by Cheryl Holt
“And if he doesn’t calm down?” she inquired.
“I have no idea. If he isn’t my friend anymore, I can’t imagine what my future will be like.”
“You ruined everything—just for me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I wasn’t worth it. Tell him I wasn’t. Tell him to let you stay, for I shall be gone as of tomorrow. Not you.”
“If you depart while I’m away,” he said, “inform a servant of where you’ll be. Make sure I can find you.”
“Why would you ever have to find me? What could possibly be your reason?”
She whipped away and left, and though he called to her several times, she kept walking.
Damian at 17…
Fifty lashes.”
“I don’t think so. Not this time.”
Lt. Butler waved to his minions, expecting them to grab Damian and escort him to the flogging pole, but Damian wasn’t a child any longer. He’d grown taller than most of the guards, and while he wasn’t big and burly like some of Butler’s more well-fed idiots, he was whipcord lean, his body honed from years of toil. And he was constantly very, very angry.
“Seize him,” Butler ordered two of his cohorts.
They hesitated, worried about disobeying a direct command, but knowing—should they lay a hand on Damian—he would retaliate swiftly and viciously when they least expected it.
He’d developed an almost godlike reputation for being able to bring about any conclusion he wished. He was never observed committing any acts of mayhem, but in a land where accidents and illnesses were commonplace, his enemies were always dying under peculiar circumstances, which polished his status as a dangerous brigand.
He was blamed, his name whispered as a brute who rendered dire endings for those who crossed him. Occasionally he was the one who struck back, but more often Fate simply intervened and Damian didn’t have to do anything.
Yet he let others presume he was the culprit. His prestige among the population had reached outrageous heights, and Butler couldn’t inflict as much damage as he had in the past. Damian was feared and respected by all.
He hadn’t been flogged in ages, and rumors were swirling that another administrator was on the way, that Butler would soon be leaving in disgrace, but no new superintendent had arrived. Butler continued to tyrannize his subjects.
“Seize him,” Butler said again, but no one moved. “Fine, you insubordinate cowards! I’ll deal with him myself, then I’ll deal with the two of you once I’m through.”
Butler didn’t dare lose face in front of the guards or prisoners so he pushed them away and huffed over to Damian. Apparently he hadn’t realized how Damian had grown. With them toe to toe, Damian towered over him, and suddenly Butler wasn’t quite as belligerent.
“I charge you with assault on one of my officers.”
“Really?” Damian casually replied. “On what evidence am I being accused? I demand to question your witnesses.”
“You have a smart mouth, Mr. Drummond. You always have. You’re aware that there are no witnesses.”
“Then why am I being singled out? Perhaps he fell in that stream of his own accord. He’s a drunken sot. Why must you automatically suppose he was attacked? I heard he stumbled and hit his head on a rock.”
“Every time you deny your perfidy, I will add another year onto your sentence.”
“You can try,” Damian defiantly retorted, “but there’s a lawyer living here now, remember? I believe he might have an opinion different from yours.”
“Fifty lashes! For insolence to your betters.”
Butler raised his whip, but before he could deliver a blow, Damian yanked it away. He broke the handle over his knee and tossed it on the ground, then he sauntered over to the whipping pole. He tugged off his shirt, then wrapped his arms around it, and he braced for an eternity, expecting Butler to storm over and begin. But no beating commenced.
Ultimately Damian peeked over his shoulder. Butler had vanished into his office, and the other prisoners were still standing in a line, their mouths agape. They cast nervous glances at each other, recognizing that havoc would ensue: rations would be cut, work hours increased, punishments enhanced.
Damian was sorry that Butler’s wrath would fall on them, but he could no longer blithely accept Butler’s absurd discipline. And Butler was constantly picking on Anne too, being especially horrid to her because she was Damian’s friend.
For some reason, Butler had a particular hatred for Anne, and he deliberately made her life more miserable than circumstances would warrant. He’d recently ordered her to marry, but Anne had only ever loved one man—her deceased husband Julian—and she wouldn’t wed another. She’d allow Butler to kill her before she’d relent, and with how deranged Butler had become, Damian was afraid he just might.
In a few months, Damian would be eighteen, and while his original sentence had been extended, after he was an adult he could move from the boy’s camp and get a job in town. He wouldn’t be so much at Butler’s mercy.
There had been a gold discovery inland, and men were rushing to the gold fields. He thought he might join them, that it would be a good escape, but he couldn’t depart while Butler remained in the colony. He couldn’t permit Butler to hurt Anne more than he already had.
“What now?” he asked a guard.
“Now…we wait to see what happens to all of us.”
Damian shrugged and plopped down on the ground, his back leaned against the pole. “Let me know once he decides.”
He dozed off, not concerned about what would transpire. It was futile to fret, and he couldn’t prevent what was coming. Butler would proceed, then Damian would react, and Damian would win in the end. Of that fact, he had no doubt, and from Butler’s behavior that afternoon Damian suspected that Butler was starting to realize it too.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Georgina was staring out the window of her bedchamber in Drummond Cottage when she noticed Damian standing at the edge of the woods.
