The cook opened the door a touch wider and leaned on the frame of the doorway. “One of our patrons, eh?”
“Yes, a man in the stable last night.”
The woman crossed her arms over the expanse of her flour-dusted apron. “Our patrons don’t go into the mews. Maybe ye be lookin’ fer one of Logan’s men?”
“Logan’s men? Who are they?”
“The guards of the Revelry’s Tempest, lass.”
Guards? But she had seen Gareth go in through the front door of this gaming house. Seen him go in to gamble. He had said nothing of working here. Not that she had given him a chance to say anything.
She blinked hard. “If Mr. Callison is one of them, then yes, that is who I am looking for.”
“Mr. Call—ah, ye be lookin’ for the Captain. Aye. He’s here. Back in the mews, last I seen his direction.” She motioned her head backward.
“Thank you.” Nicolina turned and rushed up the metal steps. She stopped midway to street level and turned back to the cook. “Please tell me, how long has Mr. Callison been a guard here?”
The cook’s head swayed back and forth as she seemingly counted in her head. “Round ‘bout a year, I imagine. He be one of the first Logan brought on. He be a legend, that one—course, they all be.”
“Again, thank you.” Nicolina turned to move up the remaining steps.
“Just so you know, the captain not be partakin’ in what ye be desiring either, lass.” The cook’s words followed Nicolina up the stairs.
The cook chuckled and clicked the door shut just as Nicolina rounded the corner of the townhouse.
~~~
“How did you get in there?”
Gareth’s movement froze in place, his back to Nicolina.
She had found him halfway down the length of the stable hanging a curved quillon dagger in a large shallow cabinet that possessed an impressive array of steel blades of all lengths.
His hand stopped in midair as his shoulders tensed. Without a coat on, his waistcoat and white linen shirt were not enough to disguise the motion.
“Where?” His one word came slowly and only after a long breath had passed.
They both knew what Nicolina referred to, and she knew Gareth’s one word reply was only uttered to purchase another moment to brace himself.
She wasn’t about to allot him the smallest second.
“My room, Gareth.”
Silently, his arms spread wide to grasp the edges of the two open doors of the cabinet and he closed them in front of him, removing the blades from sight. Nicolina scanned the wall of the stable. Not a person would think there was anything but grooming brushes and farrier tools in the cabinet. That was her uncle’s trick. Always hide the most expensive creations in the most common of cabinets and trunks. Under the blankets. In the butter jar.
Just what exactly was her husband’s business in this place? A guard she understood, but that cabinet held much more steel than a gaming house with this address should rightly require.
Her chin lifted up, her eyes centering on the back of his head, staring at the individual dark brown strands—so dark, his hair was almost black until the sun hit it.
The tip of his head tilted slowly downward. “Just forget you ever saw me, Nic. Just walk away.” His voice was rough gravel, every word formed only by the grace of several fortifying breaths.
For a moment, his words hung in the air, heavy, before they hit her with all the intended weight.
The heel of her boot slipped backward, dragging through the shards of hay. Backward a step, then two, the force of his utterance striking her just as harshly as if he had slapped her.
Dust from the movement of her feet swirled upward, stirring the air in front of her.
He had abandoned her.
And he wanted it to stay that way.
What should have sent fury into her bones twisted, instead stealing every trace of her energy and forcing exhausted capitulation.
Walk away.
She should. He didn’t want her. So there was nothing to stay for.
Nicolina tried to force her leg to move. To lift her foot and walk away.
But nothing. She couldn’t move from the spot. Couldn’t turn from him.
Humiliation sank into her chest as she realized there was no other course for her, not at the moment. She opened her mouth, hating the sound of her own voice. “You are my husband, Gareth. I cannot walk away. I cannot pretend I am not married.”
For the longest seconds she stood, staring at his back, willing him to turn, to speak. To tell her this was all a misunderstanding. He would never leave her. Never abandon her. Never let her go.
Only silence. Only stillness.
Only particles of dust floating in the air between them.
Abruptly, he spun to her. So fast and unexpected she jumped another step backward and bumped into the front half-wall of an empty stall.
His dark brown eyes met hers, instantly searing into her. “It was not hard. The house was quiet. And you have always slept like the dead, Nic.”
“What?” She stared at him, taking him in like she hadn’t been able to last night in the low light. His brown hair was cut short, practical, just as he had trimmed it before leaving for war. Creases marred the length of his forehead and she wasn’t sure if they were permanent or because her presence vexed him. A scar the width of her thumb cut along his left cheekbone. Another one sat just between his eyebrow and right temple. But the straight line of his nose was still interrupted by the slight bump she had caused when the hilt of her sword escaped her during a sparring match years ago. That alone had gone untouched.
The whole of him, older. His shoulders broader. Stronger. The expanse of his chest wide, stretching against his dark waistcoat and linen shirt.
“Your dagger, Nic. I knew you would want your dagger back. I know what it means to you.”
“So that is how you return it? You follow me and skulk into my room?”
“I had to. I wasn’t about to leave you in here last night with the weapon. Not in the state you were in.”
