And Griffin had stood there, not bothering to defend himself, stoic, waiting for the blows. He had not moved, had not fought back. Instead, he had instructed Lucien to hit him.
Hit me if it will make you feel better.
As if he had been deserving of the blows. As if he wanted to be hit.
It made no sense. None of it. Not Griffin following her, not his sudden confession outside her door at this godforsaken inn between Oxford and London, and certainly not his unflinching acceptance of Lucien’s aggression. Griffin should have fought back. He should not have even followed her at all. Instead, he could have remained at Harlton Hall, planning his defenses alongside the Duke of Carlisle, Mr. O’Malley, and Mr. Ludlow.
But he had not done that, had he? His presence here at the inn suggested he had chased after her the moment he had realized she had left. And drat him, but that knowledge made her heart weaken toward him, ever so slightly.
He had humbled himself before her, going to his knees. His protestations of love had held the unmistakable ring of truth. His calm acceptance of her brother’s overly protective aggression suggested he meant what he said. All of it compounded, until she was hopelessly confused, looking from her husband to her brother, one unconscious on the inn floor, and the other shaking his head, burning with anger. Then back again, down at the man she had married. The man who had humbled himself for her. Who had sank to his knees before her.
She worked her thumbs over Griffin’s sharp cheek bones, willing him to return to lucidity. Her heart was in her throat, fear and worry churning within her.
“Leave him,” Lucien ordered from above her. “He is not worthy of your concern, Lettie.”
“He is my husband,” she found herself arguing on his behalf. He had hurt her, yes, but he had also raced back to her side.
This big, brave, powerful man had shed tears.
He had told her he loved her, and part of her rejoiced in his confession. Part of her wanted to believe in it, in him, with a desperation that shook her. Because she loved him too. They had shared so much of themselves with each other in the last few days, and surely not all of that had been a lie. Surely some of it had been true.
“I know you think you love him, Lettie,” Lucien interrupted her thoughts, his voice grim, “but he is not a good man, and neither is he trustworthy. He is dangerous, faithless, and capable of anything.”
She wanted to argue, but then there was the other part of her, the cautious Violet, who had not entirely fled in the face of her rebellion. He had manipulated her to gain what he wanted: his advantage over her brother and the chance to prove his innocence. His chasing after her and confessing his love could well be a ploy designed to weaken her resistance.
Helplessly torn, she gazed down at him, wondering what she should do next. She loved her husband. She loved her brother. And yet the two men were at daggers drawn. For some mad reason, an image returned to her then, of Strathmore cooking her dinner. Of the way he had looked at her, not just that evening on the stairs, but on their wedding night. Of how he had made her feel just this morning, when he had shown her how to shoot a revolver.
He had been so proud. And she had felt proud of herself. She had felt as if she could do anything with him by her side. With him as her man. Maybe she should not have run. Maybe she should have stayed and confronted him, demanded an explanation for his words. Maybe their marriage was salvageable yet.
“He is not who you think he is,” she said to Lucien. “I know you do not believe me, but though he may have broken my heart, this man is not guilty of treason. He is not the villain you seek.”
She remained just as certain of the truth of his innocence as ever.
“It would appear as if I have found you at just the right time, Your Grace.”
A new voice, emerging from behind her, gave her a start as Griffin moaned and began regaining consciousness. Violet turned to find the officious Mr. Swift approaching. Dread unfurled in her stomach. She looked askance at her brother.
“Lucien? What is Mr. Swift doing here?” she demanded.
Surely he could not intend to arrest Griffin here and now.
“Rescuing you, my lady.” Mr. Swift stopped alongside her and leveled a vicious kick into Griffin’s stomach before she even realized what he was about.
Griffin grunted, rolling to his side, half-awake now, the wind knocked from him by the force of the blow. In his confused state, he struggled to rise, cursing. Shock stole her breath, robbed the saliva from her mouth. Horror made her jaw numb.
“Is this how you defended yourself against the French, Strathmore?” Mr. Swift demanded. “Little wonder you came back covered in their beauty marks. Stand and face me, you coward.”
“No,” Violet cried out, throwing herself over Griffin as a shield when the vile man appeared ready to kick Griffin once more.
“Enough, Swift,” barked Lucien. “All that and worse will be awaiting him where he is going.”
Prison. She wrapped her arms around Griffin’s shoulders. “Lucien, I beg of you. You cannot mean to do this.”
“Hush, Vi,” Griffin gritted in her ear, his voice hoarse. “I will do what they wish of me.”
“You will surrender?” She sank back on her haunches, studying him, aghast.
After all they had been through together, after all the sacrifices they had made—fleeing from London, marrying in haste—he would simply give in and allow himself to be taken to prison?
“He has no choice,” came Lucien’s hard voice from above. He offered her his hand. “Rise immediately, Lettie. Leave him to his fate. Strathmore’s own actions are responsible for the plight in which he now finds himself.”
She ignored her brother’s offer, her entire attention consumed by one man and one man alone. She sought his brilliant-blue gaze. “You cannot simply surrender.”
He moved beneath her, grimacing and pressing a hand to his ribs. “Christ. Do not worry over me, Vi. I do not deserve it. I shall be fine.”
