Fury was in her eyes. Her breaths were fast and fleeting.
“Yes, I want you. I think we should marry. Chatsworth Adoniram Wilkinson needs to wed Ruth Croome Wilky. I love you. What are you going to do with me?”
…
I readied to explode. I stood in my father’s study with Wycliff. I was in his arms, and he grinned as if I hadn’t heard his plans for seduction. He was smug, so assured that he could win and have at me.
“You are awful, Wycliff. No grinning at me, telling me what to do.”
“My given name is awful.” He kissed my palm. “Am I grinning at the most beautiful woman in the world? Don’t be mad that I desire you and act like a man that wants you. Would you prefer me to lie and feign indifference?”
He wasn’t indifferent, nor was I, especially not in his arms with my pulse pounding, punching the drums of my ears. Something would break, but the passion in me was broken.
With my hands on his shoulders, I struck him. My palms began to hurt from the repetition, the rhythm of me beating this immoveable mountain.
His hands slipped to my waist, strong, secure, yet easy. I could pull away from him if I wanted, but I needed to be in his face so he could see how disappointed I was.
“Wycliff, you go from caring and kind to Chris and then you joke with my father about seducing me. How could you? I had them trusting my judgement again. Now you’ve ruined it.”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort. What I’ve told your father wasn’t a lie. I was truthful. I intend to marry you. I want you as my own.”
I ramped up the speed of my hands drumming upon his shoulders. I couldn’t stop. I was too angry, too hurt. “All this time, defending me, making me think I could trust you. It was just to lower my defenses. You’re a blackguard.”
“This is beginning to hurt, Ruth. You’ll leave bruises. You’ve seen how easy I get marks.”
I groaned and kept working him. “You just told my father I’m a doxy. You want a harlot. You’re Adam’s cousin. All his cousins are evil.”
“Ruth, I said nothing of the kind about you being anything but a wife. Always a wife, my honored partner.”
“You already called me a bed wench. That’s your plan.”
“My plan is to marry you, to love you. You’re a woman of fire. What’s better to tell a man like your father, that I will ignore you or that my soul won’t rest until we are one? I ache for you. I’ll be as patient as you need me to be, but I intend to have a full marriage, one of respect and one of passion.”
My head screamed—lies, pain, never-ending pain. “You think you’re so clever.”
“No, Ruth.”
I said no. I said no a lot. I remembered saying no and being hurt worse. The memories that I kept beating back were present, replaying in my head, stealing from me, taking what I no longer had to give.
“Ruth, talk to me. Tell me.”
Was I crying? I’d cried then. I’d shouted until an arm, a coarse arm, had crushed my throat and ripped Adam’s necklace away.
“Ruthy, let me help. I’m here, Ruthy.”
My face was a flood. Big, fat tears robbed me of the little sight I had. I couldn’t scream anymore, they’d taken my husband, and they’d taken what was his.
Shut up and take it.
Someone tried to clasp my hands, but I wouldn’t let him. I whacked him again.
“You’re fighting something that’s not me. Tell me what you see. Ruth, where are you?”
I blinked and I was half in the woods, half in Papa’s study.
Adam was trying to calm me, trying to make me think this was not my fault.
But it was.
I made this happen. I claimed to want truth, but I only wanted a sliver of my truth.
The piece that said honorable wife, aggrieved widow, desperate mother—that’s what I wanted known. The other piece, the one that proclaimed me a victim, a victim of the worst kind—I wanted it buried in an empty bottomless hole.
“Ruth, it’s me. Whatever is going on, let me help.”
Wycliff was better than the rest. He forced me to own all the labels.
“Talk to me.”
His raspy voice wasn’t loud enough to cover the mocking laughter, the slurs, the taunts. The sounds of me dying and hurting.
Then I shut up and took it.
Volcano me erupted. The speed at which I slapped at the shadows increased. “Jokes, jokes. Jokes.”
I knew Wycliff didn’t deserve this, but lava rushed my veins. I couldn’t stop.
