The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  Valiantly, she fought to calm herself. He handed her a kerchief and she blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She struggled to catch her breath.

  “You . . . you . . .” She breathed deeply and then met his gaze. “You asked me, not long ago, if I looked at everyone and saw a charity case. It hurt. It hurt more when I realized that you look at everyone and see a threat to your precious freedom.”

  He made a sound, but let her continue.

  “Do you know why it hurt more?” she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  “Because I knew that you felt free to take up with me because I wasn’t a threat. I didn’t tempt you enough to worry.”

  “No. You are wrong, Francis.”

  “But . . .but . . .” She looked to the painting again. “If you see me like that—”

  “Francis, everyone sees you like that.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know enough to know that that is not true. But to know that you do? It fills a hole that I never knew existed.” Raising her head, she looked at him through her lashes. “If you see me in such a way, then perhaps . . . I am not quite so alone in this. It might even be that you do feel something for me.”

  “Oh, my sweeting. Don’t cry. Of course, I feel so many different things for you. Admiration, not the least.” He gathered her close.

  And right then, on the floor of his studio, with his arms wrapped around her . . . she let go.

  She released her fears and reservations and just let in the profound and humbling feelings she’d been fighting. Just accepted that, for right now, at least, this moment was pure and right—and theirs.

  The knowledge of it was in his eyes, too. It couldn’t have existed without consent from them both.

  But exist it did.

  And she reveled in it.

  Bowing to the inevitability of it, she reached a finger up and drew it across his beautiful, strong mouth, then pulled him down into a lingering kiss.

  “Fascination,” he whispered, after a time.

  She drew back and looked questioningly up at him.

  “The things I feel for you,” he reminded her. He curled his fingers around her breast. “Unending desire.”

  She tucked her hands inside his coat and pushed it back off of his shoulders. He reached for the buttons on her gown, and in moments they were leaving all of their clothes behind as he carried her to his bed.

  “Wonder,” he said, laying her down and gazing at her for a long moment. But she reached for him and he climbed in beside her and kissed her forehead.

  She, however, sat up and curled around and kissed him—right on his straining cock.

  “Ahhh,” was all he managed to get out then, as she amused herself and pleasured him with gliding fingers and her soft, wet mouth.

  “Impatience,” he said after a time and pulled her back up before looming over her. And soon enough she was arching against him and pulsing with the extreme pleasure of her release—even as he silently shouted his.

  She clung to him afterward and they lay quietly in each other’s arms.

  Their breathing, slowed, steadied, took on a joined, languorous rhythm. Her eyes drifted closed. Just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard him speak. “Infatuation,” he whispered in her ear.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was a huge success. Who was the model? What was the significance of the moon? Men were wild to know.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Rhys allowed Francis a short sleep, then he woke her. “I promised to bring you home,” he reminded her.

  Sweetly disoriented, she dressed. She’d become alert and focused, though, by the time he dropped her and Jasper back at the shop. “We are busy tonight,” she said without really looking at him. “Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “I’ll likely be wandering, trying to find a new scene to paint.” Though it was raining heavily as he left them, he sent the hack off, wrapped himself in one of Mrs. Beattie’s plaids and set out to roam the city. The painting was done. The firewood was caught up and stocked in advance—but still, he needed an outlet for the restlessness in his soul.

  Francis’s reaction to the portrait had been gratifying—and nerve-wracking. But her response had not been nearly as worrisome as his reaction to her reaction.

  She’d touched him. More deeply than he had intended to allow. But this was her first encounter with passion, and she was feeling it all so intensely. He must not get caught up in it. He must slow things down.

  He scoffed at his own thought. There had been no resisting that vulnerable tear in her formidable armor. But there had to be a way to resist her—and he must find it. Or else he’d have to leave Edinburgh—and her.