“No, Griffin.” Desperation seized her, panic gripping her lungs. He was injured, he was at a disadvantage, and he was innocent. “I will not allow you to do this.”
“Vi,” he said softly, cupping her cheek with one hand while struggling into a sitting position, wincing as he did so. “Don’t.”
Already, an ugly, mottled bruise marred the perfect flesh beneath his whiskers. His skin had split open under the force of Lucien’s blows, and he was bleeding as well. Scarlet rivulets ran down his throat, caressing his prominent Adam’s apple.
“Don’t what?” she asked harshly. She was a hodgepodge of conflicting emotions, love and anger and confusion, resentment and fear and rebellion, all at once. “Don’t fight for you? One of us must, if you will not fight for yourself.”
“You fought enough for me, love.” He flashed her one of his rare, tender smiles, the sort that never failed to melt her. “And I have done you enough harm.”
“Griffin.”
“Lady Violet, you must move away,” Mr. Swift said, reaching for her elbow as if to assist her in rising. Forcibly.
She wrenched herself from his odious grasp, glaring up at him. “Do not dare to touch me, Mr. Swift. Not ever.”
His ordinary, obsequious mask dropped for a beat, and she saw him. The real him. Anger and wrath. Dark eyes swimming with sinister intent. And then, before she could blink, he was smiling benignly, as if he had not just kicked a felled man so violently he may have broken his ribs. As if they were sipping tea and trading banalities on a social call.
“Forgive me, Lady Violet,” he said smoothly, withdrawing his hand. “But I am afraid I have orders from your brother. The Duke of Strathmore is to be taken into my custody this night and transported to London, where he will face the repercussions for the villainy he has perpetrated upon the Crown.”
“You will not take him,” she vowed, for suddenly, her upset paled in comparison to the notion of the man she loved being taken to prison. Laid with charges of treason. Perhaps facing the hang
man’s noose.
She could not allow it to happen. How could Lucien not see he was wrong, that there was another person responsible for the treasonous breaches of information to the Fenians? Time had been running out on them, and their investigation had faded into the background in favor of their retreat from London and madcap nuptials. They had not continued their investigations with proper time and attention. And the fault for that was hers, was it not?
Lucien had come calling at Harlton Hall, and she had gone running straight to him. Guilt and confusion roiled within her, at odds.
“Lettie, you must step away from him now,” Lucien interrupted, his tone gentle, but unyielding. “We will have the marriage annulled. Have no fear. His reputation will not taint you. Many young ladies before you have lost their hearts to scoundrels. You are not the first, and neither will you be the last.”
“Vi,” Griffin said in her ear. “Do as your brother asks. It is best for you.”
She could not shake the feeling that, if she allowed Griffin from her sight, nothing would ever be the same. That he would be lost to her forever. She wanted to rail against him, to shout and cry and beg for him to fight. To stand up and refuse to allow himself to be taken away.
But Lucien had laid him low, and then Mr. Swift had kicked him so viciously. She shuddered to think of the injuries he could have sustained. He could be grievously injured. Already, he was bleeding, and he could have suffered a cracked rib.
She held on to him, this man she had wed. This man she had known for mere weeks, but who had changed so much for her in that time. “Was it true?” she asked him, tears stinging her eyes.
His gaze did not falter or stray from hers. “Everything,” he said. “Even the part where I made an arse of myself because I was too stupid to realize I had already fallen in love with the boldest, most beautiful, loyal, bravest woman there is.”
“Do I know her?” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “You.”
Her heart lurched. Ached.
She loved the Duke of Strathmore, and she knew without question it was a lifetime love; deep and true and resilient. It was the sort of love that could weather anything. Misunderstandings, hurt, pain, betrayal. Love did not ameliorate all trespasses, but it made forgiveness possible.
Violet saw and understood that now with blinding clarity. It was how she had been able to forgive Mama for leaving her and Lucien when they had been so young, how she had forgiven Father for not trying harder to understand and support Mama. How she could love both Griffin and Lucien, even when they were wrong.
Love.
That was all.
That was everything.
“Your Grace, if I am to travel back to London this evening, I am afraid I cannot tarry here much longer,” Mr. Swift said above her, addressing Lucien. “I have a fresh set of horses awaiting me, and there is no reason why I cannot have the prisoner in custody within the next few hours.”
At Mr. Swift’s words, she froze, her gaze locked on Griffin’s. What she read in his eyes was reassurance, but also concern. He did not trust this situation any more than she did, and the knowledge heightened her conviction.
She glanced up at her brother, who was hovering over her with an expression of mingled concern, fury, and disapproval. “Lucien, you cannot send him away in the midst of the night with no new evidence against him. The evidence you have is not sufficient, else he would already be imprisoned.”
“The investigation is none of your concern,” her brother countered. “Now rise, if you please, and step away from Strathmore.”
“Do it, Vi.” Griffin’s voice was stronger. So too his expression, as lucidity returned to him. His quiet resilience was once more in full force. “For me.”
His last sentence was her undoing.