I hit at him for failing Chris, for the shop glass I’d walled around me.
I punched at being stuck at every step.
Harder. Faster. Heavier.
I beat at the bottle glass that had become my lenses, the headaches that descended daily—the darkness that would come.
I knocked. I pushed. My hands were red, but I kept fighting.
No more shutting this up in me. No more taking it.
No more.
No more.
“Let it out, Ruth. I’m not going away. Fight with everything that you can.”
The raspy voice resonated. It filled up the hollowness in my chest. It might just make up for the heart that had died four years ago. I looked up and Wycliff’s eyes were closed. He mumbled a blessing, then other things I couldn’t discern.
I didn’t want to.
The shame of striking him, of punishing him for things he hadn’t done was too much.
Now I had to be rid of him. He was nosy. He’d figure things out, if he hadn’t already.
My hand pressed at his throat to stop his sweet words. He winced and caught my fingers. Holding them at his side, he took a step back. “I’ll be the proxy for this fight but tell me what we fight.”
His voice was worse. It was as if by touching his neck I’d hurt him and made him hoarser.
Shame covered me more, like double-wrapping a present, but this was no gift. This was my nightmare.
I looked down at my reddened hands. They were scarlet, not much different than the mulberry color of my gown.
I thought of the worst thing to say to make Wycliff leave. “There’s no we. Here’s the truth. I’ve made you into Adam in my mind.”
“I am Adam to you?”
“Yes, you are similar, you’re just bigger. And your voice is horrible. You can’t sing.”
“But I am Adam to you?”
“Yes. I’m horrible, trying to make you into him. I’m mad at myself for doing that.”
I stepped away, and he let my fingers go. My guise must be working. “I’m horrible.”
“No, you’re not. Do you remember loving Adam?”
“No, I remember none of that. I was a silly girl who cared for him and ran away for the excitement. It was wild. I was wild.”
“You don’t mean that. You loved each other.”
I rubbed my head. I wasn’t good at lying. Everything in me centered on truth, but I couldn’t go on like this. “I’m spent, Wycliff. I need to be alone. Please go.”
“May I see you tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Next week.”
“No more.”
“This is it for us?”
“Yes.”
Wrenching at his neck and the jacket that I’d wrinkled, he walked to the door. Those footfalls were still silent, still horrible. “I’ll respect your wishes. Send for me, day or night. I will come.”
“I won’t. You’ve done what I needed. You’ve been my proof. If you find the other half of the registry send it, but your presence is no longer required.”
“I’m not sure I can walk away. Fight me tonight, but don’t give up on us.”
“There’s no us, just a memory of a man who’s dead.”
“There’s more, Ruth, and what you won’t tell me, I’ll have to find out. I’m a nosy man. I should put my talent to use, to save you.”
“The Ruth that needed saving died with Adam. Please go.”
“I still owe you and Christopher prote
ction. I’ll see to that.”
“Must you be as determined as Adam?” I put my arms about me, trying to stop my limbs from shaking, to keep from turning and running to Wycliff and saying, I’m scared, and I need you.
He put his hand on the door molding. “I don’t mind being Adam. I know you loved him. You are my Eve, the beginning of everything for me. I’ve the strength to fight whatever harmed you, but don’t lump me into those things that make you cry.”
Then he blew through the door.
He was gone.
I fell into my father’s chair, trembling, trying to think of things I was grateful for, but that list ended with the man I’d just made leave.
My headache and my memories had to go. I tossed my glasses to the desk then put my thumbs to my temples.
Pushing Wycliff away was for the best. I wasn’t sorry. I didn’t want to be manipulated. I didn’t need a man with secrets when I had my own.
Tonight, I’d save me, put me first, but Wycliff wasn’t done digging. My secrets needed to remain like my Adam, buried in an unmarked grave, lost in the woods.
Chapter Eighteen
Moving Forward Without You
The sun glaring through Wycliff’s bedchamber window was a sight to behold, bright and burning through the wretched curtains. He still hated mornings, even more so after a night like last night.
