A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  You're worth it.

  Her words echoed in his head. She believed the best of him, and if he killed Flynt, he would be no better than the criminal he was trying to bring to justice.

  He slowly released his grip on the gang leader's throat, and the man slid down the wall, choking and gasping for air.

  "Instead, I think I'll let the law decide what to do with you. You're not worth my time. You can rot in Newgate, for all I care. Either way, your days of terror­izing Tothill Fields are over."

  With that, Tristan returned to Deirdre's side to sweep her up in his arms. When her head lolled listlessly on his shoulder, he couldn't ignore a sharp jolt of alarm.

  At that moment, Dodger Dan appeared in the door­way, flanked by two of his men.

  The boxer raised an eyebrow as he strode forward into the room. "Couldn't wait for me, could you—" he began, but halted as he caught sight of Tristan's burden.

  "Is she all right?" he asked in concern, stepping aside and gesturing to his men to clear a path to the door.

  "I don't know." Tristan jerked his head in Barnaby's direction. "Take care of him. I have to get her to a doc­tor, and quickly."

  He left the room with the gang leader's curses ring­ing in his ears, and met Cullen outside on the landing. One look at his mistress, and the coachman went pale beneath his usually ruddy coloring.

  Tristan didn't hesitate. "Cullen, I need you to sum­mon a hackney as swiftly as possible. I have to get Lady Rotherby back to my house with all due speed. Then I need you to ride for a doctor. Can you do that?"

  With a nod, the servant hurried to do Tristan's bid­ding, and Tristan started after him. He had just put his booted foot on the top step, however, when a sudden clamor from behind him and Dan's voice raised in warning had him looking back over his shoulder.

  Barnaby appeared in the doorway, his black eyes shining with a maniacal light. "This ain't over! No­body crosses Barnaby Flynt and gets away wiv it!" With that, he rushed at Tristan.

  He had only a split second to make a decision, and with Deirdre in his arms, his options were few. Clutch­ing her close against his chest, he took a step back out of the way just as the gang leader reached him.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Flynt teetered at the very top of the stairs, the knowledge of what was about to happen clear in his eyes. Then, almost as if in slow mo­tion, he plunged over the banister, Wtting the floor with a sickening thud, his neck bent at an awkward angle.

  The reign of Barnaby Flynt was officially over.

  Chapter 27

  "Is she going to be all right?"

  The soft query came from the doorway of Tristan's bedchamber, and he looked up to find Emily hovering in the entrance, her eyes full of concern.

  He gestured to her from the chair next to the bed, then turned back to Deirdre, who lay unmoving be­neath the mound of blankets. "According to the doc­tor, with care and plenty of rest she should be up and about in a few days."

  But it had been a close thing. As he remembered her pale, still face, her blood on his hands, a lump formed in his throat, and he had to swallow convulsively to clear it away. The physician had said that if the knife had been a few inches lower, they might have lost her. It was a thought he couldn't bear to contemplate.

  Emily came to stand next to him. "I'm glad she's go-ing to be okay." She paused for a moment, then turned to study her brother with a serious expression. "She cares for you a great deal. I could tell. When she found me at the Rag-Tag Bunch's hideout and tried to talk me into coming home, she spoke of you with so much warmth."

  He winced, his heart squeezing with guilt. "And my last words to her were angry."

  "She'll forgive you. She doesn't seem to be the sort of person to hold someone's mistakes against them."

  "What about you?" He looked up to meet Emily's gaze. It seemed to him that the sister he'd once known had changed in the short time she'd been gone. She'd matured in some way, becoming quieter and more in­trospective. "Can you forgive me for not being here for you? For closing myself off the way I did?"

  She sighed and sank down onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the sleeping Deirdre. "I had a lot of time to think while I was locked in that room with that monster. Time to wonder if you'd even want me back after everything I've done. I deliberately made things difficult for you, and some of what I did . . ." She shook her head. "Poor Mrs. Petersham."

