Mrs. Bexeley’s head shook, but she did as he requested. “Did I hear your name to be Wycliff? I need to tell my husband and my father who to go after.”
He could tell the sister loved Ruth, but he didn’t care. Wycliff’s world was shifting. Part of the revenge he sought had been for Ruth’s death.
Now what?
Could he half destroy his enemies?
“The name’s Wycliff, the Baron of Wycliff. Make sure they go after the right man. Vengeance should be earned. Hurry with the cravat. I don’t like how she’s breathing.”
If he was assured the scum he evicted wouldn’t return, he’d send his man for a physician. Ruth, be all right. He stroked her hair, lifting a strand from her face, then studied the rise and fall of her chest. His mind again went to four years ago—the night before she had died, their last night at that foul inn.
They’d loved one another, and she’d slept close, right at his side. The scent of lush roses had anointed her skin, and like now, he’d watched her breathe, thinking how perfect the moment had been. It had been the beginning of forever.
Oh, was he stupid, as Ruth had often called his actions when she’d teased him about being overcautious.
He should’ve known heaven and hell were separated by hours. They should’ve gone north and not returned to London to face her father. Then they wouldn’t have been attacked. Perhaps they’d be here at Blaren House now with arms and arms of children.
Happy-ever-after was rubbish.
Well. It had been until a few minutes ago, when he’d learned Ruth was alive.
Wycliff dropped to his knees and carefully traced the wide scar on her temple. How much pain had she endured for their love?
Mrs. Bexeley stood over him. “Here.”
He took the brandy-soaked cloth and mopped at Ruth’s nose.
Nothing.
No wrinkling of her nostrils.
No lines crinkling at her lips when she smiled.
Nothing.
He’d felt nothing for four years. Now she was here, and he felt too much.
How was he still enslaved to this love?
And how had she lived?
Was she still ticklish about her ribs? Did she miss him?
When she opened her eyes, would she love him still?
“It’s not working, Mr. Wycliff.”
“It’s Lord Wycliff. She took a hard fall.”
“Do something. Call for a physician.”
He seized the opportunity to put both hands to Ruth’s face. He massaged her neck, savoring the feel of her blood coursing, her pulse strong beneath his fingertips.
His stone heart became mush ladened with memories. If she didn’t awaken… He couldn’t lose her again.
That loss wrapped about him, heavy like iron chains, dragging him low, his horrible throat closing up as he drowned.
Mrs. Bexeley knelt beside him. “Are you a physician?”
A cough forced air into his chest. “Some training. Patched up a few men on my frigate.” He soured at how empty his raspy voice sounded. He tapped the brandy to Ruth’s nose again. “Awaken la belle au bois dormant, my sleeping beauty.”
Ruth choked. Her eyes opened.
He held his breath and waited for hints of her wits returning. Hints of recognition.
She started flailing her arms. “Ester? Ester, are you here?
“Ruth.” Mrs. Bexeley pushed Wycliff out of the way. “I’m here. Focus. Let your eyes warm to the room. You took a hard fall.”
Her breathing remained uneven, as if Ruth had run up and down a long flight of stairs.
Fear for her health battled his impatience. Recognize me. He waved a hand over her face. Her pupils didn’t move, not until he was inches from her face. “How do you feel?”
She swatted his fingers. “Who are you?”
His mouth became dry, drier than a desert. “Wycliff, dearest.”
“Lord Wycliff is full of jokes, Ruth. I’m here. Are you much hurt?”
Grasping her sister’s arm, she sat up an inch before flopping back down. “A headache. A bad one, but I’m fine. I’m fine. Did they move things around again? The lamplight—it’s wrong, the glow is in the wrong place. I hate when they move my things.”
“What?” Mrs. Bexeley smoothed Ruth’s palm. “We’re not at home. We’re at that Blaren House. You went to see Wilkinson, your Adam’s father.”
“Oh.” She rubbed at her neck. “For a moment, I thought Mama or Mrs. Fitterwall moved my things again.”
She put both hands to her temples. “Never mind. What happened? Did I panic?”
