“Go!” Saxon choked out.
Logan obeyed without argument, dropping the knife and kicking off his boots before he dove into the river.
Saxon’s hand shot out and closed around the blade’s hilt. He had to get to Ashiana before she died in the icy Thames.
Greyslake grabbed for the weapon, his hands closing around Saxon’s wrist. For a moment, they wrestled for the blade—but the blood running down Greyslake’s arm made his hand slick. The struggle ended almost before it began.
Saxon turned the knife, forced it upward.
And buried it to the hilt in Greyslake’s chest.
Greyslake screamed, a wail of vengeance thwarted. But even as life left him, a smile curved his mouth.
“Two lives,” he whispered with his last breath.
Saxon shoved free of Greyslake, feeling no pleasure in vengeance, no relief in victory, no mourning for the man who had once been John Summers.
He felt nothing but gut-wrenching terror as he raced toward the railing. He couldn’t see anything but rushing water and chunks of ice below.
“Ashiana!”
The hoarse shout tore out of him as he dove into the freezing river.
Saxon sat alone in his darkened study. No fire, no candles, only blackness and cold. Slumped in his chair, he faced the windows. He had drawn the curtains to shut out the light of the December afternoon. In one fist he gripped a crystal decanter, emptied to the last inch of gin.
In the other, he held a long, limp glove.
The white silk was dry now. He looked down at it for the first time in hours. He could see the bloodstains. Even in the darkness, he could see them. And the mud ground into the fingertips. Mud from the river bottom.
All he could think, through the numbing haze of alcohol, was that her hand had been so much smaller than his, her fingers so delicate.
His fist tightened around the glove. He started to shake, battered by emotions that threatened to tear him apart.
He heard voices murmuring outside the door, the click of the latch whispering open.
“Sax?” Julian said quietly.
Tell me you found her. Sweet Jesus, tell me you found her.
He knew that was not what he was going to hear. Not after three days of searching.
“Sax, they’ve…they’ve stopped going in. It’s too cold. They don’t think…There’s no…”
Julian’s voice broke and he gave up trying to speak. Saxon didn’t respond. He knew what Julian meant to say.
Even if they find her now, there’s no chance she’s still alive.
His breath left his body in one shuddering exhalation. He tried to lift the decanter again but couldn’t find the will. He stared into the darkness, listened to the silence pressing down on him. When he finally spoke, his voice was a dry whisper, hoarse and laced with gin. “You know, I can still smell her perfume in here. She was only in this room once and I can still—”
“Don’t, Sax,” Julian pleaded softly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“She died alone. Alone in the cold.”
His hand opened and closed reflexively around her glove. He had found it a mile downriver from the bridge, caught in a tree branch. It looked as if she had struggled and fought and grabbed for life—only to be snatched away by the currents.
It was her left glove. The one that had covered her Ajmir tattoo.
Saxon felt moisture on his face. It took him a moment to realize what it was—tears. “I killed her.” Emotions rose up, hot and unstoppable. “England killed her. She told me once she was a strong swimmer, but she was weak from the chill, from scarcely eating. I never should have made her come here.”
“A madman killed her,” Julian corrected forcefully. “You did your best to save her. You searched until we dragged you out of that river and brought you back here by brute strength. There was nothing anyone could do, Sax—the crew of the Rising Star, the survivors from the Valor, Logan and all our operatives, Bennett and his men. Don’t blame yourself,”
Saxon blinked and turned toward his brother, but didn’t see Julian or anything else. Gone. It was gone. All he had accomplished, all he had worked for, all he had thought he wanted. Max was well. Greyslake was finished. But he felt as if he’d lost…
…Something so vital, he couldn’t begin to define it—except to know that he could never replace it. His life. The light.
Julian crossed the room and picked up a taper from the mantel. Lighting it, he carried it to the desk.
“Put it out, Julian. Put it out and leave me alone.”
“After we talk.” Julian set the sconce on the desk. The sapphire that Saxon had placed on the polished wood top two days ago sparkled in the flame’s light. He had taken the jewel out that first morning, when his brothers had brought him home and locked him in here and posted servants at the windows to keep him from going back to the river.
He had sat glaring at it, as if it possessed some answer, some power, some way of calling her back.
Next to it, still in the box, lay the Christmas gift Ashiana had bought him. His mother had brought it in this afternoon, hoping it might help him, somehow, to have a memento of how much Ashiana had loved him.
It was the Valor, a small-scale model, perfect in every detail. She had had it made for him.
Julian sat on the edge of the desk.
Saxon didn’t look up. “Get out,” he said without emotion.
“How long are you going to sit here in the dark drinking and blaming yourself and shutting everyone out?”
Saxon set his jaw, glancing up in stony silence.
“Doesn’t it remind you,” Julian asked carefully, “of another time you and I sat in the dark like this?”
Saxon glowered at him.
“When I found you in the Maratha village.” Julian persisted. “You were grieving then, weren’t you?”
Saxon put the decanter down on the desk with a clatter and thrust himself to his feet, turning away.
Julian kept talking. “I was just too oblivious to see it then, much less help you through it. But you were grieving. Over a woman. Who was she?”