  Tristan couldn't restrain a low chuckle. "She'll re­cover. My tutors always did."

  They shared a look of complete understanding be­fore Emily gave him a shy smile. "I'm sorry. And thank you for saving me."

  He reached out to cover one of her small hands with his own. "I'm sorry, too. And I'm glad you're home."

  For several minutes, they watched over Deirdre in companionable silence. Then, Emily spoke again, her voice halting and a bit uncertain. "So, Barnaby Flynt. . . he was the man who killed Mother?"

  At her question, Tristan froze, his breath catching in his throat. Struggling to keep any of his emotions from showing on his face, he tightened his grip on his sis­ter's fingers before he answered. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  Biting her Up, she looked away. "You know, I never really knew what happened to her," she confided softly. "Father wouldn't speak of it except to say he blamed you." She glanced back at him. "I missed hav­ing you around to talk to about her."

  Tristan's heart squeezed, and he closed his eyes against the sudden, sharp pain her words brought him. Dear God, how could he possibly make it all up to her?

  "Well, I'm here now, sweetheart, and I don't intend leaving again anytime soon." At that moment, the clock outside in the hallway struck midnight, and he nodded toward the door. "But you've had a hard day, young lady, and you need your rest, as well. Off to bed and we'll talk again in the morning."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  Emily started to turn away, but as she did, some­thing else occurred to him, and he halted her with a hand on her arm.

  "One other thing." He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the locket Dan had returned to him. Ever since that day, he'd carried it close to his heart, hoping for a chance to give it back to his sister. "It seems you misplaced something."

  "Mother's necklace!" Her eyes shining with tears, Emily took it from him and held it in her cupped palms, her expression joyous. "I thought I'd never see it again! Where did you find it?"

  "Let's just say someone must have been looking out for you." He winked at her. "Now, go on. You look exhausted."

  Going up on tiptoe, Emily gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered and headed for the door.

  Halfway there, however, she came to a sudden stop and looked back over her shoulder. "You know, Tris­tan, I heard Father one night after he'd come home late from one of his clubs, drunk as usual. He fell asleep at his desk in his study and was muttering to himself, calling out to you in his dreams."

  "He was more than likely cursing my name."

  "No. He was telling you how wrong he'd been to send you away—and begging you to come back."

  With that, she left the room, closing the door be­hind her.

  Tristan was stunned. Was it possible? Could his fa­ther have finally forgiven him in the end, after so many years of anger and bitterness? He stared down at his hand clenched into a fist on the bed. He may never know now, but he found to his surprise that the late earl's opinion no longer mattered, that it no longer had the power to make him feel like a failure. The only per­son whose opinion truly meant anything to him was right here in this room.

  "Where am I?"

  The words were barely more than a whisper, but as attuned as he was to Deirdre's every breath, he heard them. He glanced up, a wave of relief washing over him when he saw that her eyes were finally open and lucid.

  "Deirdre, thank God!" He reached up to brush a wisp of hair from her cheek. "I've been waiting for you to look at me with those beautiful green eyes."

  "Where am I?" she repe
ated, her voice slightly stronger as her gaze darted around the room. "What happened?"

  "You're at my town house. You were stabbed by that bastard, Barnaby."

  She shifted, grimacing at the resulting twinge of pain, and he laid a hand on her shoulder to calm her. "Try not to move around too much, sweetheart," he ad­vised her gently. "You don't want to tear open your wound. The physician examined you thoroughly, and you have a few stitches, but he said you should be on the mend."

  "Where's Emily?"

  Her voice was full of concern, and he rushed to re­assure her. "She's safe in her own bed."

  "And the people of Tothill Fields? The Rag-Tag Bunch?"

  "All fine. A few cuts and bruises among them, but they acquitted themselves admirably. And believe it or not, the Rag-Tags are with Mrs. Godfrey at your town house."

  Deirdre's eyebrows rose, and Tristan laughed.

