Page 19 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
He replaced the note with a few shillings for the next person delivering a message, and then he ducked under the crumbling beams of the priory’s entry and strode back inside, unfolding the note and reading it as he went.
He stopped.
It wasn’t an update about constables or magistrates or rewards. It wasn’t even a message from Lyd and the others.
It was a message from the duke.
He’d agreed to pay the ransom.
Peregrine stared at the note for another moment longer, stared until the words blurred into the shadows gathering in the creases of the paper.
I wanted this.
This is what I wanted.
It had seemed so genius when Alexander had suggested it—not only revenge, but revenge unfolded, layered over itself, plague on top of famine on top of fire. Loss, then grief, then death.
Peregrine could make the duke suffer as Peregrine himself suffered, and then when the opportunity arose again, he would kill the duke, and, at long last, the emptiness inside Peregrine would be filled. At long last, his heart would stop its seething, aching lack, and his world would feel right again, as it hadn’t since the day he’d kissed his mother and siblings goodbye and left to join the army.
So why didn’t he feel victorious right now? Why didn’t he rush to pen a reply, to strategize how much more of a ransom he could negotiate the duke into paying?
Because you know it’s the beginning of the end for Alexander.
The Darthams were selfish, cruel, rapacious, evil—the thought of them made Peregrine sick. But though he’d once hated the idea of Alexander Dartham, he didn’t hate the reality of Alexander at all.
Not in the slightest.
And the thought of any kind of harm coming to the barefoot rake currently lounging on his bed and reading—the rake who was half courage, half insolence, all spoiled—made Peregrine feel like he couldn’t breathe.
He’d been tying Alexander’s wrists with silk because it bothered him to think of Alexander’s skin being scratched by proper rope—did he really think he could kill Alexander? Truly? But then what did that mean about Peregrine, about his pledge to destroy the Dartham family, either through ruin or death?
What if . . . what if he could have both? Revenge without hurting Alexander?
I’m not going to set you free.
Maybe you’ll decide to keep me instead, Alexander had teased.
Peregrine folded the note, his thoughts racing, his mind turning over every possible solution. It would still be a blow for the duke if Peregrine took the ransom but didn’t return the ransomed heir. Perhaps Peregrine could even spread the word that he had killed Alexander, and all the while, Alexander would be tucked away in the priory, reading books and complaining about the wine.
The image of Alexander remaining here, staying a petulant and handsome thorn in Peregrine’s side, eased the tension in his chest. His pulse slowed.
Yes, yes, that was what he would do. He’d demand the ransom but keep Alexander alive. He’d have revenge and his rake.
His rake. He liked how those words felt in his mind . . . like a soft breeze on a summer’s night. Like a kiss in the dark.
Alexander could be his. Revenge could be his.
All of it could be his.
When he finally reached the sanctuary, he barely stopped. He dropped the note on top of his papers as he passed by the table, took something else off the dinner table nearby, and strode straight to the sacristy, where Alexander had rolled onto his back and had the book propped against his raised knees as he read. Peregrine set down the small bottle he’d brought from the sanctuary and stalked over to the bed, taking the book off Alexander’s stomach and tossing it onto the mattress. He untied the rake’s wrists quickly, easily, letting the silk unravel into soft coils next to Alexander’s ribs.
Alexander blinked up at him, his dark eyes catching the light of the candles burning nearby.
Black and blue and gold, glittering and glittering.
“Have you come to see if I can do it?” Alexander asked softly.
Peregrine pulled off his shirt and started on his breeches. “Do what?”
