by Gaelen Foley
Brushing her blowing curls behind her ears, she studied her toes curled against the jagged rock, then looked at him cautiously. “Why do you ask me these questions, Rackford?”
He did not answer for a moment, watching the lighthouse beam sweep over the onyx waters.
“I’m just…trying to make sense of it all.” Disengaging himself from her embrace, he stood, bracing his left foot upon a higher rock. He slipped his hands into his pockets while his brooding, restless gaze swept the horizon. “I have been standing here remembering how bad it all was and trying…to convince myself like a reasonable adult that I didn’t deserve it somehow.”
“Oh, Billy, of course you didn’t deserve it, sweeting. You were only a child.”
“I didn’t feel like one.”
“But you were.”
“How could someone do that? How could he do that to me?” He glanced bitterly at Torcarrow, then looked at her in lonely, urgent anger. His jaw was taut, and though there was an edge of insolence in his stare, she knew he hung upon her answer, desperate for reassurance.
“Humanity, my dear, is a blind, mad parade of sorry fools,” she said softly. “People are flawed, and sometimes they make terrible mistakes. You must never let yourself be deceived into thinking that your father’s hideous mistakes were somehow your fault. They were not.”
His eyes flickered as he registered her words, but still, he turned away again, shaking his head. “You tell me that, and I know you’re right, but as much as I want to believe you, somehow I cannot be rid of the sense that I must have done something wrong.”
“I can understand why you might think that, because what we learn as small children stays with us throughout our lives; but surely, my darling, in some remote corner of your heart, you must know better than that by now.”
“But I must have done something to deserve it. He never treated Percy that way, only me.”
“You were innocent,” she insisted. “By telling you that you deserved your beatings, Lord Truro could avoid his own damning guilt. By putting the blame on you, he did not have to face the horror of having done violence to his own child.”
“It isn’t fair,” he whispered abruptly. “He beat the hell out of me. Right in front of Reg and Justin. They had come home with me on holiday from school.” Distantly, he shook his head. “All I did was borrow his stupid spyglass.”
With tears in her eyes, she held out her arms to him. “Come to me. Let me hold you.”
He sharply turned away, making no move to come closer.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some pathetic little boy you want to save. I already have one mother, for all the good it did me.”
She fell silent and lowered her arms. “Don’t push me away, Rackford.”
“I hate it that you know all this!” he cried. “It’s humiliating. I hate that you saw me that night in the alley—that first night. I’m not good enough for you—”
“Stop it. I love you, Rackford. I’m not going to hurt you.”
He turned to her, silent for a long moment. The lighthouse beam showed her the stark, unsettling war of emotion in his face before they were plunged in darkness again.
“You love me?” he challenged her in a dark tone. Moving closer, he loomed over her.
“You know I do.” She tilted her head back bravely to continue to hold his gaze.
Seething, tempestuous need gleamed in his eyes. “Prove it.” He touched her hair, gently at first, then grasping a handful of her curls. His eyes flickered with heat. “Show me,” he ordered in a whisper.
She went very still. “Right now? Here?”
“Yes. Now.”
She hesitated. His fierceness frightened her, but when she looked up into his burning eyes, she didn’t dare say no, aware of the complexity behind his brash request. He was a proud warrior of a man, but that pride had been wounded deeply. Somehow she understood his need to reassert his power after the vulnerability of having been revealed to her as a powerless battered child; perhaps he was even trying to drive her away, scare her off, so that his self-fulfilling prophecy that no one could ever love him would come true. She was not going to let that happen, no matter the cost.
Looking deeply into his angry green eyes, she knew she had to tread carefully, ever so carefully.
“Very well,” she whispered, lifting her hand to caress his thigh as he stood over her. “How do you want me?”
He held her stare, windblown, dark, and dangerous. He looked almost suspicious at her willingness. “On your back.” He took her hand and pulled her off the rock.
