The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  Her mother cleared her throat. “Come, we should let Ryker speak with Penelope.”

  A faint recrimination hung on that pronouncement. If Ryker heard it, he gave no indication. He stepped out of the way, allowing Mother and Poppy to take their leave. Jonathan lingered.

  Go, she mouthed. It was time her brother came to trust Ryker.

  He hesitated and started for the front of the room.

  Ryker said something, those hushed low tones reserved for Jonathan’s ears. Her brother stiffened, and then nodded once.

  Her husband entered the chambers and closed the door behind him. “Penelope,” he said without preamble. His cool, emotionless tones matched the stranger who’d plucked her out from under the bench on that long-ago night, not the man who’d lain awake trading stories of their vastly different youths.

  The first hint of unease fanned low in her belly. Since she’d awakened to find him at her bedside, nearly a fortnight ago, she’d caught but glimpses of him, in the early morn hours when he entered their chambers. He slept beside her, and then woke before her. “Ryker,” she returned, wetting her lips.

  He stalked over with a languor that belied the tension in his taut shoulders. “You are well?”

  That is what he’d say after a fortnight? Hurt, which she’d not give in and show, pulled at her heart. She didn’t expect him to abandon his responsibilities at the hell, but she at least secretly hoped he cared enough to visit with her after she’d awakened. “Quite,” she said hesitantly, tugging at a loose thread on her coverlet. “I am dreadfully tired of being in this bed,” she said in a bid to lighten the gravity blanketing the room.

  Ryker flicked a cool stare over her stack of diaries, and she followed his remote gaze. Why will he not meet my eyes? The sense of foreboding grew. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

  “The club is running smoothly again,” he said in remote tones that only fanned her apprehension.

  She trailed the tip of her tongue over her lips. “I am pleased to hear that.”

  Finally, he looked to her, and then blinked several times as though he’d just recalled her presence. “We married for singular purposes.”

  “Singular purposes?” she parroted back. That is how he’d speak of their union?

  “You wished to protect your sister and I wanted to salvage the reputation of my club,” he clarified.

  “I know what brought us together, Ryker,” she said calmly, while inside her mind railed at his perfunctory delivery. So much had changed—for her. The wintry edge to his words and his remote stare sent warning bells clamoring.

  “I failed,” he said suddenly.

  Some of the tension eased from her frame. Is that why he’d not visited her? Out of some misbegotten sense of blame? “What happened was not your fault.” Her husband had long taken ownership of the actions and well-being of those around him. He still would not relinquish that hold.

  “What happened was because of your association with me.”

  “I’m not a business partner, Ryker,” she ground out. “I’m your wife.” And she’d not allow him to hold himself responsible for decisions she’d made to help Niall.

  “It was a business arrangement,” he said with a bluntness that chilled her.

  “It . . .” Her words trailed off. Was a business arrangement? Penelope gave her head a clearing shake. “What are you saying?” she demanded, tired of his dancing around whatever he’d say with cryptic words and stark utterances.

  He may as well have slapped her in the face as powerfully as those words struck.

  Penelope struggled to wrap her mind around the dispassionate stranger who stood before her, knowingly throwing out careless barbs that struck worse than the knife plunged in her side.

  Penelope set aside her diary and shoved the coverlet down, but then the frosty glint iced over his eyes, freezing her.

  “When Niall returned with you in his arms . . .” The column of his throat moved, in his first remarkable crack in composure. “I was reminded of every fear that shaped me into the man I am. I hated myself for marrying you.” She flinched. “I hated myself for letting you in . . .” He grimaced.

  Inching gingerly over to the edge of the bed, Penelope swung her legs over the side. “What are you saying?”

  “Stop.” He motioned for her to remain seated.

  “What?” she demanded in sharper tones.

  “I’ve spoken to your brother,” he carried on over her question.

  Penelope balled her hands, welcoming the sting of fury at his high-handedness, when inside her heart was crumbling.

