All chatter ceased.
“You aren’t clever.” Tears threatened in her eyes. “You”—she shoved him with all her might—“are a brute.”
Anthony restrained her with ease, twisting both of her hands behind her back. She didn’t care. He could hurt her all he wished. In the end, he would get his due.
“What”—he seethed—“are you talking about?”
“How dare you threaten my son’s life?”
He paled. “Penelope, sweet,” his voice was soft, “you know I would never do anything to harm the boy. Thaddeus is like a son to me. I’d protect him with my life. Wouldn’t I, fellows?”
His friends joined together in a chorus of agreement.
“Are you telling me you had nothing to do with the poacher’s trap intentionally set on Ithwick land? Either you’re an even poorer steward than I thought, or you’re lying.”
“If someone did set the trap,” Lord Thomas spoke from the rear of the group, “my money is on the lame beggar.”
“Not a bad thought,” Anthony replied, his gaze never leaving Penelope.
“What lame beggar?” she asked.
“Why your newest stray, of course.” Anthony squinted. “We just saw him in town, dressed in rags.”
“You’re mad. What would the captain gain by harming my son?”
“Gain?” He shrugged. “Why need he gain?”
“Only a madman would harm a child without reason,” Penelope replied.
“Oh, I heartily agree.” Anthony smiled. “And, now that I consider, your beggar more than fits that bill.”
“Just because he taunted you—”
“That?” Anthony interrupted. “I’d forgotten all about that. After what all of us witnessed in the village, if the magistrate sets the beggar free I would be very surprised.”
Her heart leapt in her throat. “What’s happened?”
“I keep telling you, sweet. Those sailors cannot be trusted. Your beggar nearly killed a man today.”
She yanked out of his softened grip. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you will.” Anthony shrugged. “I know what I saw. Irus challenged him to a fight.”
“Irus, the drunken fisherman?” The captain wouldn’t harm an old man. Would he?
“Yes.” Anthony snorted. “I suppose there simply isn’t enough room for two beggars in the village.”
Pen narrowed her eyes. “You encouraged the fight, didn’t you?”
Snickers sounded among the gentlemen.
“What if I did?” Anthony replied. “A man has got to have some entertainment. Settle.” He held her back by the shoulders. “Settle! My God, Penelope, I almost believe you care for the beggar.”
Blood crept into her cheeks she dropped her hands and looked away. “I find your behavior repugnant, is all.”
“My behavior? It wasn’t me who nearly killed a man. Irus may well be dead.”
“He’s right.” Lord Thomas moved to the front of the group. “You should have seen the bloodlust in the captain’s eyes. I shiver just to recall. He beat Irus until Irus could not stand and then dragged him half-conscious from the town.”
No. It couldn’t be true.
Not the captain. Not her captain.
I am still a stranger. You do not know my intent.
The captain had even warned Thaddeus not to give him his trust. Had she been a complete fool?
She turned away. Anxious to reach him. Anxious to discover the truth.
“Where are you going?”
“Back up to Thaddeus.” She would take the servants’ stair out. She picked up her the clothes from the stairs. “Do you object?”
Anthony held her gaze for a long moment.
“Carry on,” he finally said.
Chapter Twelve
CHEVERLEY GRITTED HIS teeth as Emmaus laid another stich, slowly closing the shallow gash on his side. Enduring the needle never got easier, no matter how many cuts one survived.
Listening to the howls of Emmaus’s first patient hadn’t helped, either. And Irus, who was unconscious again by the fire, on a heap of pigskins and deep in gin-infused sleep, only suffered a split lip.
“You’re lucky Sir Jerold did not arrest you,” Emmaus said.
Chev scoffed. “For defending myself?”
“For nearly killing an old drunk. And don’t bother attempting to deny your rage. I saw how close you came.”
Chev glanced askance at Irus—whose swollen face would, no doubt, purple long before he woke.
Chev had, once again, seen red.
Although he’d also tried to avoid the fight. He’d done everything he could to discourage Irus from throwing the first punch. But Anthony and his coterie had egged on the old man’s belligerence, and, once Irus had pulled a knife, Chev had little choice.
Emmaus looked up. “Can you control your rage?”
“Can you?”
Disappointment flashed in Emmaus’s gaze. “If I could not, I would not be alive today.”
Chev nodded, chagrined. Even what Chev endured was nothing compared to Emmaus’s tale.
“Forgive me.”
Emmaus snorted. “Just promise you’ll stop landing your foot in your mouth.”
“Best not to speak at all, then.”
Chev leaned back and closed his eyes.
Why was it, when standing on the helm of a ship, he could read a hundred risks and opportunities in the weather, in the waves. With quick calculation, he could discern the balance of enthusiasm and trepidation in his men and know how the result could affect a planned attack. But on land—though risks aplenty abounded—all opportunities were shrouded.
He’d no idea how to deduce something so simple as his reckoning, nor did he have any rudder he could shift that would change his course.
Irus snored deeply, interrupting Chev’s thoughts.
Throwing punches had been far easier than bringing justice to his life and his home. Irus had been but a proxy for Anthony, for the pirate. He understood that, now that the red had passed.
