Touch Me

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “You were shot.”

  He blinked again, then tried to move. He sucked in a hissing breath, slammed his eyes shut and went still. After several slow, deep breaths, he said through gritted teeth, “Waverly?”

  “I’m guessing that’s the name of the man who shot you.”

  She watched his entire body tense. He tried to nod and clearly thought better of it. “Yes. Is he—”

  “He’s dead, Simon,” she said in a soothing tone. She gently brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead, a dark slash against his frighteningly pale skin.

  That news seemed to relax him. “Good.”

  Baxter entered the foyer. “All’s clear. I’ll be back with the doctor and the magistrate.” He departed, closing the door behind him.

  Simon pulled in a few more breaths, then asked, “How did you find me?”

  “When you didn’t return at sunrise, Baxter and I were worried. We came here and found you bleeding and unconscious, and the other man dead, with your knife sticking out of his chest.”

  Simon kept his eyes closed and waited for the room to stop spinning and for the thunderous pounding in his head and the nausea roiling through his stomach to subside. After several slow, careful breaths, he again opened his eyes and saw Genevieve. The worry clouding her beautiful features filled him with guilt—and dread. He harbored no doubts that after he had told her what he must, all that caring and concern would fade from her gaze.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.

  With the nausea gone and the pounding in his head lessened to a dull roar, he nodded, then moved to sit up. Even with Genevieve’s assistance, the going was slow and the effort left him panting and coated in sweat. After several minutes, however, he felt better, and he forced himself to look in her eyes. His breath caught at the emotion swimming in those beautiful blue depths. There was nothing guarded in her expression—even a blind man could have recognized that the tenderness in her gaze meant she cared for him. Deeply. His heart sank. Yes, cared deeply for a man whose true name and occupation she didn’t even know. A man who’d lied to her. And who, he knew she would believe, had used her.

  Damn.

  His gaze shifted, his lips tightening at the sight of Waverly’s body behind her. Then he glanced to her pelisse, the pale-gray wool ruined with his blood. The array of compresses stained with colors ranging from bright scarlet to barely pale pink. Finally he looked at where she held his hands, hers ungloved and stained with his blood. Would this be the last time he’d ever touch her?

  He pulled in a breath, then raised his gaze to meet hers. “You admitted to me yesterday that you hadn’t been entirely honest with me, that your circumstances weren’t what you’d led me to believe. Now I must say the same thing to you. I don’t work for a Mr. Jonas-Smythe. Indeed, there is no such person. I’m employed by the Crown.”

  Confusion passed over her features. “You’re a steward for the Crown?”

  “No. I gather information for them and assist in capturing individuals whose actions could threaten Britain.”

  She blinked. “You’re a…spy?”

  “Yes.”

  “A spy,” she repeated in a bemused voice. “For how long?”

  “Eight years.”

  “And how did you come to be a spy?”

  “I volunteered.” He hesitated, then continued, “My family was wealthy and I’d never wanted for anything. Until eight years ago, I’d spent my life pursuing my own enjoyments, indulging my whims and desires, denied nothing. One night, while out carousing with a group of friends, we ventured into a pub, one in a less-fashionable part of London than we would normally visit. I struck up a conversation with the barkeep. His name was Billy. I asked him how he came to work at the bar—not because I was really interested, but because I thought his words might bring a laugh. Instead he…changed me.”

  He paused, shame filling him as it did every time he recalled the callow, selfish youth he’d been. “How?” she prompted.

  “He told me about his life. He’d served in the navy and nearly died in battle. He’d survived, but lost a leg. When he came home, he needed work. Had a wife and son to look after. A friend of his owned the pub and he’d worked there ever since. Listening to him, hearing him talk of that battle, knowing it had to be painful for him to stand behind that bar for hours on end, that he did so out of love for his wife and child, gave me quite a jolt. It made me take a good at myself and my life. And I didn’t like what I saw.