  "I know. It shocked me, as well. But the minute she heard what had happened, she demanded we bring those poor lambs to her so she could take care of them." He shrugged. "She actually seems to be enjoy­ing having children about. Why, the woman even smiled at me, if you can believe that."

  He moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, tak­ing her hand in his. "You know, you were right about the people of Tothill, Deirdre. All of them. They really banded together in a way I didn't think was possible. I don't know what I would have done without their help."

  She gave him a wan, tentative smile before a shadow abruptly crossed her face. "And Barnaby?"

  "He's gone, darling. He won't hurt anyone again." "You didn't. . . ?"

  "I didn't have to. He took care of that for me him­self." He twined his fingers through hers, his thumb stroking her palm in a light caress. "All of his boys have been rounded up and turned over to the law. All except for Jack Barlow. He seems to have disappeared. We can only hope for good."

  She was quiet for a moment, her free hand fidgeting at the coverlet as she avoided his gaze. Something was obviously troubling her, something besides her injury. But what?

  Reaching out, he lifted her chin with a finger, forc­ing her to meet his eyes. "What is it, love? Why do you look so sad?"

  "It's nothing. Just. . ." She bit her lip. "I appreciate you taking care of me. I realize it must have been diffi­cult in the circumstances, and I promise as soon as I'm able I'll be out of your house for good."

  "Deirdre, what are you babbling about? What cir­cumstances?"

  "Well, after everything I've done you must hate me, and—"

  "Everything you've done?" He was astounded. She actually believed he hated her? "You mean help me find my sister? Expose yourself to Flynt to save her life? Take a knife wound meant for me? Which of those should I hate you for?"

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know very well what I mean. I lied to you, kept things from you. I didn't tell you right away when I found Emily. Or tell you about Barnaby and your mother."

  "Emily explained about the first part, and I under­stand. My sister can be very convincing, and she has assured me that you let her know in no uncertain terms that you would be telling me before the day was out. I know you would never have deliberately done anything to put her in danger, and I'm sorry I accused you of using our. . . relationship to distract me. I should have known you would never do anything like that."

  "And the rest?"

  She looked so anxious, so worried, that he couldn't resist leaning forward to plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. "I admit, I was angry, hurt that you didn't con­fide in me sooner. But, sweetheart, how could I blame you for any of that? You were a child. Flynt used you."

  He squeezed her fingers when she still looked un­certain. "I've been thinking about that day ever since you told me, trying to recall more about what hap­pened. And do you know what I remember most about you? I remember you crying, pleading with Barnaby and his boys not to hurt me. You tried to help me, didn't you? And you turned him in to the law afterward."

  "For all the good it did me." She sighed. "He just disappeared until the authorities gave up looking for him, and once he found out I was the one who peached, it was only a matter of time before he made me pay for it. I'd have wound up dead if Nigel hadn't found me."

  "And yet you were ready to turn yourself over to him today to save my sister."

  "It was the only way I could think of to convince him to release her. I couldn't stand by and watch him hurt her if there was a way I could prevent it."

  He studied her delicate features, overwhelmed by the power of what he felt for her. Dear God, she was all that was good in this world. How could she not know, not see how much she'd come to mean to him?

  Unable to resist sharing what was in his heart, he cupped her face with his hand, willing her to feel the sincerity of his words. "How could you believe for a second that I could hate you?" he breathed huskily, holding her eyes with his own. "How could I possibly hate you when I love you so very much?"

  At first, Deirdre was certain she couldn't have heard him correctly. Her head was so muddled from the pain and the laudanum she'd been given that she was cer­tain she must be imagining things. "I beg your par­don?" she forced out through stiff lips, her pulse pounding in her ears. "What did you say?"

  He smiled and bent over to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips. It had her lungs seizing. "I said I love you."

  This has to be a dream, she thought wildly. He couldn't be telling her he loved her.

