Page 30 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
He would have to be made into something new. And whatever it would be, he wanted that something to put Alexander first, always.
“I’ll take you to him,” Peregrine said.
“What?” Alexander asked.
“What?” demanded Lyd.
Peregrine turned so he could see Alexander’s face, cupping his jaw so he could look into Alexander’s dark eyes. Even though there was a table of carousing thieves in the next room over, even though Lyd was watching them with a curious, perceptive stare, it almost felt like they were alone. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to my mother or my siblings before they died, and I don’t want that for you. You should be with him. You should be home.”
“But you hate Reginald,” Alexander whispered.
“I do. But what I feel for you,” Peregrine whispered back, pressing his forehead against Alexander’s, “is stronger than any hatred. It’s fiercer than any revenge.”
“Oh,” Alexander said, his breath catching a little. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Peregrine said, affirming the unspoken questions in those ohs. Whatever the questions were, Peregrine knew the answer was yes.
“But I never wanted to see him before now,” Alexander said after a moment. “What if he doesn’t deserve a goodbye?”
“I know with certainty that he doesn’t,” replied Peregrine. “But you do.”
Alexander met the highwayman’s gaze with raw blue eyes. “I thought you’d be happier about this. About him dying.”
“I would have been,” Peregrine admitted. “Up until this very week. But telling you about what happened has made it easier to bear. And not only speaking of it, but speaking of it to you. You are so much to me, so much more than . . . ” He trailed off, uncertain of how to frame what he meant. Alexander had shown him the way to something other than grief and anger; Alexander was a future filled with hope and possibility when before there’d only been an agony-laden past.
“I thought his death would kill my grief,” Peregrine started again, still trying to explain. “I thought his suffering would ease my own. But suffering cannot be bought or sold like that, and neither can grief. I am so?—”
Here he stopped, aware of Lyd watching them, of the other thieves nearby. Aware that the words he was about to utter were in no way adequate in the face of what he’d done.
“I’m so ashamed, Alexander. I was so ready to spill Dartham blood that it stopped mattering who carried it in their veins. I’m ashamed that I scared you, threatened you, and made you bargain for your life. And I’m ashamed that I ever once entertained the idea of killing you.”
Peregrine took Alexander’s hand and laced his fingers through his, bringing the younger man’s knuckles to his mouth to kiss. “But more than being ashamed, I am sorry. Sorry past what my words can describe. I won’t ask forgiveness for it. But I want you to know that you’re safe from me.”
“I think,” Alexander said, his eyes searching Peregrine’s face, “I must have known that, deep down. I think I knew I was safe from the beginning. After all,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “not many captors take the trouble to find silk for their captive’s wrists instead of rope.”
Peregrine smiled back. “If I’d known how much you would enjoy the silk, I would have bound your entire body in it.”
Despite everything, Alexander’s pupils dilated with interest. “There will be time,” he murmured.
Peregrine didn’t think so, but he didn’t say that out loud. Getting Alexander to Far Hope was the main thing, and if he cast any doubt on their being together in the future, Alexander might react like . . . well, like Alexander.
Perhaps not. Perhaps Alexander would understand. Perhaps he’d even be relieved that Peregrine saw the future so sensibly. But speed was of the essence, and Peregrine couldn’t risk this conversation now. It would have to happen later, if it ever did.
“I’ll ready a fresh horse,” Peregrine said. “Gather what you need and then meet me outside.”
The sun was sinking as they rode, but at least the wind was mild and the skies newly free of clouds. Alexander chattered the entire way about how much the Second Kingdom would love Peregrine, even though he’d openly robbed a fair number of them by now, and about where Peregrine could sleep, and about how Alexander would make sure Peregrine didn’t have to see the duke while he was at Far Hope.
Peregrine recognized the chatter as Alexander’s way of deflecting worry about his brother—and likely also the possibility of becoming the duke—and let him continue. It seemed to make him feel better, and if he had the notion that Peregrine would be staying with him at Far Hope, then Peregrine still didn’t have the heart to disabuse him of it. Especially after hearing Alexander’s nervous prattle, after observing his rigid but trembling form as they rode.
Alexander would find out soon enough when they got there, and in the future, he would thank Peregrine for his levelheadedness. After all, it was absurdity to think that the duke could openly parade a male lover around London, and even more absurdity when the lover in question was a notorious criminal.
And even if the Second Kingdom wouldn’t mind, Alexander would be a duke. He’d have a responsibility to marry and sire heirs, and Peregrine didn’t think he could survive watching Alexander marry someone else. He didn’t want to be a mistress, tucked away somewhere, contributing to yet another unhappy aristocratic marriage. It sounded like a way for three people to be miserable—but if he left, he could lower that number to one.
Himself.
Highwaymen didn’t get happy endings. They didn’t die old and gray in a lover’s arms. They died young and they died alone.
But it was no use trying to explain this to Alexander. He wouldn’t accept that some things were out of even a rake’s reach.