  “I saw that while other men were serving our country, I’d simply moved from party to party, club to club, pleasure to pleasure, from one useless pursuit to the next. Frankly I was disgusted with myself. I wanted to change. To do something important. Something good. Something I could be proud of.”

  She nodded slowly. “I see. So…if we’d met eight years ago, I wouldn’t have liked you.”

  “Most likely not. I don’t see how you could have when I didn’t like myself.”

  “And now? Do you like yourself now?”

  “At this particular moment—not really. I lied to you. But in general…yes. I’m proud of the work I’ve done. The people I’ve helped. The lives I’ve protected and saved. Unfortunately with that sort of work comes secrecy, and with secrecy come lies. For eight years I’ve lied to my friends and my family—none of them know what I’ve just told you.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “I wouldn’t have lied to you, Genevieve, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary.”

  She nodded slowly, clearly digesting his words. “All this means you didn’t come to Little Longstone for a holiday while your employer was away on his wedding trip.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He took a bracing breath and forced himself to say the words he knew would drain the caring from her eyes. “I came to Little Longstone to find you. To retrieve the letter Lord Ridgemoor sent you for safekeeping.”

  All the color leaked from her face. He could almost hear the pieces clicking together in her mind. And then all the emotion faded from her eyes, until she stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Even though he’d known it would happen, it still felt as if he’d been cut off at the knees. Without a word she slowly eased her hands from his. He wanted to snatch her hands back, to keep that connection, but he let her go. The loss made him feel as if his heart had been punctured.

  “Tell me how you know about that,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

  And so he told her. All of it. Of Waverly’s plot to kill Ridgemoor and frame Simon for the crime. Of Ridgemoor’s last words. Of Simon confiding in Waverly and being granted the time to clear his name. Of renting the cottage. Repeatedly searching her home. Of her almost catching him that first time. She listened to all of it in complete silence, her gaze never moving from his, only growing bleaker until, when he finished, she simply stared at him with eyes that resembled two flat stones.

  A full minute of the loudest silence he’d ever heard swelled between them. He wanted so badly to touch her, but he knew, knew she’d pull away from him. And he also knew that would break whatever small piece of his heart still remained intact.

  “Richard is dead,” she finally said in a voice as flat as her expression.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I know you cared for him.”

  “You knew all along that I wasn’t a widow. That I’d been his mistress.”

  “Yes.”

  “You befriended me, flirted with me, spent time with me, seduced me—all to get the letter.”

  “No—”

  She held up her hand to halt his words. The emptiness in her eyes was gone, replaced with a combination of pain, anger and betrayal that twisted his heart. “Do not lie to me again, Simon.”

  “I’m not lying. I admit that’s why I came here and why I initially sought you out. But once I met you…you weren’t what I expected. Genevieve, what we shared together, it’s all been real.”

  Her eyes blazed at him and an incredulous sound escaped her. “Real? It’s been based on nothing but lies! If you w
anted the damn letter so badly, why didn’t you simply ask me for it?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, and he saw the realization dawn in her widening eyes. “Dear God, you didn’t ask me because you thought I might have been in some way connected to Richard’s death.”

  “I couldn’t ignore the possibility.”

  “So not only were you willing to seduce me for the letter, you did so believing I might have been either directly or indirectly responsible for my former lover’s murder.” The sound she made reverberated with disbelief. “These are actions you can be proud of?”

  Without thinking, he reached for her hand. She jerked away as if he’d burned her, and his hand fell to his side. “I couldn’t tell you the truth at first. All I knew of you was contained in the last desperate words of a dying man, words you cannot deny were more incriminating than exonerating. All I can tell you is that every moment I spent in your company served to convince me of your innocence.”

  “Yet still, you did not tell me the truth. Or ask me for the letter.”

  “I’d planned to do so as soon as I returned to the cottage this morning.”

  Another bitter sound. “Because you weren’t able to find it after spending the night searching my home. And pawing through my personal belongings. Again.”

