In fact, as she stood there before him, sun drenching her in warmth, Griffin looking at her as if she were a goddess come to walk the earth among men, the pulsing, freeing sensation of freedom bursting open inside her, she did fall in love with him. Again. Deeper. Her heart ached.
She swallowed down a lump that had become lodged in her throat and blinked away the sting of tears she refused to shed. Somehow, in the least likely of manners, she had found the man for her. He had not been a horticulturist who lived by his mother’s rule. Instead, he had been a man who was scarred and broken, yet caring and determined. A man her brother was intent upon sending to prison.
She could not forget that. Must not forget it. Nor could she forget the reason she had requested a shooting lesson from the first: defense against the Fenian menace who knew who she was, and knew who Lucien was. Men who would do her harm just to gain their political freedom.
Her future with Griffin loomed, rife with uncertainty.
“But I do need to thank you,” she told her husband gently. “For everything.”
His expression softened, losing some of its harsh, serious lines, becoming almost sheepish. “Trust me when I say you do not. If anyone is to offer their thanks, it is me. Thank you for giving me the means with which to save myself, and for believing in me enough to put yourself and your future at such great risk all for my sake. I am not worthy of you, darling. Not in the slightest.”
Fear for him lanced her at the reference to the suspicions and blame that had been laid upon him. “I believe in you, because you are innocent, Griffin. And together, we will prove it. To Lucien, and to everyone else.”
He gave a jerky nod, as if he too were affected by emotion. And then he cleared his throat and looked away, back toward the hay bale settled against the bank. “Time to practice with this intolerably small target, my dear. I am afraid you shall have to give it your best effort.”
“Show me,” she said.
He extracted a revolver he had secreted within his waistcoat. It was small and slim, the barrel black and the handle oiled wood. How odd it was to think of how much damage a simple object forged of metal and wood could do.
“Stand back and to my side, Vi. But watch what I do, if you please. Always take care to be sure the gun is empty when you are not using it.” He showed her how to examine the chamber to make certain no bullets were within. “Even when the gun is empty, keep the barrel pointed away from you, and anyone you do not wish to shoot, at all times.”
“I fervently hope there will not be anyone I wish to shoot,” she said. But the truth was, in a world where men would kill and cause destruction because they could, where she and her elderly aunt were beset by gunfire in a carriage in the midst of London’s best streets, the likelihood she may one day need to shoot to defend herself was not as ludicrous and small as she had once imagined it to be.
“As do I, Vi,” he said solemnly. “But if the need should arise, I want you to be capable of defending yourself if you must. No more peering out windows whilst you are unarmed and being shot at by cowardly Fenians. Do you promise me?”
She nodded. His concern warmed her heart, and she could not help but be pleased he was encouraging her ability to look after herself, where her brother had been adamant upon being her sole protector. She could not be under the protection of others for her entire life, and for those times when she was alone and needed to defend herself, she wanted to know how to accomplish it.
“I promise,” she said.
“Excellent.” His tone was grim. “Now just see to it you uphold that vow. This is how you load your ammunition.”
She watched him load the barrel of the revolver with bullets, one at a time, slipping bullets meticulously into place and clicking through the chamber until each round was filled.
“Do not forget to always point the barrel away from yourself,” he instructed again calmly, before lifting the pistol with both hands and pointing it toward the target. “There is a bead on the barrel of the pistol that helps you to gauge your target. Train it upon whatever you wish to shoot. If it is a man you are shooting, set that bead upon either his head or his chest. If you are shooting a man, your aim is to inflict the most damage possible.”
He raised the pistol, gripping it with two hands, and trained the barrel upon the target. “It is important to hold the revolver with both hands, as there will be recoil when you shoot the gun.” He paused and used his thumb to pull back the hammer. “Cock the gun thus, and then pull the trigger when you are ready. You may want to cover your ears, Vi.”
She did as he suggested.
“Ready?”
Hands still clamped over her ears, she nodded. “Ready!”
He pulled the trigger, and almost instantly, the metallic clang of him hitting the target rang through the air. The circular target spun. He remained rooted to the spot, eyes trained on the target. He cocked the revolver again. Shot again. Four more times, each occasion generating a clang and a spin of the target, making for a total of six in all, until the barrel was empty.
Naturally, his aim had been flawless.
“Your turn now,” he announced, handing her the pistol with ginger care.
She accepted it, careful to follow his instructions. With Griffin’s aid, she loaded six rounds into the chamber. And then she raised the gun with both hands, aiming it at the target. Holding her breath, she fired the first shot.
The way the revolver kicked in her hands took her by surprise. It was a strange feeling, but she absorbed it, and took her second shot. The clang of metal reached her ears this time. The target spun. Taking great care to maintain her aim, she shot four times, and on each occasion, she hit the target.
Feeling pleased with herself, she turned back to Griffin, who watched her with an expression of unabashed pride. “What do you think of my aim, husband? Will it suffice?”
“It will more than suffice,” he said, his tone rueful. “Are you certain you never shot a weapon before?”