“Irus will recover,” he said aloud.
“Once he sleeps off that gin you bought him, yes,” Emmaus agreed.
“I’m lucky you showed up when you did.”
“I’ll say.” Emmaus tied off, and then cut, the thread.
Chev took another swig of well-earned gin. “You haven’t told me what happened between you and the vice-admiral.”
“Is anything having to do with the Admiralty ever quickly resolved?” Emmaus returned his needle to his leather packet. “I was not given my share of past spoils; however they did provide me with an opportunity.”
Emmaus wiped his hand on a rag. He didn’t touch the gin. He never did. “They’ve been watching a ship not too far off shore—a purported merchant ship flying a Danish flag. They want help bringing the ship in without drawing too much attention or risking their own men.”
“Why?”
“Because the ship is neither Danish, nor does it belong to a merchant.”
“A privateer?”
“Possibly.” Emmaus nodded. “If I take it, they say it will be mine.”
“You get your spoils without them having to give you anything at all.”
Emmaus snapped his fingers. “Two problems solved.”
“It’s suicide.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The ship’s crew have been transferring goods to smaller vessels and receiving goods in return. Customs intercepted one of the cutters and the resulting interrogation led the vice admiral to believe the captain is a person they’ve sought. The captain, however, is not currently aboard the ship. In fact, he’s been absent for some time.” Emmaus drummed his fingers against the table. “With a proper plan, and an adequate number of skilled men, I’d have a fighting chance.”
“You are going to attempt to take the ship?”
Emmaus had always wanted his own vessel.
“I’ve spoken to a few men who are willing to assist. But my decision depends.”
&n
bsp; “On what?”
“On you.” He leaned forward. “I swore to Lady Cheverley that I would not leave until I was certain she and Thaddeus were safe. Before I commit, I want your word you intend to claim your place, your life.”
Chev turned his gaze toward the hearth, eyeing a man he almost killed.
What if he failed? What if he claimed his place and the duchy remained in chaos, with a possible murderer in their midst?
And was he just supposed to forget about the pirate? Allow her to roam free and harm others?
Tu n’es rien. You are nothing. Je te possède maintenant en entier. I own every part of you, now.
He spit into the coals; They hissed and steamed in reply.
“While you were gone,” Cheverley said, “Thaddeus nearly lost a limb by stumbling into a man-trap for poachers.”
“What?” Emmaus exclaimed.
Chev rubbed his forehead. “I needn’t ask if you set it.”
“The last thing I’d do is use a trap designed for an animal on a man.”
“I know,” Chev replied. “Which can only mean you were right about Piers’s death not being an accident. But what I cannot understand is, if Anthony planned to kill his way to the top of the inheritance line, why is he courting Pen?”
“As I suggested before—what if it’s as simple as lust?”
“Possible. But”—Chev’s blood ran cold—“he could satiate lust without marriage.” Anthony—if the murderer was Anthony—had to have another reason. “When did Anthony first show interest in my wife?”
Emmaus considered. “Not until she moved to Ithwick.”
Chev was missing something, something that connected Pensteague and Ithwick, Anthony and Pen. The answer remained elusive.
“If you revealed who you are you’d have all the resources of the duchy at your disposal. Two lives will stand between Anthony and his prize. Even Anthony isn’t mad enough to attempt to stage two more accidents.”
Chev ran his hand over his face. “It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Emmaus asked. “It seems simple enough to me. However, I am not you. I haven’t land. I haven’t a wife. And I most certainly do not have a son.”
Cheverley swallowed, accepting the bitter censure.
Their gazes locked. Outside, rapid footsteps sounded in the gravel.
The door flew open and Penelope stepped inside, breathless...and so breath-taking, Chev did not think to cover his exposed chest.
Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his scars—moving from the new one on his side, to the ones that crisscrossed his arms just above the elbow, and then to ones that slashed across his wrist.
His breeches and stockings covered the ones on his thighs and ankles. Even so, she gasped. Her expected horror was almost a relief.
“Lady Cheverley,” Emmaus moved to take the door. “Perhaps it would be better if we stepped outside while the captain dresses.”
“It’s all right, Emmaus,” Cheverley said. “Let the lady look if she is so curious to see.”
“Is it?” she asked, voice quivering. “Is it all right? Because it doesn’t look like it is all right.” She lifted a hand to touch her lips. Her fingers shook. “Anthony says you killed Irus. Did you?”
Chev tilted his head toward the hearth. “Look there. You’ll find Irus very much alive.”
“I saw the fight,” Emmaus added. “The captain attempted restraint until Irus drew his knife.”
She exhaled and closed her eyes.
“If you cannot bear what you have seen,” Chev said, “You may hand me my shirt.”
Emmaus glanced between them and then cleared his throat. “I believe that is my cue to check on the pigs.”
She and Emmaus shared silent communication Chev could not decipher. She nodded, moved aside, and allowed Emmaus to pass. She clasped her hands behind her back and then turned her gaze on him.
Her heightened color made him aware, not just of his scars, but of his near-nakedness and all the things his nakedness implied.