Ruth hadn’t looked his way. She hadn’t looked about the room. Something was very wrong. And why did she come for his father, especially since the good man was only here in spirit? “It’s irritating, dear, to have your things shifted,” he said. “I know it to be irksome, like having something stolen.”
“Hush you.” Mrs. Bexeley helped Ruth lean against the settee back. “Can you stand?”
His poor Ruth looked so pale, so fragile.
She’d had a bad fall, but would that alone confuse her?
He tried to push away the memories of the blow she’d taken to her head. During their attack, the trunk where he’d hidden the other copied ledger had smashed against her skull.
Wycliff shook himself. He was never this timid. “Ma’am, you lost your balance. The uproar at Blaren House did that. Sorry, my dear.”
He gripped his sjambok, his favorite whip made of the toughest leather of rhinoceros skin. Curling the end of the long shaft about his palm, he readied to snap it. Then he thought better of it. The noise of it might upset Ruth. “Why did you ladies come tonight? As you can see, I have just taken control of this place. I’m not ready for guests.”
Ruth took her sister’s arm and stood. “Take me to Wycliff.”
Her sister led her as if she were a blind woman.
Wobbling, she approached and stood in front of him.
This was the moment.
He dropped his sjambok and opened his arms.
She raised her hand to his face.
The sweetness of this reunion flooded through him, like a dam breaking. He dipped his head to kiss her fingers, but she reared her hand back.
Smack.
She’d slapped him, hard. “You frightened me nearly to death, Lord Wycliff. That wasn’t right.”
Still feisty.
He rubbed his stinging face. The gold band on her finger surely left a mark upon his cheek.
Gold.
The one he’d given Ruth had been silver.
He stepped back a safer distance and stood against his desk. “I suppose I deserve that, but I have a one-hit rule.”
Ruth broke free of the sister and stepped closer. “That was for calling me a bed wench. And this is for tossing me over your shoulder.” She reared back again.
He caught her palm and held it. “One shot, madam. Even if you are rightly offended.”
“I’m a respectable woman. So is my sister. Do not forget this.”
“What are respectable women doing at my residence without a proper invitation?”
She drew her hand away, and he loathed letting it go.
“I came to see Mr. Wilkinson.”
“Which Mr. Wilkinson?”
“Algernon Nathaniel Wilkinson.”
At least she didn’t say Soulden or even his changeable cousin, Nicholas. “Oh, A. N. Wilkinson, the late Lord Wycliff.”
“Oh.” Ruth looked down. “Oh.”
“He’s dead, Ruth. Let’s go,” Mrs. Bexeley said. “We need to go. Please send for a carriage.”
“No. Wait. He might know.” Ruth’s voice sounded softer than before. “I came to ask about his son.”
A fire lit in Wycliff. Ruth came to look for him but couldn’t tell he stood before her. His throat burned white hot. “The late Baron of Wycliff died two months ago.”
He stared down at this woman whose lips were close enough to kiss. “I’m now the head of the Wilk
inson family. I am Lord Wycliff. I can help.”
“Then did you know Adam Wilky? Did Adam live here?”
“Yes, Adam lived here.”
A sigh left Ruth as if he’d answered some sort of prayer.
Mrs. Bexeley tugged on Ruth’s wrinkled skirt, a pale thing of pink and lace. Sweet and pale, not a choice he remembered his wife liking.
“Let’s go, Ruth.”
“Ester, did you not hear him? He knew Adam Wilky, and he said he lived here.”
Were those tears in her blank eyes?
Ruth turned and hugged her stiff sister.
Mrs. Bexeley patted her back. “But Ruth, that doesn’t prove the rest of your story. Whip man just said he knew him.”
The color that had birthed in Ruth’s cheeks drained. She looked as if she’d faint as she put distance between Mrs. Bexeley and herself. “Yes, why would you just hearing someone say I was telling the truth be enough? I need proof of Adam Wilky being a true person and undeniable proof of our marriage.”
“Proof?” he said, barely masking his curiosity, his hope. “Proof concerning Adam? You think he’s alive?”
