This, he was willing to give her. He had proved that, time and again.
And this would be enough.
She accepted that.
She had to accept that.
His arm fully asleep, dead weight under Adalia’s sleeping head, Toren’s cheek scrunched as he tried to shift without waking her.
If he didn’t get blood flowing back to his fingers soon, he feared losing the whole limb. She hadn’t left the room after sex, as was usually her way. As he preferred it.
But he couldn’t blame Adalia. The whole day had been exhausting. And the five different inventive ways she had just shown her appreciation to him and his body had only exacerbated her fatigue.
Not that he minded in the slightest. Adalia and her tongue were very good at showing appreciation. So good that he wished there were a few more bones to break in front of her, if what he had just experienced would be his reward.
She shifted, mumbling nonsense in her sleep. A waft of her hair’s honey scent escaped, reaching his nose, and his eyes dipped to the top of her head.
Adalia loved him.
Her own words, whether she had meant to say them or not. He had warned her against it at the beginning, and she had agreed that love need not have a place in their marriage.
They had both agreed.
Little good that did.
Toren had tried to put it out of his mind, her words. She had said to forget she’d spoken the sentiment. But she hadn’t promised she would fall out of love with him. And he had no intention of being unkind to her in order for that to happen.
Yet he didn’t want to encourage her love. He didn’t want to have to bear the expectant look from her if she ever said it again. The hopes he would dash time and again. He couldn’t love her, yet he didn’t want to see her in pain because of his own inadequacies.
Inadequacies? Since when had he considered his lack of feeling an inadequacy?
He had always enjoyed the detachment it gave him from people. It made him smart when it came to his estate and investments. Smart when it came to Parliament. Smart when it came to choosing how to conduct himself.
His lack of feeling was an asset, not an inadequacy. He had to remember that, just as he had always been taught. Just as Mrs. Marchall had insisted. Just as Mr. Octon had demanded. His responsibilities demanded it.
A pain shot into his shoulder, spearing through the dulled muscles. He had to move.
His stomach muscles tightened under her arm flopped along his stomach, and he raised his shoulders from the bed, lifting Adalia with him. Cradling her, he attempted to slide her off his immobile arm onto a pillow.
Her temple almost touching the pillow, she suddenly jolted upright, frantic, tears streaming down her face. He sat up next to her. It took her a long, frantic moment to orientate herself in the low light of the coals glowing in the fireplace.
“Oh. Oh.” Soft murmurs escaped her as she wiped tears from her cheeks. Her eyes went down to his bare upper chest, and her palm ran haphazardly across his skin, brushing wetness away. He hadn’t even felt the warm tears pooling on his skin until she had pulled away. “Oh. I am sorry.”
“You need not be. What has brought tears to your sleep?”
Her look dipped from him as she concentrated on quickly brushing the last streaks of wetness from his chest. Tears continued to drop into her lap. “It is no bother.”
He tilted her chin upward. “Tell me.”
Her head shaking, she scooted away from him on the bed, her words a rapid whisper. “Everything tumbled around me in the end. Real—they were real in my dream, I could feel them. My brothers. Touch them again. Truly touch them. Hug them. Laugh with them. It was real. I could feel it. They were all around me, and I was warm—safe. And then it tumbled away. But it was so real, and I was happy, and they were right with me.”
“And then you woke up?”
“Yes. And they are not real, even though I felt it. Knew they were with me. It just seemed so real.” Turning from him, she reached the edge of the bed, her bare feet dropping to the floor as she reached for her robe on the foot of the bed. Tugging it onto her shoulders, she swiftly stood. “I apologize. You do not need this emotion ruining your sleep, and I do not wish to burden you with this. I do not allow myself to think of my brothers when awake.”
Wiping away tears that would not cease, she started to walk away from the bed. She made it only two steps before her legs buckled. Stumbling backward, she caught herself on the edge of the bed. Sinking, she sat, her shoulders trembling as she curled into herself.