  He wandered for most of the afternoon. The city’s inhabitants, inured to the weather, went about their business, while he attempted to convince himself it was time to get to Italy. But with all her temptations, that country did not have a particular maiden with saucy smiles, soft, hazel eyes and tangles of golden hair streaked with red.

  The rain stopped and the shadows stretched out long—and at last Caradec found his way back to the inn. He found Malvi waiting on him. She made a sympathetic face and held out a hand for the plaid.

  “Glory, but I’ll be glad enough to get somewhere where it doesn’t rain every second hour.” She held the soaked plaid away from her and hung it on a hook to dry.

  Rhys raised a brow. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you’re sadly mistaken if you think to find London dry.”

  She startled and a look of alarm passed over her face. “Oh,” she said with a smile, clearly trying to rally. “I meant later on, of course. Once I find a cove to spoil me, we’ll travel to all the warm places.” She sighed and he tried to move past her, but she trailed along behind him as he climbed the stairs.

  “You know, I was that glad to hear you giving that ginger-haired chit what-for over her meddling. I know she had something to do with that little flower girl leaving the streets and her flowers behind. I’m all for moving on and bettering yourself, but I saw the consequences of the girl’s attempts myself.”

  “Consequences?” Rhys stopped on the landing. “What do you mean?”

  “That girl’s got an eye darker than the thunder clouds that blow in here from the sea.” She shook her head. “My own dad was known to darken my daylights if I got out of hand, but she’s got a specimen on her.”

  Rhys whirled on her. “Where is the girl now, if she’s no longer selling flowers?”

  Malvi shrank back, her eyes growing large. “I saw her at the ribbon shop, where your red-haired girl stays. She’s working there, or something like.”

  Without another word he rushed past her, back downstairs and outside. The rain had returned with a vengeance. A torrent hit him at his first step, but he stalked on. His anger and disappointment would keep him warm.

  Arriving at Mrs. Spencer’s shop, he found it dark and locked. He would not be thwarted. Searching out the nearest alley, he wound his way to the back entrance and marched right in.

  Francis sat there, at a small table, sewing pleats into a length of fabric. Next to her, a colorful rug spread out on the floor. A girl sat there, with her back to him, entertaining a laughing baby with a toy.

  “Rhys!” Francis looked up, startled—and grew more concerned when she saw his expression. “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he knelt down next to the rug and studied the girl seated there. “Who did this to you, little one?” he asked gently, indicating her swollen face and bruised eye.

  She looked to Francis for guidance. Seeing her nod, she whispered, “My uncle.”

  “Whatever possessed him to do such a thing?”

  Glancing over at Francis again, she answered. “He did not wish my mother to take a job here. Or for us to leave his lodgings.”

  Rhys stood. He couldn’t prevent the accusing glare that landed on Francis. “I warned you not to meddle. I told you that you
would get her in deeper trouble. Now, look at the result of your interference.”

  The girl straightened, alarmed. “No, sir! Miss Francis is not to fault!”

  Rhys gentled his tone as he asked, “Where does your uncle live, child?”

  “Do not answer that, Janet,” Francis ordered.

  He stared over his shoulder at her, exasperated. “I told you that it was easy to make a mistake. Men like that won’t stop at a black eye, Francis. He must be dealt with. I will handle him.”

  “You will not.”

  “I will,” he insisted. “This must be brought to a finish. You think you are helping, I know. But you are meddling with this girl’s life. It’s not a lark. It’s not a means to make yourself feel good. Or to garner Hestia’s favor.”

  “Stop.” She shook her head and her tone tightened with irritation. “This situation, this sort of thing—this is my life’s work. I’ve told you that I know what I’m about. You know enough about me. I should think you would believe it.”

