by Darcie Wilde
“Enough!”
The word lashed out like a blow. Harry’s mouth shut. Leannah stood in front of him, her face as wild with fury and determination as it had been that first night when she’d run away with him.
“Enough,” she repeated. “You will not speak to me that way, Mr. Rayburn.”
* * *
It is over.
Leannah heard the bitter words pouring from Harry’s mouth, the mouth she had kissed and teased. The mouth that had tasted every portion of her body. He kept talking, spouting the worst calumnies, but all she could really understand was it was over. She had been afraid his love would fall away slowly. She should have been afraid it would explode like a cannon shell.
“You got an idea stuck in your head,” she murmured. “Fiona said you would.”
That stopped the flow of outrages, at least for a moment.
“You spoke with my sister?” Harry asked.
“I did.” Leannah felt herself nod. She didn’t seem quite in control of her own body. It was as if she’d stepped outside it somehow. Perhaps her soul no longer cared to inhabit the flesh that would not be quite so cherished by Harry Rayburn. “She came to our . . . to the Dobbson Square house to tell me, among other things, that her brother tended to become fixated on certain ideas . . .” Her voice faltered. “I should have paid more heed. After all, I know how many ideas about me could come up. But”—she waved her hand—“I was sure what we’d shared would prove stronger than any stray ideas. Another mistake.”
“Yes, it was,” said Harry and his bitterness sank like poison into her mind. “Especially . . .”
She could not stand to listen to any more. A moment ago, all had seemed right. Father had turned away Mr. Valloy’s attack. The danger had passed. Father was well in his heart and his mind—finally, truly well. She’d come out here to tell Harry everything. The new beginning, the one she had hoped for all her life, was at last going to come true.
Except, it seemed it was not.
“Especially what?” Leannah lashed out. “Especially since you’ve decided I’m a liar and, what else? A schemer? A whore? All because I lost your ring?”
“Because your family is consorting with corrupters and speculators and . . .”
“And because we’re the Morehouses,” she spat. “Yes. Thank you. And because I didn’t tell you about Mr. Valloy and that put the seal on it. I couldn’t possibly have any reason not to speak of the man attempting to manipulate my family when I’ve always been judged so fairly and so decently by the world at large.”
This last seemed to hit home. Harry raised a shaking hand toward her. But she let all the contempt, all the outrage she felt show in her face, and he let it fall.
“I would have loved you,” he whispered. “I did love you.”
Now he said it. Now, when it would hurt the most. “I came out here to tell you that my father refused Mr. Valloy’s money, as I had refused his threats previously. I came to tell you I sent Genny out with a letter for Meredith Langely. She’d been in touch with a man from the naval office about Mr. Valloy, and Mr. Dickenson . . .”
Now it was Harry’s turn to stare. “Meredith Langely? She was the authority Nathaniel spoke about?”
He was talking nonsense. It was just as well she wasn’t listening to him anymore. “I see now I needn’t have bothered. We have all of us been tried and convicted in the court of Harry Rayburn’s mind, and I should have known.” She let her head fall back, as if she thought to see the heavens themselves open to pronounce judgment. “It’s never different. There’s never any new beginning. Not for us. Not for me. Not even . . . not even love is enough to make one.”
“No,” breathed Harry. “That’s not true. I will not let it be.”
Her throat tightened. The world was shifting around her. She couldn’t think straight. It was all closing in, closing down. It was the same thing as she’d felt before. The house, the walls, all the troubles of her life, all the long, cold past was closing in, trapping her for good and all.
She had to get out. Leannah whirled around.
“Leannah, stop.” She heard Harry’s boots smack against the muddy ground. “Wait. We must . . .” She felt his hand on her arm.
“Get away from me!” she screamed and slammed her elbow backward. The blow caught him in the ribs and he fell back. Probably not hurt, probably just startled, but it didn’t matter. He’d let go and she could run. Run for the gate, burst through it, run for the street.