Toren moved across the bed and set his hand on her shoulder, partly to hold her up, partly to offer awkward comfort.
She hid her face from him. “I thought I was fine to leave. Afford me a moment, please. Just until I get my legs under me.” Her voice cracked in a sob she desperately attempted to suffocate.
His fingers tightened on her shoulder. “You feel the loss of your brothers very deeply, don’t you?”
She nodded, still trying to control a sob, her hands pressing over her eyes. “I loved them.”
“Why have I never seen this . . . this sadness in you before?”
Her shoulders lifted with a deep breath that sent a tremble through her body. It took a long moment before her hands lifted from her eyes and she wiped her cheeks with her palms. Her voice shook as she forced words. “I do not think of them during the day—the girls are so resilient—they have suffered their grief over their father so well. Their mother died in childbirth, so they do not remember her, but Caldwell—they remember their father. I do not want to send them to tears, which is what happens if I think on my brothers and then they see me crying. So I do not do that to them. I cannot do that to them. I can control myself so they can move forward. So I hold it in until nighttime, when I am alone in my bed. It is not every night—but in my dreams—I cannot control anything in my dreams.”
Toren stared at her back, her long red-blonde hair falling in waves atop the silk of her robe. He didn’t understand this. Logically, he understood what grief was. Understood that it destroyed weak people. But he didn’t think Adalia was weak. He knew she wasn’t weak.
Yet there she sat in front of him. A crumpled mess who could not even walk.
And he wanted to make it better for her. Needed to make her not cry. Not suffer this.
She took a shaky breath. “I will leave.”
“Why?”
Her right hand went to her face, and her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. “I need to cry, and you need to not witness it. So I will leave.”
“Wait.” His hand shifted into a clamp on her shoulder. “If you need to cry, Adalia, I do not mind it. And I . . .”
She looked over her shoulder at him, her green eyes rimmed in red, tears still glistening in heavy droplets on her dark eyelashes. “Yes?”
“I think I would prefer to hold you as you do.”
Her fingers dropped from her nose, her eyebrows cocking in confusion. “You prefer to hold me while I cry?”
“Yes.” The word came stilted from his mouth, almost embarrassed. It was clear he had no idea how to give her comfort, even though, at the moment, he wanted nothing more in the world than to be able to do so. He swallowed and attempted words again. “If it will help you, Adalia. Grief such as yours does not seem as if it should be suffered alone.”
“I have been alone since Caldwell died.”
“But you are no longer alone. I am here.”
Her look drifted from him, settling on the sheets behind him. “Do you not need your bed empty to sleep?”
“I can make an exception, Adalia.”
Her eyes lifted to him. For a long moment she just looked at him. Confusion, mingled with sadness. His chest tightened. Had he put that despair into her eyes, or had her dream?
Finally, she nodded.
He drew her back into the middle of the bed and settled her head onto the crook between his chest and shoulder, his arm wrapping around her back. It would likely s
end his arm into painful sleep once more, but he would suffer it.
If it helped her, gladly he would suffer it.
{ Chapter 13 }
A blackberry poised on her lips, Adalia watched as Toren shut the breakfast room door behind the girls after they scampered out and then gave a nod to the footman by the side entrance to the room. The footman silently slid out the side door.
They were good at that, Toren’s servants—silent to a fault, disappearing and appearing with only a nod or a finger twitch by Toren, and never saying a word. How long had it taken to train them thusly?
She popped the blackberry into her mouth just as Toren strode back across the room to her. The easy smile he had worn while the twins were with them had vanished, and the room was now empty except for the two of them. Toren’s face had gone suspiciously blank, and she had come to understand that rarely meant anything good.
He sat down across the small round table from her, his fingers not moving to pick up the fork and continue his half-eaten breakfast of eggs and sausage. His brown eyes scrutinized her with such deliberateness that she had to swallow hard to move the blackberry down her throat.
