by Maya Rodale
The sound of Dudley and Fitz-Herbert arguing with the innkeeper reached them. Judging from their shouted conversation, the two devils would be packing up soon. Prudence was inspired to do the unthinkable: shutting and locking the door, leaving herself barricaded in a room alone with a man.
Before the panic could overwhelm her, Prue dipped the cloth in the basin to rinse it before smoothing it across his brow. She was touching a man—with a cloth, but it was something. It was the least she could do after what he had done for her. And she wanted to soothe him and offer some comfort. As she did, she found it soothed herself, too.
She felt his blue eyes on her, watching attentively.
“Was he after you? Are you running from him?” His voice was rough, and from that alone she knew that he ached for answers only to protect her. Castleton wouldn’t gossip.
“I think it was a coincidence,” she told him. No one knew where she was or where she was going.
“But you know him.”
“From London. I hate him.” Her voice cracked. It was the first time she’d said it aloud. Because of him, her heart was filled with hate when it should have been bursting with love. She hated him all the more for it.
John’s eyes were still fixed on her. She could feel him seeing her secrets. It felt agonizing and wonderful all at once.
“He hurt you before.”
It took every ounce of strength Prudence possessed to look Castleton in the eye. She’d told no one what Dudley had done to her—not Emma, not Olivia, not Miss Georgette, not even Lady Dare. She had never even whispered the words in the dark of night or even thought them in her head.
The word “yes” refused to form on her tongue, wouldn’t dare cross her lips. He had hurt her so profoundly that she might never be healed, unlike the bruises on Castleton’s hands, which would fade in a few days’ time. But the answer was plain to him anyway. She managed a slight nod to confirm it.
“I wondered,” he admitted.
“You can tell? Can everyone tell?” Prue’s eyes widened. The only saving grace was that no one knew. She could pretend to be fine and to be whole. But if everyone knew . . .
. . . and they hadn’t done anything?
Her heart stopped. She quickly looked away. She bit her lip, holding back the word betrayal.
“My sister . . . it happened to her, too,” Castleton said. The anguish in his voice broke Prue’s heart. She understood why he wasn’t the slightest bit affected by all the cuts and bruises on his body: they were nothing in comparison to the agonies that she and his sister had experienced. There was no comparison, and he knew it. “She wasn’t quite herself after. Never wanted to be touched. Anything that reminded her of it set her off. Don’t blame her.”
It had never occurred to Prudence that she wasn’t the only one who had suffered this way. After all, what Dudley did to her wasn’t exactly discussed in polite company. In fact, it wasn’t discussed at all, ever, except in vague warnings to young ladies. The risks, the dangers, the pain were never talked about. Knowing she wasn’t the only one was a bittersweet knowledge. Prue wouldn’t wish this upon anyone, yet for the first time since it had happened, she didn’t feel so alone.
“No one knows,” Prudence whispered. “No one can know.”
“I won’t tell,” he promised, his gaze locked with hers.
“It has been so hard keeping this secret,” she confessed. “It is exhausting.”
It was terrifying that he knew, but there was also a welcome sensation of relief. There were so many things she wanted to say to him about it now that she had admitted it. How it had hurt. How scared she’d been and how she hadn’t stopped being scared. How badly she had wanted that carriage ride with him but just . . . couldn’t.
Castleton didn’t say anything to that. He looked away. Gritted his jaw, and winced. Flexed his hands, and grimaced.
“Prudence?”
“Yes?”
There was a moment, a long moment. Gazes locked. Then he blinked.
“I taught my sister how to defend herself. In case I wasn’t there for her,” he said, and she had the impression that it wasn’t what he planned to say. “I want to be there for you, Prudence,” he exclaimed as he reached out and impulsively clasped her hand. Instinctively she withdrew.
With a fierce determination she didn’t think she possessed, Prudence placed her hand over his. She was so tired of living under Dudley’s spell. If she couldn’t escape him, she would have to fight him. If she could just override her fear long enough, Castleton could instruct her on how to defend herself so she needn’t be so terrified all the time. The promise of that was like the promise of sunshine after this endless rainstorm.
Prudence looked into Castleton’s eyes. “Show me.”
Chapter 13
THOUGH IT PAINED him to do so, Castleton stood and pushed the chair and basin aside. Prudence stood, too, and her head just reached his shoulder, reminding him she was just a slip of a girl.
On the other side of the locked door, Dudley and Fitz-Herbert and their valets lumbered up and down the stairs, cursing with every step. Before Castleton, Prudence’s eyes widened and her hands shook.
“The first thing you have to do is stop looking so bloody scared all the time,” John said.
“Are you saying I asked for it?” Prudence asked angrily, eyes flashing.
“God, no,” he swore vehemently. “I’m just saying you look at the world with these fearful doe eyes, awaiting the worst. Annie, the barmaid, on the other hand—she isn’t taking nothing from nobody.”
“Well, if I were as tall as she, and statuesque and—”
“Prudence,” he said earnestly, gazing directly into her eyes, “you just can’t be scared. Even if you’re scared.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“If you don’t think about it too hard, it makes perfect sense,” he said.