“No. He’s dead.” Ruth folded her arms. “You know he’s dead.”
Her confident rebuke would be perfectly done if she had not swayed. She wobbled, then tipped forward.
He caught her before she fell. “You’re not…steady.”
Pressed in his arms, she smelled of sweet brandy and roses. Her heart drummed against his chest, and his pulse gave chase. It hadn’t forgotten the rush, the joy of holding her, the heady feeling of finding the one woman who gave him purpose beyond the rage.
Yet, Ruth knew him not.
Well, he’d never been a man who had it all. “You’ll stay, until you are less dizzy. I insist.”
“I’m fine. You’re the one that sounds out of breath. Making fun of women too taxing? Release me.”
Forcing himself to move, he lifted her atop the desk. “Sit, until I am convinced you won’t tumble down the stairs. Since I am to put you in one of my carriages, I think it necessary you comply.”
Mrs. Bexeley came close and tried to catch Ruth’s hand. “Let’s take a moment. I can’t watch you fall again.”
Ruth folded her arms, leaving Mrs. Bexeley’s palm in the air. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s this crazy man.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m handling business, but the wee one is right. You could tumble again. Now explain to me what your proof business is with Adam. As I said, I am Lord Wycliff, Adoniram Wilkinson. I know, such a horrid, pretentious name. I never use it.”
That was true. It was why he’d gone by Adam and had given everyone that name so the gossips could never tie him to the fights he’d found himself embroiled in. He’d never wanted to distress his father.
Wycliff walked around to the other side of the desk and glanced toward the mirror framed above the sideboard.
Did he look so different?
He wasn’t gaunt anymore. His hair was cropped low to not show the kink of his curls. Passing was the root of his power, the only reason he was alive, but his Ruth knew that.
“I’m waiting, ladies. Which one of you shall go first? Should I toss a coin?”
If Wycliff were a bigger man, he’d let things be. Ruth couldn’t find Adam. His world was no safer. His uncle and his ilk were still dangerous.
But a man who loved as deeply as Wycliff wasn’t capable of giving up. He’d never relinquish an opportunity to win Ruth back. Never. Not even if she wore another man’s ring.
Chapter Eight
Remembering Adam
My sister could fuss, make eyes at me all day, not that I could see her doing it. I was not leaving Blaren House, not yet.
I heard a chair move behind me. I assumed it was Lord Wycliff sitting at his desk.
Ester was a small pacing blur and could hold her breath and turn blue as she did when we were younger, but nothing would make me go. I wouldn’t budge, not without the truth.
Dizzy, head pounding, I could only see blurs and shadows.
Yet, I knew this Lord Wycliff stared at me.
I felt his gaze upon me, hot and heavy, making me wonder if I was properly dressed or how dirty I’d become after falling.
No shrinking from this light. Wycliff was the key to the proof I needed.
“Ruth, the man we came to see is gone. Let’s do the same.” Ester’s blurry pink dress moved in front of me again, back and forth—frown in focus, frown out of focus.
“Please, Ester. Stop.”
Lord Wycliff put his boots on the desk next to me, close to my hip. Hessians, I imagined, with something that swung when his feet shifted. A tassel dangling mid shaft. Fashionable, expensive boots.
A tang of polish hit my nose. The man might be crazy with a whip, but he did possess some fastidious habits…like Adam.
“What is it you’d like to know of the Wilkinsons or Adam?”
The graveled voice, low, hoarse sounding—grated. I didn’t know why. It just did.
I rolled the shiny gold band my father had bought to perfect my widowhood. “Did you know Adam was attacked on his way to London from Scotland four years ago?”
It was the longest sigh I’d ever heard, but then he said, “Yes. I know. Adam was coming from Gretna Green.”
“Then you are aware he married?”
Another long sigh, this one punctuated with something sounding like a grumbled curse. “Yes.”
My sister stopped pacing. “How do you know for sure? You weren’t there, were you?’
A third long, guttural groan sounded.
But I was taken aback by Ester’s tone.
The haughtiness. She didn’t believe any of this. She could jab me with knitting needles or knives, but nothing would hurt worse.
