PART IV

England, 1778

Arthur Kirkland was not generally a man prone to outbursts. He could count on one hand the number of times he had raised his voice before his marriage, and each time shamed him more than the last. But yelling at Marianne was different. The way she saw right through him, crashed through every defensive wall he put up; the way she pushed him to his breaking point and taunted him when he started to shake with the terrible feelings inside him; the way she knew precisely how to get to him, but still managed to make him feel like an insect underfoot even without trying . . . He hated it. No, he despised it. Loathed it. He wanted it to end. And, in all honesty, yes, he had (on more than one occasion) considered striking his wife. Countless men did it; they had every right, as husbands and masters. But he didn't want to resort to violence. The shouting and cursing were bad enough. He believed it inappropriate for a man to hit another of equal strength, so hitting a woman of (naturally) lesser musculature was hardly fair. (He ignored the easily muted voice of reason in his mind that pointed out he was both shorter and thinner than his wife. And his daughter, for that matter.) So, as much as he hated the way Marianne made him feel, he didn't want to physically harm her.

But when he stepped into his bedchamber and found her in that Spaniard's arms, it felt as though the Devil himself took control of his hands, lunging forward and wrapping burning fingers around her throat.

She awoke instantly, confusion and terror—the worst terror—widening her eyes. Arthur had never seen the expression of a human being deprived of air, that deep-rooted horror, the desperate striving for the most basic element of survival. The surreality of it almost made Arthur forget it was him causing it, kneeling on the edge of his bed, strangling his adulterous wife.

He had actually been glad to be home, if you can believe it. The week of initiation into lordship had been exhausting. He would have liked to collapse into his bed and sleep the weekend away. But, as always, fate had other plans.

"Qué mierda?!" Antonio leapt up and grabbed Arthur's wrists in a hold that he thought might actually crack the slender bones of his forearms. Arthur released Marianne, shocked by the shouted Spanish, the painful grip on his arms, but mostly the fact that Antonio was naked. When was the last time he'd seen another man unclothed? He couldn't tear his eyes from the muscled lines of the Spaniard's body—until he was literally torn from the room, a rough hand dragging him backward by the collar of his coat.

Gilbert, still in loose nightclothes, glared down at him with fiery eyes. Those eyes had no business being in the skull of a mortal man. What did that Prussian's soul look like, Arthur wondered. What heinous things had he done to cause himself to look like that? It was the face of a sinner, a murderer, a villain. How had he allowed this man to come into his home? How had he allowed either of them in? Old friends of Marriane's, ha! What rubbish. He should have known, from the moment he saw them, the hell they would turn his home into.

He jerked out of Gilbert's grasp. "Unhand me, you uncivilized bastard!" He glared furiously into his bedroom, where Antonio had—thank God—tugged on some trousers, and Marianne had wrapped the blankets around herself, still watching Arthur with wide eyes. He'd expected her to be up and fighting, to get into a shouting match with him as usual. But no, she stayed on the bed, looking like the frightened lady that she was, with Antonio standing beside her protectively, gently touching her neck with his fingertips and asking, "Are you okay, Mari?"

"Daddy?" Peter was standing at the end of the hall, with Mathieu behind him, both of them cautious to come any closer. Frightened, like their mother, of what he might be capable of.

A little voice inside Arthur said, You've been home not ten minutes and you've attacked your wife and scared your children. Excellently done. The lords would be so impressed.

A louder voice said, She cheated on me. She is a sinner. A whore! My own wife!

How mad had he been, letting these two men tear his life apart? He should never have let Marianne bring the family back home. He should have put his foot down, like a real man would, and ordered her to stay in the Golden Square mansion until he got them their own.

Arthur took a step forward and pointed with arm outstretched at Antonio, the pose of a righteous accusation. "You sluttish fiend. How dare you go to bed with a married woman?" In the corner of his eye, he saw Mathieu covering Peter's ears and herding the boy away, and raised his voice to address them. "No, stay, both of you. You deserve to know that your mother is a trull."

Peter clearly had no idea what his father was talking about, but a betrayed light came into Mathieu's eyes. Arthur relished in the companionship of it. At least he and his eldest son had the same common ground now: both betrayed by Marianne. A dark satisfaction rose in Arthur. Now do you see what she's really like? All these years you've preferred her to me, and now you see the evil inside her.

