soldiers to look the other way? Will it be yourself who is selling it on the streets?” He cleared his throat—a loud wet sound that echoed. “Stick to hunting, Kilworth. Do not overextend yourself.”
A tense silence.
“That’sLordKilworth, Martin,” His Lordship corrected disdainfully.
A pause, then Martin’s reluctant apology.