  He could think of ways to pretty up that bald statement, but what was the point? She was correct. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “As for seducing you…I want you to know that my mission and the letter were the last things on my mind when we were together. And that I…care for you.”

  The fire in her eyes extinguished like a snuffed-out candle. “‘Care for me,’” she repeated in an utterly bleak tone. “Yes. That is obvious.”

  A sensation very close to panic gripped him. He had to make her understand. “Genevieve, I was trying to capture a murderer, a man, it turns out, who was a threat not only to me and you, but to England as well. I was going to tell you as soon as I could. I never meant to hurt you.”

  But he had. Hurt oozed from her like blood from a wound. And even if she forgave him, he knew she’d never forget. Or look at him with that same care he’d seen when he first opened his eyes. He tried to remind himself that in a mere few hours, as soon as he could travel, he’d be on his way to London. He’d never see her again. But instead of that reminder making him feel better, it only served to make his heart feel as if it had been ripped in two.

  Her only reply was to rise, moving as if her limbs weighed an enormous amount. Then she turned her back to him and slowly headed toward the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  She paused, then glanced at him over her shoulder. “I’m going to get you your letter. After all, it’s the reason you’re here.”

  Simon watched her climb the stairs with labored steps. After she had disappeared from view, he struggled to his feet, resting his hand against the wall and closing his eyes to combat the waves of dizziness that hit him. When he opened his eyes he saw the folded piece of paper he’d offered to Waverly—the piece of paper that had saved him. Taking care not to keel over, he picked up the paper square and slipped it back into his pocket. By the time Genevieve rejoined him, he’d regained his equilibrium.

  She stood in front of him, holding a gilt-edged frame. Her eyes remained expressionless, as if she’d pulled a curtain over her emotions. “Richard sent a note along with the box—a note I destroyed per his request—indicating he would come for it soon. Even though months had passed since we’d been together, the way he’d dismissed me still rankled, as did the fact that he took another mistress almost immediately, a very young, very beautiful woman. He didn’t even have the decency to tell me face-to-face that he wished to end our arrangement. Instead he merely sent me a note.”

  Her lips pressed together briefly, then she continued, “I knew the box had to be of great importance and I was determined that he’d face me when he retrieved it. It took me hours to figure out the combination, but when I did, I discovered the letter inside. I suspected anywhere I tried to hide it would be discovered, just as I suspected Richard would try to retrieve the box and its contents without seeing me. I resolved to thwart him. Therefore, I hid the letter in plain sight by slipping it into an old picture frame and hanging it on my bedchamber wall, among all my other artwork and replicas of favorite poems.” She held out the frame. “Here you are.”

  Simon took the frame and stared at the handwritten letter pressed beneath the glass and a swell of admiration hit him. “Very clever. I saw this hanging in your bedchamber—saw it, yet didn’t really see it.” He read the words, which appeared to be nothing more than a rather boring account of a day spent in the country, and his jaw tightened. “It’s in code, as I suspected it would be. But according to Ridgemoor’s last words, its message will prove Waverly’s guilt and my innocence. Which means I owe you my life. For this and for tending to me after I was shot. Thank you, Genevieve.”

  A flicker of warmth broke through the blankness in her eyes. “You’re welcome. I…I hate that you lied to me, and I cannot deny I feel tricked. But since I’ve told many lies myself, I’m not precisely in a position to judge. I understand you only did what you believed you had to.”

  His gaze searched hers. “Do you? I hope so, because when we were together…you have my word I wasn’t using you. You need to know that however this began, it changed course very quickly and became…something more.”

  “Yes, I suppose it did.” Her gaze flicked to the frame. “I’m glad you have what you came for.”

  Encouraged by her words and that miniscule flash of warmth, he moved a step closer to her. His heart jumped with hope when she didn’t back away. There was only one thing left to tell her, but surely if she could forgive him the other, larger transgressions, the fact that he’d omitted his title was a miniscule offense. “There’s one more thing you should know about me, a very small thing, actually.”

