by Devon, Eva
“Yes,” she agreed but then her face crumpled. “I am here with you. But you can never trust me, can you? You must think I am as awful and as evil as my uncle.”
Tristan lifted his hand to her cheek and he carefully cupped it. He stared deep into her gaze, determined to make her understand. “No, Annabelle, I could never think such a thing now. I can see in yer eyes the truth. Perhaps ye have done vicious things. So have I in the pursuit of. . .”
He paused, searching for the right words.
“You’re trying to protect your sister, aren’t you?” she breathed. “That’s why you came to my uncle’s house. I could not imagine why you could be there. Not a man like you. Only truly corrupt men or men lost to drink and gambling come to my uncle’s house.”
His heart grew heavy. “Ye’ve asked me no’ to share her secret.”
“Yes. I have,” she replied as she trailed her hands up his arms, resting them on his shoulders. “But you may still tell me yours. What set you on your path?”
“Revenge,” he replied honestly. “Ye’re verra astute. The dark, underbelly of London was no’ to my interest. Nor was gambling in any particular way until a year ago.”
“But someone in my uncle’s circle drew you?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
“Caxton,” he said tightly.
She shuddered. “A cruel man.”
“Yes.” Tristan hesitated. He was in strange waters now. How could he proceed? With honesty. That was how. “Have ye ever heard of Richard Heath?”
She arched a brow. “Anyone from my side of London knows Heath.”
“He is coming here.”
“Here?” She blanched. “Why?”
“He knows a great deal about Caxton and yer uncle’s doings.”
“And me?” she queried, her gaze searching his face.
“And ye.” He swallowed. “Is there. . . is there anything else ye wish to share with me before he arrives?”
“I have told you all,” she promised firmly, her grip tightening about him. “I am complicit in the deaths of men who could not bear the shame of their losses. I am complicit in my uncle’s darkness.”
“No, Annabelle, ye clung to light in his darkness,” he challenged, tugging her tightly to his chest, wishing he could take all her pain into himself. “Ye could no’ help being born into poverty with a father who manipulated all those about him. Even yer father. . . I canna overly judge him. For how is a man to survive when born in the gutter?”
“Like Heath,” she said softly.
Tristan smiled dryly. “Ye do ken him then.”
“I have never been in his presence but his reputation is remarkable.”
Tristan lowered his head and rested his forehead against the top of her head. “He is a friend.”
She was silent at this.
“He has provided a great deal of help on numerous occasions to my friends and now,” Tristan leaned back and cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I think he shall help us.”
“Can he be trusted?” she demanded.
“Yes, I think he can,” Tristan replied.
The color drained from her face as she asked, “And you do not hate me for all that I have done?”
He thought back to the night they first met. The wildness of her ethereal spirit had drawn him to her. He’d been captivated and it had been hell when he’d realized she was a creature of that evil house and her uncle. But now? Now, he knew she was no different than his sister. A victim of circumstance. And a brave one, too.
“I canna hate ye, Annabelle,” he confessed, his voice rough. “How can I when I admire ye so much. Most would have given up in such circumstances. Ye fought to stay alive and to thrive. The moment ye had yer chance to escape yer uncle, ye seized it, did ye no’?”
She blinked as if that thought had not yet occurred to her. “Why, yes. I did.”
“Ye but needed the opportunity,” he whispered. “Ye were no’ a fool to simply run out into the night, risking the fate of yer mother and father. And ye also came to my aid when a purely selfish person would no’ have done so. I’m proud to have such a strong woman as my wife.”
Much to his amazement, her eyes shone and he was certain she was about to allow more tears to slip down her cheeks. But instead, she beamed. Her entire body radiated with her relief.
“Thank you, Tristan. I shall endeavor to make amends for all that I have done.”
“There is nothing to make amends for,” he said firmly.
She nodded, but he could see that she was not convinced. Would she ever be?
The thought struck him hard. Could she be convinced that she was worthy of hope and a place of importance? His heart did the strangest twist in his chest. For suddenly, it seemed all important to ensure this.
Just days ago, he’d been uncertain if he could trust her. Yet, trust was growing. Between both of them. But there was one certain thing. He was going to show Annabelle that she was free with him and that he trusted her with his heart and soul.
He would show her happiness.
For all he wished now was to see her smile. A true smile. Not one touched by irony or bitterness.
And he wished that for his sister, too. In all his seeking of retribution, he had failed Jane. He had failed to help her reclaim what had always been hers. Joy.
Joy would be the greatest revenge against Annabelle’s uncle and men like Caxton who only cared about the destruction of others.
Happiness. . .
Could he arrange such a thing?
He was a bloody duke. One of the most powerful men in the land. Of course, he could. If he could but decide how.
And with that promise to himself, he lowered his lips to hers, determined that she should know how much he cared for her from the caress of his kiss.
Chapter 23
Every day with Tristan was a revelation.
The experiences of his captivating person and their relationship were so new and strange that she barely could make sense of them.
Still, she could not forget that they had met at her uncle’s house. Tristan was not a gentle man or an entirely innocent man.
