Page 30 of The Devil in Her Bed

“Only three stories,” Francesca said, brightening as she spotted one of her footmen. “But I know that part of town, the space between roofs shouldn’t be too far. Also, I’ll need to borrow a pair of your shoes.”

Chandler couldn’t breathe. His lungs were full of water and lead and his limbs secured by shackles of bone. He thrashed. He screamed, but only a flurry ofmoths escaped his mouth. Flying up. Up. Their sounds as loud in his ears as the beat of bat wings. An explosive, percussive sound.

A final sound.

His eyes stung, with tears. With salt. With… something strong and chemical.

He’d done nothing, he wanted to scream. He’d done nothing wrong. Not yet. So why did his skin burn? Why did his sins have to be scrubbed away with bristles that felt as though they were made of iron and ice? Why must he die when he’d not yet lived?

Water and Fire. They both burned, didn’t they? They burned and tore flesh away from bone. Tore life away from love. And everything he cared about away from him.

And this time, it was his fault. He’d started the fire and now it sped through the Mont Claire estate devouring everything in its path. If only he had water now. If only he could put it out. And save her.

Save them.

Francesca. Pippa. Everyone.

He’d tried so hard. But he couldn’t outrun the fire he’d lit. It would catch him. Burn him. Burn this entire city to the ground if he didn’t stop it.

The flames licked at the soles of his feet, searing them, peeling the skin and—

Thud!

Jerking awake, Chandler leapt from the chair where he’d fallen asleep with his feet up close to the hearth. He’d a knife in one hand at the ready and another fist balled, prepared to strike.

His chest pulled in lungsful of air in great gulps. His hands trembled slightly, before steadying themselves.

He looked this way and that, scanning the Spartan bedroom for intruders. If he found one, the bastard would bleed.

It took less than a second to realize he was alone.

Always alone.

He emptied his lungs and dropped his arms. It was just a nightmare.Thenightmare.

Chandler always had a difficult time sleeping when he’d a monster beneath his roof.

A lesser monster than himself. But a monster, still.

Though he occupied the floor beneath the Lord Chancellor, it was as though the man’s evil seeped through the rafters above him, emanating into the very energy of the Lambeth safe house in which he was stationed.

Of course, he’d been called upon to supervise the custodianship of the blackguard as the Secret Services did their utmost to unravel the Lord Chancellor’s treasonous acts.

He was the Devil of Dorset, the very best.

Even they didn’t know the truth about him.

They didn’t know what role Chandler had to play in all of this from the very beginning. What past and prejudices he’d had against the Lord Chancellor on every personal level imaginable.

Chandler went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel with one hand, staring into the coals and letting them dry the cold sweat in which his nightmare had doused him.

An old and familiar rage rose in him like a tide, choking off his breath even when awake, drowning him in fury and washing him in a cold, bleak fervor he’d spent his entire life trying to forget.

To avenge.

He needed to think of something else—anything else. Until he could truly breathe again. Until the rage receded and the tempest stilled. Until he became himself once more.

Whoever that was.