She moved down onto the sand, slowly lying back. He turned, as well, kneeling between her legs. He eased down atop her, taking her mouth in raw, starved hunger while he placed her hand on his manhood, demanding her caress.
Jacinda was overwhelmed by his raw, angry neediness. She could feel his hands sliding up deftly under her skirts, lifting them. He kissed her like he would consume her, but the familiar taste of him and the feel of him in her arms stirred her passion in seconds. Ending the kiss, he pushed up to kneel over her again. The shape of his tousled hair, his square jaw, and broad shoulders were silhouetted against the fading sky.
“What an obliging wife you are,” he murmured as he unbuttoned his trousers.
She flinched with fleeting, confused pain at his mocking tone, but refused to back down before his demons. If this was what he needed to test the limits of her love, she would not fail him. Obediently, she reached for his manhood as he freed it, stroking him. He caressed her hand as she guided him to her.
“You love this, don’t you, my little wanton?” he asked, closing her hand around his rigid shaft in a taunting squeeze.
“I love you,” she corrected.
“I’m not a good man, Jacinda. Don’t believe it. I’m a killer and a thief. I’ll only disappoint you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she answered in defiance.
His dun lashes veiled his eyes as he lowered his gaze. He spread her legs as he knelt over her, but when he touched her core, he wrung a soft groan from her with his probing fingers. He watched her moving with his hand for several moments before he mounted her. She wrapped her arms around him in warm sensual welcome, gasping softly with pleasure as he pressed inside of her. He paused, buried to the hilt within her body. They lingered like that, savoring their joining in throbbing stillness.
“You could never disappoint me, Billy. I have always believed in you,” she whispered as she stroked his hair. “That’s why I left you my diamonds.”
He paused but said nothing, drawing her thighs up around his lean sides, his arms draped over her bent knees. His large, warm hands encircled her ankles gently; he toyed lovingly with her feet. She lifted her hips, growing impatient for him.
“Make love to me, Billy. I need you.”
He reached down and caressed her, rousing her to new heights; then she pulled him down into her arms and held him as he loved her, baring all the old wounds and loneliness in his soul, bringing each hurt forward for her to kiss, shyly at first, then more desperately. She could feel him coming undone.
His strokes followed more forcefully, unleashing a rhythm in time with the sea’s tempestuous crashing against the rocks. He whispered her name over and over while the stars dotted the sky behind him like a shower of diamonds, each one a glistening jewel. She kissed his beloved, oft-bruised face, unsure if the salt she tasted was his tears or her own, or merely flecks of sea foam. She only knew that by the time they were both on the edge of release, she was hazy-eyed with need, drowning in her love for him; he was shaking with fierce, stormy emotion.
“I’m sorry, Jacinda. I’m so sorry.”
“No, Billy. You are good enough. I love you, sweeting.”
He groaned with anguish, his needy embrace tightening with viselike intensity. “Never leave me, girl. You’re the only person on this whole goddamned earth
who’s ever cared about me.”
“I love you, Billy. I always will. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
He ordered her in a raw, panting voice to come for him, and she could do naught but obey, writhing under him in wanton, helpless longing. He followed her into the dark, sweet, mindless bliss of release a few seconds later, sheathed deeply inside of her.
The lighthouse beam swept over him, illuminating the harsh rapture on his face. His deep, soulful moans entranced her; then he lay in her arms, spent and still.
She nestled her cheek against his golden hair and petted him, kissing his head in bonded intimacy. His embrace was warm in the cool of the night. At length, he rolled onto his side next to her. He propped his head on his elbow and smiled at her with a rueful sigh.
“What is it?” she murmured.
He shook his head slightly. “I’m not sure.” He cupped her breast lovingly. “You make me wonder if I ever fooled you for an instant or how I ever won you, if you saw through me.”
She smiled. “When I first saw you in the alley that night, I thought you were Conrad come to life. That’s the moment I started falling in love with you.”
