Leaving him a carapace of a man. Leaving him behind a leather mask, with scarred flesh and a scarred mind. His eyes lit briefly on the butterfly, pinned to its crucifix, before walking to the French doors and breathing in the warm scents. It was not the aroma of lime blossoms that held him in thrall. He could scent Calais, not three hundred kilometers away.
Rowena did not have to fire her pistol. Rushford had the Baron in his grip before the man knew that his life was to be snuffed out. Rushford had waited for this moment for over two years, as if the time had come to claim some small share of satisfaction for what had been taken from him. And for what the Baron had been prepared to take from him again—Rowena.
His heart pounded, blasting heat through his veins, despite the fact that he and Archer had just laid waste the Baron’s men, Johnston and Crompton included. He was dimly aware of a trickle of blood down his cheek, but then the pain receded. The Baron turned to face him, but he did not have a chance to move away or fire a shot from his revolver. Rushford caught him in the groin with a crashing fist, doubling the Baron over. Although the Frenchman would never know it, the sequence of fists and feet and blows to the back of his neck were merciful, finishing the fight in a series of blindingly fast movements. With a quick glance, Rushford knew the Baron’s neck was broken just above the spine.
He took two stairs at a time to the small platform where Rowena stood, the pistol still clutched in her right hand. His glance took in her pale face. “Sit down—don’t faint now,” he ordered.
“I never faint,” she said weakly, an echo of the same words and bravado she had tossed at him just weeks before. Sinking down to the top step, she stared at the scene. By the frozen shock in Rowena’s eyes, Rushford discerned that the reality of their situation had yet to penetrate the fog of her brain. The revolver remained in her hand, testament to what she’d been prepared to do. Take a man’s life. She looked at the Baron, lying twisted on cold flagstones, his elegant cloak pristinely glistening in the darkness. Then she suddenly became aware of the weapon in her hand. She let it clatter to the ground.
Rushford met her eyes. “I don’t know if I could have killed him. To protect Meredith . . .”
“You didn’t have to. I did,” he said. Her horrified gaze was still fixed on his face. “I killed him,” Rushford said simply.
Blood smeared the shoulder of her cloak, but her trembling had ceased. “I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t because I feel as though I am somehow responsible.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I wish to . . . I need to leave.”
“A good idea,” he said with a glance at her shoulder. He stood abruptly, a hand under her elbow, lifting her to her feet. “I will take you back to the apartments.” In the darkness, she looked as though the slightest wind would knock her back to the ground.
“I am going with you,” she said, and he saw the flash of pain in her eyes. “I know what’s in that wooden crate and where you are intending to take it. I refuse to leave your side.”
A thousand emotions clamored for his attention, but he realized crushing anxiety for Rowena Woolcott was uppermost. “I will explain everything once we return to the apartments. I promise you.”
“You expected all this, didn’t you?” she asked wearily. “And you came back. You did not leave me.”
Rushford tore his gaze away from her. As a matter of fact, he had not expected all of this. “I would not leave you, Rowena. I would never leave you.” The words hung in the air between them before he took her head between his hands, his eyes burning with an intensity she had never seen before. “Do you think you are the only one who suffers here?” he asked, his voice soft. “Do you believe that I have not agonized every moment of how to spare you from the ugliness and danger of this situation? I have failed you, I know, since the first day I saw you mere moments away from death,” he continued, his voice cracking with emotion. Reflected in her widening eyes was his anguish. It should have moved her, but it didn’t. She shook her head mutely, taking his hands away from her face.
“Don’t lie to me. To spare my feelings,” she said, hiding her face in his chest, the coarse wool of his coat against her cold cheek.
“What if I told you that I’d wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” he continued. “Wanted you so badly that I went against logic and reason and good sense. What if I confessed that I was frightened when it became so much more than physical passion between us?”
“Stop it!” She lifted her face. They stared at each other, breathing hard. “You are lying. Lying!” A dry sob was wrenched from her throat.
Pinning her eyes with his, he pressed on relentlessly, his tone a hot whisper. “Would it even matter to you if I said that I can no longer live without you? That when I saw you standing here, so ridiculously courageous with that revolver balanced in your hands, I knew instantly that I loved you, that I had loved you from the first? And that nothing else matters. That losing you would be the darkest moment in my life, worse than anything I have ever known.”
Her hands covered her face to escape the intensity of his gaze and words. “How can I believe you, when you refuse to tell me the truth about so much?” Her voice wavered. “About the Duchess.” She dropped her hands from her cheeks. “I don’t begin to understand you.” She swayed against him, her face bleached white.
“I love you,” Rushford repeated quietly. “And as for Kate,” he paused. “I was desperately afraid that I would hurt you in some way. In the way I hurt her. The way we hurt each other.” In the darkness, under her cloak, she reached for his hands, a mute reply. “I was responsible for her death,” he said bleakly. Rowena said nothing, merely let her hands rest in his.
