That night, Paul Gibson awoke to find himself lying facedown in the mud. It was the rain that roused him—rain trickling down the back of his neck and splashing in the puddle beside his head.
With a groan, Gibson opened his eyes slowly onto wet darkness. Or rather, he tried to open his eyes. The right eye worked . . . sort of. But the left one didn’t seem to want to cooperate. He tried lifting his hand to touch it and see what the hell was wrong. Except he was lying on his stomach with his arms pinned beneath him, and everything hurt like hell. He could feel the rain pounding on the back of his bare head and soaking his breeches. He turned his head sideways, and the rain ran into his one open eye and into his mouth—which he realized also hurt like hell and tasted like blood.
Where the hell was he?
With another groan, he rolled over to stare up at the rain slashing down at him like cold, cutting needles hurtling out of a black sky. He could see a slope of muddy grass and a pockmarked stretch of murky water lapping against looming, ancient stone walls.
The Tower. Why the hell was he lying beside the Tower of London in a rainstorm in the middle of the night?
He tried to push himself up onto his elbows and felt himself slip sideways instead. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to roll down into that bloody moat and drown. He drew a deep breath—or tried to—and discovered that his ribs also hurt. Then memory returned in a painful rush, and he closed his eyes again.
Bloody fool, he told himself. Six kinds of an Irish fool, that’s what you are. Wandering the streets of London in the middle of the night, thinking that if you keep walking you can somehow control the stabbing pains that make you want to scream. Control the pain and stop yourself from giving in to the deadly, seductive cravings that are eating your soul and killing you.
Bloody, stupid fool.
He didn’t need to feel for his purse to know it was gone. He knew he was lucky the men who took it hadn’t killed him—although he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d cracked a rib or two. He supposed they hadn’t expected him to fight back—an unshaven, one-legged man driven by his own demons to walk the night.
But he had fought. Oh, he’d fought, all right.
He wondered what time it was. Wondered if Alexi had realized yet that he’d never come home. Wondered if she cared. Wondered why the hell she put up with him.
Why he didn’t just swallow his pride and try her mirrored box even if he couldn’t kick the bloody opium first.
He thought for a moment he heard her step, but he knew he was only dreaming. And he squeezed his eyes shut, letting his tears mingle unashamedly with the rain that coursed down his face.
Then he heard a smothered exclamation, felt the gentle touch of her hand on his face, and heard her soft voice say, “Oh, Paul.”