It was late, the moon not having risen yet so it was very dark and difficult to see him. As usual, he was dressed in black, and he was holding very still in that way he had, like a cobra about to strike.
Once he realized she’d observed him, he stepped out of the trees and walked over so he was underneath the window.
For a long while, neither of them moved, and she wondered what he was thinking. Was he as disturbed by events as she was?
After overhearing his quarrel with Mr. Roxbury, she’d fretted over him incessantly. She’d nearly returned to the manor a dozen times, feeling desperate to console him, but he’d been very clear that he didn’t need her.
So she’d dawdled at the cottage, trying to pack her portmanteau, but she’d driven herself batty with anxiety as she’d jumped at every sound, expecting he’d sought her out instead, but he hadn’t arrived.
Now here he was.
He made a slight gesture toward the house. It was a request to enter, a request to be with her, and she quickly nodded, inviting him in, which was insane. She was attired in her nightgown, with not a stitch of clothing on under it. Her hair was down, her feet bare. What was her plan? Would she entertain him privately in such a condition?
Apparently yes.
He disappeared into the shadows, and she faced the door, listening for him. Shortly it opened, and he slipped inside. Without speaking, he hurried to her and drew her into his arms. Then he was kissing her and kissing her as if he was drowning and she was the only one who could save him.
As always when she was with him, she forgot why he was at Kirkwood. His motives didn’t matter. She was simply overwhelmed by him and had no means of fending off the temptation he offered. She didn’t want to fend it off. He needed her empathy and friendship, and evidently she was ready to give him all those things and whatever else he asked for besides.
“I’m sorry for how I acted today,” he whispered. “I was upset.”
“I understood that you were.”
&nbs
p; “I was furious with Kit. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
She smiled. “No, you shouldn’t have, but I forgive you.”
“You’re too good to me and much better than I deserve.”
“I agree. I’m much better than you deserve.”
He pulled her to him again and hugged her tightly.
“Why were you fighting with Mr. Roxbury?” she inquired.
“Have you talked to your cousin, Sophia, about him?”
“No, why?”
“He wants to marry her.”
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“I had no idea they were cordial. Last I heard, he was pressuring her to have an affair.”
“I guess he decided he’d like more than that.”
“She accepted his proposal?”
“Yes.”
Georgina couldn’t wrap her mind around the notion. Sophia was so vain and finicky, and in picking Mr. Roxbury, she’d lowered her standards quite a bit. But calamity had a way of equalizing positions.
Why hadn’t Sophia confided in Georgina? Perhaps her cousin was afraid of what Georgina’s opinion would be. On the spur of the moment, she couldn’t figure out what she thought of the situation.
“You’re opposed?” she asked. “Is that why you were quarreling?”
He snorted with disgust. “Yes, I’m definitely opposed.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s my friend, and she’s a Marshall.”
“If he’s your friend, couldn’t you find it in your heart to be happy for him?”
He was quiet for an age, distress floating off him in waves. “I told him to leave Kirkwood,” he admitted. “I told him to leave and not come back.”
“You weren’t serious, were you?”
“Yes, I was deadly serious,” he said.
“It will be all right.” She gazed up at him. “You’ll see.”
“It’s all right now. I’m not a boy, and I hardly need him tagging after me.”
“Will he still be your estate agent?”
“No. Estate agents are a penny a dozen. I’ll hire someone else.”
“Could I have my job back then? Would you give it to me?”
“No.”
It was the response she expected, but it irked, and she grumbled, “I was good at it.”
“I’m sure you were, but I only have a single use for women. If you’d like to work for me, you’ll have to fill a different role. I’ve clarified which one.”
“There you go being crude again. We’ve danced out to the edge of an affair several times, but you’re too cowardly to forge ahead.”
“Cowardly!”
“And you’re too much of a gentleman to treat me badly.”
“If that’s what you suppose, you haven’t been paying attention.”
“I’ve been paying attention. Deep down, you’re kind and generous. I wish you’d stop pretending to be horrid.”
“I’m not pretending.”
He stepped over to her rickety bed, and he lay down and dragged her down with him. Though she should have balked, she didn’t hesitate.
He started kissing her again, gradually rolling them so he was stretched out on top of her. He seemed driven to prove a point or maybe to lead her to places they hadn’t been before. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands roaming over her torso, caressing her breasts and thighs, her shoulders and back.
“I want you,” he murmured.
“I can’t guess what that means.”
“I’ll show you.”
“I can’t oblige you. Not when I’m clueless as to what you’re requesting.”
“It will be wonderful. I swear it.”
“What will be wonderful? That’s how oblivious I am.”
“I have to make you mine, Georgina. We can’t avoid it any longer.”
“Are you suggesting I…I…”
She didn’t have the vocabulary for carnal discussion and couldn’t complete her sentence.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s precisely what I’m suggesting.”