  "Please," she choked out, tugging her hand from his and scooting further up on the pillows. "Please don't tell me that just because you're grateful."

  "Oh, I'm grateful." He recaptured her hand, tight­ening his grip when she tried to free herself. "You saved my life, Deirdre. Threw yourself in front of a knife for me. Something, by the way, you are not to do again. But that's not why I love you."

  Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against hers, as if to ensure he had her undivided attention. "I love you because you are kind and generous and un­selfish. Because you give everything of yourself with­out ever expecting anything in return, and because you love the people of Tothill Fields, even the ones who are difficult to love."

  In a move that had her shivering, he traced the line of her nose with his lips, kissing each tiny freckle be­fore moving on to the shell of her ear. "I love you be­cause you agreed to help me, even knowing that you could be running the risk of Barnaby finding you. Be­cause you put up with me and my black moods, even when I was being my most stubborn."

  Lying back on the pillows next to her, he lifted a hand to trace her lips with a finger, one corner of his mouth tilting upward at the shivery moan that escaped her. "I love you because you gave me your sweet body, because you trusted me enough to let me be the first. And—I hope—the last."

  She started to speak, but he halted her with the but­terfly brush of a kiss against her lips. "But most of all, I love you because you believe I'm someone worth loving."

  At a loss, she gazed up at him, unable to speak. How was it possible that everything she'd dreamed of seemed to finally be within her grasp?

  "I'm waiting."

  His statement caught her off guard. "Excuse me?"

  "Well, I told you I love you. It would be nice to hear it from you, as well."

  She felt her cheeks heat at his teasing tone. "You must know how I feel. I haven't been very good at hid­ing it."

  "It would be nice to hear it, all the same." Though his smile remained, there was enough seriousness in his words to let her know he meant them.

  Touching his face with a trembling hand, she battled back sudden tears of happiness. "I love you, Lord Ellington. I think I have ever since I first saw you in that alleyway all those years ago."

  Pure, unfettered emotion shone in his eyes before he took her lips with his in a tender, reverent kiss. When he drew away, she was breathless and aching.

  And unable to hide her sudden exhaustion.

  He chuckled at her attempt to stifle a yawn. "You're tired, young lady." Pulling h
er blankets up, he tucked them snugly under her chin. "Go to sleep."

  "But—"

  "No buts." Settling down next to her, he enfolded her in the warm strength of his arms. "You need to get some rest."

  "Well, maybe I will close my eyes for a while." Drained from her injury and the events of the day, she felt herself drifting off, but not before she heard Tris­tan's voice in her ear.

  "I promise I'll be here when you wake up."

  Deirdre was in the sitting room three days later, playing a game of chess with Emily, when a sudden commotion from out in the entry hall had them both looking up in alarm.

  It was the first day that Deirdre had been allowed out of bed since her near-fatal brush with Barnaby's knife. After carrying her downstairs early this morn­ing and placing her on the sofa with firm instructions that she was not to move for any reason, Tristan had re­treated to his study to take care of some long-neglected business matters, leaving his sister to keep her com­pany. That had been no hardship for Deirdre, since Emily was an entertaining companion, and the two of them had been quite enjoying themselves when they were startled by the sound of a strident female voice, followed by the calmer tones of Archer.

  A second later, the door suddenly burst open to re­veal a plump, elegantly attired lady with iron-gray hair and a waspish expression.

  The butler appeared at her elbow, his mouth pinched with concern. "I'm sorry, Lady Rotherby. I was going to announce her, but—"

  "Nonsense, man!" the woman blustered. "You don't need to announce me in the home of my very own nephew!"

  Deirdre felt all the blood drain into her toes as she realized who stood before her. Good Lord, it was Tris­tan's aunt, the Dragon Lady!

  Clearing her throat, Deirdre gave Archer an under­standing look. "It's all right, Archer. Thank you."

  The butler looked unconvinced, but he nodded and disappeared from view.