  “You’ve pulled this girl out of her element—and that is no small thing! It takes more than a new position to truly change someone’s life. It takes time and attention and true caring. If you interfere without offering all the rest, you can bring ruin and heartache—and worse.” He thrust both hands in his hair, frustrated and incredibly annoyed at his own pain resurfacing and her refusal to hear him. “I know of what I speak, Francis! I know you want to help, but—”

  “There’s no but to be had, Caradec. I want to help. I do help. Yes, I’m still learning some things, but I’m learning from the best.” She crossed her arms. “But you don’t want to hear that, do you? For some ungodly reason you believe that Hestia is shallow and thoughtless—and so must I be, too.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Enough.” She cut him off again, her face white and her lips pressed together. “It’s clear. You will insist on thinking the worst of me, of the work I do, unless you are finally forced not to. Nothing will convince you, I can tell, except what you see with your own eyes. Very well, then.” She stood. Taking up her wrap, she went to the back door, opened it, then stood on the threshold and let out a long, piercing whistle.

  After a long moment, someone came to the door. A large young man with brilliant red hair and the beginnings of a bristly beard.

  “Er . . .” She hesitated and a furious blush of color rose in her cheeks. Rhys had never seen her stumble so, but she clutched her skirts and he wondered if she’d forgotten she was wearing them. “I . . . My, uh . . . that is, Flightly asked . . .”

  The burly young man laughed. “We know it’s ye,” he said shaking his head. “Ye and the boy, one and the same. We’ve all knowed ye was a girl since the time you brought food with ye, when ye wanted us fer a job. T’was a sure sign, ye wantin’ to feed us up.”

  Her mouth twitched and her color began to subside. “A novice mistake. I should have known better.”

  “Ye should,” he agreed. “Otherwise, ye might have took us in completely.” The young man jerked his head in Rhys’s direction. “Should we not ’a let him through? I figgered—”

  “It’s fine,” she cut him off. “He’s fine. But we have to go out. I need you to stay here with wee Janet.” Francis turned to the girl, who had gathered the sleeping baby up on her hip. “Janet,” she began. “This is Angus. He—”

  “I know who he is,” the girl avowed, her eyes wide.

  “Oh, yes. Being on the streets as you were, I suppose you would know.” She pulled Angus in and then crossed to the girl and knelt before her. “You know he has a gang of boys?”

  Janet nodded.

  “They are ranged all around our building tonight, watching and keeping us safe. Angus is a friend. I trust him to keep you and little Lizzie safe, while I go to the Gulls with Mr. Caradec. Will you trust me—and him too?”

  Janet looked between them. Angus gave her a wink. Solemnly, she nodded.

  “Fine, then. We’ll return soon, with your mother and Mrs. Spencer.”

  Angus stepped toward the back door. “You’ll need a hack to make it in time. And I was thinkin’, out there, that it would be just as well to send a coach fer the women. I already rustled Geordie to fetch a rig, so he could wait fer the ladies at the Gulls.”

  “Wait.” She frowned at him. “Geordie? From the livery?”

  “Aye.” He smirked. “He’s my cousin, did he not tell ye?” At her look, he shrugged. “I ‘spose everyone has secrets, don’t we? He can take you along as easy as ridin’ empty, and bring you all back.” He went to the threshold and spoke to a figure that instantly melted out of the evening gloom.

  Francis glanced sharply over at Rhys. “Come along, then.”

  He scarcely recognized her flat tone and still expression, but he followed as she pulled a wrap about her and left through the storefront and the front door. She headed east and after a block, a hack pulled over next to them.

  Geordie grinned down at her from the box. “In you go,” he said brightly. “I’ll have you at the Three Gulls in two shakes.”

  The boy laughed at his own wit, but Francis sat stone-faced while they headed toward the docks and made their way into the maze of buildings behind them—and Rhys began to wonder just what they were journeying into. Only when the hack began to slow did she shake out her wrap and drape it over her head, hiding her face in shadows.

  “In here,” she said, after he silently handed her down. Without hesitation, she stepped into a low tavern. He glanced up to see a disreputable sign that might once have represented three white birds flying against a cracked blue background.

  The taproom was fully occupied by dockworkers come to enjoy a pint, and perhaps a pinch of a barmaid’s back end. The noise was loud, but the mood appeared genial.

