Page 60 of The Artist and the Dragon

“Miss Davies,” she amended, though he knew exactly of whom she spoke. She stared at his boots as she continued. “She was wearing a ruby ring with the stone cut in the shape of a heart.” She glanced up at him, all her fire gone out. “That’s the same kind the kitchen boy reported, right? The dark-haired woman who handed him the spell to place at the wedding feast.”

Now he knew why she was so crushed. Malik leaned forward. “It is. But her family does not have noble blood, do they? Aren’t they common?”

“I believe so. Wealthy, but no title among them.”

What everyone believed wasn’t always the truth where parentage was concerned. It was entirely possible the Davieses carried some noble blood from a dalliance that was kept quiet. Possible that the Goddess’s blessing had taken root in Charlotte. Possible that she’d somehow learned complex dark magic.

But unlikely.

A conspirator, though? That was more feasible, however much he wished it wasn’t true, for Bronwyn’s sake if nothing else. She seemed to have grown fond of the woman.

“We’ll need to be sure before we do anything,” Malik said in an attempt to reassure her. “Though there’s another possibility.”

This made her brighten.

“My father had a number of subtle ways that his followers acknowledged each other, a secret handshake being the most common—but there were words as well, phrases that might seem a bit odd to someone unfamiliar with them but not strange enough to draw much attention. I recalled one of them and used it while I was in the smoking room with the men. Someone reacted.”

Bronwyn leaned in as he spoke, scooting to the edge of her bench until mere inches separated them. One good hole in the road could throw either of them at the other.

“I bet you can guess who.”

Her eyes widened before her features dropped into a scowl. “Lord Osric.”

Malik nodded.

“I knew he was foul,” she spat. “But Charlotte, aligning herself with such a man?”

“Who is to say?” Malik attempted a shrug. “If she’s mixed up in all this, maybe her companions are not ones you’ve come to expect.”

He regretted the words as soon as they were out. Bronwyn sighed and slid back, hugging her arms about herself. “Perhaps not.”

“We’ll need to test them again. Individually.”

Bronwyn huffed. “Should I make them paintings as well?”

“It could work for Charlotte, but we may need a different approach for Lord Osric. Something more subtle.”

“Ah, yes. Can’t be giving gifts to every unmarried nobleman, can I?”

“No, I suppose not.” If he had his way, Malik would keep her as far from that oily bastard as possible.

Despite the dim light filtering in from gas-lit lampposts outside, he could still make out the flush on Bronwyn’s chest, just above the fashionably low neckline of her gown. A tell that she was frustrated, upset, or both. As if how closely she hugged herself did not give it away already—she didn’t huddle from chill, not on such a warm night.

Malik carefully slid from his bench to sit beside her. He laid a hand on her upper arm, barely restraining himself from tugging her against his chest and holding her tight. She sucked in a breath, her gaze jumping to his.

The silence between them was so thick he could cut it with the blade hidden inside his coat, and it only grew thicker with every passing moment. Thoughts untangled behind her eyes as her gaze flitted over him, his face, his form, all the way down to his boots then back up again.

“Did you mean it?” she asked at last. “What you said in the study?”

He could get lost in the warmth of her eyes, especially when she looked at him with such utter vulnerability. “Every word.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Perhaps it was the bounce of the carriage, but she seemed to nod as she took in his answer. Malik sat still as a statue as he waited for whatever came next. She needed time to process, that much he knew. Perhaps he shouldn’t have chased after her. She was a wild thing that would scratch and flee when cornered, but it was done now.

When she still didn’t speak, he could no longer hold back the thoughts roaring through his mind. “Do you regret it? Kissing me?”

“No!” She nearly leapt from her seat as she turned toward him fully. “No,” she echoed more calmly. Then, barely a whisper, “I don’t regret it. Do you?”

The stiff knot of tension in his chest loosened. His lips lifted in a satisfied grin. “Never.” His hand travelled from her shoulder up to her cheek, where he tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

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