Max grimaced. "Again. You would think at some point they would start to find us boring."
"Hardly. I think they live in hope they can report something incestuous." She and Max shared another grimace.
"Do people actually ask that?" Kelcey asked. "I thought I was the uncouth one."
"No, you are really quite more civilized than most of society," Mavin said. "Why do you think I was so eager to call you a friend?"
Kelcey smiled. "I'm fairly certain that was because you believed you could coax me into punching Lord Fair."
"Are you still haranguing that man?" Max demanded.
Mavin shrugged. "He never stops needing to be punched, and I can only do it so many times myself. But enough of that. We are going up to the waterfall later. You should come along. Get some fresh air, a brisk walk. Be good for you."
"No, it bloody would not," Max replied. "I spent three years living in a tent. I am not going to spend more time outdoors than I must. You three may enjoy yourselves; I am returning to my room to read in peace." He gathered his books and rose, paused at Kelcey's seat to lean down and kiss him briefly before letting himself out and heading down the hall toward the stairs, then up another hall toward his own room.
He heard the footsteps coming up behind him, moving swiftly, stepped aside to get out of the way of whoever was hurrying along. A hand fell heavy on his shoulder, jerked him around, and Max barely opened his mouth to protest before he was punched in the face. He tasted blood from a split lip as he stumbled back. He tried to wipe tears from his eyes, regain his footing, but those rough hands grabbed him again, slammed him into the wall, then knocked him to the floor. The man hauled him to his feet. Dazed and in pain, Max could not muster a struggle as he was dragged down the hall.
His captor dug Max's room key from his jacket, and then hauled Max inside and across the room to the table. Max tried to twist free, jerk and kick—and was backhanded for his trouble, then punched in the stomach. Max dropped to the floor, curled in on himself, tried to breathe.
The man hauled him up into a chair, then pulled strips of rough, dirty cloth from his pockets and tied Max's hands and feet to the chair. He clapped Max's cheek as he stood up, giving an ugly little laugh. "Always fun tying up you fancy buggers. The looks on your faces, like you're more offended than afraid. No sense at all, you lot."
"Go to hell," Max replied, but the rest of what he might have said was forestalled by the opening of the door. The man from before, with the sharp blue eyes and ragged clothes, prowled toward him. What was his name? Max could not recall. He handed a small fold of notes to the hotel footman, waited for him to leave before turning his attention to Max. "What the bloody hell do you want?" Max asked.
"Given your position, I would attempt to recall manners, my lord," the man said. Timothy Kerr—that was the bastard's name. Kerr pulled another chair from the table and positioned it so he sat directly in front of Max, though too far away for Max to get at him easily even if he could move. "I confess I am curious as to how our dear Church managed to wed himself to the brother of the Duchess of Armount. I have been abroad too long."
Max glared. "What the fuck do you want? Come to your point or bugger off."
"Oh, he did pick a feisty one, didn't he? That does not surprise me," Kerr replied. "I require his services. He is not going to agree to help, despite the generous amount I offered to pay him. Since he's proven uncooperative I will have to force the matter. I watched you in the sunroom, and I saw the look on his face when I accused him of being in love."
In love? Ridiculous. "You're assuming an awful lot. Are you always this reckless? It's a wonder to me you're still alive."
"I am never reckless. I know a weakness ripe for exploiting when I see it. Church really should have known better. If he'd done what I asked, everyone would be in a better mood right now."
"Does the money you offered to pay include compensation for being forced to listen to your tiresome prattle?" Max asked—and grunted when that got him another slap. His face had not hurt this badly when he'd tripped and slammed face-first into a marble wall.
Kerr kicked him, and slowly Max looked up at him again. "It makes no never mind to me whether or not he returns here to find you alive or dead."
"If you kill me he most certainly will not do whatever it is you want," Max replied. "Murder tends to complicate matters."
"You are charmingly naïve of nefarious doings," Kerr replied. "I bet it makes Church stupidly protective of you. Makes me want to break you. Behave or I will leave you here with your throat slit, and Kelcey will do my bidding to ensure the same fate does not befall your sister and her absurd little husband."
