She bit her lip, wanting to beg for so much more, yet afraid to face his rejection once again. But her desire to be his won over caution. “Will you make love to me, please?”
He shook his head slowly back and forth, and she closed her eyes, unwilling to let him see the depth of pain his decision caused her.
“You don’t love me,” she said, giving voice to the truth. A vise constricted around her heart, squeezing tighter with each breath she took. She could live with the knowledge if he gave her any hope that he might grow to love her with time. “But I know you desire me. You’ve admitted as much yourself, on the ship. And I suspect it weighed heavily in your decision to propose marriage. So why do you reject me night after night?”
He laid his finger over her lips, shushing her. “Look at me, Mercy.”
Against her better judgment, she pried her eyes open. One rebellious teardrop slipped out. He wiped it away with his thumb and gazed at her with a blistering intensity.
“You have no concept of the willpower I exercise each night as I hold you close. Nor can you comprehend the ravenous desire devouring every inch of my soul when you gaze upon me with those sultry eyes. I could never reject you. I’m offering you my utmost respect by denying myself what I crave above all else.” Wrapping one leg over hers, he tugged her closer and rested her head in the crook of his shoulder. He brushed a solemn kiss on her hair, whispering, “Make no mistake; once we say our vows and consummate our union, I will never let you go. Take care, and be sure of your heart before you surrender it to me forever.”
Was his reluctance really so simple?
She smiled and traced her finger along the contours of his broad chest. “I don’t wish for you to let me go. I shudder to think I almost lost you to Lady Bellamy for two shillings.”
“You should be sorry for that,” he said, pinching her playfully on the arm. “Meddling in my love life wasn’t well done of you.”
She rested her chin on his chest and smiled at his perturbed expression. “Cecelia was cross with me, too, until I assured her that the effect would only be temporary.”
His lips turn down for a fraction of a second, and then he smiled back. His heartbeat thumped against her chin, its rhythm pronounced and rapid. “Surely you’re jesting. Your love potion is infamous and infallible.”
“True, when administered in the correct dosage.” She laid her cheek on his chest once more, settling in for the night. A yawn seized her, and she covered her mouth through the deep inhale and exhale before continuing. “But I never sell a full dose of the potion. I’m not God, and our history proves the results can be disastrous when you try to force love on an unwilling party.”
• • •
Victor’s knees grew weak. He might have crashed to the floor if he hadn’t already been lying in bed. His mouth turned to cotton, and all rational thought abandoned him. Was this the moment when she would tell him that it had all been a horrible joke? That she wasn’t in love with him?
“Do tell, my sweet,” he said, feigning a light-hearted attitude he did not feel. “What happens when one drinks only a partial dose of love potion?”
“The person becomes infatuated and believes himself in love. The duration varies, depending on his initial regard for the other.”
It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to spring from the bed and curse the Almighty for playing him a fool. What had he done in his short life to deserve such torture, over and over again? Mercy could fall out of love at any moment, if she hadn’t already. Was she stringing him along with her innocent eyes and sweet words until it was too late and his birthday was upon him? A thousand possibilities clouded his mind.
He swallowed and set his doubts aside. He must learn as much as he could while she was still awake and in a teasing mood. “And the shortest period you’ve ever seen the love potion work?”
“Three days,” she said, giggling. “But, in that case, Lady Bellamy was quite delusional.”
A wave of nausea crashed through his body. Four days had already come and gone. Mercy had despised him with every fiber of her being before she drank the love potion. With good reason. He mentally counted the days. Tomorrow would mark the fifth day. The potion might expire at any moment. God in Heaven, but he was a dead man.
“Victor, are you unwell?”
He gazed into her eyes and saw the raw concern reflected in them. No matter what was to come, she loved him in this moment. He needed to act quickly. Did she carry another dose of love potion in her box? He could not recall. Why hadn’t he taken a precise inventory while they were still on the ship?
“Victor?” she asked again, the single word brisk and uncertain. “Answer me, please.”
“I’m fine,” he said, attempting to shake off the feeling of impending dread.