But she was largely certain that the majority of his inherent goodness had not been lost on the fields of battle but in the wake of his sister’s torment.
It had not been war that had driven him to darkness, but the undoing of his sister, Jane.
Was there anything more admirable than a man willing to go to such lengths for someone he loved?
She doubted it.
Yet, from the brief time she had spent with Jane, Annabelle felt certain that revenge would not bring his sister back from the brink of despair that she now currently walked.
Even so, if she could help Tristan achieve justice, she would.
She would do whatever it took to help Jane and Tristan who had come to mean more to her than anyone else in her entire life. Which was utterly mad, given the shortness of their acquaintance. But there it was. She felt. . . bonded to them. For they had accepted her in a way no one ever had. And somehow, she knew in her core that Tristan and even Jane would not abandon her to the wolves.
That was why she stood in the long parlor, sun spilling in through the tall, stained-glass windows. She’d planted her boots firmly into the burgundy and rich blue Axminster carpet and folded her hands before her lest she fidget. Fidgeting was not something she was given to. Composure, in fact, had always been one of her greatest assets.
After all, she’d seen darkness which most could only imagine.
But Richard Heath had seen worse.
Of that, she was certain.
And there would be no hiding from him. No ladylike facade, no proper accent, no clever turn of phrase would be able to mask the fact that she’d been birthed in the general vicinity of the same cesspit that he’d been whelped in.
Heath would know exactly what that meant and, unlike her husband, she doubted Heath would hold much sympathy. After all, thousands of people were born every year into the
piss and hell of East London. Most died before they could take their first step. And every single child that survived into adulthood had been forged in an unforgivable fire.
Heath would understand that she wasn’t special, not like Tristan wished her to believe. She was just like every other East End chancer who’d had to bloody herself for bread.
Tristan stood near the windows, sipping a brandy, casually watching her then swinging his gaze to the courtyard as if that might imply that he was not concerned about the outcome of Heath’s visit.
The East End boss had arrived in the courtyard just minutes ago and would be ushered in at any moment.
She swallowed, wishing for a brandy herself, but not wishing to have her wits diluted.
The doors swung open on well-oiled hinges and a man who looked as much a gentleman as she did a lady, strode forward.
Her jaw slackened slightly at the sight of Heath’s perfection.
His clothes were cut, no doubt, by one of London’s best tailors.
The dark green wool clung to his shoulders perfectly, emphasizing their breadth. The starched, bottle-green cravat contrasted with the shade of his slightly almond-shaped, gray eyes. Eyes which shone with a wicked intelligence.
There wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh upon his person, made evident by the way his fawn breeches hugged his hard thighs. His jaw and cheekbones were sharp angles. Only his dark hair, which now brushed his brow in an oddly playful manner, eased his powerful presence.
This man had clawed his way up from filth to mingle in halls with dukes.
Heath followed protocol and bowed his head. “Your Graces, it is a pleasure.”
She curtsied slightly, showing her mark of respect to a man who had battled for his status, not inherited it.
“Heath,” Tristan called. “It is good of ye to come.”
“Drake insinuated it was important. So, I’m here.” He paused and looked over at her. Slowly, he assessed her. “So, you’re Winters’ girl.”
Her eyes widened at the comment but she forced herself to lift her chin and reply, “Yes.”
“Tough bastard,” Heath stated, neither an insult nor a compliment.
“Yes,” she agreed.
Heath cocked his head slightly to the side as he carefully weighed her worth. “You knew him before he stretched?”
“I did,” she said firmly, though she felt her insides shake at the memory of her charming father who knew how to inflict pain and fear so well.
Heath’s eyes narrowed. “Given the way you’re behaving, I’d say you’re tough, too, then. No cowering on your part.” Heath hesitated and with surprising gentleness added, “Not like your mother.”
She swallowed. “You knew her?”
“I was but a street boy when she was on the game but, yes, Your Grace, I knew her,” he said as if it were nothing to outright state her mother had been a prostitute before her husband, the duke. But his blunt words were tempered by his admission, “Kind lady. Too kind.”
It was an accurate description of her mother and she nodded, her throat tightening dangerously. “It did her no favors.”
“Kindness is costly,” Heath said simply. “One must be willing to pay the price for being kind. But then again, when you’re a rough bastard you pay, too. Your father stretched his neck and your uncle—”
“How has he paid?” she cut, anger suddenly flooding through her. “He bathes in the gold he has garnered and misery he’s inflicted.”
“Well, he may have done that. But not any longer.” Heath narrowed his gaze and said with little feeling, “Someone set flame to his house and his body was found. . . or what was left of it. He was identified by his signet ring.”
“What?” she gasped, barely able to believe the words. Surely, she’d heard wrong.
“Ashes, Your Grace. That’s what some say. He danced in his own hell and now he’s there for certain.”
Tristan stepped forward. “They’re absolutely certain?”