Her grin widened. “Certain.”
“Bloody hell, I knew you were the woman for me.”
She liked the sound of that. She also liked the knowledge she could defend herself if she had to. She was not helpless, not dependent upon anyone. This was where Lucien had gone wrong; he had believed he needed to be the man to defend her, that he alone could keep her safe.
Griffin had just shown her the only person she needed to defend her was…
Herself.
And that realization made her feel strong. Stronger than she had ever felt before.
“May I shoot again?” she asked.
He grinned at her. “Hell yes.”
Chapter Sixteen
She made him weak.
God, how she made him weak.
He was seated in Ludlow’s study in Harlton Hall, joined by the two most brilliant and dangerous former members of the Special League, and Cullen O’Malley, and he was supposed to be formulating a battle plan that would save him from prison and imminent ruin.
But all he could think about was Violet.
All he could smell was roses.
All he could hear was her husky cries of surrender, the way she moaned his name when she came, her cunny milking his cock of every drop. All he could see was the sight of her standing in brilliant defiance, learning how to shoot a revolver and excelling at it. She had been glorious and breathtaking, like some warrior goddess before him.
He had known, somehow, she would be his undoing. From the moment he had fallen into her lap, felled by her crocheting, and their gazes had locked, he had been drawn to her. It had been why he kissed her that first day. She had been babbling about the damnable seed pouch, and he had been consumed by the most beguiling woman he had ever seen.
And now she was his. He had been inside her. He knew how she tasted on his tongue. He knew her nipples were the precise shade of the underbelly of a pink rose. He knew how she went wild when he sucked them, wilder still when he used his teeth.
“Strathmore?”
Carlisle’s questioning voice interrupted his musings.
Damnation.
He blinked and shifted in his chair, willing the erection that had begun to swell against his trousers to abate. Never before had he been a slave to his cock, and now was certainly not the time to allow one head to rule the other. He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to scrub all thoughts of her from his mind.
He had become too attached to her. He had bedded other women in his past. Surely he could bed this one without turning into a lovesick fool.
Could he not?
He could. He needed to be stern. Unflinching. He would think about her and speak about her as if she did not have the capacity to tear his world apart.
“Strathmore?” Carlisle prodded again. “Are you with us?”
Beginning now. From this moment forward. He could purge her from his soul. He could and he would because he must, or risk losing himself.
Griffin blinked. “Of course I am. Forgive me. I have a great deal weighing on my mind at present.”
“I understand completely, Your Grace,” Cullen O’Malley said then, his brogue tingeing his words. “I have been in your position, staring at the grim prospect of my future imprisonment for a crime I did not commit. Some nights I still wake, convinced I’m back at Kilmainham, even though I have had my freedom for the last few weeks. I’ll be praying for you to keep your freedom, and if there is any way I can be of service in aiding you, I will.”
The mere thought of imprisonment made him sweat, effectively killing any ardor still surging through him for his wife. He had been held against his will before, and he had vowed it would never happen again.
He found his voice through the bile rising in his throat. “Thank you, O’Malley. Anything you know about John Mahoney and his connections within the League can potentially aid me. Any crumb of information you can recall, however infinitesimal, could prove the key to bringing the Duke of Arsehole to his knees and establishing my innocence at last.”
“Speaking of the Duke,” Ludlow said, studying him with an intense regard, “are you prepared for Arden’s arrival? My sources tell me his arrival today is imminent.”
He winced, thinking of the confrontation that would ensue when Arden came to Harlton Hall. He had not yet broached the subject with Violet, and he knew it would not be easy, using her against her brother in such fashion, and nor would she be pleased when she discovered his intention to discredit Arden. Spiriting her away had been one thing, but facing an angry Arden and expecting her not only to defend him over her brother, but cleave to his side when all his cards were laid upon the table, was another.
Their days together had been easy—too easy—and he had been reluctant to relinquish the strange but wonderful camaraderie that had fallen between them. He could not shake the feeling she knew him better than anyone ever had.
Perhaps better than he even knew himself.
But he had not been entirely honest with her, allowing her to believe she had chosen to marry him and he had simply accepted her suggestion, when in fact, it had been what he had wanted, what he had maneuvered them toward, from the minute he had realized it was the only means of procuring himself more time. He was a selfish bastard, and he knew it, because he had wanted his freedom, and he had wanted Violet too, and he had been determined to do whatever he must to secure both.
And it went without saying he had not been honest with her about what he intended to do to remove the suspicion from himself once and for all, which was ruining Arden and laying him low. Nor had he told her about the plan he, Carlisle, O’Malley, and Ludlow had hatched together from the day of their arrival at Harlton Hall when plans had been made and a course of action had been settled upon.
Griffin had sent a taunting message to Arden, letting him know his exact location. Letting Arden know he intended to marry Violet. The message had been well-timed so Arden would not receive it until the deed had already been done. When Arden arrived at Harlton Hall, thinking he was saving his sister from marrying Griffin, he would discover he was too late.
