by welis
“Adam …”
“Say it,” he demanded, swiping away another tear, refusing to back down. “Tell me.”
Her chin trembled, but she found her voice, the words coming out on a sob.
“Because … I love you. Because even after you’ve destroyed everything, hurt me, and humiliated me … used me … I could not stand there and let him erase your presence from this world. From my world.”
He stared at her in silence for a long moment, his expression as stony and unreadable as ever, his eyes burning into hers and holding her captive.
“Goddamn it,” he groaned, his hand moving back into her hair and tightening, pulling, making her scalp tingle as he shifted to close the distance between them.
Then, he was kissing her, his lips hard and unrelenting against hers, his tongue tasting, teeth nipping, fingers keeping a possessive hold on her hair.
“You idiot,” he growled against her mouth. “You fool … you cannot …”
“I love you,” she moaned against his mouth, the tears coming in earnest.
She didn’t care if he spurned her, if he flayed her open and dealt the fatal blow, leaving her for dead. Now that she’d said it, it had become truer than ever, and she could no longer deny it … deny herself, or him.
“You can’t,” he insisted, still kissing her, still drowning her in bliss.
“I do,” she argued, bringing her uninjured hand up to cup his jaw. “I do, Adam.”
“You shouldn’t,” he murmured, kissing her cheek, her forehead, the bridge of her nose.
“I do,” she repeated. “I always will.”
He reared away from her as if he’d been burned, sucking in a sharp breath as he fell against the back of his chair. He seemed to war with himself, fighting whatever forces did battle inside of him.
“I do not expect that you feel the same,” she added, turning away to stare at the ceiling. She could not bear to look him in the eye and have him reject her. “You owe me nothing, and I would understand—”
“But I do,” he interjected. “I owe you everything.”
She couldn’t help looking at him again, finding him standing over her now, arms folded over his chest. “Adam, don’t …”
“I must,” he declared, reaching down to stroke her hair. “You see, when you fell with that bullet in your shoulder, I had a moment of clarity.”
She stared up at him, her brow furrowed, her heart pounding as she tried to understand what he was saying, where this might lead.
“The gun I’d brought to kill Bertram with lay right there, right within my reach,” he continued. “And I almost picked it up. I almost left you there to die so that I could be the one to end his life. I’d earned the right … it was my right.”
She nodded in understanding, understanding his conflict. “Yes.”
He shook his head in response. “But when it came time to choose, to let him go and save you, or get what I wanted and let you die … I found there was only real choice. You, little dove. I chose you.”
Another sob wracked her, this one from joy, and she leaned into his hand, resting her cheek in his palm and finding comfort there. She had not thought he would choose her if forced to decide, and he’d just proved her wrong. Perhaps it had been all right to hope …
“And now, I am going to choose you one last time,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek, his eyes still caressing her face.
And she realized what he was about. He’d been looking at her this way to commit her to memory, to soak her in one last time before he walked away.
“Don’t,” she begged before she could think of her pride. “Adam, please …”
To her surprise, he smiled down at her, then bent at the waist to kiss her again, just at the corner of her mouth. “I have to, little dove. You see, keeping you was for me. It was selfish, and I no longer have the right … well, at any rate, you’ve earned it. You saved me, so now, I am saving you.”
“Don’t,” she cried. “I do not want to be saved. I want … I need …”
Shaking his head, he kissed her one more time, then straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “I will never say I regret any of it. But now, I must do what is right when it comes to you for the first time. You never need to fear that I will disrupt your life again, little dove.”
He turned away from the bed, and she lurched upward with a strangled cry, the pain in her body trying to impede her. Yet, nothing would stop her from leaving the bed, from stumbling barefoot in his wake and reaching out to clutch the back of his shirt.
He swiveled, catching her up just before she collapsed, her body weaker than she’d realized after days without anything more than water, broth, and laudanum.
“You’ll tear your stitches,” he admonished, remaining surprisingly calm given that he’d just ripped out her heart. “Get back into bed.”
Shaking her head, she clung to him, not caring that she must look like the worst sort of fool. Desperation had stolen all her pride, all her rationale. She somehow knew that if she let him walk out of that door, she might never see him again.
“You cannot do this,” she cried, burying her face against his chest and wetting the front of his shirt with her tears. “Not after you made me love you … you made me need you.”
His hand was on her chin, tipping it up, making her look him in the eye. All the turbulence had left the depths, turning them a calming amber, the green flames settled into cinders for once. As if this decision felt right to him, bringing him peace. But, how could he be at peace when she was falling apart, the pain in her shoulder nothing compared to the pain in her heart?
“No,” he argued. “You are stronger now. You do not need anyone, and now, even I will not stand in your way. The cage is open now, little dove … go and fly. Be free.”
He lifted her gently and deposited her back into bed, tucking her in with all the care of a nurse before taking his leave.