But it was short-lived, chased away by a powerful rage. Why must life always be so damned difficult? Perhaps this was God’s way of telling him to trust in the power of forgiveness as Eveline always begged him to do. His head ached, and he wanted to scream. He had so few alternatives and even less time to consider his next steps. If he did nothing, would she forgive him his deception after all they’d been through? He couldn’t predict with certainty.
Mercy leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips. Her mouth was soft and sweet, and he found himself threading his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer. For one brief moment, he wanted to forget everything . . . except that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman who loved him, who desired to build a long-lasting future together.
A crushing weight pressed against his chest cavity. Oh, good God, he had started to believe in the dream over the past week. Mercy’s devotion felt so real. He wanted it to be real. But everything was a lie. There was no happy ending for the Blackburn male who inherited the curse each generation. He must never forget that horrible truth.
He pushed her gently onto the bed beside him and kissed her forehead. Closing her eyes, she drifted into sleep within seconds, trusting him implicitly to take care of her. But he had proven himself unworthy of her trust, time and time again. He wanted to shake her awake and warn her to run far away. But he couldn’t. The tables had turned once more, and he had to do everything in his power to save his nephew, if not himself.
There was only one way to definitively secure Mercy’s forgiveness of her Blackburn brethren when she woke from the effect of the love potion. He must plant his seed deep within her womb and pray for a son. She would never forgive him for the treacherous deed, but she would eventually break the curse for her child. What was he to do? Trust in their fragile relationship or follow the dependable path?
“Sleep well, sweet lass,” he whispered, petting her soft cheek. “For, tomorrow, I may grant your wish and make you truly mine.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A ray of sunlight burst through the window into Victor’s eyes, illuminating the pile of opened letters strewn across his bed. His gaze lingered on each one in turn. Every single note his mother had written to him over the years. He’d etched every word in his mind. Traced the watermarks of her tears ingrained in the vellum. Held the letters in his hands, knowing her fingers had caressed the sheets. She loved him unconditionally, as only a mother could.
And he’d abandoned her, cut her out of his life with the same efficiency with which he’d stabbed Maude in the heart. At the time of his decision, it had seemed the best course of action. But now, as he stared at the irrefutable evidence of her love and devotion, his resolve felt unbearably cruel.
His hands trembled as he tied a red ribbon around the stack of unopened envelopes addressed to his mother in his own hand. She’d waited more than a decade for a response, and now she would finally get one. He wanted her to understand that her letters had meant everything to him, had raised his spirits higher, and sparked hope deep in his heart whenever the flame was perilously close to flickering out.
But offering her his letters was little more than a double-edged sword. He would crush her heart with the w
eight of having withheld his love, and if that was not enough to slay her, the truth of his past deeds would.
In the space of one month, the Butcher had stripped away the fine young man Victor had become under his mother’s tutelage and molded him into a heartless murderer. Kill or die. There was nothing in between in the world of cutthroat pirates, and in the end, he’d discovered his basic will to survive exceeded any sense of right or wrong in the world.
His father wouldn’t judge him harshly. He was a survivalist who did whatever it took to achieve his goals. But his mother . . . She always expected more and had taught him kindness, respect, and to protect those who needed it most. How would he summon the courage to look her in the eyes when at last they met again?
A knock on the bedroom door sliced through his thoughts.
“Enter,” he said, grabbing a cravat from his chest. The breakfast hour was upon him, and he needed to complete his toilette.
His father’s valet slipped quietly into the room. “Welcome home, sir. Milton suggested you might require my services this morning.”
The servant stood ramrod straight in the doorway. But before he closed the door, a black-and-gray tabby lumbered inside, purring as he wound his plump body through Victor’s legs.
Victor kneeled and scratched the critter behind the ears. The cat burrowed against his palm, soaking up the attention. “Is that you, George?”
“King George,” the valet said with a hint of amusement, “as he’s been affectionately labeled. A bowl of warm milk awaits him every night before he retires in your bed, sir. He’s partial to the pillow on the left side. Lady Blackburn spoils him terribly, I’m afraid.”