Such were the words that gave him strength each day. There were a thousand and one things that might go wrong and a hundred opportunities for disaster to strike. People counted on him and this lucky streak of his, which was more likely to end with each passing second. It was a fact that he was constantly, painfully aware of. He could be paralyzed with fear and worry, or he could put one foot in front of the other and take his chances, roll the dice, play the game.
John eyed Prudence as she mulled this over. He wanted to explain everything. But the words wouldn’t come. If his happiness were the only one at stake, aye, he’d tell her everything. But people were counting on him. So he kept his thoughts and stories to himself.
Besides, this moment was about giving Prudence strength, not unburdening his secrets. The sound of suitcases being lugged through the hall and down the stairs was a stark reminder of why.
“Men like him look to dominate someone else as a way to prove their own power,” Castleton explained. He wasn’t thinking only of Dudley but also of other “gentlemen” with a disregard for women. “It’s not about lust or lack of control but dominance, pure and simple.”
“But why me?” The anguish in her voice could break a man. Something in him just altered forever.
“I don’t know, Prudence,” he said softly, hating that he didn’t have an answer. “We can’t change what has happened, we can only do what we can to make sure it never happens again.”
“What if I make him mad at me?”
“You will make him mad if you’re doing it right,” Castleton replied evenly. “But who cares about that? You just need to get away. I need you to be safe.”
His voice might have betrayed an uncommon amount of emotion. This was all he could do. Give her strength, help her believe in herself.
“What do I do?” Prudence asked with an adorable and determined upturn of her chin.
“Are you scared?” John asked.
“Yes. Always.”
“So?” He shrugged, arranged his features in an expression of boredom, and turned away.
“So? SO?” she echoed angrily, as he’d e
xpected. He fought to keep his face inscrutable. “So what if I’m scared?” she cried. “That’s everything!”
He turned to her.
“Now you’re angry, Prue,” he said encouragingly. “That’s good. Anger will give you strength, where fear will make you weak.”
“Ladies aren’t supposed to be angry,” she said, anguish in her voice.
“Ladies aren’t supposed to do or be a lot of things, Prudence. Humanity is worse for it.”
“Then what do I do?” Prudence asked, growing frustrated. “When do I hit you?”
“You hit when you have a good chance of landing a strong blow. But it’s best if it doesn’t come to that. You have to yell, Prudence.”
John stalked toward her. His bruised and wounded appearance must have made it all the more frightful for her.
“Leave me alone!” It was a halfhearted shout. “Stop this!”
John hated doing this, but he took another menacing step toward her. Then another, then another, until they were standing close enough to kiss.
“Stand back!” This time there was force behind her words. This time, he almost did back off. But Dudley still hadn’t departed the inn—they could hear him railing against the injustice of being beaten and forced into the rain.
John took a deep breath. He gazed down at Prudence and into her eyes. She was scared, certainly. But he also noted determination and a resurgence of that stubbornness that hadn’t allowed her to get in his carriage when she had so badly wanted to.
“You have survived the worst thing that could happen to you,” he said softly. “And you have carried on. Prudence, you are far stronger than you know.”
That left her stunned and speechless.
“Now move,” he said in a low voice, just before reaching for her wrist. She snatched it away.
“Move,” he growled. “Like all those dancing steps you spent two-eighths of your life practicing.”
John stepped toward her and she stepped back, and to the left. He advanced toward her and she darted to the right. Like some deranged waltz or quadrille, they moved around the room, dodging the furniture and each other.
All he wanted was to sweep her into his embrace and waltz with her properly. Like a gentleman with a lady he adores.
He didn’t like this. But he hated the idea of her defenseless. He hated the knowledge that he wouldn’t always be there for her. So all he could do was teach her now.
Prudence impatiently blew a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. Her cheeks were becoming flushed.
“Can I hit you now?”
“If you can get close enough to,” he murmured.
She advanced toward him. Those wide-with-fear doe eyes of hers were narrowed and shooting sparks. She was glorious, with her hair starting to work free from its arrangement, her flushed cheeks, and her determined strides. He wouldn’t allow a smile. Not when she was so focused and determined. Not when she was, for once, more angry than scared.
“The next question is where,” he said, once she was standing within striking distance. “You will never overpower a man with physical strength alone, so you have to hit him in his most vulnerable parts.”
“His face?”
“No, his balls,” John explained.
“Excuse me?” Her cheeks reddened, this time with embarrassment.
“No time to be ladylike now, Miss Merryweather,” he cautioned. Then, pointing to the pertinent place, he said, “You’ll want to hit a man here.”
Prudence swung her fist. With just a second to spare, he dodged her attempt to hit him.
“Hey! I’m trying to hit you!”
“It hurts too bloody much,” he explained. “And I haven’t given up on having children.”
And just like that, she lost her anger and her focus.
“You want to have children?” she asked softly. “Do you plan to marry?”
