Shadowdance(75)
He turned away from her, an abrupt cut she’d feel. When he spoke, his voice was decidedly cool. He would have congratulated himself for it, save that self-loathing got in the way. “It was foolish to come here. I know you like to think of yourself as an investigator, Chase. But you really have no notion of what you are doing.”
He could almost feel the joy gust out of her, deflating like the last gasp of an aeronautical balloon.
“My, but you like to flog the dead horse, Talent.” Her voice was once more that cold, crisp sliver of ice that had defined their arguments of old.
Jack let the frost of her ire numb him further. “And you are a dog with a bone.”
“What is it about this meeting that has you so out of sorts?”
“Out of sorts,” he muttered. Now that he’d picked a fight with Chase, his fear returned tenfold. “I merely protest the waste of time.”
Jack thrust his fists deep within the wells of his pockets. The shaking within him grew, his heart thrumming against his throat. He reminded himself that he’d gained a foot and a half of height and nearly five stone of weight since that black day. He’d gone from ignorant boy to bitter man. Perhaps he wouldn’t be recognized.
Mary watched Talent’s shoulders hunch and the wall he erected against the world come back up. Her mind had gone foggy. Die? For her. Was there anyone she’d be willing to die for? When she’d fought so hard for the right to live?
Damn him.
No matter where she looked, where she went, Jack Talent was lurking in the shadows of her mind. There was something about him that made her want to learn more, pry open his protective casing and see what made him tick. Mary feared she would never understand him. He set her world upside down and inside out. And he made her ashamed. She’d been looking for signs of his guilt, wanting to find them at some points. The man who would die for her.
Mary turned from the sight of him and glanced at the ornate porcelain wall clock, depicting Adam’s downfall in the Garden of Eden. The minute hand pointed between Eve’s pale breast and the golden apple resting on her outstretched palm. “Nearly a quarter hour has passed,” she murmured, annoyed at waiting. Annoyed at Talent.
“They’ll keep us waiting for twenty minutes at the least.” Tension coiled about Talent like a snake, but his tone was subdued, almost resigned now on the heels of his former snappishness.
“How do you know?” Mary did not want to stay in this place any longer than necessary. Gilt furnishings and silk-lined walls spoke of luxury. The rough-hewn floorboards beneath the priceless Holbein carpet spoke of humility. But past all the declaratives so carefully orchestrated throughout the room, an air of quiet menace lurked. Or perhaps she was simply being fanciful.
Talent glanced at her, his features stark. “Standard procedure.” His lip curled in an ugly smile. “My guess would be that it forces one to think on their sins.”
As soon as the words had left his lips the dark humor in his expression deflated, and he abruptly turned to inspect the drawn curtains. “No doubt we are to fall upon our knees and beg for forgiveness the moment he enters.”
“I’ve yet to encounter a soul capable of casting that first stone,” she said smartly.
He gave a snort of dry amusement, so soft she almost missed it. His fluctuating mood disturbed Mary. Strangely, she felt as though she needed to remain here for Talent’s sake, as if he needed that small protection.
They stood apart, each lost in thoughts as time dragged along with a loud tick, tick, tick that had Mary’s neck tensing further and further.
“How is it that you know the standard procedure for the palace?” she blurted out when she could take no more.
Talent pivoted on one heel. His thick brows slowly lifted, as if he found her slightly daft. Or perhaps he merely searched for a reasonable response when there was none. She wouldn’t get to know, for his hand came up in the age-old gesture for silence, though she hadn’t said a word.
“He’s coming.” Talent’s expression went utterly devoid of emotion.
A moment later she heard the footsteps. And Talent grew even more withdrawn, his skin the color of death. The massive double doors opened, and Mr. Antony Goring, Archbishop of Canterbury, walked in.
Mary wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but the man who entered was not it. Tall and lean, he walked with command. A thick shock of snow-white hair swept back from a high brow. There was something about his large, square jaw and strong blunt nose, and when he set his eyes on her, that sense of having seen him before grew. While his hair was white, his brows remained brown and framed dark eyes that snapped with cunning intelligence.