She wiped the corners of her lips. “You have something to tell me? Is it about Mr. Trether—did he accept the satisfaction of the debt that you had delivered? Please tell me he accepted it—and that you threatened him to no end, as well. For him to so brutally want the Revelry’s Tempest that he would be a danger to the twins—the man deserves every lick of hellfire that will come his way.”
Toren offered a slight nod, his countenance unchanged. “He did accept it. Both the money and the threat. You are now married. The Revelry’s Tempest is closed. The matter should be done.”
Her eyes narrowed. “But it is not?”
“I do not know yet.”
“Why not? When will you know?”
“Money drives some men. Vengeance drives others. I do not yet know where Mr. Trether lands on that spectrum.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Mr. Trether has a crew that works for him—have you ever seen them? Did they ever accompany him when you met with him? A driver, a guard, perhaps?”
“Yes, I have seen a number of his men.” The tines of her fork tapping on her plate, Adalia’s eyes went to the high point of the stone arch on the wall opposite her as she visualized the faces she had seen. Her gaze dropped to Toren. “Five that I can easily recall. Two more, only marginally. Why?”
“We have a suspicion it wasn’t just that one man in Dellington who tried to take Josalyn.”
Her fork clattered to the table. “Are the girls still in danger?”
“No.” His hand instantly reached over to clasp the back of hers. “Not here. They are safe at Dellon Castle—do not doubt that. But we believe there is another one of Mr. Trether’s men in the area—the man has been stopped several times along the far western border of my lands. But there is no way of telling his purpose unless he makes a move to get closer to the castle, or unless we cajole it out of him. If he is Mr. Trether’s man, I imagine he is still in the area because he has yet to hear from his boss that the matter has been settled to satisfaction.”
“Cajole . . .” Her right eyebrow lifted. “Cajole with pain?”
Toren’s head slanted to the side with a shrug as his hand slipped off hers.
“But if he is innocent? What if he is just a vagrant passing, looking for work?”
“A possibility—yes,” Toren said. “Which is why I would much prefer for you to look at him and tell me if you recognize the man.”
“Yes. I can do that. Where is he?”
“In the next village past Dellington. He has been holed up in a coaching inn,” Toren said. “It is a half day’s ride, if you are willing. And you will need to be mostly concealed; a hood and common clothes would be best, so he doesn’t recognize you.”
Adalia nodded. “Yes.” Her bottom lip jutted upward, her eyes pinning him. “Tell me again Josalyn and Mary will be safe here while we are gone.”
He grabbed her hand on the table again and squeezed it. “They are safe here, Adalia. Trust me.”
But what about me?
She hadn’t admitted it to anyone but herself, but the incident in Dellington had shaken her to her core. She had grown too relaxed, too comfortable in Toren’s world. So much so that her wits seemed to have dulled completely. Dellington was nothing but proof that her guard had slipped so far that it had vanished, and she couldn’t let that happen again.
For her own sake and for the girls’.
She had been such a fool about Mr. Trether. The man was vicious, and she had denied for far too long how dangerous he was. Twice now he had nearly snatched her nieces from her. So what else was he capable of?
She looked down at the table, focusing on Toren’s hand swallowing hers. Strong, his fingers had the capacity for such gentleness on her skin, yet also the brutal ability to crack a man’s bones.
She had to concentrate on that—not on worry. If threats upon the girls could be eliminated, she had to help. And Toren knew exactly when to move with delicacy and when to move with brutal strength. She had to trust that.
She would be safe with him.
Her head slightly bowed, Adalia surveyed the main dining hall of the coaching inn past the edge of her gray hood.
Her cloak and hood were warm, almost stifling in the stagnant afternoon heat pooling under the low, heavily weathered beams spanning the dining room. But Toren had insisted she keep it in place as they slid into a high-backed wooden booth by an outside door at the rear of the dining area.