"I trusted you," Arthur spat, glaring past the damned Spaniard to his wife. He was glad his voice wasn't letting him down; often, when he got very angry, he got shaky, and his voice trembled and sometimes broke. It hardly gave off an air of someone who was correct and believed they were (which he was, thank you very much). But, fortunately, today his throat did not let him down, and his words were laced with acid. "Of course I did, why would I not? I married you. We have children! And I left for one week! And you jumped in bed with this—this—philanderer!"

He stood there, chest heaving, left breathless by his verbal flood of outrage, and had what could only be described as a moment of enlightenment. He realized that his family was not up in arms over this, as he was. His sons were not crying, Mother, how could you do this to us?! His wife had not thrown herself down to beg for Arthur's forgiveness, a forgiveness he would have of course given. They would not go forth into a shining future of Marianne trying, until the end of her days, to make this up to her poor husband. Breakfast in bed would have been the first order of business, in a long list of duties she would happily undertake, if she wanted their marriage to be a happy one, which of course she would now that she had seen the error of her ways.

But no.

That was not what Arthur saw.

He saw Mathieu and Peter watching with matched expressions, both of their pale faces contorted with frowns of concern and sympathy. Sympathy, at a time like this? Concern? They looked as though they were worried about him. They looked . . . Arthur might have been losing his mind—and who could blame him for that—but damn the king's daughter if they didn't look as though they wished he wasn't making such a big deal of this.

And, as he looked to Gilbert, to Antonio, to Marianne, he saw that very same expression. Their eyes said, Can you please just stop that? We never asked you to come in here and shout at us. Do you have to be such a bother? The furrow between Antonio's brow spoke of a small bit of guilt, but Arthur knew it wasn't guilt for disgracing him, personally, just guilt at the concept of adultery. I know it's bad, but what can you do? I couldn't just not sleep with your wife.

Arthur stepped backward, arms limp at his sides. "G-get—" He stuttered, curses! He cleared his throat angrily and snapped, "Get out of my house. Bloody pair of whoremongers." He flicked a hand at Marianne. "And you, too. Go with them. I don't care if I never see you again. It shall be too soon. Enjoy your future in the depths of hell with your two bawds."

He stormed away, to his office, because he could not stand with all of their scornful eyes on him for another second. His heart was shivering in his chest, and he tried to take deep breaths as he watched out the window: Gilbert readying the carriage, Antonio lifting the old white dog into it, helping Marianne up inside, and—Peter?

Arthur dashed outside. "What are you doing, stealing my children away from me? Let him down!"

Peter froze on the folding steps, uncertain, and Marianne opened her mouth, but it was Mathieu who spoke.

"No," he replied, far cooler than Arthur had ever heard from the normally soft boy. "We don't want to stay here. We would rather live with Mother."

"And Antonio and Gilbert!" Peter added eagerly, before the Spaniard gently nudged him into the carriage beside his mother.

Arthur felt his eye twitching again, and the beginnings of a splitting headache in his temple. He felt every hair on his head, and every subtle creak of his aging bones. His ribs felt burning hot under his skin. He wondered if he was about to have a conniption. Or a stroke.

But when he finally got words past the storm of emotion inside him, they were barely audible whimpers, "But you . . . you can't just leave me . . ."

And he realized that for all the fury inside him, there was one hundred times that in heartbreak.

A pained light came into Mathieu's beautiful violet eyes, and for one hopeful moment—the moment that killed him more than any of it had, in retrospect—Arthur thought his son might change his mind and stay simply out of pity. But alas, the boy shook his head, mumbled an apology, and climbed into the carriage. In grim silence, Antonio folded up the stairs and gave Arthur one final glance.

Green met green.

In those hazel-tinged eyes, Arthur saw something that could never be found in his posh sort of Englishman. It was something animal, something instinctive. Something felt with the heart and body, not thought with the brain. A basic dominance loomed in those eyes. This was an assertion, the staking of a claim.

This is my family now.

Not yours.

Mine.

Arthur could only stand, agape, tears gathering in his eyes.

"Beeil dich," Gilbert said from the driving seat. He didn't look at Arthur, in precisely the same way the lords didn't look at their servants. Like he was too good to even gift Arthur with his attention.

Antonio turned his back to Arthur, climbed up to join Gilbert, and the horses pulled Arthur's family away from him. Someone had drawn the curtains in the carriage windows, so he could not catch a glimpse of them. When they turned the corner into the trees, Arthur was officially alone.

He'd been happy to be home.