  She gasped and swiveled her gaze from her husband to the doorway, where her traitorous brother had just made his exit, and then back to Ryker. “I’m not a child.” Ryker had applauded her strength and resolve, and now he’d discuss her welfare with another?

  Ryker clasped his hands at his back. “He will escort you belowstairs when it is time,” he went on, as though she’d not spoken.

  Her blasted husband was ushering her out of the club? “Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

  “You deserved more than I had to offer you.” His words ripped a jagged hole through her heart. He continued speaking, looking beyond her shoulder. “It was wrong of me to bring you here and yet—”

  “You did not bring me,” she seethed, torn between outrage and despair. How easily he spoke of letting her go. “I came. I was the one who came to you, Ryker Banbury.” She ticked off on her fingers. “I was the one who proposed marriage.”

  “You didn’t truly propose.”

  Now he’d debate that point?

  “I was the one who helped Niall. Not you. Not my brother. Not any other man inside this club or out of it. Me.” Her chest rose and fell with the force of her impassioned speech, and small flecks danced behind her eyes. She silently cursed the damning weakness, never hating more the sight of a bed or her need for it.

  Ryker ran a gaze over her, and then lingered his eyes on the heavy bandages at her waist. “I will see you shortly, Penelope,” he said quietly, with the firm resolve of a man who’d already made up his mind.

  A dull ache throbbed in her chest, and she absently rubbed at it. Penelope searched the chiseled planes of his face, his blue eyes, that hard mouth that had shown her such tenderness, searching for a hint of the man who’d taken her in his arms. He’s never told you he loved you, though . . . at best he’s admitted to liking you . . .

  And just like that, Ryker turned on his heel and left.

  Heart pounding hard in his chest, Ryker stalked away from his rooms.

  He’d disavowed polite Society since the moment he was able to talk and walk. As a child those fancy nobles had first looked down on him as a worthless street urchin, and then as a man they’d tossed coin down at his table but had been clear in their disdain. With Penelope struggling to survive, he’d been forced to look at who he was and at the men and women he’d spent his entire existence hating. Penelope and her loving family, who with their devotion to one another made him reexamine a lifetime worth of hatred. Now, he’d spent weeks trying to learn the ways of her world. To make himself worthy of her.

  There was but one thing he’d put off.

  His sister-in-law popped around the corner, and he cursed. Christ, he was growing soft that this one could catch him unawares. “That was rotted of you,” Poppy whispered. “But bloody brilliant.”

  He frowned.

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “Pretending you were sending her away.”

  She’d been listening at the keyhole. “I didn’t . . .” Ryker scrubbed a hand over his face. Yes, he could certainly see how his wife would interpret it that way. He cast a look over his shoulder. “I should go speak with—” He grunted as Poppy thrust a sharp elbow into his side.

  “You will do no such thing,” she ordered.

  They reached his office and stopped.

  Helena stood waiting, her hands folded before her. “Ryker,” she greeted quietly.

  Poppy looked back and f
orth between brother and sister. “I will visit with Penelope and make certain she doesn’t wish to find that knife you gave her and gut you.” With that, she rushed off in the opposite direction.

  “Helena,” he returned, pressing the door handle and motioning her inside.

  His sister promptly found her place at the neat secretaire and proceeded to remove the top on the inkwell and arrange an empty sheet of vellum and pen. Since Penelope had returned in Niall’s arms, Ryker had worked at deconstructing those walls she’d accused him of putting up. His sister visited daily to continue the reading lessons Penelope had begun. He grimaced. And other lessons pertaining to the bloody rules of propriety.

  Those instruments of terror, neatly organized; she looked up at him expectantly.

  “You’ve but one more thing to do, Ryker,” his sister Helena suggested, motioning to the seat next to her.