“I love you also, Rushford,” she said finally and with a peculiar formality. “But with everything that’s happened . . . I don’t know if that’s enough.” He looked into her eyes and saw his own reflection in the deep blue, something he couldn’t read, something powerful that had simmered between them from the start. All he wanted to do was catch her head between his hands and bring his mouth to hers, to allow the familiar heady rush of desire to obliterate the past and leave only the present. She sounded so bitter that he wondered if they would ever find their way back again. It is enough, he wanted to say fiercely, that you love me. He took a deep breath. All they needed was time, he assured himself.
“We will go to Dover together,” he said. “I don’t dare let you out of my sight. But first, let me take a quick look at that wound in your shoulder.”
“It’s fine,” she said, her lips parched.
He pulled off his cravat. “You’re bleeding all over the place. Let me bind it for the moment and I’ll look at it closely when we get to Dover.” She stood mutely under his ministrations as he loosened the first two toggles of her cloak, exposing a blood-soaked chemise. Stifling a wince, she stood stoically while he examined the red stain seeping through her chemise and shirt. It appeared to be a flesh wound, from what he could discern, the blood already drying. Regardless, he fastened the cravat tightly around her shoulder and under her arm. “I would suggest that you have that attended to here in London and wait for my return—but I know better.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She dismissed his statement, some of the intensity leaving her face, although her eyes still glittered strangely, her emotions running high.
Rushford had estimated a three-hour ride to Dover. It was still a few hours before dawn, so they could vanquish the miles under cloak of darkness. Without asking her permission, he scooped Rowena into his arms, shielding the Baron’s body from her gaze, and carried her into the damp London night. Archer had swept the area clean, and there was no sign of the struggle that had taken place that night in the vault and in the shadow of the British Museum. Rushford’s mount waited, along with a sleepy lad guarding the leather purse filled with an extra revolver and coins.
They left London through Hyde Park, turning the horse toward the sea, following the Thames to its mouth. Rowena sat quiet in the saddle in front of him, and
he sensed that her fatigue enclosed her with a mind-numbing force, protecting her from the pain in her shoulder and the anguish of her spirit. Yet it was enough for him to know that she loved him, even though she shouldn’t. She was too young and too inexperienced for him, he told himself, but he wanted her with a single-mindedness that staggered him. He had known it from the first moment he had taken her from the river’s grasp, known somehow that this young woman was for him, despite the months he had tried desperately to convince himself otherwise.
The sun was not yet on the horizon when they arrived in Dover, the hour both too late and too early for the usual raucous activity of a port town. Rushford urged his horse onward, cantering easily toward the quay. The Brigand was identifiable by her sleek form, moored at the end of the quay, her profile dark. Rushford slipped from his mount, gathering Rowena carefully against him for a moment as she rested her forehead against his chest. She was asleep, her skin flushed but cool. There was no fever developing from the wound to her shoulder, he thought with relief.
The combined odors of fish and sea air swamped him as he strode down the companionway of the sloop and into the small cabin. Gently depositing Rowena on the cot in the stern, he smoothed the rough ticking of the straw mattress beneath her. He quickly unbuttoned her cloak and loosened her makeshift bandage before dragging a thin blanket over her sleeping form. Taking a last look, he made his way above deck to loosen the moorings and begin their journey to Calais. The moon was almost full, lighting their way.
Rowena awoke to the strong smell of the sea and the swinging of an oil lantern hanging from a low ceiling. The flickering light cast grotesque shadows on the planked bulkhead, and the boat lurched beneath her. Her gaze took in the cabin, the floor covered with gleaming mahogany, the paintings on the bulkhead, the coal-fired stove that provided heat in cooler climes. Two chairs and a settee covered in blue damask filled the port side of the cabin. She heard the groan of a sail running up the masthead. Grabbing the edge of the bed as the boat swung slowly away from deep swells, she listened to the wind fill the mainsail.
It all came crashing over her. Rushford. He loved her. Elation swept through her, replaced almost instantly by a jumble of doubts. How could he love her when he didn’t trust her and believed that she was but a notch above treachery? And worse still, how could he ever trust her if he could not trust himself, or forgive himself for the demise of the Duchess? The fervency of her unspoken thoughts shocked her.
Rowena’s head and shoulder ached as she rose from the narrow bunk, enervated. The world tilted on its axis and she nearly tumbled from where she stood, but she was determined to find Rushford and some blessed fresh air. Ignoring the throbbing in her shoulder, she gathered her cloak around her and made her way up the narrow stairs and onto the deck. She staggered to the rail and threw back her head, looking up into the sky where the moon hung over the boat surrounded by millions of stars. The spray stung her face, but she breathed deeply of the sharp air, her face turning away from the open water to see Rushford emerging from the companionway. He smiled, and her heart leaped at the sight of his face thrown into silver relief by the moonlight. She couldn’t prevent her own lips curving in response.
“You have slept deeply. Feeling restored, I trust?” He swept a hand down her cheek, his eyes concerned.
“Much better, thank you.” The words were stilted, but she didn’t know where to begin. She turned to look out onto the water boiling around a row of jagged rocks. She shivered and drew her cloak tighter around her aching shoulder. Somewhere in the distance a lighthouse glowed weakly in the darkness; the clanging of a warning bell carried faintly across the sound.
