Graham’s laugh was bitter. “I lost him. The courier is gone.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “We did not come for the courier.”
He looked at her.
“We came for the handoff,” she said, and opened her reticule.
In her palm lay the small, round token—dark metal, warm from her skin, stamped with a simple mark she had come to know all to well. A tiny forget-me-not.
Graham stared at it, then exhaled. “You have it,” he said.
“I have it,” she echoed. “And Ashdown wanted you chasing shadows while Mordaunt tried to pry it from me.”
Graham’s hands curled into fists against his knees.
Eleanor leaned forward, voice softer. “You chose me instead of a chase.”
Graham’s gaze dropped. “I made a choice.”
“You made the right one,” she said.
His eyes met hers, haunted, angry, exhausted. “You do not understand what it costs when my heart interferes.”
“I understand exactly,” Eleanor replied. “It means you will never stop fighting for me. I do not want a machine, Graham. I want you.”
Silence stretched as the carriage rattled over cobbles.
Graham’s anger cooled into something harder. He would never stop loving her. His only option was to make that truth useful. He let out a slow breath. “We try again,” he said.
Eleanor reached across the gap and took his hand, grip firm. “Yes. We try again. And we take comfort in knowing that we prevented this token from falling into the wrong hands.”
Graham squeezed back controlled and certain.
Outside, London flickered by in shades of indigo and gold. Inside, blood dried, plans tightened, and two hearts beat a dangerous, synchronized rhythm.
The consequences would wait until morning. For tonight, Graham held on and did not let go.
Chapter 12
They were safe in the carriage, until they were not.
The ride back from Mayfair had been quiet, the kind of strained quiet that followed adrenaline and victory and the knowledge that victory always demanded its price. Graham sat opposite Eleanor with his shoulders squared and his jaw set, one hand braced on the seat as the wheels rattled over cobbles. He had kept his voice low, insisting on calm, insisting on later.
Eleanor had believed him.
She had even allowed herself a single breath of relief as the lanterns thinned and the streets narrowed toward the mews.
Then the carriage slowed.
Not the normal deceleration before a turning, but a checked, reluctant drag, as if the driver had been forced to rein in.
Graham’s head snapped up.
A shout sounded outside, the clipped bark of authority. “Ho there! In the King’s name, stop!”
Eleanor’s heart hammered, her hands shaking.
Graham moved first, fingers going toward the latch, then stopping. He listened instead, the way he always did when he suspected a trap.