“They can’t be absolutely certain, Ardore. Not when a corpse is naught but black cinder. But the ring is a solid indicator of his fate.” Heath drew in a long breath. “When I left London, they were still searching the ruins. If anything else is discovered, my runners will bring word. But it seems your uncle was in deeper troubles than you may have known.”
It was tempting to scoff. Her uncle? In danger? He was the one who made danger.
“How?” Tristan demanded.
Heath shrugged his broad shoulders. “One of the gentleman’s disease. He owed money.”
She shook her head. “It’s impossible. He took in thousands every night.”
“And lost them himself in bad ventures,” Heath declared. “Three ships he’d placed the bulk of his fortunes into went down in the West Indies last week. None of which were insured. It seems your uncle truly loved to gamble.”
“My God,” she breathed. Was this why her uncle had so suddenly insisted on his mad plan for her to marry Caxton and bed the prince? It had to be.
“Quite frankly, your uncle had upset a vast many people.” Heath whipped out a leather case from his pocket and slipped out a long, dark cheroot. “There are whispers the fire was set by one of the men he destroyed at the gambling tables in his salons.”
She swallowed. If she had not left with Tristan, she would have been in that house and possibly consumed in that fire. Consumed by the anger of someone she’d helped to ruin, no doubt.
“My God,” she whispered. To her horror, she felt no sorrow. None. In fact, she felt almost nothing except. . . relief. She was free of him for good. And she could not mourn that or the fact that her uncle could harm no one else.
“Caxton has disappeared,” Heath continued, listing it as one does a grocer’s bill. He crossed to the fire and picked up a long sliver of wood, lighting his cheroot.
“What?” growled Tristan.
“It seems the fire must have set Caxton ill at ease.” Heath waved the light out and dropped it into the banked embers. “He’s been seen by no one since he departed the house a few days ago. He’s not in the East End. My contacts would have let me know and he’s not been spotted at any of the ports.”
“So, he’s still in the country?” Tristan queried tightly.
“Very likely,” Heath agreed.
She turned her gaze to Tristan. There was a darkness to his visage. The lightness that she had seen last night had vanished at Heath’s news.
And she knew why.
Though she did not know the details, she was certain that her husband had been determined to kill Caxton in that duel. He’d been furious when he’d been foiled. Now? Now, perhaps his chance at revenge had vanished into thin air and it could easily be argued that this was all her fault.
If they had not met under the stars. If they had not been drawn to each other. If the prince had not wanted her and she had not mentioned her husband to the prince. . .
Tristan might have lost Caxton forever and her uncle, too.
All of which drove home the point that, as it stood, there would be no happiness in this union. For though she had married Tristan and she had escaped her uncle’s house, the prince waited to call her to his side.
And Caxton lurked out there somewhere.
She was not a true wife to the man looking as if the ground had been yanked out from under him. He was a man at sea because of her.
In all truth, there was little difference between her and her mother except for where she sold herself, there was luxury and ease, not disease and starvation.
She grimaced and looked away. “Forgive me.”
Tristan crossed to her, taking her hand in his. “Ye did no’ do this,” he stated. “Yer uncle was a villain. Caxton is a villain. Ye have nothing to do with that. And quite frankly, it was never going to be easy to destroy him.”
She shook her head. “But I have made it harder.”
Tristan was silent and she swallowed. For in that silence was agreement. It wasn’t cruel or full of condemnation but it co
uldn’t be argued with. Because of her, Caxton had escaped Tristan’s net.
“Have you told him the extent of your history, Your Grace?” Heath asked firmly but quietly.
She nodded. “I have held nothing back.”
“Good.” Heath leveled a hard, determined stare at her. “Now, don’t let that history imprison you any longer.”
She frowned. This was not the tactic she had expected from Heath. “I beg your pardon?”
“I see it on your face.” Blue smoke spun about Heath, as if he’d slipped upward from Dante’s Inferno. “You don’t believe you deserve to be here. I won’t belabor the point, Annabelle, but you deserve to be here as much as anyone else. Your mother fell far but you’re a duchess now. And you had best use that power, for power it is. Don’t throw it away because you think you belong in the gutter. Or. . .”
She turned towards the hard man. “Yes?”
“Or if you’re so determined to stay in the filth which raised you, come back to London with me and I’ll find you a suitable position.”
Tristan let out a sound of fury and strode across the room, clearly ready to throttle Heath.
“Cease!” she called, her heart pounding. “Heath is right.”
Tristan stilled. “I doona understand.”
“I do,” she said softly, never taking her gaze from her new husband. “I have to choose this life with you. I have to make something of it, or I might as well go back with him now. And stay there.”
Heath drew in a long draw of his cheroot but he gave her a solid nod, clearly pleased she’d so quickly understood.
“Can ye?” Tristan asked. “Choose this life?”
She swallowed. “Yes. I choose the stars. I choose the Highlands. I choose you. Can you choose me?”
The long delay in his response did not surprise her but it shocked her how much it hurt. How could he choose her? She was the child of an East End con. She was associated with those that had caused his family nothing but pain.
She cleared her throat, determined to keep her composure. “I understand—”
“No,” he cut in. “Ye do no’.”