“Who the hell is Conrad?”
“From The Corsair. You know—Lord Byron’s book.”
“Your silly pirate book?”
“It isn’t silly,” she retorted. “Conrad may be a pirate, but he’s a good pirate, not a bad one.”
“How very dashing. Would you like to know the first moment that I fell in love with you?”
“Do tell,” she giggled, snuggling against him.
He captured her hand and curled it gently into a fist, kissing her knuckles. “The moment you smashed Flaherty a facer.”
“In the alley?” she exclaimed.
He nodded, laughing with her, watching her. “There you were, the queen of Sheba, tucked into the garbage heap. ‘I am perfectly comfortable,’ you said. I’ll never forget your face. Then you darkened Flaherty’s daylights for him—”
“He deserved it.”
“And I thought to myself, ‘Careful, mate. This one’s dangerous.’ ”
“Dangerous, eh? I think I like that.” With a cat-like stretch and a contented sigh, she curled her body against him.
He gathered her closer, gazing at the ocean. “Maybe we should spend the night out here beneath the stars, the moon—”
“I don’t think we’d get much sleep, you insatiable beast.”
“Must be this fresh sea air,” he growled playfully. “Brings out the pirate in me.”
She pouted at his teasing. Laughing softly, he tackled her onto her back in the sand, kissing her.
“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and returned his kiss with tender passion, when suddenly, a voice floated down to them from the promontory above.
“Lord Rackford! Lord and Lady Rackford! Are you down there? Hullo?”
“Gracious!” Jacinda gasped, hastily making sure her skirts were pushed all the way back down to her ankles.
“Don’t worry; they can’t see us in the darkness,” Rackford murmured. “That sounds like the butler. Down here, Mr. Becket!” he yelled loudly over the rhythm of the waves. “What is it?”
“Lord Truro is asking for you, sir. Please come quickly! He has suffered a second attack of the apoplexy!”
They exchanged a worried glance. Without further ado, they climbed to their feet and hurriedly put their clothes in order, then grabbed their cast-off shoes and ran back up to the house.
“Oh, Master Billy, this time it has struck him blind!” Mr. Becket was wringing his bony hands in distress when Rackford and she arrived at the top of the rickety wooden steps leading up from the beach.
“Good God,” Rackford murmured.
“Mr. Plimpton fears His Lordship will not last till morning. He asks for you, sir.”
Jacinda passed a hard, questioning glance over Rackford’s face.
“I’ll let him speak his piece,” he said cautiously.
They strode inside and went up to the north wing, where the marquess’s room was situated. As they crossed the hallway, the marchioness slipped out of her husband’s chamber, weeping quietly. When she saw them coming, she rushed down the hallway and flung herself into her son’s arms, crying harder.
“Oh, William! Is he really dying? I fear his time has come.”
“Calm down, Mother,” Rackford said firmly.
“Jacinda, would you show Her Ladyship to the sitting room and pour her a glass of wine for her nerves? Mother, take a moment to collect yourself. I’ll go to Father and see how he is faring.”
“There, there, Lady Truro. Come along.” Jacinda put her arm around the woman’s frail shoulders and walked her into the drawing room.
He braced himself and went into the sickroom.
“William, is that you?” his father asked hoarsely.
“It is I, Father.”
“Come near me.” The order was slurred, raspy.
Rackford swallowed hard and obeyed. He was shaken by his father’s wraithlike appearance. He exchanged a grim look with the surgeon, then saw that Mr. Plimpton had his instruments out, preparing to bleed Truro again.
“Leave off, man,” he ordered, waving the doctor away. His father already had the pallor of death in his face. Rackford had seen it far too many times in the rookery to mistake it.
The marquess stared blindly at nothing, his emerald eyes intense and resolute as ever. “I wish to speak privately with my son.”
“Yes, my lord.” The surgeon exited quietly.
“Is he gone?” Truro asked.