  A harried serving girl hustled up to them. “No tables left, but the pair of ye can take stools against the wall, should ye wish to stay.” She sounded as if she’d be surprised if they did.

  “The stools are fine.” Francis slid onto one and ordered two pints of ale. The maid shrugged and left to fetch their drinks.

  “Sit.” Francis motioned for Rhys to take the next stool.

  “What are we doing here, Francis?”

  “We are watching. Only watching, Caradec. You are to follow your own advice and not to interfere. Do you understand?”

  He merely raised a brow and took his seat.

  The stevedores were singing now, and laughing at their own wit. Another serving girl joined the first and kept the ale flowing and cups filled.

  The song wandered toward its end and Rhys noticed another female figure emerge from the back and stand at the edge of the bar. The last verse trailed off and she stepped forward into the center of the room.

  Others noticed her. They elbowed their companions. She said nothing, merely stood proud and silent and slowly the room grew still as all attention focused on her.

  “Wee Janet’s mother,” whispered Francis, leaning in.

  Reaching up, the woman pulled back her hood. A soft sound of disapproval went around as her sleeve fell back and revealed a wrapped wrist, and as the low light hit her cheek, which sported a violently purple bruise and a laceration where the skin had split over the bone.

  Rhys’s gut turned over in anger.

  “My name is Jean Grant. Many of ye ken me—and a number of ye were fine, fair mates to my own Ewen before he passed.”

  “Aye!” someone shouted. “A toast to Ewen Grant!”

  Cups were raised around the room.

  “Ye’ll most all know that I was left poorly off when he died—and with two bairns, one a new babe in arms. I’d nowhere to go until Ewen’s brother Roddie stepped up, kind enough to take us in.”

  A smaller murmur went around—and Rhys saw one man shrink a little as his booth mates raised their glasses to him. He straightened. That was the worm who had used his fists on this woman and her child?

  Suddenly a hand gripped tight around his arm. “Sit back,” Francis hissed. “
Allow her to do what she came here to do.”

  “We’ve done what we can to help earn our keep. I was that grateful—and still am,” Jean Grant continued. “Nor do I begrudge a hard-working man his drink of an evening. And I know there’s scarce a family out there that doesna’ raise a ruckus now and then.” She drew herself erect. “But when too much drink leads to regular beatings?” She shook her head. “Some of ye will ken why I took a good job with good lodgings elsewhere for me and my girls.”

  She threw off her cloak suddenly and quiet reigned again as the crowd of rough men took in the layers of bruises, old and new, covering her arms and creeping up from beneath her bodice, crossing her thin collarbones.

  “Now, I’m strong and can stand much.” She took a step forward and her voice changed, ringing out harder. “But I willna see a hand laid on my blameless bairns—or stand by while anyone vents a drunken spleen on my little ones.”

  She raised a hand and pointed around the room. “And so I am here tonight to put each of ye on notice. Wee Janet carries an eye dark and swollen nearly shut—and it willna happen again.” Her chin lifted. “I will kill Roddie Grant myself before he touches either of my babes again.”

  Low muttering went around the room. Roddie Grant stood at his seat.

  “The crown will see me swing for it, most likely—and I’ll go gladly to the rope, to protect my girls—but if I do, then I charge all of ye who loved my Ewen to see that his girls are taken in and cared for.”

  Across the room Roddie stepped away from his table, a little shame-faced, but looking thunderous with anger. Before he could move or utter a sound, another man, large, muscled and weather-beaten, stepped into his path, several feet away.

  “There willna be need of ye to be takin’ matters into yer own hands, Jean Grant,” the man rumbled.

  Around the room, other men stood as well.

  “Ewen was a good, braw lad, and one of our own. It fair shocks me, to hear of his brother takin’ on so.”

  “Aye, it came as an unpleasant surprise to me, as well, Broderic Carr.” returned Jean Grant.