Though sitting while a lady stood was considered the height of inconsideration, he did not think he could stand.
“Developed a taste for the hideous, have you?” he asked, acid in his voice.
“You are anything but hideous.”
She moved forward until she—unlike his shirt—was well within his reach.
The hooded cloak that tied at her throat hung unevenly. Several locks of her hair had come loose and curled down over her shoulder, resting against her nearly-untied bodice, and the right hook on her bib was one, deep inhale from breaking free.
He swallowed.
This was not the time to begin mentally undressing his wife.
“Did you rush here from Ithwick alone? In the dark?”
She nodded.
“I wish you would have a care for your safety.”
“How could you admonish me for not thinking of my safety when I was only thinking of yours?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “But my concern doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
Her question slayed.
He imagined pulling her onto his lap and kissing her until she understood she—not just her concern—meant everything to him.
Which was why failing her once again was not an option.
And why he was frozen in indecision.
“Hand me my shirt, would you?” he asked.
“No.” She blushed a telling shade and softened her voice. “What I meant to ask was, will you try this one instead?”
He hadn’t noticed the folded clothes beneath her arm until she set them onto the table. Warm air wafted over his skin as she shook out a linen shirt and a dark blue coat. She laid the coat aside and then held the shirt up against his shoulders.
The linen was smooth. Fine lawn, actually. But what fascinated him was the cut.
She frowned down, avoiding his gaze and focusing on his shoulders. “I—I think the seam will keep you more comfortable.”
She belied her cleverness.
The shirt would not only be more comfortable, but because of the way she’d designed the seam, the way the fabric fell would allow a greater range of motion.
He’d be able to shoot his bow—or handle a sword—without restriction.
And, for the times he did not wish to suffer piteous stares, he could leave his jacket resting on his shoulders without concern that it would fall.
She bit her lip—clearly uncertain of his reaction.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m stunned.” He wet his lips. “And honored.”
Her blush deepened, pinking the tips of her ears. “I—I was confined to Thaddeus’s room until his fever broke. I cannot be idle.”
She had never been able to be idle, worried or not. And yet, she’d waited for him for thirteen years.
“Is Thaddeus recovered?”
“He is much better. Begging to see you, in fact,” she said. “May I help you try on the shirt?”
Allowing her to dress him was a terrible idea.
He lifted his arms anyway. She slipped the shirt over his head and then smoothed the linen down his chest like a lover.
Like a wife.
“There are hooks, you see.” She fumbled with the ones on his right. “You may leave it down, or pin it back, as you require.”
Her care warmed him deeply. “Thank you, Lady Cheverley.”
“Penelope,” she corrected.
He ran a knuckle down her heated cheek. “Pen.”
One minute, he was sure she knew he was her husband.
The next, he was not.
The old spark flamed between them, but, while secrets remained, they could be nothing more than emissaries of their true selves.
She traced the puffed white lines across his wrist. Her lip trembled. Then stilled. Though his scars muted her touch, the pain ran deeper than the physical.
“You said you were imprisoned. Were you cut then?” she asked.
“Yes,” he whispered, raw.
“You must hav
e fought quite hard.” She sniffed. “You were not easy to restrain.”
“No.” He blinked over stinging eyes. “I wasn’t.”
“I thought—I thought officer prisoners were treated with respect.”
“Sometimes,” he answered. “Sometimes not. I wasn’t in a regular prison. And yes, though I struggled until I bled, I was kept restrained.”
She frowned. “To a wall?”
God help him, he could not lie. “On occasion.”
And on other occasions, to a long, thin plank the pirate could easily straddle.
His memories simmered—a messy stew of fear and shame and hatred.
Tu n’es rien. You are nothing. Je te possède maintenant en entier. I own every part of you, now.
Pen lifted her gaze to his.
Her eyes contained no guile, no pity, no disgust. Yet they stung worse than Emmaus’s needle. Would it be easier to tell her behind this veil of partial anonymity?
“Please,” he choked. “Don’t ask any more questions.”
“Truth for truth,” she whispered.
“I can’t.” Fuck. The sting in his eyes eased as dampness collected between his lashes. “You don’t want to know.”
“Will silence protect me? Will my ignorance make everything right?”
“No.” He swallowed through a dry throat. “Nothing can make everything right.”
“Then what do you have to lose?” She placed her cool palms on either side of his face. “Trust me. Please.”
Trust. Yes. Save me, Pen.
“My secrets—they are vile. I was—I suffered—I suffered—”
Damnation.
Truth, when able to be put into words at all, came out a halting, sticky substance. He could not gentle what he’d experienced. There was no polite way to describe what he endured.
“I can’t.”
“Will you let me ask questions?”
He nodded.
“Your jailor...did he defile you?” she asked.
“Yes.” The word was a serrated knife forced through his mouth.
How could she know? He scowled furiously. What had she experienced that could possibly allow her to imagine...?
She dropped her gaze. “A friend—a fellow seamstress, spent time in Bridewell.” Her brows drew together with concern. “She told me stories—terrible stories—about the ways the guards would humiliate the women...and the men.”
His Duchess at Eventide Page 12