He fell to his knees and sobbed until his voice was lost, and there was no sound except the clucking and scratching of the chickens. Marianne's chickens. Through his tears, Arthur watched them pecking at the ground for a long, long while. Marianne's bloody chickens.

Hours later, he stood in the kitchen he couldn't remember ever being in, tipping back his second bottle of whiskey as he watched the sun set over the ridge, its warm light blessing the blades of grass and glinting off the pools of blood that oozed around Marianne's chickens, all of them decapitated by the axe that, just the night before, his wife's lover had used to chop wood to keep them warm.

Killing, it turned out, was a lot easier when your heart was well and truly shattered.

Logically, if he maintained this feeling, it wouldn't be so difficult to track down Antonio Carriedo and treat him with the same manners he had the chickens.

Then again, the Spaniard was quite big, and he had the Prussian with him. Arthur couldn't overpower one; with both, it would be over before it began.

He realized it probably wouldn't make him feel better, but he had resigned himself twenty-four years ago that nothing would ever make him feel better. He wasn't interested in that. He just wanted justice to be served, that's all.

I think, Arthur thought to himself, I might need some help.

And then the alcohol hit him with full force, and he was out before he hit the floor.

. . .

It seemed to Amelia that there was a severe disparity between the number of hours in a day and the amount of words she wanted to express to the people around her. She always had people around her—of course she did. She was Amelia Kirkland! Or, more to the point, she was the sort of person who felt most at home when she had people on all sides, preferably staring at her. That was one of the few things she had in common with her very, very French mother—they both enjoyed the effect they had on an audience, especially when they were dressed to impress. Although, she and her mother had very different ideas of what dressing to impress entailed. Amelia liked showing as much skin as possible, which was great for getting attention, but her parents hated it. They'd both ranted to her about it, something to do with reputation or being ladylike, all nonsense to her. Her grandmother was even afraid to show her forearms, imagine! Amelia wouldn't be caught dead in those frilly white elbow-length gloves. They would be stained with food and dirt and everything else in an hour, and they would get in the way when she was trying to play sports with Peter or her uncles.

But words! From the moment she opened her eyes in the morning to the moment she closed them at night, her mouth overflowed with words. Mathieu had caught her even mumbling in her sleep on a couple occasions. He was awfully quiet; she suspected she had taken the lion's share of the words from him (which might have made sense if they were twins, but since they were born a few years apart, her logic wasn't exactly spotless). Despite their differences, she loved her brother. She loved both her brothers, in different order depending on what mischief Peter had gotten into.

When she strolled down the path to her home (the men in town had offered to give her a free carriage ride, but she waved them off and assured them that she enjoyed walking and was not at all bothered by the weight of her luggage) she was absolutely bursting with all the stories from her visit to Scotland. She couldn't decide which one to start with. The bar fight? The second bar fight? How she'd won in an arm wrestle against three Scottish boys—they really call each other laddie, and some of them sound like they're choking on something, and I think they were speaking a different language at some points, I guess that must've been Gaelic, what funny people—and then kissed one of them in the alley behind the pub. (She'd have to tell that one to Mathieu only, because Peter was the world's worst snitch when he was told something was a secret, and Arthur's heart would stop if he found out.)

Though she wasn't the most receptive of people, she still noticed quite quickly that something was not right. She couldn't put her finger on it (Mathieu, had he been there, would have pointed out the pasture gate left open and swaying gently in the breeze). The place, Amelia finally realized, was too quiet. There was no nickering of horses. No clucking of chickens. And, most disorienting, there was no arguing coming from the house.

Upon walking round to the door, she dropped her bags in horror. The yard was strewn with blood and feathers, pieces of birds that didn't really resemble chickens anymore. Fox tracks (she noticed these because she was an avid hunter, or as much as a woman could be, which wasn't very much at all) showed that they had supplied at least one meal to a hopeful wanderer. Who had killed Mother's chickens, for no reason? Now real fear chilled her. If someone was crazy enough to murder chickens, were they crazy enough to kill a family of nobles? Oh, God, is that why it's so quiet?

She tore into the house without even a thought toward what she would do if the assailant was still inside. She looked into the sitting room—empty, but no blood smears was a good sign—then dashed into the kitchen. Arthur, sprawled over the floor, stirred when the door knocked against his legs.

Amelia knelt at Arthur's side, heart racing. "Father?" She gently lifted his head and shoulders into her lap, and winced when she saw the result of a conquest with, if the sour smell and empty bottles was anything to judge by, whiskey. There was a disgusting puddle of vomit she really hoped she wouldn't be the one to clean up, but no blood, aside from a few dried splashes on his trousers. From the chickens? He had a growing bruise on his temple, from crashing to the ground, she assumed.