I stared at the blur of boots by my hip because I couldn’t look at Ester. “He knows because he saw the other half of the registry.”
“Yes. I saw it.”
“Oh,” Ester said.
That was it. Four years of living with everyone calling me a liar and that just summed up my life in five words.
I became speechless, barely able to release my own sigh.
“Ruth really did marry Adam Wilky or C. A. Wilkinso as it says on her half.”
“C. A. Wilkinson. Yes.”
“Then it is also true, the story about them being attacked. That Adam died?”
Ester’s tone, so full of disbelief, began to scrape my hollow insides. I felt nauseous and promised to never again be laid bare like this. There was no one to trust but Chris.
Noise shifted behind me, then something moved in front. A man’s hand, rough, smelling of leather, lifted my chin. “Follow my finger with your eyes. This will tell me if there is a concuss of your skull.”
It took a few moments before his index finger was within my field of view, as the doctors called it.
His sigh was warm on my cheek, and the way he touched my neck, so gentle yet strong—it brought a little relief to my headache.
“I take it no one can believe in a love like yours and Adam’s. Both so young.”
“Not so young. I was nineteen. I’m a wiser twenty-three now.”
“It was young to be swept away so completely.” He made a loud swallow like it hurt to talk. “Adam said he felt oneness with his love, like no other.”
A chill went through me. The voice was dark and twisted, but his words, those were Adam’s.
I moved his hand from my face but held his fingers for a moment. “It sounds as if you knew Adam well. He took the registry from the blacksmith’s shop. No one believes we wed. They think he is a liar or a blackguard who used me.”
“But you know you wed, Ruth.”
He said my name as if we were friends. We were not. He was some high-handed lord who believed he had a right to such intimacy. I dropped his palm. “Call me Mrs. Wilky.”
“Do you think Adam a blackguard, Mrs. Wilky?”
> “I don’t know anymore. Time hasn’t been kind to his memory. And everyone talking ill of me for trusting him… I don’t know.”
Another long sigh uttered.
“Adam was no liar. He married Ruth Elizabeth Croome.”
He said my full name. Even in this raw voice I heard sweetness. I let him take my hand again.
He rolled it in his big, rough palms. “This is not his ring. Have you remarried?”
“No. Not yet. You sound angry.” I balled my fist and shook it at the tall blur. “Are you disappointed that Adam wed a Blackamoor?”
Lord Wycliff chuckled. “No. Adam had fine tastes. Who would be disappointed in you?”
“Plenty.”
“You’re beautiful, well-mannered, a bit of a hot temper underneath. But you are to remarry?”
I lowered my hands to the desk and tried to pretend I didn’t hear the disappointment in his voice.
“An offer will come soon, so no getting ideas.” Ester’s voice was sharp.
“Then I’m on time to give my approval. You’re a Wilkinson. I’m the head of the family.”
“Lord Wycliff, I want nothing from you or your family. No money. Just answers.”
He was in front of me again, hovering.
“Mrs. Wilky.” His finger traced the scar on my temple, the mark I’d tried to hide with curls. “You suffered greatly from the attack. Yours and Adam’s enemies will suffer threefold.”
Ester tried again to take my arm, to elbow her way into the privacy of my and Wycliff’s conversation. “What? What did he say?”
I bit my lip for a moment. I did want those men to be brought to justice, but I didn’t have Job’s patience to suffer more losses or to see the wrong people hurt before vengeance came. “No talk of revenge. No more bloodshed. No nothing.”
My sister, I pictured her standing at a distance, wanting to hear Lord Wycliff’s whispers, my replies, but it had been so long since anyone had believed me, I wanted this moment to last. I wanted this moment for me.
“Ruth, ask him your questions so he can send us home. No, I’ll do it. Do you have the other half of the registry?”
“Mrs. Wilky, you need spectacles. The lenses, they are thick?”
The man ignoring Ester made me want to chuckle, but had he ignored my distress about revenge? I gave up and nodded. “Yes. Lord Wycliff. Ester, did you get them?”
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