She took a long stride forward. “The state I was in? You left me tied to a chair, Gareth.” She took another step, her arm flinging out to her side and pointing to the back of the stable. “In a chair next to the horses. What state did you expect me to be in?”
His hands came up, his palms facing her. “I was hoping to avoid a knife sinking into my back.” His eyes flicked to her outstretched hand, landing on her wrist. “I know well your proficiency for getting out of knots.”
She lurched forward, her finger poking into his chest. “You had to protect yourself? From me? I am half your size, Gareth. Half.”
He grabbed her wrist, halting her jabs. “And your skill with a blade is triple your size, Nic. We both know that. I have never been a stupid man.”
“I disagree. As your ability to tie knots has improved, your brain has clearly wilted.”
The clamp around her wrist tightened, his fingers digging into her skin.
Pain. Not enough to truly hurt her, but enough to make her pause. Gareth had never harmed her. Never. In all their arguments—never. He wouldn’t.
But she also never would have believed he would abandon her.
The very real possibility that she had no idea who her husband now was flooded her mind. What else was he capable of?
She stiffened, her mouth closing as she took a step backward. Or tried to. He wasn’t releasing her wrist. Wasn’t letting her escape.
Her eyes darted down to his hand clamping her wrist. She twisted her arm, yanking, but couldn’t free herself.
He pulled her a step closer to him and her boots slipped through the dirt and hay. His right hand came up to her head, and he pushed the small black bonnet she wore back off her hair. It dropped to hang from her neck, its tied ribbons keeping it from dropping to the ground.
Without a word, almost reverently, his thumb ran along the ridges of the fat braid that ran aside her temple. His palm dipped to the side
of her face as he followed the curve of the weave behind her ear. And for a moment in time, she was back to years ago, his touch calming her like it always had.
His look dropped from the top of her head to her eyes. “Did you remarry, Nic?”
She looked up at him, trying to quell her suddenly rapid breathing. “What—remarry? No.”
“You are a mistress then?”
“A mistress?” Her voice screeched, her cheeks instantly flaming. Her left hand came up, pushing against his chest as she viciously twisted her captured arm. She freed it from his grasp, ignoring the pain it caused. With a shove that sent her whole body flying backward, she gained space between them and stood, one hand splayed on her chest as she panted. “What of you—of your idiocy, Gareth?”
His left hand curled into a fist. “What are you doing in a house like that, Nic?”
“What are you doing sneaking around in a house like that, Gareth?”
“I had to return your knife.”
She shook her head, her voice flying out of control. “It does not matter what I’m doing in that house. You told me to leave. So I am leaving.” She spun toward the open doorway of the stable and started to walk away.
His clamp on her shoulder was immediate, stopping her motion and her feet almost flew out from under her.
“It does. It does matter, Nic.” His voice dipped low, dangerous.
Craning her neck to the side, she glared up at him. “Did you not see the room I was in?”
“It was dark. I could only see your slight lump in the bed.”
“I am a lump?”
“It was all I could see.”
Her eyes closed as she drew in a seething breath. “Before I tell you. I want to know one thing.”
“What?” His grip on her shoulder tensed.
She opened her eyes to him, her voice in control once more. “Did you pause?”
His left eyebrow cocked. “Pause when?”
“When you set my dagger on the side table. You were inches from me, Gareth. As close as you are now. Did you pause? Did you stop and look at me?”
His lips drew inward. “Nic…”
“Did you pause, Gareth? For even one moment?”
He exhaled, nodding.
“For how long?”
“What?”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Did you stare? Did you lean in? Did you smell me? Feel my breath on your face? Or did you glance at me and then turn and run? Run as fast as your coward arse would take you?”
“Blast it, Nic, so help me—”
She slapped his hand off of her shoulder and stormed away. Three steps she managed before he grabbed her arm, whipping her around.
Spinning on her heel, her words spat out before she even faced him. “I am a governess, Gareth. My friend from boarding school, Lady Ankon, secured me the position.” She yanked her arm from his grasp and gained a step backward. “A governess. Not a wife. Not a whore. A governess. Nothing more. ”
Her hand went down to grip a fistful of her black skirts and lift them clear from tangling about her ankles. “But it is enlightening to understand just what sort of faith you have in my abilities to take care of myself. What sort of faith you have in my character. Maybe it is time to sell my body. Maybe I will pursue those options next. Or at least the only one that is available to me since I am no longer a widow and cannot remarry.”
“Nic—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Her hand flew up between them. “I am doing what you demanded of me, Gareth. I am walking away. I am forgetting.”
She turned toward the opening of the stable and walked out into the mist that had permeated the day.
He didn’t stop her.
{ Chapter 6 }
Nicolina was a governess.
And he was an ass.
There was no way around that particular fact. He had thought the very worst of her after he saw that townhouse she was in—he had assumed she had traded her body away for a new future. So he deserved every whit of ire she had shot at him in the stable at the Revelry’s Tempest.
Let her go.
It was what he had promised to himself. Swore to heaven and hell he would do.
Let her go.