“I’ve never been on open water like this,” she said.
Rushford feigned amazement. “Difficult to believe that Rowena Woolcott, along with riding, climbing, and marksmanship, did not learn the fundamentals of sailing.”
Her smile widened. “You are always making light of my accomplishments, sir.”
“Never, Rowena, do I take your accomplishments for granted. You are a remarkable young woman.”
She felt herself flush under his gaze, but silence stretched between them, leaving only the wind that blew stronger now, surging ahead in a rolling expanse of white caps. The Brigand rode the waves with ease, but Rowena was not certain how her stomach fared. She intended to stay on deck until they reached Calais. Turning from the rail, she caught sight of a huge wooden crate, its dimensions secured by several heavy chains.
Rushford caught the direction of her gaze.
“Are you prepared to talk about this now?” he asked.
“I’ve always been prepared,” she countered. “But I know you enough to declare that you have no intention of relinquishing the Stone to Faron, Rushford. And please don’t tell me otherwise.” Her mind grappled with several outstanding details. Such as how the crate had made its journey to Dover without them. “It doesn’t matter, does it, given your intention to kill Faron?” She stood at the deck rail, wrapped in her cloak. “And the Rosetta Stone is not even in the crate, is it?” She paused for a moment, taken aback by the troubling intensity of his gaze, which, if she was hard pressed, she might interpret as love.
“Among your many attributes is also keen intelligence,” he said.
Unable to bear the force of his gaze, Rowena stared out into the channel, then took a long breath. “How do we know that the threat to Meredith and Julia will end once he is dead?”she asked into the wind. The prospect of murder was too much to contemplate, and she forcibly wiped the recollection of the Baron, his dark cloak spread around him in the vault of the British Museum, from her memory.
Rushford looked at her profile for a moment before answering. “Faron’s obsession with the Rosetta Stone stems from the man’s insatiable ambitions,” he said flatly. “His vendetta against your family is entirely personal. Once he is gone, I don’t believe anyone will take up the cause.”
She continued to stare moodily over the rail at the dark heavings of the channel. “I need to know what lies behind this madness,” she said with grim finality. “Faron’s madness.”
“You may not wish to know, Rowena.”
“Do not try to protect me from the truth,” she said urgently, turning to look directly at him. “I acknowledge that you do it out of the best of intentions but—”
He interrupted. “I do it from love, Rowena.” He leaned against the rail, and his expression was as open as she had ever seen it.
“So you say,” she said with a wan smile. “I don’t mean to doubt you. I’m just confused, not only by your feelings but also mine. One moment we’re in each other’s arms and the next we seem to be plotting against one another, unable to give each other a shred of trust.”
He shook his head. “I promised to tell you everything. I need to tell you everything.”
Rowena pulled herself up sharply, pain in her gaze. “I only hope it helps,” she said simply. “Because I love you, Rushford, and that fact will never change.”
Over the crashing of the waves, his voice was soft. “It will never change, because I won’t let it.” The statement had the power of a royal decree. “I love you, Rowena. More than I ever thought was possible.” In response, because she was almost afraid to hear any more, she rested her head on his shoulder as the Brigand cut through the waves. With her cheek on the wet wool of his jacket and his arms around her, she heard the rumble of his voice and breathed in his familiar scent. “I meant what I said to you now and last evening—I love you. And I don’t say those words lightly.”
The need for honesty between them made her brave. She raised her head to look directly at him. “And I meant what I said. I love you. But I wonder if it is enough,” she said softly. “I think I knew it from the first, the reason behind my seeking you out so relentlessly.” A faint embarrassment enveloped her. “Do you not need to be at the helm of the ship?” she asked.
He kissed the top of her head. “We’re on course for the next several miles. And don’t try to s
quirm out of a difficult conversation. That’s hardly like you.” But she tucked her head back into the warmth of his chest. “I will have to be the courageous one then,” he said softly into her hair.
Rowena closed her eyes, feeling as though she were falling off the edge of the world into nothingness, save for Rushford’s arms around her. Words failed her; her emotions were in chaos as she listened to him.
“For the longest time, I felt only the most bitter rage,” he said, “and you can guess at the cause. I don’t like to lose. As a matter of fact, I had never lost anything I’d cared about in my life. Before Kate.”
The ship heaved beneath them, but Rowena felt secure in his arms and with the truth. “So I went after Faron the second time at Birdoswald in an attempt at revenge. Then you came into my life. And everything changed. I mourned for Kate and the love I thought we had, but all the while I wondered how it was possible to feel such a powerful and obsessive emotion for you.”
Her silence urged him on. “You must believe me when I say that I had no inkling of Faron’s intentions regarding the Woolcotts. I was only at Birdoswald to intercept him before he ventured to Eccles House. And you know the rest.”
Rowena breathed in his scent, mingling now with the salt air. “And then you hid,” she said simply. “For a year, looking for ways to expiate your guilt. Helping solve the Cruikshank murders—anything to make up for the death of the woman you loved.”
The Darkest Sin Page 26