Ludlow and Carlisle were prepared to make a united front with him, and their support, coupled with the fact Griffin had married Violet and his seed could be growing in her womb, would be enough to keep Arden at bay until they could work together to find the man truly responsible for the leaks of privileged League information to the Fenians and bring Arden down.
In the end, all should work out accordingly. He would have Violet, the guilty man would be sent to prison in his stead, and Arden would be forced to step down as League leader in the wake of his erroneous assumptions and Griffin’s false imprisonment.
But no one knew better than he did that, what seemed a sure bet, was all too often sent straight to hell. He could only hope and believe this time would somehow be different, for the stakes were higher, the highest they had ever been.
“I am as ready as I shall ever be,” he said at last, hating his tenuous situation.
Hating he would have to use the woman he had come to care for, the woman he had made his wife…hell, the woman he had just spent the better part of the morning deep inside. He could only hope she would forgive him when he explained.
“Does Lady Violet know her brother is on his way?” Carlisle asked, in that canny way he had of reading a man’s thoughts from the expression on his face.
“No,” he admitted. “I will tell her. There simply hasn’t been time.”
Ludlow grinned at him. “I daresay there was time for other conversations.”
“Go to hell,” he growled, the skin over his cheekbones going hot. He was grateful for his well-trimmed whiskers, which shielded a great deal of his face.
“One fact is irrefutable,” Carlisle interrupted then, his tone stern, his expression carved in marble and ice. “There is a traitor within the League. Mahoney knew of the manner in which League members secret sensitive communications. He also knew when raids were being held, and he was able to incriminate innocent men because of that knowledge. These are all facts he could not have obtained from anyone but a member of the League who was privy to these secrets.”
“Precisely,” Griffin agreed, “and that very traitor is responsible for planting the evidence in my study. Arden used the supposed communications between myself and various Fenian aliases, along with the similarity between Mahoney’s contact The Gryphon and my own name, as the means to incarcerate me at Lark House.”
“Mahoney was a braggart,” O’Malley said. “God rest his black soul. He made no secret of his connection to the League, but he refused to divulge who it was. He claimed the man had connections to the top tier of the League. A man practically in the waistcoat pocket of the Home Office, he said.”
Having a Fenian in his midst and looking to the man for aid was deuced strange for Griffin. He knew Carlisle had worked to get O’Malley released because he was family to him now, but Griffin was not entirely certain he dared trust the fellow.
“Did you ever see him?” he asked.
O’Malley shook his head. “I was not privy to much. When I joined Mahoney, I had no inkling of the depths of his depravity. After I caught wind of some of the campaigns he was funding and organizing—murder plots and bomb factories—I tried to steer us in a new direction. A peaceful one. That was when he started plotting against me, laying the foundation for my arrest.”
“A man practically in the waistcoat pocket of the Home Office,” Griffin repeated, the words seeming to have a deeper meaning.
“Has it not occurred to you,” Ludlow said then, his tone one of deep musing, “that Arden himself could be the traitor?”
The notion gave him pause, for indeed, it had not. He had never once imagined the Duke of Arden, the man who had supplanted the Duke of Carlisle as the leader of the Special League, could possibly be the villain attempting to orchestrate its—and Griffin’s—downfall.
“There is no love lost between Arden and myself, but I do not think him a traitor, Clay,” Carlisle said, before Griffin could respond. “My dist
aste for him aside, I cannot fathom a man as intelligent as the Duke of Arden doing something as bloody stupid as selling his soul to the Fenians. What could he possibly hope to accomplish?”
Ludlow raised a brow at his brother, and the similarities between the two men in that instant was uncanny. Both were massive in stature, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and deadly. “Far more intelligent men than the Duke of Arden have committed far more witless sins over the course of history, Leo. He would not be the first, and nor would he be the last.”
While it was tempting indeed to lay the blame entirely upon the Duke of Arsehole’s shoulders, Griffin remained unconvinced when he turned the fact about in his mind, considering them from all their jagged angles. “Arden has been desperate to be League leader for years. Why would he risk all he has attained now by doing something so foolish?”
“Perhaps what he has to gain is more significant than what he has to lose,” Carlisle pointed out. “Is he in need of funds? From the details we have been able to stitch together, Mahoney was in control of a massive portion of American-raised Fenian funds. He would have been capable of paying handsomely for the secrets, and now that he is dead, someone else within their ranks will have taken his place at the purse strings.”
Griffin considered what he had seen at Lark House. “I cannot say he is. Lark House is in fine fettle and staffed abundantly. The chef hails from France, and his epicurean delights are unparalleled.”
Lord knew he had consumed his meals sparingly for fear of losing his muscle and the boxer’s reflexes he had honed over the years with a great deal of effort. He needed to be capable of striking first and matching any opponent with his fists and his brute strength.
“Some men commit such sins for other reasons,” Ludlow pointed out. “For the forbidden. It grants them a sense of control over those around them. It becomes a dark, twisted secret inside them that inflates them with a false sense of superiority.”
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