As she turned her head to sob into the pillow, his long strides took him from the room. The door clicking shut behind him tore through her like a dagger to the heart, and she feared she might never be able to pry it loose.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Six weeks later …
aphne stood before the hearth in a drawing room of Fairchild House, holding her hands toward the blaze for warmth. She had just arrived home and needed to ward off the chill of the outdoors. Spring was fast approaching, and she would be grateful when it banished the last of the cold. It agitated her shoulder, which, even though the doctor had declared it to have healed nicely, plagued her when the weather grew cold and damp. Her black bombazine skirts rustled as she shifted to warm her back, the ugly, shapeless garment annoying her to no end.
Yet, one must skirt propriety and dress in mourning attire on the day that one’s brother faced the gallows … even when one did not plan to mourn said brother for a single moment.
Bertram’s trial had ended days ago, with him being found guilty of all the crimes leveled against him—including her attempted murder. Her appearance in court, with a white sling cradling her injured arm, had only aided Cunningham’s case and the testimony of the women he had harmed. He’d been sentenced to execution by hanging … a public event taking place just that morning.
She had attended the execution in her black mourning clothes, a veiled hat covering her face—though she’d still felt the eyes of the other spectators on her, watching, assessing. The narrative concerning her ruination had changed in light of Bertram’s crimes becoming public knowledge, and now, instead of scorning her, they pitied her, seeing her as some tragic creature brought low by the deeds of her brother.
In truth, she had preferred the scorn, abhorring this feeling of being looked upon as if she were some sort of wounded animal.
She’d ignored their pitying glances and open stares, lingering at the back of the crowd and watching as her brother was trotted out before the masses and allowed his last words. He had made a cake of himself, as she’d known he would, proclaiming that he’d bee
n wrongly accused and harshly judged, and that the Earl of Hartmoor had succeeded in a malicious vendetta against him. None of it could save him in the end, and he was brought forward, the noose fit around his neck.
Daphne had watched every second of his death, refusing to so much as blink as the lever was pulled and Bertram fell through the trapdoor, his body jerking and writhing on the end of the rope. His neck did not break, and so he suffered right up until the very end, the violence of his end fitting with the pain he’d inflicted on others.
He had been there, too … even though she had not seen his face. She’d seen the carriage on the street overlooking the event, the curtains drawn tight enough that she could not peek inside. However, the Hartmoor coat of arms on the door had given him away, and so she’d stared after the conveyance, watching it disappear into the busy traffic the moment Bertram had gone still, slumping in the noose, dead.
She supposed he had stayed to view the execution. Now, he would return to Scotland, for he had no other reason to remain here.
She had not laid eyes upon him since the morning she’d awakened after being shot … since she had confessed her love for him only to have him walk away, leaving her in a puddle of her own tears.
From that moment on, she’d seen no one save the maids who cared for her—one of whom had been Clarice, sent for from her home on Half-Moon Street. The physician had come several times to inspect her wound and declare she was healing quite well. He did mention the possibility of damaged nerves, but as the injury had occurred in her left arm and not her dominant right, he did not foresee that it would hold her back very much. The fingers had been a bit sluggish, but with practice, she’d gotten them to cooperate. Not as strong as it had once been, her left hand functioned well enough for her to lift and grasp things, which satisfied her. She could have died or lost her entire limb … limited movement seemed a paltry thing compared to the other possibilities. She’d even begun practicing the harp again, and liked to think it helped to improve the dexterity of her hand.
She had not been able to leave her bed for a week, but once she had, it was to discover that the Callahan brood had vacated Fairchild House altogether. Not a trace of them remained, and not one of them had even come to say good-bye. Adam’s doing, she supposed. If they saw her, she might coerce them into helping change his mind. He knew her well.
The only thing he’d left behind had been an envelope on the desk in the study, which contained the deed to Fairchild House.
It had been placed in her name, free and clear.
She’d cried for hours upon finding it, both angry at him for such a gift and grateful.
Since then, her days had passed with excruciating slowness, her heart languishing even as her body healed. She missed him with an ache that would not abate … the melody of the pianoforte echoing through the house, the sounds of his footsteps on the stairs, the rough rasp of his voice in her ear right before he threw her down and ravaged her body.
Would it always hurt so much, being in the places he’d been and finding them empty? Would her heart always yearn for him, even when she knew he did not feel the same way?
How could he, if he’d found it so easy to walk away now that all had been said and done? Bertram was gone, the Fairchild legacy in tatters, and Olivia had been avenged, her secret safe, and Serena protected. She served no more use to him … as disposable as a pile of rubbish.
With a sigh, she glanced up as the butler entered the room, pulling her out of her wandering thoughts. When she raised her eyebrows in silent question, he cleared his throat and motioned toward the drawing room door.
“The Honourable Mr. Robert Stanley,” he declared.
She hardly had time to recover from the shock of hearing that name before the man himself stood before her, his hair tousled by the wind, the collar of his greatcoat sitting askew. He was as handsome as ever, looking like something out of a romantic novel … the perfect white knight arriving to save her from her loneliness and despair.