"It looks like you had a really bad night," she told him, smoothing his hair. It was thinning on the top, she noticed for the first time. She'd never realized how old he was, but it was true, he was forty years old, his life half over already. The thought made her want to hug him close, which she couldn't do because he hated that sort of thing and because he was rather disgusting at the moment. Still, her heart was a bit broken, seeing him so helpless on the floor, the wrinkles in his face—from age and stress—only deepened by his less-than-rested state.

Arthur opened his eyes blearily, cringed at the light, and groaned as he brought a hand up to his forehead. "What the bloody hell . . ." His words were badly slurred. (Amelia had never seen her father fully drunk, or she would have known that he still was right now.) He looked up at her, his eyes taking a moment to focus, but when they did, they softened and he reached up to touch her cheek. "My silly goose."

She smiled. No matter what else she was feeling, hearing him call her by his special nickname for her made her heart swell with nostalgia and love. She knew her brothers weren't as close as she was to their father, and she knew that most people would claim that one couldn't be close to someone as stoic as Arthur. But she had been with him in enough quiet moments that she knew there was a vulnerable man inside that stiff exterior, one desperate for connection but unable to accomplish it. Minds and hearts spoke different languages, and Arthur was only fluent in the former. People like Marianne only spoke the latter. And Mathieu, or Amelia herself? She liked to think they thought with both, leaning either way when needed. Mathieu and Peter thought Arthur was bad, even frightening, but Amelia knew better. He was just a man with a troubled heart.

"Where's Lydia?" Amelia asked. She didn't care for the maid, but one would think the woman would have enough propriety to help her master off the floor!

"Sent her away," Arthur replied gruffly, though his drunken tongue made him sound less than threatening. "Told her to take a holiday in hell for all the care I have."

Somehow, Amelia wasn't surprised. Now we'll have to find ourselves a new maid. But that was a matter for another time. "Tell me what happened," Amelia said, slowly in case his thoughts were still muddled from hitting the floor (they were pretty muddled, but not because of the floor).

Arthur's relation of the events was sluggish, hindered by his slurring tongue and general state of emotional instability. He wept as he told her about Marianne's friends, a Prussian and a Spaniard, invading their home and wreaking havoc. Amelia couldn't believe her ears. An affair? She would have cried, as well, if not for the conflicting emotions. What if her father was confused, drunk, making it up? But something like this . . . it was one of those things that simply couldn't be fabricated. She was taken aback more than anything by the fact that they had left Arthur by himself. Surely Marianne knew better than that? Surely she knew that her husband would end up like this, or worse? He could have really hurt himself. She felt anger flare at the irresponsibility of her mother. The marriage was not a happy one, and an affair was an inevitable consequence of that to Amelia's mind, but to leave Arthur helpless against the feelings that could so easily overwhelm him . . . Amelia smoothed her father's hair down again. She wanted to hug him, but hair smoothing would have to suffice.

"We need to send word to Scotland," Arthur was saying now, having sat up with his weight supported by the cupboards. "We need Alistair."

"Too bad you didn't do it a bit earlier," Amelia remarked. "Alistair could've come back with me." She remembered her uncle's words, when she asked him why he lived in Scotland when his family was in England. Home isn't always where your family is, he'd said. Sometimes home is something you have to find for yourself. Your heart will know when you do. It'll tell you. And she believed him. He'd seemed so at ease among the misty moors, even though they were rather spooky to her. She preferred sunny places. Which meant—and this had occurred to her more than once over the years—that she really ought to leave England behind. She'd actually considered going to America, before this war started. Hopefully they won't tear the place apart too much, she thought. I want to have something left for me.

"I'll write a letter to him," Amelia said, since she suspected anything her father put down on paper in his current state wouldn't be legible. "What do you want it to say? A request to come and help round the house?"

Arthur's brow furrowed, eyes dark. "No. Tell him to bring his pistols."

Amelia, for the first time in a long time, did not know what to say. ". . . Why?"

"The Spaniard stole my wife from me. He is a thief. I am a lord." Arthur's gaze was unfocused, but his words left no mystery of his determination. There was no stronger will among men than the will for revenge. "I sentence him to death."

. . .

Mathieu tugged gently but insistently on Kuma's lead. "Come on, we're almost there," he murmured. "I know it's a lot of stairs, but you can do it."