That was another thing he feared—Prudence getting ideas in her head that he could never possibly live up to. It would wreck him to crush her hopes and expectations. His own hands clenched into fists—which made him swear from the pain Not wanting to get into it now, John just said, “We’ll see what God has in store for me.”
Both paused to acknowledge the sound of a whip cracking and a carriage starting off. Dudley and Fitz-Herbert were gone—for now. John didn’t deceive himself; they would all be setting off on the same road toward London.
He prayed that Prudence never needed to know what he was teaching her.
“You can also try hitting a man in the eyes or the throat.”
She tried, and missed. He dodged her attempts, while giving her guidance about what to do.
“Use the heel of your hand. And if you are going to strike with your fist, make sure your thumb is on the outside,” he said as he grasped her fist and, holding her hand in his, folded her fingers into a proper fist. “It will get crushed otherwise.”
“The pain will make me angrier, which will help me fight,” she said stubbornly.
“But if it doesn’t heal properly, you’ll never fit your hands into the kind of delicate gloves that ladies wear.” Even though they were breaking all the rules here, she was still a Lady, and he’d do well to remember that.
“The horrors,” Prudence said flatly. John couldn’t help it; he cracked a grin. She half smiled and half sighed.
“Are you sure I cannot just run away?” Prudence asked wistfully with a longing glance out the window.
“In your long skirts?”
“It worked with the highwayman,” she said. “I just slunk off, unnoticed.”
“And I thank God for it. But you can’t just run away from your problems,” he said softly.
“It’s been working rather well for me so far,” she replied with a little shrug of her shoulders.
“Has it?” John asked softly.
Prudence sighed. She glanced at him, then looked away. He watched her gaze land on the locked door and skim over the bed before settling on the view from the window. He understood. Prudence wasn’t too bothered by the rain, for she was content to remain here, away from London and the problems that had sent her running. As long as it rained, she didn’t need to decide what to do.
“Are you really never going to return to London? What about your friends and family? I’m certain they miss you. Hell, they must be worried about you. ”
“They would if they knew where I was. But they don’t. And there’s nothing really waiting for me in London.”
“It’s London! Everything is in London. There’s nowhere to go except for London,” he exclaimed. His hopes and dreams were pinned on the largest city in the country, and perhaps the greatest city in the world.
She smiled sweetly at him but revealed nothing about her life there and what did or did not await her. So many questions he wanted to ask, one of them being, why did he want to know so badly? At some point between their meeting on the road and this moment, she had gone from being just a girl to being the sun to his earth.
As if running away from the topic, Prudence changed the subject.
“What if none of this works? What if it happens again?”
“It won’t happen again,” he vowed.
“No one is ever there for me. Not even God. Only I am there for me.”
“I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked. He was sick with sorry.
“My friend Emma is always reading romantic novels. This, I believe, is the part when you promise to always be there for me,” she said with a sad smile.
“I will be there for you,” he said firmly. But he couldn’t promise forever. He thought of Martha . . . and what he had left behind.
“And if you’re not?”
“Then you had better learn to fight like the devil and run like the wind,” he said.
“How do you know all of this?” Prudence asked. It wasn’t an easy answer.
One year earlier
Blackhaven Manor
Young Lord Burbrooke had an affection for Martha. All the bucks did. S
he possessed a lovely figure, had the face of an angel, and a soothing voice. John had mastered the lethal stare early on. Often that was enough. And then it wasn’t. His hands were constantly raw, fending off all her suitors. But that is what brothers did.
By suitors he meant . . . well, not exactly suitors. They weren’t after her hand in marriage. Just a tussle. A roll in the hay. A romp in the hall. She had a way of driving men wild, forgetting sense and reason. And these “suitors” thought she was the kind of girl who didn’t need a ring and promise of forever.
John kept them at bay. Until he hadn’t been able to.
“What will I do when you’re gone?” Martha asked. She sat on his bed while he packed a small case, pausing every so often to flex his hands, hissing with pain at the cuts and bruises. One of his fingers might have been broken.
He might have gone too far. Hitting Lord Burbrooke for flirting with his sister had definitely been going too far. Especially when by flirting he meant accosting.
She’d said no. Hell, she’d even said please.
Just thinking about it made him want to punch the wall. Worse: he could no longer stay at Blackhaven Manor now.
It was impossible for him to show his black-and-blue face in the breakfast room. It was impossible for him to pour brandy with hands too broken and swollen to fit into a pair of gloves. It was impossible for him to go about his business at the manor, with everyone terrified of him. He’d have to hastily depart and leave Martha able to fend for herself.
Thus, John taught her where exactly to hit a man so it would stun him with a breathtaking pain. He cautioned her to avoid being alone with one at all costs. Then he showed her how to escape from his grasp, how to dodge his advances, holler like a she-devil, and hit with all her strength.
“Why must you go?” Martha asked pleadingly.
“You know why,” he said gruffly.
“It’s my fault,” she said glumly.
He snapped the valise shut and turned to look at her.
“It’s not your fault,” he said firmly.
“But—” Her voice was meek. So many questions in her eyes, and so many tears threatening to fall. It was killing him to leave. But it was impossible for him to stay.