“Get out.”
“Do you think this is what she would have asked of you?” Julian continued mildly.
“What?” Saxon snapped.
“That you stop living. Is that what she would have wanted? Is that what either of them would have wanted?” Julian’s voice dropped to a low, accusing tone. “Do you really think they were both such selfish, demanding bitches?”
Saxon spun with a wordless snarl and grabbed Julian by the front of his coat, jerking him to his feet and shoving him up against the nearest wall. He drew back his fist, barely stopped short of knocking his brother to the floor.
“That wasn’t it at all, was it?” Julian said quickly, not even flinching. “It’s not them. It’s you. You’ve done this to yourself. You blame yourself for their deaths and the guilt is tearing you apart.”
Saxon stood there breathing harshly, shaking, his arm still poised.
“You want to take a shot at me?” Julian asked softly. “Will that make you feel better? Go ahead. But when you’re done beating the hell out of me and beating the hell out of yourself, they’ll still be gone.”
“It should have been me,” Saxon ground out. “It should have been me!”
“But it wasn’t.”
Saxon shoved away from him, fury and grief blistering through his chest. With a sweep of his arm, he grabbed the decanter and threw it. It shattered against a painting on the far wall, slashing the canvas, splashing gin everywhere, scattering shards across the floor.
He braced his arms against his desk, feeling the anguish of the past days, months, years, raining down on him all at once, like hail made of hot steel.
Julian stepped closer. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent their deaths, Sax. Sometimes there is no blame. No explanation. You did the best you could.”
Saxon swore. Hadn’t he recently used similar words himself? “It’s not only that. T
here’s more to it. It’s…”
“Tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Tell me.”
At his brother’s insistent prodding, words tumbled out before Saxon could hold them back. Sharp, agonized words. “I once said to Bennett that Ashiana was a mystery to me. But I knew her better than I’ve ever known any woman in my life. I wanted her more, I—” His voice choked out.
“Say it out loud, Sax.”
Saxon straightened, the truth spilling out in one breath. “I loved her more! I loved her more than I loved Mandara.”
Julian stood silent for a long moment. “The Maratha lady you were mourning?”
“My wife. I married her, Julian. That son of a bitch murdered her on the day of our wedding. And in a matter of weeks, I just…forgot her. Like she never even existed.”
“She obviously meant a great deal to you. Anyone could see that. You sought justice for her death and you got it.”
“But I fell in love with another woman. Less than a year after she died.”
“And how long would have been long enough?” Julian challenged, striding around to face Saxon across the desk in the faint light. “How long? A year? Two? Ten?”
“I took a marriage vow.”
“And you honored it.”
Saxon swore again. “You couldn’t begin to understand.”
“I understand you better than anyone. You’re like a bloody bull terrier once you get your teeth into a promise. Just look at the way you went through hell and back again to keep that vow you made to our father.”
“I don’t give my word unless I intend to keep it.”
“And you did keep it. And it’s done. Now let it go. Let your Maratha lady go. What is it you’re waiting for, Sax? Forgiveness? She can’t come back and give it to you.”
Saxon stared down at the candle, his heart flickering as unsteadily as the flame. Was that what he wanted? Some sort of absolution for the guilt he felt over the death of his innocent wife? Someone to grant him permission to stop mourning her? He shook his head. It couldn’t be that simple. “I swore that I would never allow another woman to take her place, but I’ve done nothing but dishonor her memory for months.”
“Dishonor?” Julian said incredulously. “You are the most honorable man I know. Just the fact that this is tearing you up so much proves that.” He straightened, folding his arms over his chest. “Sax, do you have any idea how much I’ve admired you, all my life? How much everyone in this family admires and respects and loves you?”
Saxon lifted his gaze to Julian’s.
“No, of course you don’t,” Julian said irritably. “You’ve been too bloody busy keeping vows to the dead. Trying to prove yourself to our father. Trying to make up for what happened to your Maratha lady. Well, I’ve got news. Our father is never going to come back and tell you how proud he is of you, and your wife is never going to come back and forgive you.” Julian braced his hands on the desk and leaned closer. “Stop living for them, Sax. Those of us in your present would greatly appreciate it if you would come out of the past. If it’s forgiveness you want, you’d better start by forgiving yourself.”
“Nice speech.” Saxon raked a hand through his hair. “I thought Max was the philosophical one. Are you finished?”
“Not yet.” Julian picked up the sapphire from the top of the desk. He grabbed his brother’s hand and slapped the jewel into his palm. Then he turned and walked away.
“What the hell is this for?” Saxon growled.
“You’ll figure it out.”
With that, Julian left and closed the door behind him.
Saxon sank back into his chair, staring at the stone, furious that his brother had provoked him into such an emotional outburst.
But then, slowly, his anger faded and he began to understand.
Julian had done this on purpose. Stirred up all the feelings and thoughts crowding his heart and his head, so that he couldn’t shut them out anymore.
As Saxon watched the sparkling facets of the sapphire dance along the walls in the light of that single candle, he began to feel. Longing and love washed over him with a single name. Ashiana.
And for the first time, those emotions came without the guilt that had haunted him for so long.
