Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(45)
That would explain the hunger in Byron’s eyes when he saw Marjorie. “I saw them inside, heading for the kitchen,” Signa said.
Sylas tightened his jaw. “They’ll likely use the distraction of the party to take his carriage. We should hurry.”
Gundry padded around the stallion’s feet, amber eyes glinting and body tensed with anticipation. Signa wondered whether he was more dog or wolf. She was beginning to suspect the latter. “Is the hound coming with us?”
“Of course. Should we run into company, he’ll alert us before they can see us. Now let’s get going.”
Though Signa had more questions—primarily how much trouble they’d be in if they were found—she was given no chance to ask them as Sylas gave his steed a gentle kick and took off. Mitra didn’t wait for permission to follow. Wind stung Signa’s cheeks and she pulled on the hood of her borrowed cloak. As it enveloped her, she was surprised to find it did not smell of hay and manure but of the wintertime woods, crisp and rich with pine.
She pulled the cloak closer as she followed behind Sylas, who seemed at ease beneath the starry night. He didn’t shiver as she did but tipped his head back to face the sky. His black hair blew wild, as untamed and free as the way he rode. Beside him, Gundry ran at full speed, huffing with exertion and tongue lolling, loving every moment of the journey. Sylas caught the hound’s eye, which sparked a grin of mischief from Sylas. He tipped his head back and howled into the night. Gundry joined in, the sound as beautiful as it was haunting as it echoed across the moors.
Watching Sylas, Signa softened. Every day, it seemed, there was another side of him to discover. So far, this was her favorite.
They rode in silence for a long while after that, the only sounds those of the beasts around them. Snorting from the horses, and heavy hoofbeats as they raced each other through the moors. Panting from Gundry, who never slowed even as the terrain shifted beneath his paws, grass turning into rubble and then cobblestones.
Sylas eased his horse to a stop, and Signa did the same. When they’d dismounted, Sylas tied the horses’ reins loosely around a tree trunk. “We’ll go on foot from here. Keep your hood on.” Burrowed into the woodsy scent of it, she didn’t argue.
Gundry ventured ahead to sniff out the streets. They were lined with hat shops and dressmakers and even a tiny apothecary, every building shut tight. Yet the lights of a pub farther down the street glowed bright, and it was better to take no chances.
“Byron and Marjorie. Do you think one of them could be behind the murder?” Her whisper echoed across the empty cobblestone street. It felt odd to be out at such an hour—odd to be out in town at all, but Signa felt no fear. She’d spent too much time with the night to be afraid.
And so, it seemed, had Sylas. Though, given his hulking size, it felt more likely that the night would be afraid of him. Sylas’s walk was confident, his body long and chin lifted. “I’m not sure. But if someone’s targeting the Hawthornes, there has to be a motive. Byron certainly has one—Grey’s is the Hawthornes’ source of income. It’s their legacy. As for Marjorie—”
“There’s something going on between her and Elijah,” Signa said, earning a surprised blink from Sylas. Spotting it, she arched a brow. “Do you think you’re the only one who can manage some sleuthing?”
Sylas set a hand on her shoulder, steering Signa to the side of the street so that they hugged the buildings. “Keep to the shadows, sleuth. If anyone sees you out at this hour, they’ll think you’ve something to sell.”
“But I’ve nothing in my—oh.” Her cheeks warmed. “And they wouldn’t think the same of you?”
“They’d think it scandalous, but you would withstand the worst of that social branding. If I were of higher status, it would be expected that I marry you. But you are lucky in this world, Miss Farrow, for you have the resources to care for yourself regardless of what society deems for you. Most people are not so fortunate.” He looped his arm through Signa’s and pulled her toward a greystone building—the tallest in the street, one with a massive bow window near the front entry.
Signa couldn’t manage a more thorough look at the building, for her entire face was on fire. Such a touch was in no way socially acceptable. From their difference in status, to the fact that they had no familial relation, this intimate link was nearly as scandalous as selling herself on the streets. It didn’t matter that she had money; she didn’t wish to buy people’s affection. She wanted them to truly like and respect her. And yet… she’d never known that a man’s arm could be so firm. That shoulders could feel so solid, and hands so strong.
Sylas was perhaps one of the most irritating creatures upon this earth, and yet she could not look away from him.
Whatever locks were on Grey’s, Sylas wasted no time crouching before them, picking them with unnerving ease. He strode inside, gloved hands slipping into his pockets. “I’ve had practice,” he said when he noticed that she’d stepped away from him, staring incredulously. “The padlocks on the stalls jam all the time, and we can’t very well keep the horses stuck inside.”
Signa nodded as she crossed the threshold, though it felt like her bones had been locked into place. How foolish she’d been to come. To agree to travel half an hour from her home in the dead of the night with a man who was practically a stranger. A man who had dismantled a lock as though it were a mere suggestion.