  She appeared to brace herself. “What is it?”

  “To protect my identity, I affected a slight change to my surname. It is actually Cooperstone.”

  She considered, then nodded. “Understandable, especially as there is a noble family that bears that same name.”

  “Yes, I know.” He made her a formal bow. “Simon Cooperstone, Viscount Kilburn, at your service.”

  He wasn’t certain what reaction he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the dawning horror that bloomed on her face. The small amount of color she’d regained leeched from her cheeks, leaving her chalk-white. “You’re a viscount.” She said the word as if it harbored a contagious disease.

  “Yes.” Bloody hell, she looked as if she were going to swoon. “Um, allowing for some understandable annoyance due to the deception, wouldn’t most people think that’s good news?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not most people,” she said in a barely audible voice.

  Before he could say anything further, the door burst open. Baxter strode into the foyer, followed by a bespectacled man with gray hair carrying a black leather medical satchel, and a tall gentleman with an official air. Genevieve appeared to have gathered herself and performed the introductions. When she said his name and title, Baxter gaped at him.

  “Viscount?” he repeated. “Yer a bloody viscount?”

  Damn it, the man made it sound as if a viscount were synonymous with a monster who eats children for breakfast. “I’m afraid so.”

  The look Baxter shot him made it clear he’d like to murder him with his bare hands. Given the oppressive guilt weighing him down and the incessant pounding in his head, Simon wasn’t entirely opposed to letting him, although he was at a loss to explain this unprecedented reaction to his title, which, even though he hadn’t been honest about it, still seemed extreme.

  He waded into the awkward silence and quickly told the magistrate what had occurred, giving him only the pertinent facts. After the magistrate and doctor verified that Waverly was, indeed, dead, Dr. Bailey asked Genevieve where he could examine Simon. She led them both to t
he sitting room while the magistrate, with Baxter’s assistance, saw to the removal of Waverly’s body.

  Simon sat on the settee, his gaze fastened on Genevieve who stared out the window while Dr. Bailey examined his wound. He answered the doctor’s questions by rote. No, he no longer felt nauseated or dizzy. Yes, his vision was fine. No, nothing other than his head hurt.

  Well, that and his heart, which ached as if it had taken a lead ball dead center.

  “How soon before I can travel?” Simon asked, wincing a bit as the doctor applied a salve to his wound.

  “You were merely grazed, my lord—it bled a great deal as head wounds do, but except for the lump on your temple you escaped unscathed. Therefore, I’d say you can depart Little Longstone as soon as you like, although I’d recommend traveling by coach rather than on horseback.”

  “Is there a livery in town where I can secure a carriage?”

  “Yes. I pass right by it on my way home. Would you like me to see to it for you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I need to return to London as soon as possible.”

  Yes, he did. Which meant leaving Little Longstone…and Genevieve. Given the way she’d looked at him, she clearly wanted him gone. That was good. His life was in London. His job was in London. The sooner he left, the better.

  His gaze remained on Genevieve, who continued to stare out the window while Dr. Bailey wrapped a linen bandage around his head. Bloody hell, she was so lovely. And she looked so lonely, standing there by herself. He ached to walk to her, take her in his arms. Would she allow him to? Based on her previous reaction, he doubted it. Indeed, she was more likely to whack him upside his head, which would completely finish him off. And if it didn’t, Baxter would no doubt be delighted to do so.

  He had to leave. She had to stay. He would never forget her, but their time together was over.

  And surely, after the passage of some time, the raw edge of hurt sawing at him would fade away.

  Surely it would.

  GENEVIEVE stared out the sitting room as the words Simon had just spoken to Dr. Bailey echoed through her mind. I need to return to London as soon as possible. A humorless sound lodged in her throat. Actually, they weren’t Simon’s words—they were Viscount Kilburn’s.