"Touch my sister—"
"And you'll do what? Scowl at me until I die of boredom?" Kerr snorted and stood up. He pulled a sealed envelope from his jacket and tucked it into the edge of Max's jacket, where it would be immediately seen by whoever chanced upon him. He then worked Max's cravat loose and stuffed it into his mouth.
Kerr patted his cheek, then left. He locked the door and shoved the key under it. Max stared at it, tried to hold fast to his anger.
But the fear was quickly overcoming it. He'd read of this precise situation in any number of those stupid books while huddled in his tent avoiding a rainstorm, or when he was simply too miserable to fall asleep. The characters in those books were always able to cut themselves loose, or work their hands free, then gathered up a discarded or secreted pistol and charged to the rescue.
Max could not do any of that. His face hurt, his stomach still ached from where that bastard had punched him, his wrists were already beginning to bruise from the rough rags and his ankles were no better. He had no way of working free or cutting himself loose. He could not even cry for help.
Even being accosted on the street by the bastards who had stolen his pistol had not been so frightening. He hadn't felt
helpless
.
How long was he going to be stuck there? Hopefully Mavin did not decide to go on one of her longer expeditions. If they were gone the whole day instead of only a couple of hours he would lose his mind.
The very last thing he thought he would do was fall asleep, but as the burst of energy from fear and anger abated, it was shockingly easy to close his eyes and ignore his own fear by way of a restless doze.
He jerked awake, fear ratcheting back up, when he heard a key in the lock. Tried to manage some sort of noise as it opened and Kelcey stepped in, a smile on his face as he swept the room—
"Max!" Kelcey dropped the package he was holding and bolted across the room, pulled a knife from his boot (how he had never noticed Kelcey carried a knife?), and slit the rags. Removing the one in Max's mouth, he pulled Max out of the chair and into his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"
Max nodded against Kelcey's chest, too busy trembling to answer.
"Come on," Kelcey said quietly, and led him over to the bed. He settled Max on the edge of it and softly kissed his brow before slipping away. Max watched him walk over to the bar and pour a small measure of gin into a glass. Returning to the bed, he pressed the glass into Max's hands. "Drink."
Max drained the glass in one smooth swallow. Dropping the glass to the floor, he glared at Kelcey. "What in the bloody
fucking
hell is going on? Why the fuck did I just spend the past few
hours
tied to a chair? Why is my life being threatened because of you?" Shoving away from Kelcey, he shuffled stiffly across the room and behind the silk screen to relieve himself.
When he was done, he stripped to the waist and went over to wash up at the basin, pouring cold water and picking up a sliver of vanilla-scented soap. He went still when Kelcey's hands covered his. "Let me call for hot water. Come here." He led Max back to the bed, caressing his face lightly, then went to the bell pull and tugged it three times.
Returning to Max again, he curled his hands over Max's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I don't—this wasn't supposed to happen."
"I would like to know what is going on," Max said. "That man, Timothy Kerr, did this to me." He frowned at the expression that flickered across Kelcey's face. "You already knew that."
Kelcey looked away, stared at the bedpost. "I knew he was mad I refused to work for him again. He's not the first one to be angry that I've retired. I thought he had finally given up, or at the very least would attack me. If I had thought for a moment he would hurt you … I never meant to put you or anyone else in danger. I'm—"
"Don't say you're sorry again. He left you a letter." Max gestured to the letter. "If you do not do what he says … he issued no explicit threat, but it was clear all the same. You told me you protected packages and people as they were delivered from one location to another! What the hell else have you lied about? Why the bloody hell does he call you
Church?
"
"It's the name I go by when I work. I do not share my real name, but Kerr found me out years ago. I still do not know how. But I—I quit. I never fucking wanted that life and I was happy to be able to leave it behind for good."
Max glared, anger and dread growing like a fire piled with additional logs. "You still won't tell me what you actually do."