She’d lost him. She’d come back and she’d lost him. She’d opened the door to the tangle of her life, her family, and she’d lost him. He saw what she was and where she came from and he couldn’t trust her, couldn’t love her. Who could? It didn’t matter that there was no blame this time. The blame from the past smeared itself across the present and it always would.
She had to get away, had to run. There was the carriage, and the team but not the groom. Where was the groom? Why was it Dawes standing there waiting for his orders. It didn’t matter. She clambered up onto the box, and grabbed the ribbons from Dawes’s hands. She slapped the reins, hard across the horses’ backs. Gossip and Rumor leapt forward. She couldn’t see straight. Her eyes were blurred. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting away, from the house, from herself, from her life, from Harry Rayburn.
From the fact that she had loved him, and now he would never know it.
The horses didn’t want to run, but she wouldn’t let them hesitate. She shouted and smacked the reins again. The leather hurt her palms and she didn’t care. She heard a voice, shouting in her ear.
“Leannah! No! I was wrong! Wrong! I love you! You have to stop!”
Harry. It was Harry. How was he here, so close? It didn’t matter. She mustn’t turn, she mustn’t slow down. She could not stand to see his face again. She couldn’t stand to hope, to love. Not again. Not ever again.
The traffic was thick, the road was narrow. She hauled on the reins. There was just enough room to take the corner, if she pulled just enough . . .
Leannah had one heartbeat to feel that something was wrong before the leather snapped. Gossip veered in the traces, the carriage swung wildly. Something caught her elbow. The wheel hit the corner of the house. The world spun. She was aware of Harry’s arms, rock hard around her. She saw the horses rear, felt the fall begin, felt herself wrenched sideways. But Harry’s arms weren’t there anymore. She had no shelter. She saw the pavement, and felt the pain as it hit.
Then there was darkness, and it dragged at her. Leannah cried out. She didn’t want to go. Harry had come back. Harry had put his arms around her, and told her . . . told her . . .
But the darkness was too strong, and it pulled her down.
Thirty-Seven
Harry felt the reins give. He threw his arms tight around Leannah, dragging them both sideways. He saw Gossip rear. Then, the world spun and they flew, and he couldn’t hold her anymore. Gray sky tumbled into gray stone, and stone tumbled into sky again. Something hard slammed against his back and for a moment he saw nothing but stars. After that, he couldn’t see at all.
But he could hear voices. They screamed and shouted and he knew some of them. There was Genevieve, certainly, and that hoarse choking shout, that was old Octavian Morehouse. And . . . Nathaniel?
“Harry? Come on, Harry! Open your eyes. Look at me. Come on, Harry. You can do it.”
My eyes are closed? Harry thought in confusion. Yes, it seemed that they were. After a brief struggle, he was able to pull them open.
First, he saw Nathaniel. His face seemed damnably calm for all the bustle and hubbub around him. There was something wrong with the angle, though. Slowly, Harry realized he was lying on his back on a heap of trash and dirt.
“Steady, old man,” said Nathaniel. “You just lie still.”
But Harry didn’t want to lie still. Something important had gone missing, and he had to find it. With a groan, he rolled onto his side, blinking hard to try to clear his blurred vision. For a moment,
he was able to see past Nathaniel to the street.
He saw the overturned carriage.
He saw Genevieve dragging her sobbing father away from the wreckage and toward the house.
He saw Leannah, stretched out on the cobblestones, blood smeared across her brow.
Movement was pain, but pain was not going to stop him. Neither was Nathaniel, who grabbed at his arm and his shoulder. Harry crossed the distance between him and Leannah in a heartbeat to kneel on the stones at her side.
“Leannah!” he cried. “Leannah, I’m here.”
She wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t she moving? The blood trickled in a scarlet ribbon down her pale brow. She was cold. He lifted her. He had to get his arms around her. Get her warm.
“Harry, come away. You’ve already done everything you could.”