And she could not conjure an ounce of joy at the sight of him.
Still, she forced a smile, dismissing the butler with a wave. “Robert. This is … quite a surprise.”
He returned her smile, coming forward to take her hand and kiss it. “Indeed. I had thought to give you a few days given the circumstances, but … well, I did not think this could wait.”
She frowned, inclining her head. “What could not wait?”
Pointing toward a nearby sofa, he motioned for her to sit. She acquiesced, her curiosity piqued. He did not seem to be pressed by any urgency, despite the fact that they had not spoken since the night of his marriage proposal. Truly, she had not given it any thought since Adam had threatened to murder him if she said yes. She wondered if that threat proved an idle one now that he no longer claimed her as his own.
“First, I want you to know how sorry I am,” he began, turning his body so that he faced her, one leg bent on the sofa cushion. “For my ignorance concerning the things Bertram had done. If I’d known …”
“There was nothing you could have done,” she insisted. “I allowed myself the same guilt at one time, but I came to realize that none of it was my fault. Bertram made choices that put him in a position to hurt others … and has paid for it with his life.”
Robert nodded, as if he’d expected to hear that. “Then I am not sorry that he has met his end.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Neither am I.”
Nodding again, he cleared his throat and sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Secondly, I wanted to tell you … Hartmoor paid me a visit a fortnight ago.”
Her breath caught and held, her throat and lungs burning as she struggled to draw breath, to make her mind work. The mention of his name had thrown her into a muddle, and now, she could hardly breathe past the tears clogging her airway.
“He did?” she managed.
“Yes,” Robert confirmed, reaching into his coat pocket and coming out with a small object. “He gave me this.”
She glanced down to find the sapphire engagement ring in the center of his palm, glistening accusingly at her in the light of the sun coming through the window. Closing her eyes, she released a pained sigh.
“Robert …”
“It’s all right,” he said, clenching his fingers around the ring and placing the other upon her knee. “Truly, I … the conversation we had was quite … well, it was enlightening, to say the least.”
“What did he say to you?” she asked, leaning forward, prepared to cling to every word, even if it came from someone else’s lips. She was truly a pitiful creature.
“That he no longer had any intention of interfering if I decided to continue pursuing you,” Robert answered. “He gave back the ring and told me that I should allow you some time… but that, if you would have me, I should try again to win your hand. He told me I’d be a fool if I didn’t at least try.”
That did not make her feel any better. In fact, it only made her feel worse. She shot to her feet, her palms going hot and her spine bristling as she paced away from the sofa.
“How dare he?” she spat. “As if I am his to give away like some … some trinket!”
Robert’s lips twitched as he stood, as well, inclining his head at her. “Actually, I found it all quite … romantic.”
She paused and swiveled to face him, her jaw dropping in disbelief. “Romantic?”
He shrugged. “Well, yes. Clearly, he loves you, Daphne. Why else would he try so ardently to mend what he destroyed?”
She opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the words died on her lips as she considered Robert’s words. He had walked away and left her in tears; he had not told her he loved her back when she’d confessed her feelings, though he’d at least had the grace to say goodbye this time. Conversely, he had returned her family home, had stayed away during Bertram’s trial, and had not interfered in any way. And now this. He must know that marriage would be the best thing for her, even if she wed Robert. People would soon stop
treating her like a spectacle if she married the Honourable Robert Stanley and settled down in the country. She would have the sort of life he would suppose she deserved.
Perhaps a kind gesture, but did it prove his love?
Coming forward to take her hands once again, Robert looked her in the eye. “Listen to me, Daff. I still love you … and I think a part of me always will. And if you say yes, I will marry you today, tomorrow … whenever you wish. I will do everything within my power to make you happy and give you whatever your heart desires. Even if it means sending my mother off to the Outer Hebrides.”
She laughed. “Robert!”
He shrugged. “The weather there will be good for her gout. I mean it, Daphne. I’ll be the best husband I can to you, I promise. But …”
She frowned. “But what?”
His smile caught her off guard, as did his sincerity when he spoke again.
“We both know it would never be enough. Not when Hartmoor holds your heart.”
Tears filled her eyes again, and she muttered an oath under her breath. She was sick to death of crying, of feeling this way.
“It hardly matters,” she protested weakly. “Not when he could so easily leave me behind.”
Robert shook his head. “I looked him in the eye and asked him why he was doing this … why he was giving you up. He said—with so much conviction—that he was doing it for you. His words, his demeanor, everything about him struck me as being in line with the actions of a man in love. A man so deeply in love that he is willing to give you whatever you need … even if that something is not him.”
A tear fell, and then another, and then she was sobbing and smiling at the same time like an idiot because she realized that he was right. Robert was right, and the truth had been in front of her the entire time.
Adam loved her.
It was why he’d left, why he’d set her free. He’d all but said the words that day, proclaiming his desire to keep her to be selfish. He’d done the one and only thing he could have done to prove his love by letting her go and walking away.