“Yes.” Rackford sat on the chair beside his father’s bed.
Truro’s breathing was labored. “I am—dying, William.”
Rackford did not know what to say. “Yes, sir,” he admitted rather lamely.
“Take—take care of your mother.”
“I will.”
“Don’t let the tenants cheat you. God knows they will try everything.”
It was well that his father could not see his slight, wry, irreverent smile. He lowered his head. “Yes, Father.”
“Now, then. I have something to say to you, sir.”
Rackford stiffened at his frank tone.
“I know you feel that you have received unduly harsh treatment from me.” The marquess spoke slowly, as though every word cost him a great effort of concentration.
“Yes, sir,” he said succinctly.
“But I would have you know that it was—no different than the way my father treated me.”
Rackford’s stare homed in more closely on him. “Sir?”
Truro slowly took the glass of water off the tray that rested beside him and took a careful sip, wetting his pale lips. “You heard me. You think I pity you? I had it just as bad as you did. It didn’t do me any harm, and obviously, you’ve turned out well enough in spite of it.”
He searched his father’s haggard face in shock.
“Are you listening? Because I’m only going to say this once.”
“Yes, Father.”
Truro hesitated. “A part of me was glad—glad for both of us—when you ran away. I wanted to when I was a boy, but I never dared. Though I sent men to track you, a part of me was glad they did not find you—the part of me that was capable of—of loving you. The part that was a good-enough father to know that if I had you back, I would only destroy you, and turn you into…what I myself became.”
Rackford stared soberly at him.
His father’s chest heaved with his labored, shallow breathing. “Instead, you made yourself something finer, better than I ever could have made you. I admit it. By the time I was your age, all I knew how to do was destroy, but you went into the very rookery and instead of destroying, you built.” He paused, his speech pained and difficult. “You could have made those people walk in dread of you, but instead, they loved you. You could have fed off of them, grown rich off of them, but instead, you gave them food, you gave them riches, shelter. I did not think it was p-possib
le for a man to be as proud of a son as I am—of you, William.”
Rackford got up out of his chair, bent down, and gathered his father’s wasted, bony frame in a fierce embrace.
“Forgive me, Son,” Truro cried, breaking down in his arms. “Every time I looked at you, I saw myself, the very self my father had taught me to hate.”
“I forgive you, Papa,” he whispered, kissing his father’s temple.
He sat with his father throughout the night. Mother retired with a splitting headache, unable to face it, but Jacinda joined them, bringing Truro a taste of Mrs. Landry’s treacle and cream. As the hour grew later, she fell asleep in her chair.
Rackford woke her gently and told her to go to bed. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she agreed to nap in the sitting room down the hallway. From that point, Rackford kept his vigil over his father alone. He felt so strange, made whole somehow, acknowledged at last by the man who had been both Satan and God Almighty to him.
Toward dawn, a peace seemed to come over the marquess, and he spoke of happy memories of his mother and his school days. Rackford silently committed every detail to memory. He felt closer to his father through those last hours than he ever had before at any point in his life. He entertained Truro with tales of some of his adventures in the rookery, in turn, rousing a chuckle from the dying man at his account of how he had won the Gypsy girl, Carlotta, in a card game.
“You’d have liked her, Father.”
“Not as well as I like your little blonde. Spitfire, that one. How did you meet her?”
Rackford smiled and soon had Truro laughing again at his description of finding the queen of Sheba in a garbage heap.
Jacinda smiled slightly to herself, hearing soft masculine laughter on the other side of the door, though she could not make out the topic of their conversation. Newly roused from her light nap, she had come to check on them, but she had no wish to intrude now that father and son seemed to be getting on.
Maybe Lord Truro might even pull through. Wrapping her arms around herself with a yawn, she decided to walk outside for some fresh air.
The filmy gray half-light before dawn rang with birdsong. The air was moist and cool. She could taste the salt on the languid breeze. The sea drew her.