She rose and stepped aside. Mr. Swift wasted no time in jerking Griffin to his feet and ordering him to hold his hands behind his back. Griffin complied, his face impassive. Expressionless. This was not the first time he had been taken captive, and it showed. But it also killed her inside, crushing her and extinguishing all the air in her lungs, as she watched his arrest unfold.
Lucien retrieved shackles, and they were placed on Griffin’s wrists and ankles. The process took minutes, but it felt more like hours as she stood, a silent observer, her stomach knotted and clenched, bile a sick stew rising up her throat. Griffin said nothing. Did nothing. Did not even attempt to defend himself.
Everything within her cried out at the injustice. It was wrong. Griffin was not guilty. He had bruised her heart, but he was not a traitor. He was strong and kind and true. He had been a faithful servant to the Crown, and her brother was too caught up in his own self-importance to concede he could be wrong.
The last lock on the shackles clicked, and the time had come.
Violet closed her eyes, inhaling fully and deeply in an effort to dispel the turmoil churning within her. She knew she needed to remain calm for both herself and Griffin, but she was wound tighter than a pocket watch spring.
“Lucien, please.” She turned to her brother once more, determined to make him see how wrong he was. “Do not do this.”
His lips flattened into a grim line. “I would not do it if it weren’t necessary.”
“Vi.” There was Griffin again, calm and reassuring, even when he was the one who had been beaten and shackled, when he was the one about to be sent to prison. “This is goodbye.”
She stared at him, taking in his beautiful countenance, now marred by her brother’s fists, and she knew the deepest, most soul searing sadness she had ever experienced. “It will never be goodbye for us,” she promised him.
His jaw clenched, and his gaze burned into hers, traveling over her face as if he were committing her to memory. As if he would never see her again. “I love you.”
She swallowed down her heartache, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “And I love you.”
Mr. Swift jerked him forward, leading him away from her, and it required every last bit of restraint she possessed to keep from following. To stop her from running after him, hugging him tight to her, from clouting Mr. Swift over the head as he so richly deserved.
In the end, there were only two facts that mattered. She loved Griffin. He loved her. Time, distance, bruised feelings, opposition, accusations…none of that mattered. Nothing but Violet and Griffin. And somehow, somehow, they would find their way to each other again.
She promised herself as she watched him being hauled away, bleeding and bruised and broken.
Chapter Twenty
“Eat.”
Violet stared at Lucien from across the table in the small, private dining hall he had commandeered for their use. The plate in front of her was heaped with warm, inn fare. Boiled potatoes, ham, a fresh slice of bread. There was nothing wrong with it, but she had never been less inclined to eat in her life.
She pushed the plate away from her. “I do not want your food.”
His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing. “Eat, Lady Violet, or you shall go hungry this evening.”
She was once more Lady Violet, which meant she had earned his displeasure. But she did not care. All she did care about was Griffin. He was her husband, and he had come here to the inn because of her. It was her fault he was, at this moment, en route to Newgate.
“How could you imagine I can eat when you have sent the man I love away to be imprisoned?” she demanded, fury making her quiver as she faced him.
After Mr. Swift left with Griffin, she had been in shock initially, and she had allowed herself to be led here to this chamber, for she had not known what to do. Where to go. Her mind had been a jumbled mass of confusion and fear for Griffin. But she would not sit calmly and break bread with her brother, as if he had not just ordered her husband’s arrest.
“A guilty man is suffering the consequences for his actions,” Lucien argued, his expression impassive. “I will not apologize for bringing justice where it is deserved. You need to acquaint yourself to the fact that S
trathmore is guilty. He is a liar and a manipulator and a traitor. Any tender feelings you developed for him are wholly misplaced.”
“It is an injustice,” she argued, slamming her palms on the scarred table. For a moment, she returned in her mind to a different scarred table. To the evening she had shared dinner with Griffin, when he had cooked for her. Her heart ached. “Griffin is innocent.”
“The evidence proves otherwise.” Lucien’s gaze, unrelenting, challenged her.
Why did he insist upon being so stubborn? How could he not see what she saw? Frustration and anger rose up within her, spewing forth, making her shake. She had never felt as helpless as she did now. As futile and powerless.
She thought of how she had felt just that morning when Griffin had taught her to shoot a gun. How she had realized she did not need anyone else to defend her, because she could defend herself.
If she could defend herself, then why could she not also defend the man she loved?
The answer came to her, simple and easy. She could. And she would.
“The evidence against him was staged.” She stood, sending her chair tipping back.
“That is a claim made by a man doing everything within his power to hide his guilt. Only think of this, Violet: he was willing to use you and manipulate you to get what he wanted. He coerced you into marrying him. He stole your innocence.”
“You cannot steal what is freely given,” she said. “I will not sit here with you for another moment more while Griffin is being taken away by Mr. Swift. I have been through enough these last few weeks, with my carriage being shot at, and I will not allow…”
Her words trailed off as a damning realization hit her, square in the gut.
“The man who shot at my carriage,” she said slowly. “He looked like Mr. Swift.”
Lucien rose from the table, his jaw rigid, his countenance grim. “It was not Swift who shot at your carriage, Violet. He was by my side the entire time.”
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