Toren had found rough, nondescript clothes for himself, and she knew she would look less suspicious without the hood and cloak. But she suffered the heat for Toren’s peace of mind, at least for the time being. She would be able to shed it soon enough if the man Toren wanted her to look at was in here.
The dining hall was rather busy for the late afternoon, and her gaze traveled among the many square wooden tables, benches, and chairs. She spotted three of Toren’s guards, who had staggered their entrances into the coaching inn. They had settled themselves randomly about so as to not arouse suspicion.
Two mugs of ale were delivered to their table. Toren clutched the handle of his as he leaned forward across the table and looked at her.
“There.” He took a sip of the ale, instantly attempting to hide the curdling of his tongue at the taste. He could dress the part of a common man, but his tongue would never be common. He choked down the liquid. “The far square table to the left of the bar. By himself. Blue jacket. Dingy undershirt. Cap pulled down past his ears. Oddly shiny boots. One full and one empty glass in front of him. Half-picked-through plate of pie.”
Adalia blinked at the amount of detail. She had seen Toren glance in that general area only once.
She nodded, scratching the side of her face and casually lifting her hood as she glanced to her left across the dining hall. She spotted the man quickly; he was just as described. The man chewed slowly, hunched, staring at the table in front of him. Toren had positioned them as far away as possible from the man. Her hood dropped past the side of her face as she looked to Toren. “I can only see his profile from here. And very little of it at that.”
“Look again.”
She repeated the process, stretching out her peek. Her fingers went to the tankard in front of her and fiddled with it. “I think I have seen him before.”
He gave one nod, grasping her hand and pulling it away from the tankard. “Good. Then we are leaving.”
She yanked her fingers from his grip, her words a rushed whisper. “No, I think—but I am not certain. Not certain it is one of Mr. Trether’s men. I am not going to condemn an innocent man, Toren. I have to be positive.”
Before he could reach to stop her, Adalia scooted out from the bench of the booth.
“What the hell are you doing, Adalia?” Toren’s hissed whisper disappeared into the swish of her skirts.
Moving quickly, she walked across the dining hall close
to the front wall, where she could approach the man from the rear and he would not notice her until she was upon him. She fished out one of her kidskin gloves from the pocket of the faded blue cotton dress she had borrowed from Miss Mable, the governess they had hired for the twins.
Just as she stepped past the man’s table, she dropped the glove to the floor. Stopping, she stooped, angling herself so she could look at him straight on. The glove in the tips of her fingers, she glanced up, seeing the full of his face.
She gasped.
Half his face had been torn to shreds, partially healing. Ripped apart by teeth—dog teeth. The man who had taken Mary in London.
Hazard had done a beautiful job of marring the man for life. As deserved.
His look raked over her. Jerking upright in his seat, recognition flashed in his cold eyes.
“Well, I be, mousey.” His eyes flashed above her head for only a moment before his look snapped back to her and he sneered, pouncing. His thick fingers dove under her hood, then snagged the thickness of her hair at her neck and yanked her upward as he lunged to his feet.
He dragged her two steps. Flailing, all she could see was the beaten wooden boards of the floor flashing in front of her. A scream—his scream, laced with pain. His hand jerked from her head, tearing out hair with it.
Her balance faltered, a mess of feet and bodies and arms scuffled about her, and she fell, ramming hard into a body. Toren. She could tell by his boots. His clothes he had changed. His boots he had not.
More legs. More boots joined the fray.
An arm clamped around her and pulled her from the scuffle, dragging her to the rear door of the dining room.
Outside, the sunlight hit her, making her squint as she attempted to get her feet under her. Tucked under Toren’s arm, she couldn’t right herself completely, and he didn’t halt his long strides, moving them down the slight hill toward the stable. It wasn’t until they reached the back end of the structure that he stopped and spun her around the corner—so she was hidden from the inn—and propped her against the outside wall of the stable.
Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry's Tempest Novel Page 13
