Midnight Jewel (The Glittering Court #2)(27)

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Another pause. “We need to talk. If I let you go, are you going to run? Or claw up what’s left of my face?”

“What are my alternatives? Enjoying your pleasant company?”

“I want you to explain yourself. If you aren’t here to rob me, why are you here?”

“I’m the one who has to explain myself?” I struggled, hoping I could maybe get in an elbow jab. No luck.

“Fine. We’ll both explain. And I mean it, I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you. I’ll swear it by your favorite angel.”

Blood pounded through me, battle rage squashing my fear. “I’ll stay if I can stand by the door.”

“Fair enough.”

He stood up, and I scrambled to the door, putting one hand on its knob. He held up his palms and backed up to the cabin’s other side. I really had scratched up his face. His rugged good looks were now very rugged.

The polite, pleasant fa?ade he showed in public was gone. Even the sardonic persona from the deck had vanished. Someone sharp and deadly now stood before me. “So. Let’s talk. Why are—” He did a double take, suddenly noticing now that the trunk’s false bottom was out. “How did you open that?”

I held up the lock pick kit from a pocket in my dress’s skirt. “With your assistance.”

His incredulity grew. “I was an idiot to give you that! Next time I try to help someone, I’ll have to remember to ask if she’s a spy first.”

“I’m not a spy.” I slipped the picks back into the pocket where I kept my knife and wrapped my hand around the hilt.

Grant pointed at the open journal, its words plain to see. “Then how did you know to do that?”

“My father taught me. He was . . .”

“Don’t tell me. A spy?”

“No! What he was isn’t important right now.” My hand was sweaty, and I had to adjust my grip on the knife. “I came here to make sure you don’t hurt my friend.”

“Hurt her? Why in Ozhiel’s hell would I do that?”

“You tell me! You’re the one pursuing her. I should’ve just gone straight to Cedric or Jasper and let them know that there’s a con man obsessed with getting his hands on—”

“Stop right there. Let’s get some things straight.” He held up a finger. “First, you need to stop saying ‘obsessed.’ It makes me sound unstable.” Another finger. “Second, I have no intention of ‘getting my hands’ on her. I wouldn’t even know where to start with all those dress layers.” Up went the third finger. “And finally . . . ‘con man’?”

“How else would you describe a man who snoops around someone’s house in disguise and then follows them onto a ship under another false identity?”

“This is my real identity,” he snapped. “Mostly. And if you actually read that letter, you’d have your answer.”

His voice held a query, trying to determine how much I knew. “Yes. I read it all. I know about the McGraw Agency. About your mission. Do you think we’re traitors? That Adelaide is?”

His ensuing silence came from uncertainty, not anger. I realized then that he was afraid to say anything or give up any more of the conspiracy he was enmeshed in.

“I already know plenty,” I boasted. “You might as well trust me with the rest.”

“I can’t trust anyone. Especially a woman who broke into my room.”

“I told you, it was to protect Adelaide! What would you do if someone was stalking your best friend?”

“I wouldn’t have to do anything. As soon as she noticed some guy sneaking around, she’d beat him to a pulp.”

I considered that for a moment, fascinated by the idea that someone who thought caring about people was dangerous actually had a best friend—a female one who could apparently beat someone “to a pulp.”

“Just tell me.” Hopefully, if I tried for a civil attitude, he might do the same. “Please. I’ve already read everything. What else is there to do?”

“I could hand you over to the authorities for treason. Maybe you can find a husband in prison.”

So much for civility. “I haven’t done anything treasonous! I’m just trying to save my friend.”

He raked a hand through his hair and began pacing the room. “You read the letter. You saw the part about how the leaders of this conspiracy are most likely men of power and influence—men a humble shopkeeper like me can’t get easy access to.”

“Are you a humble shopkeeper? Or are you a McGraw agent? Or are you a laborer with a bad back?”

“I’m all of those. Except my back is just fine.” He paused. “How did you recognize me?”

“Your ear,” I said. “And then that made me think of other things. Like that inflection I keep hearing in your voice. And how your scars were in different places when I saw you at Blue Spring. Not by much. But enough.”

I didn’t catch what Grant muttered next. The language was none I knew. But I’d apparently passed some sort of test. “I won’t cross paths with many of those powerful men,” he finally said. “But you girls will. And if what everyone says is true, your friend will cross paths with most of them.”