Page 29 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
The trip back to the priory didn’t feel nearly long enough to Peregrine. He supposed it was because once they returned, they’d have to decide what happened next and whether he would release Alexander for real. Whether he would still attempt to claim a ransom from the duke . . . whether he would build new plans for killing Reginald and fulfilling his revenge.
As they walked through the newly washed world, with its trees and shrubs bleeding into the jewel tones of autumn—and as he held Alexander’s hand tighter than was necessary, pulling him close, savoring his rake’s eternal Christmas scent—Peregrine wondered if his appetite for revenge had dulled somewhat. If the blade which had once cut through his grief and pain had finally blunted itself. Or had been blunted by the mere existence of Lord Alexander Dartham.
Alexander, who was everything he should hate and somehow, everything he needed instead.
They arrived at the priory, and as they entered the stables, they saw the horses belonging to the other thieves already munching hay inside their stalls. They took care of the animal and then went inside the church, where the gang was gathered with a hearty meal and a few open bottles of wine. They were clearly a few cups in, most of them sitting with their boots propped on the table and roaring with laughter at each other’s stories.
“I take it the robbery went well?” Peregrine asked Lyd as they approached the table.
“There was no robbery,” Lyd said. “And where were you two?”
“I tried to escape,” Alexander volunteered. “It was a very good escape, if you must know.”
“Why was there no robbery?” Peregrine asked, ignoring Alexander. “Did the duchess take another road to Far Hope?”
“And why didn’t you just tell me you were Judith’s cousin!” Alexander burst out. “I would have begged you to help me escape!”
Lyd had made grown men piss themselves for taking such a tone with her, so Peregrine was genuinely shocked when she answered, almost kindly, “Because I didn’t trust you to be any different than your brother or sister-in-law, Lord Alexander, and I wasn’t interested in helping a Dartham with anything. But things have changed.”
“They have?” Alexander asked, confused.
Lyd gave them both a look and sighed. “I think you deserve some privacy for this. Follow me.”
They went into the sacristy. Lyd didn’t bother closing the door, but her voice was quiet as she told them, “The duchess is dead.”
Next to him, Alexander went still in a way that Peregrine had learned meant he was upset. Without thinking about it, Peregrine drew him close, wrapping an arm around his lover’s slender waist.
Lyd’s eyebrow raised at the familiar gesture, but she didn’t remark on it. Their crowd was rather free with lovers, men and women alike, although it had to be said that Peregrine would be the first in their group to consort with someone he’d halted on the road.
“How did she die?” Alexander asked, his voice small.
“Whatever illness she had was worse than anyone thought, at least according to the innkeeper. She died there at the inn, and her body is being taken to Far Hope now.”
Lyd’s voice was level, factual, but her shoulders were loose and her eyes clear. Peregrine met her gaze, and she gave him a short nod. They had years of silent communication between them, and he knew what she was saying. She would never have her moment of justice with Judith, but the relief of Judith never being able to hurt her again was enough.
“Her husband is ill now too,” Lyd added. “The same malady, most likely.”
Fear flashed through Peregrine, hot and bright. If Reginald was also sick, and they’d all been traveling together . . .
“Alexander, you haven’t been—you’re not feeling ill?”
“We didn’t see each other before we set out, and then we took separate coaches after Basingstoke so she could be more comfortable,” Alexander replied faintly “I don’t feel sick in the least.”
The relief that flooded through Peregrine then nearly knocked him over. If Alexander took ill—if Alexander died—no. He couldn’t bear it. The very thought made Peregrine feel like he was being drawn and quartered.
Lyd had paused, as if considering how to phrase what she was going to say next. “His doctor is saying he might only have a few days left.”
Alexander was like a statue in Peregrine’s hold, unmoving, maybe unbreathing, and Peregrine pulled him closer, wrapped him in both arms. And instead of burrowing into him, instead of pouting or whining or rattling off a hundred different thoughts, Alexander was completely still. When Peregrine moved back and lifted Alexander’s face to his, his chest hurt at the sight.
He’d seen more life in a child’s doll than in Alexander’s face right now.
Peregrine should have welcomed the news about the duke with pleasure, exultation even, but now he felt . . . nothing. No pleasure, no relief.
His enemy was dying, and the only thing he felt was worry for Alexander. All he wanted to do was make everything better, fix this or ease this for him somehow. His sweet rake hadn’t wanted to be the duke or the leader of the Second Kingdom, and now the possibility was bearing down on him like a runaway coach—it would run him over whether he was ready or not.
And that Alexander’s worst fear would come on the heels of his brother’s death . . .
Peregrine felt something shift inside him, as if some final, vital seam had been ripped open. As if the Peregrine Hind of four hours ago really had been nothing more than those unstitched pieces on a table.