A bar fight wasn’t good, but he’d had to punch someone.
Wycliff’s old, dark heart had started to polish up, to shine like it was healed.
Rubbish.
Losing the same woman twice gutted him. Life had been better when all he’d focused on was revenge.
Coughing, he sat up. The stench of the freshly-whitewashed walls irritated his sore throat.
Man. Ruth had a good punch, but she should strike at villains, not a man desperate to love her. A week had passed, and his throat still hurt.
Wycliff staggered out of bed and pulled the curtains shut, letting his sleep-deprived eyes rest. “Lawden, no sunlight. You’ll not make me into a man who likes the morning!”
His shout went unanswered.
That was probably for the best.
His foul mood had surely tested his man’s patience.
Rubbing at his rumpled hair, Wycliff thought of his mission. He yanked the linen panels open again.
Grooms circled the lawn below. Others protected Nineteen Fournier. Mrs. Johnson recognizing him had complicated matters.
Being on the outs with Ruth, Wycliff couldn’t oversee their safety or make eyes at her or try to make her laugh again.
That galled.
Wycliff unclenched the curtain, his hands had twisted it miserably. The linen was badly wrinkled. No amount of smoothing and patting fixed it. He didn’t need to add another task for Lawden or the limited housekeeping Blaren House employed. All this was a job for the mistress of his house. Ruth should be with him, hiring and instructing the domestic staff.
His wife.
She hated Adam, and now she hated him.
How could the truth go so wrong?
Ruth was angry, hurt, lost. She was stretched to a breaking point, like this mangled curtain.
He’d seen men break on the HMS Liverpool, seen that glassy look before they’d fallen to pieces. Wycliff was smart enough to know her reaction wasn’t from his direct words with Mr. Croome. It was from something deeper. It had torn up his innards, seeing the pain on her face.
Was this reaction from the violence of their ambush or the violence of being one of Talease’s girls? Or both? Though the madam was decent enough, her patrons could be any dreg of inhumanity with a coin.
A knock.
“Come in,” Wycliff said and prepared for more problems.
Lawden entered with a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. “Good, my lord, you are up.”
Wycliff took the warm cup. The roasted nuttiness of the steam wasn’t enough to lift his fouled mood. “Nothing good about it but coffee.”
“There is good, my lord. Captain Steward has kept his word. He’s refused all of Johnson’s and your uncle’s shipments.”
That was good. Wycliff’s plan was moving along. “Yes, their mercantile stock will rot on the docks. Let’s start calling notes. That will lead to others doing the same.”
“My lord, your uncle does have other shippers. Smaller firms who are not in the same dire straits as the captain.”
“True. But Steward is the largest and the other fish will demand full payment before any goods are loaded. Their remaining money will be eaten up, trying to stay out of debtors’ prison.”
Wycliff slurped the coffee. It was hot and stung his raw throat. “I need Uncle Soulden and Johnson to crumble before the month ends.” He took off his robe and wandered to his closet and picked through his waistcoats. Dark, darker, dark with green. This damask print was surely Croome fabric.
“Send a few grooms to my father’s…to my country estate. Bring his trunks, the oldest ones from the attics. One of them may have my half of the marriage registry. I should gift it to Mrs. Wilky as a wedding present from me for when she accepts the good barrister.”
“She hasn’t accepted yet.”
“She will. The registry is the perfect gift. Something she can burn to be free of Adam and me.”
“You are one and the same, my lord. Have you forgotten this?”
He glared at Lawden.
“Sorry, my lord.”
“And I need answers from Madame Talease. She’s not been at her in-town bawds. Perhaps, I can pay her to visit Blaren House. She likes gold.”
Lawden kicked at the blankets that Wycliff had fought and tossed to the floor. “That’s a mighty change in your mood and moral fidelity. Is burning the registry document to free you, too?”