That was Nathaniel. He felt the other man’s hands on his shoulders. But Harry wasn’t listening to him, because he heard something else, something much softer and far more urgent.
Harry?
It was Leannah. Leannah was calling him.
“I’m here.” Harry pressed his mouth against her brow, not where the blood spilled. He didn’t want to hurt her. He had hurt her too much already. “I’m here, Leannah. Forgive me, my wife, please forgive me. I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
“She’s gone, Harry.” Nathaniel was kneeling on the stones beside him. He was trying to pull Leannah from him.
“No! She isn’t. Leave her be! I can hear her!”
Harry! She was calling to him, as she had called to him across the inn when he’d been about to lose himself to his anger. As she called to him across her tiny, sooty garden, and in the darkness of their room, to let him know she wanted him. Because she had wanted him. She loved him. He knew that. He would tell her so, and this time he would make sure she never had cause to doubt him again.
“It’s your imagination, Harry. Come on, come away.”
“No!”
He wrenched himself free of Nathaniel’s grip but then he cried out, because he’d jarred Leannah. He’d hurt her, again. She was so still, so white. There was too much blood. But she wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be calling to him if she were dead.
He leaned over her, so his mouth touched hers, so his breath must brush her skin. “I’m here. I’m right here, Leannah. I hear you. I love you, Leannah.”
There was a moment. There was an eternity. It was filled with nothing but doubt, and the complete awareness of Leannah so utterly still and cold.
Then, he felt it—the tiniest flutter of movement, like a moth’s wings. Her mouth was moving against his. She was making no sound. He could not possibly have heard her, but he did. She had called him back again to her.
He raised his head so he could see. Leannah’s eyelids fluttered, and they opened, revealing her gold and emerald eyes. For a moment, she looked around in confusion.
Then she saw him. “Mr. Rayburn?” she breathed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Mrs. Rayburn. I understand. I was wrong. I was so wrong. But we’re together, Leannah, and we’ll fight this, too.”
“Yes,” she whispered and this time there was light shining in her eyes. “This, too. Together.”
Thirty-Eight
“Harry,” murmured Leannah. “They’re expecting us downstairs.”
She was prevented from adding to this by Harry’s mouth covering hers. She knew she should resist, but she could not. Especially not when his tongue glided so sensuously against hers, and his hand slid up the sides of her tissue of silver wedding gown.
He moved his mouth to kiss her cheek, and her jaw.
“Harry . . .” She meant to admonish him, but his name came out as a sigh.
“Yes, yes, they’re waiting. I don’t care. They can wait ten minutes. After all, I’ve waited an entire year.” His hands pressed against her back, urging her closer to him. She struggled, but only briefly, only until he smiled. The heat, the sheer wicked delight of that smile dissolved all possibility of resistance. Leannah melted against Harry, reveling in the way her body molded against his.
He was not exaggerating. It had been a year; a long, slow painful year. At first, time passed for Leannah in fits of confused dreaming broken by stretches of sick agony as her body fought the fevers and the infections, and tried its best to heal.
Sometime during that year, Terrance Valloy and Anthony Dickenson were brought up on charges of public corruption and conspiracy. Mr. Valloy turned king’s evidence against Mr. Dickenson in the form of a letter detailing his intent to bribe certain officials. For this, Terrance was sentenced to twenty years penal servitude.
When Genny had delivered her letter to Meredith, Meredith had sent at once for Nathaniel Penrose, because she knew he’d want to hear Father’s story. Father’s story in and of itself did not turn out to be of any help in court, but it proved very useful to Mr. Penrose in convincing other witnesses to speak of things that could be. These statements taken together with the broken carriage harness, which Mr. Penrose had thought to preserve, led to Mr. Dickenson having attempted murder added to the list of his crimes.
Anthony Dickenson was hanged less than a week after the completion of his trial. The Dickenson family found itself drummed out of a whole range of clubs and fraternal organizations, after which they decided to leave the country en masse for parts unknown.
