Page 40 of The Hunter

Lord, who could better relate than she?

“Bless you, Hassan, you’ve performed a wonder.”

He gave another bow. “And I am certain Madam will perform a wonder upon the stage tonight, secure in the knowledge that I will give my life unto the safety of her son.”

Millie had to suppress the urge to throw her arms around the fatherly man with the gentle eyes and the dangerous knife. She had a feeling such contact would offend him, so she bowed her head to him, mimicking his previous gesture. “Thank you,” she whispered, before clearing emotion out of her voice.

“What do you think,kochanie?” She faked a relaxed smile she didn’t at all feel.

“You look splendid, Mama,” Jakub encouraged, never once glancing up at her from where he knelt surrounded by his paints and studying his canvas.

Sighing, she shook her head and stood, tugging on the front of her silk robe to make sure she maintained her modesty around the Mussulman. Her costume, a wine-red velvet dress with fake pearls beaded across little gold braids on the bodice, hung from a mannequin perched in front of a dressing screen. “Pardon me whilst I dress,” she murmured.

“Madam.” Hassan hesitated, his dark eyes cast at the floor. “I mean you no offense, but I am already skirting a sin, being almost alone in a room with an unmarried woman. Since your son is here, it is my hope that Allah, God, forgives me. But if you were to disrobe… even behind a screen…” He trailed off politely, keeping his judgment of her lifestyle to himself.

Embarrassed by her ignorance, Millie bit her lip. “Would you like to step outside the door? I’ll call you back when I’m finished.”

“That isn’t something either of you need to worry about now.” The dark voice sliced through her room like a sudden arctic chill.

Millie’s head snapped toward the doorway, where Christopher Argent filled its width shoulder to shoulder. Dressed in a fine gray suit, he again resembled Bentley Drummle, the man she’d met before. Charming, charismatic, affected with the same ennui bemoaned by so many wealthy Londoners.

But she knew better now, didn’t she? Beneath his unnatural stillness and enigmatic expression lurked someone much more sinister and, alternately, more intriguing.

“You may go, Hassan.” Argent pulled an envelope from his suit coat, and handed the graceful Arab what Millie assumed was payment for her protection.

With no small amount of curiosity, Millie wondered what her life was worth.

“Thank you, Argent.” Hassan dipped his head with respect as he took the envelope. “Convey my regards to Blackwell.” Turning to Millie, he bowed to her. “It has been an honor to know you and your son.Fi Amanullah. May God protect you.”

“Fare you well, sir.” Millie curtsied to him, and in a soft swish of blue robes, he glided past Argent and was gone.

Millie was alone with an assassin.

Again.

They stared at one another in silence, and only when Millie’s lungs began burning did she realize that she’d been holding her breath.

She released it in a tumble of words. “Mr. Argent, this is my son, Jakub. Jakub, come and meet Mr. Christopher Argent, our—guardian.” She’d explained their need for temporary bodyguards to him the morning she’d hired the McGivney brothers in as vague and careful terms as possible. It angered her that her son didn’t always feel safe. That he had to fear the shadows.

Even when he stood, Jakub’s little neck had to tilt back so far his head rested on his shoulders to look the towering man in the face. Though his spectacles always seemed to magnify his eyes, they were wide with obvious wonder.

“Are you a giant, Mr. Argent?” he asked.

“No.” Argent blinked, but showed no offense.

“Jakub,” Millie reprimanded, worried that a man who killed people for a living might not take care with the feelings of a small, inquisitive child.

Jakub straightened at the censure in her voice and wandered over to Argent, remembering his manners. “I mean, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he amended.

Looking much like a barbarian in a gentleman’s suit, the assassin regarded the little boy’s upstretched hand with undue assessment before reaching down to take it with two careful fingers.

“Likewise,” Argent muttered, letting the boy shake twice before snatching his hand back.

“Was your father a Viking?” Jakub resumed his interview.

“I couldn’t say,” the assassin answered blandly. “I never knew my father.”

At that, the little boy brightened. “Neither did I.”