The old dog whimpered, panting from the effort of the last three flights, but he obeyed his master—his friend, as Mathieu preferred to think—and continued his slow way up the rickety steps. Mathieu feared the change of scenery from the country to the cramped streets of London had taken their toll on the canine. And Kuma's just old, he thought, with a twinge of sadness. He won't be around forever. Probably, he'll die soon. Probably, everything bad will happen at once. That's usually the way it goes.

He'd taken to pessimism in the past few days, and he didn't think he could be blamed for it. Currently, their little pack of Kirklands-and-friends-of was in hiding, living in a tenement in what was apparently called the Rookery. (Mathieu had never heard of it, but that was because Arthur only spoke of the beautiful parts of London, because how could anyone brag abut a shoddy place like this?) They could afford better—they'd sold the horses and done away with the carriage so they wouldn't be traced by it—but Antonio promised them that this was far safer than staying in a respectable hotel. How? Marianne had lamented. We are surrounded by criminals! Gilbert had nodded warily. Exactly. We know criminals. I'd rather deal with them than aristocrats any day. Mathieu wasn't so sure he agreed with them, but Marianne did. Or perhaps she just realized that they had much better odds of survival if they stuck together. Whatever the reason, they were here in a place that Arthur Kirkland would have been shamed to admit existed, tucked into one of the many crannies of London.

Their flat was just one room with two beds, one for the children and one for Marianne and Antonio (Gilbert and Kuma slept on the floor). Marianne had protested that he would hurt his back, but he'd just scoffed. A seaman can sleep anywhere. I've slept snuggled up to Carriedo, this couldn't be any worse. He'd glanced at Mathieu, but the boy hadn't been able to spare even a smile. This place was just too bleak. He'd never considered himself spoiled until now, but it was true. He wasn't used to living in a place with no glass in the windows, just balled-up brown paper. He wasn't used to the fear of having no idea what would come next. He wasn't used to pushing through streets clogged with people, keeping his head down lest anyone recognize him while he walked Kuma. That was the only reason he left the flat. Antonio had taken Marianne and Peter out to look for a meal to bring back, but Mathieu had declined the invitation to go. He couldn't take being around so many people for so long. It overwhelmed him, along with everything else. He was a listener, a watcher, and this was all too much for him. He felt like his mind would burst, so full of jagged, poking thoughts it was.

He closed the door of the flat behind him—it didn't even lock, for God's sake—and slumped back against it, hands covering his face. The tears didn't come readily. A sob was building as slowly as possible in his throat, agonizing and burning. This was so impossible. He didn't want to feel betrayed by his mother—he understood that a heart sometimes just had to be followed—but he couldn't help it. How could she do this to us? How could my parents let me end up here?

"Mäuschen. What did I tell you about crying?"

Mathieu dropped his hands. Gilbert was standing in the middle of their room, Kuma sprawled in exhaustion at his feet. The Prussian's eyebrow was arched in derision, but his eyes were kind. Even the parts of his face were at odds. He didn't fit in, just like Mathieu didn't fit in. And like Arthur.

"I'm just—" Mathieu cleared his throat when his voice broke. "I'm just frightened. I . . . I hate it here. I really hate it here."

Gilbert nodded, stepping over to gently wipe the tears from Mathieu's cheeks. "You don't feel safe."

Mathieu shook his head, sniffling.

Gilbert's fingers lingered on the boy's soft cheek as he looked down into his eyes. "I will keep you safe. I promise."

It was the pledge of a soldier. A swear of allegiance. A psalm from a guardian angel.

Mathieu was afraid of everything else in his life. He refused to be afraid of this. Letting Gilbert's strong hand cup his face, he gazed upward and whispered, "I want you to do more to me than keep me safe."

Gilbert's shoulders seemed to stiffen, and he searched Mathieu's face, brow low on his crimson eyes. "You're certain?"

Mathieu nodded against his hand. He had thought about it, over and over again. He had done nothing but think his whole life. He'd had enough worrying. He simply wanted to act. To feel. He let his eyelids droop as Gilbert leaned down to him, and he had just stretched up on his toes, rising like a flower to the sun, when the door crashed open and Gilbert shoved Mathieu behind him. Mathieu stood agape, body shivering with sensation—the pain where Gilbert's hand had grabbed his arm to move him, the heat of Gilbert's breath fading from Mathieu's lips, and the chilling shock of seeing his father and uncle pointing flintlock pistols at Gilbert.