Father was still nervous, but he was also able to walk about the streets, if they were quiet. The doctors began to talk of a holiday to the country, or at the seaside to complete the cure. A new tutor was hired for Jeremy, who point-blank refused to return to school until he was confident his sister was fully recovered.
Fiona Westbrook was delivered of her first child, a fine healthy boy named James Harold Nicholas Edward.
Plans were drawn up for the renovation of Wakefield House. Mrs. Westbrook, Miss Langely, and the senior Mrs. Rayburn completed the furnishing and decorating of No. 14 Dobbson Square.
G.M. House started writing letters to the Woman’s Window again.
Leannah knew all this because Harry told her. He spent the entire year at her side. He drove the nurses and the doctors to absolute distraction until she was strong enough to order him from the room so he could get some fresh air and she could get some peace. Those intervals averaged five minutes in length.
He fed her broth until she could hold the spoon for herself. She hated gruel. She despised barley water. The nurse despaired. Harry coaxed her and teased her until she drank them both.
When she was finally able to sit up again, they talked. They talked about their lives and childhood. They talked about Devon and all that had happened there. She told him how she’d used Elias’s settlement to try to pay back some of the money her father had lost over the years.
They talked about her mother, worn away by misfortune. They talked about his mother, who had been a runaway bride back in her day.
They talked about sisters and houses and horses and the merits of roast beef over boiled, and if French novels were really more scandalous than English or if they just sounded that way because they were, well, French. They talked about whether they should keep renting the Dobbson Square house, or buy it outright. He had no objections to cats, but had a strong distrust of small dogs.
They talked about Calais. They talked of forgiveness.
When she got tired, he stretched out beside her, and pillowed her head on his arms. They lay close, not kissing, not doing anything but breathing each other’s breath.
When she was strong enough to stand, it was Harry who raised her from the bed. When she was able to walk, it was Harry who supported her across the room, and eventually down the stairs, and out into the fresh air of the little park at the center of Dobbson Square.
When she could receive visitors, he introduced her to his parents and she introduced them to her family, and to Meredith when she came to visit, and to the members of the Schoolroom Club.
After that, they walked out every day the weather was clear, until the day cam
e when they could walk themselves to Uncle Clarence’s tiny church and stand before him yet again. This time when he said “Dearly beloved,” he was beaming, because their families and friends filled the pews. This time, Genny stood with Meredith Langely as Leannah’s bridesmaids, and Nathaniel Penrose and Philip Montcalm stood with Harry to make a truly arresting pair of groomsmen.
The papers were sure to remark on the fact that she had worn a plain woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The rough garment didn’t in the least go with her elegant gown of champagne silk and silver tissue, but she did not care.
The wedding breakfast had been truly splendid, and all their guests were now waiting downstairs to see them off. She was supposed to be getting out of her wedding dress and into her travelling costume. But when she’d come into the bedroom, it was only to find that Genny and Meredith had slipped away down the servants’ stairs, leaving her to her husband’s tender mercies.
Not that Harry’s expression spoke much of tenderness, or mercy, either. His blue eyes smoldered dangerously as his hands firmly caressed her back, and glided around to graze her breasts. Leannah hissed in a long breath as desire unfurled itself inside her.
“Ten minutes?” Leannah breathed, even as she shimmied her body against Harry. Oh, how she’d missed the brush of his chest against her breasts and all the delicious anticipation it raised.
“Ten minutes,” he whispered as he brushed back her lace veil to plant a heated kiss on the bare top of her shoulder. “Perhaps fifteen.” His hands had travelled around to her derriere, and he began kneading her there in that way he knew she particularly enjoyed, the way that lifted her onto her toes and pressed her hips snuggly against his.
She had loved this shimmering gown from the moment she’d seen the pattern card, but it was beginning to annoy her now. There were too many layers of fabric between her and Harry. He was hard, she could feel it, but she could not touch him. Not in the way she wanted to, the way she knew he wanted.