“I wasn’t an angel, Lawden. But no. Not that kind of visit from Talease. My profile is too visible to be gallivanting on isolated roads. Mrs. Johnson has seen me several times at the Croomes. That’s dangerous enough, but I have control in the crowded city.”
“Will do, my lord.” Lawden picked up the sheet and threw it on the mattress. “Have you thought about trying to see Mrs. Wilky again?”
“No. She kicked me out. Perhaps I should burn the registry. It would remove proof of her impending bigamy.”
“You’re accepting this? That’s unlike you, my lord, especially when you have something in your head.”
Lawden was right. Wycliff was a goal-driven man, but what could he do if Ruth had decided against him? “I’ve already died to her. Only one man has been successfully resurrected.”
“Two, if you count Lazarus, my lord. If you’re going to wallow in the scriptures, be more precise.”
“Precision, truthfulness. They both seem problematic.”
Lawden went to the bed table and picked up the book of poems written by Wycliff’s mother. “I see you’ve been reading the loss poems.”
“Well, she had a way of describing death and endings. ‘She feels the iron hand of pain no more.’ Something good about that.”
His man sighed aloud. “No one is good with endings, my lord. Your pappy was not. Neither are you. What’s that gut telling you, Wycliff?”
“End my pursuit. Focus on finding Cicely. Send Mrs. Wilky that porcelain statue on my desk as a present, for she’s the bride that escaped. Send the frog puppet for Christopher.”
“Your gut says all that? It’s mighty talkative to be a liar. You are a man of war, not a prince of peace.”
“What?”
“You don’t give up. You made a mistake. You miscalculated. What man in love doesn’t?”
“But she hates me.”
“She hates Adam Wilkinson, the boy she eloped with. I watched you two. I saw how she leaned into you when she was weak. She may dislike Adam, but Lord Wycliff has a chance.”
“But aren’t I both, Adam and Wycliff?” He started pacing. “She tossed me, Wycliff, out.”
Lawden opened the curtains wide. The sunlight roared inside, filled the room, and m
ade the ghastly red-painted bed shine.
He rubbed his throat. “I’ve been trying to get her to remember our great love of the past. Maybe that was my mistake, trying to remind her of Adam. Maybe she needs to see me, the not-Adam version.”
“Yes. Show her what there is to love in Wycliff. Amplify what she loves.”
“You are writing poems, too, Lawden?” He slurped his coffee and paced in circles from the closet to the bed table. “Don’t be Adam?” He thought of Ruth and what made her smile. “I think I should be Wycliff, the big cousin.”
“Yes, my lord. You have a responsibility to the young boy.”
“Christopher. He’s a good boy. He’s my heir. He’s a sweet child who thinks well of Adam. He will continue to think well of me.”
He downed the rest of his mug, then handed it to Lawden. “Christopher needs someone to teach him how to hunt frogs. I can keep a more careful hand in observing and protecting the Croomes if I’m welcome at Nineteen Fournier.”
“Frog hunting is a fine pursuit. A lot nicer than roughhousing on the docks. You might find it a better thing to dwell upon than beatings.”
“I didn’t do anything too bad.” Lawden must’ve heard about the barroom brawl. “Like I said, I wasn’t always good.”
Lawden shook his head. “My lord, you have too many things in motion to be reckless. You haven’t won, yet. Your uncle is a dangerous man.”
He was right.
It was dangerous to walk the docks with Uncle Soulden growing more desperate. And good old duplicitous Nickie could still cause trouble, too.
“No more Wicked Wycliff. I’ll be more careful. I just needed to smell the water, look at the good souls working the lanes. It grounded me. The punching did help. Find the best place in London to hunt frogs. I think I and my little cousin need to do just that.”
“Good, my lord.” Lawden tossed him his mother’s book and bowed, juggled the mug in his hands, then left.
Wycliff’s thoughts turned to his mother. He went to the window.
Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,
Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;
Mother’s words of sorrow mirrored the gloom in his spirit. Now the morning had made things bright again. He could make sure the Croomes were safe and get to know better the boy who should be his son.
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