"Is that the bastard?" Alistair asked, eyes unwavering from Gilbert. The auburn-haired man looked incomplete without a cigar or pipe in hand, but the pistol wasn't a bad replacement. He'd always struck Mathieu as someone capable of dangerous acts. Definitely the roughest of the Kirkland brothers, though not as rough as Gilbert. He was another breed entirely.

Arthur Kirkland with a gun in hand, however, was like seeing a horse in a dress. It reached circus attraction levels of absurd in Mathieu's mind. He was astonished his father even knew how to hold a pistol. But the most frightening part of the image was Arthur's face. It was not distraught as it had been when they left the house in the country. It was hard, cold, dark-eyed. It was not a face Mathieu had ever seen from his father. It chilled him to his bones.

"Yes," Arthur replied, stepping a bit further into the room, though still a good six feet from Gilbert. "That's him." His voice matched his face, emotionless and low. "How good to see you again, Mr. Beilschmidt. I see your companion isn't here."

"Well-spotted." Gilbert's hands were half-lifted at his sides, a reluctant obeisance to the firearms but not to the men holding them. Mathieu couldn't see his face, but he would bet his inheritance that the man was glaring murderously with a despicable smirk carved into his cheek. "I guess we'll have to postpone your vengeful murder. That's what this is, ja? I'm glad you dressed for the occasion. Both of you, what a privilege."

Arthur looked down at his expensive clothing, and Alistair gave him the barest glance, but that tiny moment of distraction was all it took. When Gilbert moved, it was like the lion Arthur had taken the family to see at the Tower. Such a big lumbering beast it had seemed, padding lazily back and forth in its cage, until a man drunk from too much celebrating had stumbled within reach of the bars. Then, the cat had moved like liquid, like mercury, like lightning. Such savage beauty in the flow of muscles under its golden pelt, and such awed terror Mathieu had felt as that massive paw swiped out. The man leapt out of the way just in time, and the lion had been beaten back with sticks. It had stalked back and forth angrily, eyeing back all those who gawked at it, daring them to challenge him. Three women had screamed, and one had fainted. Mathieu would never forget the power of that lion.

And now here was that cat in man form, crimson eyes matching the wild intensity of those tawny ones, taking the gun from Arthur as easy as you please, throwing an arm around his neck, and shoving the end of the pistol against his temple. "Calm down, all of you," he said, voice startlingly calm, "before someone makes a mess."

Arthur's eyes were bulging—from horror or from the pressure of Gilbert's arm, Mathieu couldn't tell—and Alistair's mouth hung open in outrage, unable to determine the moment Gilbert had gained the upperhand. Whenever it had happened, it was clearly a permanent change, because now he was saying, "Mathieu, take the pistol from him. He'll hand it over nicely, if he doesn't want his . . . what are you, cousins?"

"Brothers," Alistair replied in irritation. He'd thought Arthur might be redeemed after forty years of being a lady of a man. I need your help to kill two men. What could be a better bonding activity than that? But no, of course, Arthur was still Arthur. Completely inept, as always.

Gilbert nodded thoughtfully, as though they were having a civil conversation over tea. "Yes, I see the resemblance. You can just set it on the bed, Mathieu. You might as well just sit down. This might take a while."

Mathieu accepted the gun from his uncle, awkwardly avoiding his gaze. What was he supposed to do, say hello? Embrace him after years of separation? Ask how Amelia's visit had gone? She must have been home, waiting for them. Home, or the mansion? He wasn't about to ask Arthur. His father looked like he might faint at any second—again, from horror or from Gilbert's strength, it was impossible to say. Mathieu put the gun down facing the wall and sat a respectful distance away from it, with Kuma ambling over to curl up at his feet. The poor old dog had been jolted awake by the break-in, and he just wanted to find a quiet place to lie down. I know how you feel, Kuma. Mathieu reached down to stroke his friend's soft ears. It was a comfort to them both.

"What might take a while?" Alistair asked, hands fisted at his sides, angry to be rendered useless.

"Antonio coming back," Gilbert replied, still totally at ease with the whole situation. "This has more to do with him than with me. So we'll wait for him to return with Marianne and Peter. And some dinner, hopefully." He leaned his shoulders back against the wall, as relaxed as a man could possibly be while holding a gun to another man's head, and flashed a grin that glinted deadly as a knife. "'Cause I don't know about the rest of you, but I am starving."