But in that moment after she had told him she was a governess, his world had stilled. Stilled and exploded. A tiny flame deep in his gut had sparked to life. A flame he had extinguished two years ago, never to let burn again.
Hope.
She wasn’t a mistress. Hadn’t remarried. And he saw very clearly the passion still burning in her eyes. Felt it pulsating under her skin.
She hadn’t moved on. Hadn’t forgotten him.
Even if that passion was currently manifesting as hate. It was there. And with Nicolina, the difference between hate and love was often a mere breath.
Let her go.
He should have let her walk away from the Revelry’s Tempest without following. At that moment, he should have left London for another part of the world, never to chance their paths meeting again.
He should have.
But instead, there he was, his blasted feet tromping through an expanse of thick grass in Hyde Park, his eyes like a hawk’s on the three figures two furlongs away playing by the water’s edge of the Serpentine.
He had waited two days. Two agonizing days, convinced—determined—he should leave London, but never bolstering the courage to step foot on the docks. Two days of only one thing in his mind.
Nicolina’s green eyes filled with fire, her perfect lips curled in disgust at him.
Laughter floated along the wind. Laughter he recognized. Her lips were smiling now. Laughing as she watched the makeshift boat the boy with her had crafted out of three large leaves and sent slowly floating out into the pond with a flower for a captain.
More laughter. The girl and the boy joined in.
Nicolina could make anyone laugh. He’d seen her cheer the dourest, grumpiest old man with nothing but a smile and a wink.
For all that he knew he should let her go, her words in the stable wouldn’t allow it—that she could take care of herself. Why would she need to take care of herself? Why had she had to take on a position as a governess? Where was her older brother? Where was the money Gareth sent monthly?
The little girl with dark hair in fat curls grabbed Nicolina’s hand and tugged it, pointing to the long stretch of tall grasses on the far side of the pond. Nicolina made her wait, and after the boy put his shoes back on, the three of them set out toward the grasses, walking along the water’s edge. Perfect. They were finally moving to an area with less people milling about.
Within five minutes, Gareth had crossed through the swath of trees that lined the opposite side of the water and had fallen in line to intersect them. Nicolina’s attention was solely on the girl and boy running ahead of her.
“Mrs. Callison.” He said her name loud once he was within earshot.
She jumped, her head swiveling until she saw him. Her steps faltered…one, two, three…and then she stopped on the dirt pathway, staring at his approach.
Not to be slowed, her two small charges both halted, running back to her to grab her hands and tug.
Nudged into motion, Nicolina’s look flitted about, a trapped rabbit looking for escape. But there were still enough people strolling along the path that she couldn’t outwardly ignore him—not for the scene she risked if she did. By herself, maybe, but she was here with the children and representing Lord Samport’s household so she wouldn’t dare.
Instead, she moved off the pathway with the children and pasted a strained smile on her lips as she waited, foot tapping, for Gareth to close the distance to them. He stopped in the grass before them.
Before he could say a word, Nicolina squeezed and lifted the hands of her charges. “Lillian, Fredrick, this is an acquaintance of mine from when I was young and lived in the countryside, Mr. Lison.”
He glanced at her sharply. A bold lie using only the last half of their name.
She avoided his glare
, looking down at the little girl on her right side who had taken a slight step backward to hide along Nicolina’s skirts.
Gareth stifled a sigh and set his attention on the children. “Captain Lison, actually.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “A captain? A real captain?”
“Yes.” Gareth offered an exaggerated nod. “Complete with a Gold Medal and Cross.”
Young Fredrick took a step forward, his fingers dropping from Nicolina’s hand. “You must be very brave. Did you fight Boney’s forces? Where is your uniform?”
Gareth dropped slowly onto his left knee so he was eye level with the boy, ignoring the pain shooting up from his lower leg. “I did. Many times. But I do not wear my uniform now. It is only for special occasions.”
“Was it quite horrible, Captain?”
“It was. But I would do anything to protect this land.” His eyes lifted to Nicolina. “Anything to protect the innocent people in it.”
Fredrick’s eyes went even wider and he nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Captain.”
Gareth’s look jerked down to the boy. Fredrick had said the words with such sincere severity it startled Gareth. “How old are you, Fredrick?”
“I am seven, Captain.”
“You are curious about the war? About fighting?”
Fredrick nodded.
“I imagine you are. I know I was at your age.”
“Mr. Lison.” Nicolina’s sharp voice held a clear warning.
Gareth’s face softened as he looked at the boy. “But I pray that is not for you. Not for all boys your age. I hope it is over. That our land is safe and you will never need to even think about the consequences of war. That is why I fought.” His eyes drifted up to Nicolina’s face. “Why my men fought.”
At his look, her green eyes closed to him, her head turning slightly to the side, offering nothing.
“But I would fight, Captain,” Fredrick said. “I am not afraid. Father says honor above all.”
“My father used to say that as well.” Gareth’s gaze dropped to the boy and he set his hand on Fredrick’s shoulder, squeezing. “And it is true. Honor above all. The hard thing to remember is that honor can come in many forms, not just with a sword and a rifle.”
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