  The same knots that always twisted his stomach at the words written on pages would always be with him. Now, however, he could at the very least make semblance of them. Could muddle through the harder words and take his time with them. “Do you require help?” Helena ventured hesitantly.

  Everyone needs help sometimes . . .

  At one time he would have growled her head off for daring to suggest as much.

  Penelope had opened his eyes to the truth—that there was no shame in needing others. It didn’t weaken a person but rather made him stronger.

  “Ryker?” Helena prodded gently.

  And he forced his head to move in the semblance of a nod. She’d made him stronger. Ryker claimed a seat at the ridiculously fragile desk and trained his gaze on the blank page.

  His sister’s gaze burning into him, Ryker picked up the pen, and his heart stilled just as it always did when confronted with his weakness with words. He stared a long time at the page, and gradually the fear receded.

  All these years he’d believed himself incapable of learning how to read. Only to find that the greatest motivation was to make sense of those once-mysterious letters in order to learn more about his wife.

  Helena tugged the paper free from his death grip and neatly folded it. “You can do this.”

  He fisted the pen in his hand, hard. “I cannot.” It was the one thing he’d never be able to do well.

  His sister scooted over to the edge of her seat and collected his hands. “You can. You’ve practiced this for two weeks. It will not be perfect.” Helena covered his hand with her own. “But no words ever truly are when you are in love.”

  In love. Yes, he loved Penelope with all he was, and not setting her free would be the ultimate act of selfishness.

  “Ryker,” Helena began quietly. “My husband nearly lost his life attempting to save me. I know the terror you are feeling, that she will be taken from you for crimes you had no choice but to commit.” His sister lived with that same sense of guilt and terror? How little he’d taken time to see the bond they’d forged through their survival? “I know those same fears with my husband,” she said earnestly.

  “Does it go away?” The question wrenched from his tight throat. “The fear?”

  “No,” she said simply. “With the evil we have known, the threat of danger will always be there. But does that mean we should never know the joy of love and laughter, out of fear that we might lose it?” Her words pealed around the room.

  After all these years of instructing her on rules with which to live and survive by, it would seem she perceived far more than he himself ever had. Ryker turned his attention to the page once more. “I have it,” he said quietly.

  His sister eyed him with surprise stamped on her features.

  And with Helena at his shoulder, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and proceeded to write. His words sloppy, his marks uneven, he labored over the page until moisture beaded his brow. At last complete, he sat back and stared at the handful of words there. There was no shame at the marks better suited a small child or regret that he didn’t have more to offer. Rather, there was pride. I did this. Not alone. But with the help of his sister, and there had been no embarrassment or weakness in accepting that guidance. “Thank you for your help,” he continued. “But I would do this as I am able.”

  Helena smiled and proceeded to sprinkle drying dust upon the wet ink.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” he called out.

  Niall entered. “It is time,” he announced.

  Ryker gripped the arms of his chair, his nails leaving sharp crescent marks on the smooth wood. It was time.

  Helena smiled. “Come along then, Ryker.”

  And his mouth dry, Ryker folded the page and tucked it inside his shirt.

  It is time.

  Chapter 26

  Dearest Fezzimore,

  Someday, I shall marry a gentleman who loves me very much. He will not replace you as a friend. He will simply be a friend to us both.

  Penny

  Age 12

  “It is time, Penelope.”

  Perched on the edge of the bed, Penelope lifted her gaze from her sea-foam skirts. Solemn, his face an unreadable mask, Jonathan stood at the foot of her bed—staring at her. Penelope swallowed a sigh. Her brother had hovered from the moment she’d returned, and it grated. Jonathan, Ryker—all of them determined to protect her, as though she were a fragile flower.

  “Time for what?” she bit out. By God, she’d not let him send her away.

  Jonathan opened and closed his mouth, his remarkable, even composure slipping, as he tugged at his cravat. “Uh . . .” He cast a glance about.

  The coward.