“Tell me what you plan. Explain it to me.”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Why not?”
“You’d never believe me, and I’m in such a desperate hurry. I can’t bear to talk about it now.”
She was on the horns of the worst dilemma. Obviously she’d pushed him to the exact spot Miles and Augusta had been urging her to attain, but she wouldn’t ruin herself simply to get a few more months of residence at Kirkwood.
No, if she proceeded it would be for another reason entirely. She didn’t want a temporary relationship, didn’t want to consort on a lumpy mattress and act as if it was satisfying to her. He’d come to her for companionship and comfort. How could she convince him that he needed more than that from her, and he hadn’t recognized it?
“I might be willing to do what you ask,” she tentatively said, “but you’d have to do something for me too.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not a doxy.”
“I realize you’re not.”
“You can’t use me as you would a woman of low character. I’m a respectable female from a good family.”
“If you consider the Marshalls a good family, I’d have to agree.”
“I can’t engage in a fling as if there are no rules governing civilized society.”
“Oh. You expect me to promise myself.”
“Would you?”
“Why would you want me for a husband?”
“You’re lonely.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m lonely too,” she declared as if he hadn’t just insisted he wasn’t.
“If it’s loneliness you’re hoping to cure, we don’t have to bind ourselves in order to chase it away. We can simply spend passionate time together, and you’ll be perfectly content when we’re through.”
“No, I wouldn’t be. I need more than you’re offering. I need the parts of you you’ve never given to anyone before.”
He peered down at her with what she assumed was significant fondness, but ultimately he said, “I would never promise myself. I don’t keep my promises, Georgina. I’ve never been able to.”
“Wouldn’t it be grand to belong to me? You seem so isolated and solitary. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to have one person in the world who is completely yours?”
He sighed. “I’ve never wanted that so with me apprising you that I can’t bestow what you desire, how shall we resolve this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shall I go? Before you answer, I should probably inform you that I really don’t think I can.” He paused, then added, “Don’t make me.”
“No, I won’t make you. Stay right here. Stay as long as you like.”
Damian stared down at her, wishing he’d lit a candle so he could see her eyes. When he was with her, he always felt better. At the moment, with the terrible day finally over, there was no place he’d rather be than in her arms.
He’d told her he couldn’t leave, and he was serious. He was too beaten down by events. It was bad enough to be back at Kirkwood, but his fight with Kit had exacerbated his anguish.
His friend’s departure had rattled loose many old memories, had scratched the scab off many old wounds. He’d tried to ignore his beleaguered condition, and when he couldn’t, he’d come to Georgina. It was the only solution.
He was stunned to find himself riveted by her request for a continuing connection. What would it be like to wed her? He suspected it would be splendid—for a bit of time—but he couldn’t envision sitting around the home fires and having a wife fuss over him. He was a man of action, and he lived life on the edge. He had all he needed, and it didn’t include a bride.
Well, except perhaps Portia Smithwaite. In the end, he might marry her. He’d actually proposed but wasn’t certain he’d proceed. It was more likely that he’d jilt her at the last second.
What he would never, ever do was shackle himself
to Georgina Fogarty. She was loyal, decent, and kind-hearted. If he consented to matrimony, she’d presume it was for love and esteem. She’d shower Damian with devotion and affection, but he could never return those sentiments.
But…
She was such a deliciously sensual creature, and she could benefit from a dalliance. She should have been bedded years earlier, and he was eager to be the one who relieved her of her virginity. He had no doubt he could. Then he’d convince her to remain by his side for a while. He would spoil her, would lavish her with gifts she’d never received as the Marshalls’ poor cousin.
He’d take her away from Kirkwood to a locale that was beautiful and exotic. He’d set her up in a fine house with an allowance and servants so she could carry on in a manner suited to how extraordinary he deemed her to be.
She wouldn’t get a ring on her finger, wouldn’t have the husband she’d hoped to have, but she’d have something better, something most women would kill to have. She’d have an independent existence, without a shrew like Augusta Marshall criticizing her every move.
“Tell me about Botany Bay,” she suddenly said.
“Why would you ask such a question?”
“I’d like to know more about you. What was your crime?”
He never talked about that era so he was astonished to hear himself say, “It was pick pocketing.”
“You were transported for pick pocketing?” She sounded outraged on his behalf, which made him smile.
“Yes, and I had a few other charges added on while I was there.”
“Why?”
“I don’t follow orders very well. Let’s just leave it at that.”
She snuggled closer and touched the scars where he’d been flogged so often.
He’d been stubborn and recalcitrant and had refused to obey the commands of idiots. He’d stood up for weaker boys too, boys like Kit who couldn’t protect themselves. He’d frequently taken their punishment for them.
His beatings had been so numerous and so intense that he’d nearly perished on several occasions. It was how he’d met Anne Blair. After a particularly brutal episode, she’d kept him alive. She’d saved him, despite the fact that he’d had no interest in being saved.