"Whatever I am paid to do," Kelcey said. "Damn near, anyway. I'm not a killer, unless someone tries to kill me first. I don't hurt people, unless, again, they hurt me first. Mostly I am paid to steal things. Other times I am, as I said, paid to escort people, protect them. If people want something done discreetly, I will generally do it. They call me 'Church' because back when I was a 'black rat' I holed up in the attic of a derelict church. I never used my name because back then it was much better known, so everyone called me Church. I started out picking pockets, moved up to thieving and protecting the whores who worked on the corners near my church. I … picked up other jobs, came to be known for doing such work."
"You're a thief. You're a
criminal
. A bloody highwayman! I thought you
weren't
like your family." Was he insane? If he were caught the crown would hang him on the spot. Why would he entangle himself in Max's troubles when he had clearly already risked too much? "You are mad!"
Kelcey reeled back as though Max had struck him, then planted his feet like he was bracing for another blow. "I'm not my family. I was pulled out of school when I was
ten
and told my parents and the rest of my family had been hanged for attempting to murder the king. They branded my arm and threw me into the care of a woman who spent her nights drunk and her days unconscious. I tried to live a normal life at first, be a good boy the way everyone told me. But I couldn't afford school, and nobody would give work to a boy with a brand. And I wasn't the only starving child in that house. I started thieving because I had no choice, hid in the church so if something went wrong nothing would happen to the other children. I kept doing that work because everyone told me I no longer deserved the respectable life I wanted. It's so fucking easy for people like you to judge me and the choices I've had to make—" Kelcey snarled and turned away, ran his fingers across the tabletop. "All I wanted was to be treated like a
person
. I thought I had finally succeeded. I should have known better. Cease to worry, my lord. I will address this matter and trouble you no further." He stormed toward the door.
"Wait—"
But Kelcey was gone. Max rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, then got up and strode to the wardrobe, yanking clothes out and pulling them on as quickly as possible. Tugging on boots, he fumbled through the wardrobe for his pistol case and tucked one into his jacket. Pulling out his cloak, he hid the other in one of its secret pockets.
Snatching up coin, he finally abandoned the room—and nearly collided with the servant carrying a pitcher of hot water and fresh clothes. "Beg pardon," Max said. He grabbed one of the cloths, dunked it in the hot water, and kept on going, wiping his face as he went.
Room 413. That must be where Kelcey was headed.
Max took the stairs as quickly as he could manage without knocking himself right down them. On the fourth floor, he headed down the hall marked for the second set of ten rooms. Shouting. As well as the rooms were built, he could still hear shouting. Was Kelcey in danger? He was one of the voices, but Max could not picture anyone getting the better of him.
He froze as a door swung open and Kelcey appeared—and froze mid-step as he saw Max. "You bloody
idiot
," he snarled, and barreled down the hall toward him, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him along. "I'm going to kill you."
"It seems to me there are already plenty of people—"
"Shut up," Kelcey snarled. It was not a tone he had ever used before, so … cold and mean. Max shut up.
He swore when Kelcey yanked him back into the stairwell, tripping into the wall, dropping the wet cloth he still held. "Slow down!" he snapped, tripping again as he was hauled up the stairs. "I do not have your legs, Kelcey. Please!"
Kelcey did not reply, but he did slow down, if only barely.
It was not until they had stopped that Max realized they were on Mavin's floor. Yanking Max close, eyes so furious Max could not recall any of the things he had wanted to say, Kelcey said, "Get your sister and Gerard and get the hell out of here. Do not pause until you are safely away. Trust no one. Go where you are exceedingly familiar with the surroundings. Never go out alone in public, be certain you only retain staff you trust and keep that staff to a minimum. Do not stay in hotels or other such lodgings. Am I understood?"
"Y-yes," Max said. "Kelcey—" He stopped as Kelcey pressed a kiss to his cheek, and before he could regain his impossibly scattered wits he had run off again. "Damn it, Kelcey! You can't just run off!"
Kelcey whipped around. "I am going to attend matters and put all back as it should be. I cannot do that without
running off
."