Ashiana could have filled up his life, just as the sapphire’s light filled up this room—with fire and beauty and spirit that were beyond any price. She could have made him whole, truly whole.
If only he hadn’t been so determined to honor the past.
Mandara had been sweet and good and would have made a fine, gentle wife. But she wouldn’t have been strong enough to truly balance him. To complete him the way Ashiana could, to join with him as two sharing one life, one soul, in all things.
Start by forgiving yourself.
Saxon realized then that he had had everything backwards. Julian was right.
His problem wasn’t that he had not held on long enough…but that he had held on too long. And in doing so, he had missed the sweet promise of the present. The future.
Forgive.
He closed his eyes as he closed his fingers around the sapphire.
“Mandara,” he whispered to the darkness. “It’s time for me to let you go.”
“By all the graces!”
“Hello, Mr. Townshend.” Ashiana smiled weakly, her weariness lifting at the footman’s astounded expression. Snow swirled around her in the bright morning sunlight. The hackney driver who had brought her home held her elbow—partly to keep her upright, she thought generously, but mainly to ensure that he would be paid. “I am so sorry to be such a surprise.”
“My word!” Townshend blinked from her to the coachman and back again, apparently in such a state of shock that he was unable to move.
“This…this gentleman was kind enough to bring me home, but he did not quite believe that I would pay.” Ashiana coughed, a deep, wracking cough that left her breathless for a moment. “Would you be kind enough to do so?”
“Of course, my lady.” Townshend instantly dug into his waistcoat and handed the man several silver coins, then took Ashiana’s other elbow to help her inside.
Letting go of her at last, the driver bobbed a quick bow. “Sorry, miss. Hope ye’ll fergive me, miss. Can’t blame a man fer not believin’ ye lived in Grosvenor Square, what with ye lookin’…like ye do at present.”
Ashiana knew that her matted hair and ruined gown made her look like she belonged on the impoverished street where she had hailed him. “I understand. It is quite all right. Thank you.”
Townshend dismissed the man with an impatient gesture and closed the door. “Lady Ashiana, where on Earth have you been? Everyone has been so—”
“Please, I know that I have a great deal to explain, but first you must tell me—”
“Ashiana?” Paige’s astonished voice rang out from the far end of the house. Ashiana’s fatigue was suddenly replaced by a surge of warmth and happiness at seeing the duchess. Paige came running into the foyer in a flurry of pale-yellow silk. “That was your voice I heard! Oh, my dear girl!”
Before Ashiana could utter a word of apology or explanation, the petite duchess had thrown both arms around her in an astonishingly strong hug, heedless of the dirt caked on Ashiana’s gown. “Wherever have you been?” Paige cried. “We thought you were dead.”
Ashiana returned the hug, feeling more than just relief at finally being safe. Her heart was filled by the duchess’s affection and concern. It almost brought tears to her eyes, but she was too tired to even cry. “I am fine, really. But please you must tell me—is Saxon all right? I was so afraid for him on the bridge! Was he hurt?”
“No, no. He escaped unscathed. Greyslake is dead. Captain Bennett and Mr. Logan and everyone else is well—but what happened to you?”
Ashiana could not speak for a moment. Saxon was all right! The fear and tension that had knotted her stomach finally unwound—but that was all that had kept her on her feet. She felt such profoun
d relief, her legs went weak. Paige instantly led her to the nearest settee.
“Oh, Paige, I do not know where to begin.” Ashiana coughed, shivering at the terrifying memories. “I tried to swim, but the river was so cold and so fast. It kept pulling me under. I tried to make my way toward the shore. I grabbed a branch, but I could not hold on. And then…”
“What?”
“The next thing I knew, I awakened in the darkness, on land—in a dirty, very small…I am not sure you would call it a house. Rather like a hut.”
“But where?” Paige exclaimed. “We checked at all the homes along the river. We checked with physicians, with the magistrates—”
“I am not sure who these people were. Only that they were quite un…un-plez—”
“Unpleasant?”
“Yes. The family’s eldest son found me on the riverbank, un…un-con—asleep.”
“Unconscious,” Paige supplied.
“Yes, and he brought me home. They were very angry with him. They could tell from my clothes that I was a person of the aristocracy and they were afraid that I was about to die, and that they would be blamed, so they did not take me to the—the word that you said just now?”
“Magistrate?”
Ashiana nodded. “When I finally awoke, I was terribly weak and ill. They argued over what to do with me.”
“But why did they not bring you back here?”
“I asked them to, but they demanded money. I told them I had none and pleaded with them to send word here. I promised that you would see they were rewarded. They decided it would be better to wait until I was well and escort me here themselves, so that they might collect payment for their troubles.”
“And are they here?” Paige looked toward the door, her expression furious.
“No.” Ashiana coughed again and could not speak for a moment. “I could not bear that they would keep me for days, when I knew you must all think me dead. I slipped away as soon as I felt strong enough, this morning.”
“I will have them arrested at once for kidnapping you!” Paige declared.
“No, please.” Ashiana took her hand. “They did take care of me. They were just afraid of what might happen to them. They have six children, and they are so poor. They could not resist the chance to make some money.”
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 34
