Of Heirs and Havoc ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 2

twelve: of assassins and antagonists

The queen and the prince consort raced through the halls after making hasty excuses and directing a matched set of frigid glares towards Huntington, telling their guests to enjoy the party. But Connor knew Natasha's mind was fixed on the same thing as his when she directed a convoy of guards to follow them: was Grace alive? Was their daughter alright?

And it was this question that he thought had been answered when they opened the door—when his heart stopped at the sight he saw.

The nursery was covered in blood.

Pink rosebud wallpaper that had been so lovingly chosen was splattered in red streaks; the white carpet was stained in scarlet that spilled out from the wet nurse's crushed skull. Natasha did not scream; Connor did not either. That sound was shriller, sharper, more able to strike terror in both their hearts. It was Grace who had cried out.

Grace, whom the masked man was nearing.

Suddenly, a guard burst into the room, sword drawn, and drove his blade into the assassin's back. This time, Natasha did give a shriek, before throwing herself at the nursery door, which separated the nanny's quarters from the princess's. She threw the door open, its handle slamming against the wall and denting it. Connor was close behind her, his heart racing, his sense of reason blinded by instinct. Primal, deep-rooted, atavistic instinct that told him to shield his family, his wife and his child, to protect them, to protect what was his— that instinct of men, that made them mere animals beneath their civilized manners and embroidered garments.

Grace, thankfully, appeared unharmed in her bassinet, crying loudly and stopping when Connor pulled her into his chest, tucking her against him, his pulse slowing at the sensation of holding her, at the warmth and weight of his child resting against his ribcage.

"Thank God," he heard Natasha murmur over the roaring in his ears. "She's alive."

• • •

"I thought..." Natasha shook her head, fear glimmering in her dark eyes. "I thought Harold would be the end of it. Of the problems, of the death."

"I know," he said, automatically, by rote. He felt numb and his hands trembled. Connor was the closed-off one now, the one who had erected a wall between himself and the world, between his family and every danger that could possibly attack them. He fisted his hands in her hair to keep them from shaking; it had come unbound during the chaos, hairpins scattered in a glittering circle on the floor at their feet. "I know."

"The peril has passed for now." The wavering in her voice seemed as though she wanted to silence it, as though she were moments away from biting her tongue. Tasha sounded as though her words were some vital part of her that was being torn out with hooks. "Why, then, do I still feel as though she is gone? As though she has really been killed?"

Grace was not dead—she was sleeping peacefully in Natasha's arms, after having tests run on her and examinations done by the royal physician to ensure no unseen harm had come to her. They were both terrified to let her out of their sight.

"So many people are dead because of me," she whispered, bouncing their daughter gently against her chest as Grace began to cry. "So many people. What if—is this—"

Her voice broke; she clamped down savagely on her lower lip, shaking silently. No tears flowed down her face; no sobs were wrenched from her body. The worst agony was not something that could be seen with the eyes or heard with the ears; it could not even be felt with the heart—but with the soul. It wrenched at the soul, threatening to separate it from the body.

"Stop." He clutched her arms, and she finally gave in, weeping into his chest. The lines of kohl around her eyes that had been so carefully drawn for the party were smeared, and they smudged onto his shirtfront when she pulled away. "It isn't your fault. You didn't line up those suitors and shoot them. Harold did that, more or less."

"Because of me." Her tone was harsh, her breathing ragged, like that of some wild creature who had been chased for miles and was desperate for shelter. Desperate for relief, for release.

"Because of the crown," he rebuked her. That was their language, fighting, and if they could just only get back there, if they could go back to banter and insults that barely passed as wit—then they could be all right. They would be safe in that hallowed ground. Connor scrambled for the right words, the ones to weave into a sentence that acted as the rope to pull his wife back from the edge, from the brink. "You're an utter idiot if you think that any of this is your fault. An absolute fool."

"I more or less called Huntington that tonight," she said, eyes still damp. "Although I appreciate the insult much less."

"Because it's true, and you've realized you cannot possibly best my superior intellect?" he asked, trying to bring levity even into this situation.

She stumbled back onto the settee, pulling him and Grace with her. She laughed through her tears; it lifted his heavy heart a bit, simply to see her so vulnerable before him. A far cry from the icy woman he had met eighteen months ago.

"I love you. Even in times like this, I love you, because you are..." Her voice dropped to a soft whisper. "You know what I need, and you give it to me. And you are... you are one of the few people I can trust." Tasha shook her head. "You are the only person in my life whom I can fully trust, and confide in, and if I had married any other man it would not be the same. Though I do not love you for what you can give to me, for what you can provide--I love you for who you are. You are one of the best men I know.

"And I... I know how to be alone. Before we were married I had consigned myself to it, but you... I know I could stand to be alone, but to be apart from you and with anyone else, that I could not bear."

"Then it is good that we are never separating," he said, pulling her and the child close. "Neither you nor Grace can get away from me so easily."

"I'm counting on it," she said with a yawn.

Grace had fallen asleep again, snoring softly against Connor's chest. Natasha dismissed the maids that timidly entered to see if she wanted help undressing, and commandeered Connor into taking off her gown—a task he was more than happy to do after carefully setting down Grace in her bassinet. He pushed the crib next to their four-poster bed, and when Natasha's gown dropped to the floor, over-dress and bustle and all, he saw the blade strapped to her thigh and raised an eyebrow at her. Neither judgmental nor chastising—simply curious.

She sighed. "I had an awful feeling about tonight. But I didn't know it would lead to this."

She took it off, and he saw her gently place the dagger under her pillow. That, he would not argue with, not when there was a pistol in the drawer of his nightstand. He pulled her close suddenly; despite the proficiency with which he had seen her wield that blade, he felt the urge to keep her safe. The primal need to protect her, to watch over his wife and keep her safe. Although—they were equal. He may have protected her physically, in this instance, but she had done the same for him in Xianggang. She had opened her heart to him; she had forgiven him when he stabbed her in it, by betraying her. Still, he could not shake that guilt. That he had not done his duty as her husband, that he had not guarded her or Grace well enough.

"You couldn't have known," he said, more to himself than to her. "It is late. Let us retire."

She nodded, eyes hollow, and lay stiffly on the mattress, blowing out the lamp. "Good night, Connor."

He could not bring himself to repeat the words back to her, and feigned sleep instead.