  Penelope firmed her lips. “Yes, well, I rather find I am quite good here.” Which was a lie. She’d rather set this chamber afire than be stuck behind these walls again. In the days of her convalescing, she’d battled a tedium that set her teeth on edge. No person was meant to be imprisoned. Even if it was for her own well-being.

  “Here?” Jonathan repeated; when she nodded once, his expression grew pained.

  “Yes,” she repeated in the tones she’d used when speaking to his young daughter. “Here. In my chambers.” Hers and Ryker’s.

  “But . . .” She glowered him into silence.

  Her brother pressed his fingertips against his temple and then dropped his arms abruptly to his side. “I really think you need to go with me, Penelope.”

  He’d still not learned then that she could not be bossed or ordered about—not by him, not by Ryker—and she was not setting foot outside these rooms until she saw her husband. “I’m not—”

  “For the love of God, can you just once do as someone wishes you to do, and come with me?” His cheeks went red at that uncharacteristic show. “Please,” he added belatedly.

  She blinked slowly as his outburst stirred her suspicions. “What . . . ?”

  Jonathan briefly closed his eyes, and his lips moved as though he were praying, which was odd, as he’d never been the religious sort. “Penny,” he continued, “my one role was to escort you from this room. And you’re making it deuced difficult. So will you take my arm and let me lead you belowstairs.”

  Her curiosity doubled, and she came to her feet, placing her fingertips atop his sleeve.

  “When you were a babe, Penny,” he said quietly, as they made their way slowly from the rooms. “The night Father passed, I remember sitting at your bedside, as you fought sleep. You wanted me to tell you story after story.” Sadness tugged at her heart for the father she’d never truly known. “I watched you then, awed by your innocence from the pain.” He stopped, allowing her to rest a moment, and then dusted his hand over her cheek. “I stayed until you fell asleep. Just staring at you. Asking myself, how would I make sure your life remained full of that innocence? I want that for you, Penny. That happiness. That love.”

  Poor Jonathan. So very determined to protect his sisters at all costs. He still hadn’t come to accept the truth—he could not insulate her, Poppy, Prudence, Patrina, or his own children from hurt. He could not, as well, forc
e happiness and laughter into her or the life of any other Tidemore sibling. But she would forever love him for trying. “I love you, Jonathan,” she said softly, and going on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek.

  A sheen of tears filled his eyes, and he coughed into his hand. “Yes, well, I have one role.” He motioned to the end of the hall. She followed his gesture, to where Ryker stood, his arms overflowing with . . . Penelope squinted.

  “Are those . . . ?”

  “Raspberries,” Ryker called out loudly, his admission ringing off the walls. “Because you deserved the edible bouquets you dreamed of.”

  Penelope’s heart caught hard against her rib cage. “How did you . . . ?”

  “I wanted to know what you wanted of life. I wanted to know what you longed for so I could give them to you, to make myself the man you’d always hoped for.”

  Her blue eyes registered their confusion. “I don’t . . .”

  “You once said a woman wanted a life free of danger. The women inside my club are no longer prostitutes.”

  Jonathan choked a little behind them and Penelope’s mouth parted as she tried to follow that unexpected shift.

  “They have other jobs inside,” he said gruffly, coming forward. Jonathan melted back, stepping away so Penelope and Ryker were alone. “You were right. They deserved security. Just as you deserved so much more.” Wordlessly, he held up the wilted arrangement, tied together with a sea-foam velvet ribbon. She shot her eyes from the arrangement to his. “I want to give you more. I want to give you the wedding and marriage and entire life you dreamed of for yourself but share in it with you.” Ryker sank to a knee, and she gasped. “Will you marry me, Penelope Pippa?”

  She pressed her fingertips to her mouth and shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. “We are already married, Ryker,” she whispered.

  “Because of necessity,” he corrected, his graveled voice hoarse with emotion. “I’d have you marry me again because you need me as I need you. Because the same love I feel for you—”