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Chapter 18

She hated running when it was hot.

Alessandra would have much preferred to have to don a jacket and gloves to battle freezing cold temperatures on a run, as miserable as that was, than have sweat beading on her face like it was now. But after her talk with Birdie, she needed the release.

Pressing her earbuds more firmly into her ears, she marveled at how quickly the scenery around her changed. The river’s bend was usually a milestone for her runs. Now she’d passed it with little effort. Not even the stifling heat slowed her pace or quickened her breaths.

Because I am a Cheld.

Pushing thoughts of Kenton aside, she turned Birdie’s words over and over again in her mind. The acquaintance she’d spoken to about the Cheld had thought the word’s origins were grounded in a story about Simon of Winchester, although she didn’t know much more. From there, Birdie had done some research of her own. The thirteenth-century tavern keeper’s headless body had been found in a coal storage area. It was the first in a string of similar murders in London’s Ironmonger Lane. None of the heads, she’d said, were ever found.

That the Cheld was connected to such a gruesome tale naturally concerned Birdie and Toni.

She could ask Kenton about the connection. He knew more than he’d told her thus far, which only strengthened her resolve to find out more. But she didn’t want to be the one to call first. Something was . . . off . . . about the way he left.

Alessandra turned around and began running back. To think a week ago her biggest concern had been putting together a syllabus for a history class. Her life had become a history lesson—one with impossible stakes.

“Holy shit, Kenton!”

He came around the bend from nowhere, and Alessandra nearly slammed into him before stopping short.

Bending down to grasp the tops of her knees, she realized the gesture was more habit than anything. She wasn’t really tired at all.

“Sorry,” he said, taking a step toward her.

“Oh, no.” Alessandra tried to put some distance between them.

“Oh, yes,” he said, grabbing her arm. Hauling her against his chest, Kenton slammed his lips against hers. The scent of him burned a path down her chest. The shadow of whiskers on his face scratched against her cheeks.

Like a deluge of water after a long run, Kenton’s kiss was exactly what she’d needed. But if this continued for much longer, a repeat of the incident with the guard awaited them. This path, made for walkers and runners, was hardly private. It pained her that she almost didn’t care. What had this man done to her?

“Why do you pull away?” he said, his arms encircling her like a vise.

A part of her wanted to stay this way forever. Another part of her wanted to slap him. She didn’t like feeling so needy, so enamored.

“Why didn’t you call yesterday?” The need to be direct had pushed the words out of her mouth.

He loosened his grip enough to look down at her.

“I had some thinking to do.”

Stepping away and grasping her hand, he began to walk back toward town as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the two of them hand in hand. Together.

In a way, it was.

“There’s more that I need to tell you,” he said, a hint of danger in his voice. The danger did not come from him, she could tell, but it did frighten him.

“Good, because there’s more that I need to ask.”

He squeezed her hand, his eyes giving her a sidelong glance that sent shivers down her spine. “I would have you understand the conflict between my family and Lawrence’s.” He paused. “It’s hard for many people to imagine it now, but the border between Scotland and England was a dangerous place when I was a young man. Rockford sat in the borderlands, in the midst of it all. There was a thirty-year treaty that kept it relatively safe, but toward the end of that time, the situation descended into chaos.”

“Why?” she asked. Her interest piqued at the opportunity to talk history with someone who had actually freaking lived it. Her own research had not brought her that far north. She knew more about the years after the time Kenton spoke of, when Robert the Bruce had initiated the end of English rule.

“A good question, and not really pertinent to my story. Suffice it to say it stemmed from a few men’s greed and divided loyalties, which sometimes saw families from both sides of the border joining forces through familial bonds.”

The train whistle signaled a temporary end to their conversation. Once the train rolled by them, Kenton continued his story.

“There was a raid on Derrickson land. Alec led a hot trod back across the border, into England.”