King George. The endearment suited him better than simply George, named after the brother Victor had always wished for but never received. His cat stretched and hopped onto the bed, curling into a ball on his favorite pillow. Memories of his kitten surfaced, and a lump grew in Victor’s throat. He had loved that furball and cried over the loss upon his abduction. He’d even named his horse after his little friend. Well, it seemed George had missed him, too.
The valet’s gaze moved from the cat to the pile of letters littering the bed, and the corners of his mouth turned down. He couldn’t possibly have known the contents, or who had written them, yet Victor felt the weight of his curiosity. Impertinent man!
Straightening his cravat, he glared at his father’s valet and strode to the mirror. “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself, Blair. Go attend your other duties and leave me in peace.”
The old man’s attention snapped back to Victor, and the shock written on his face was like a slap on the cheek. Blair was as close to family as a servant could be, and they’d always gotten on well in his youth. The servant bowed stiffly and reached for the door handle.
What a fucking bastard he’d become. The man was only fulfilling his duties, and he wasn’t at fault for the myriad emotions roiling through Victor’s gut.
“Blair, wait,” he said, rubbing his tired eyes. “My apologies. I thank you for the kind welcome. You deserve more respect than I’ve afforded you. After years of serving as valet to Lord Sommerset, I ought to know better.”
The valet’s expression vacillated between horror and confusion. “Sir?”
“It’s a long story,” Victor said, reaching for his jacket, “and we haven’t the time. I appreciate your offer of assistance, but I’ve grown accustomed to dressing myself over the years. But if you could see to unpacking my wardrobe, I would be most grateful.”
“My pleasure.” Blair stepped aside as Victor approached the door. “Should you care to know, your parents are on their way down to the breakfast room as we speak, and my granddaughter, Mary, is attending to your guest. Perhaps you may recall having met her in your youth?”
“Yes, of course,” Victor said, not quite able to look the man in the eyes. A warm flush crept up his neck, and he tamped down the urge to loosen his cravat. “How is Mary? Well, I hope.”
And no longer suffering from arachnophobia as a result of the cruel joke Victor had played on her when he was a lad? He hardly needed to remind the valet of the incident in the graveyard since he’d caught Victor red-handed, holding Mary captive while he forced her face within inches of a lace web spider.
The corners of Blair’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps you can ask her yourself before you head to the breakfast room, when you look in on your guest.”
He met the old man’s steady gaze, and Victor smiled. “Another time, Blair. Miss Limmerick wishes to break her fast in her room so I may visit alone with my family this morning. But she promised to join us in an hour.” He winked at the valet. “Be a good chap and ensure she doesn’t escape.”
Blair’s thin, gray eyebrows shot up, and Victor laughed.
“By the bye, my thanks for offering Mary’s assistance. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Life at sea has erased some of my finer skills.”
“Well, it’s good to have you back, sir,” Blair said, his amber eyes glowing with warmth.
Glancing over his shoulder, Victor drank in the familiarity of his bedroom, allowing the comforts of his youth to seep into his veins. “It’s good to be home.”
And with that, he strode confidently down the long corridor until he came to the grand staircase bathed in the light of day. He grabbed hold of the railing to steady himself as an onslaught of memories crashed over him. Chasing Cora down the stairs. Wrapping the Christmas wreaths around the handrails. Tracking his muddy boots through the foyer to annoy Milton. And hiding an injured bird within the cuckoo clock while he sought bandages and food to care for it.
The walls closed in on him, and he gasped. Why had he returned to Blackburn Castle? This was no longer his home. He didn’t have a home. The world was his playground, and he enjoyed discovering far-off places where no one and nothing could touch him, where he didn’t have to deceive innocent women. He needed to sail away. Coming home had been a terrible mistake; he could see that now.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he focused on the front door. The stables were an easy distance away, and there would be any number of horses at his disposal. He could be back at the wharf within the hour. Just a few more steps . . .
“Good morning, sir,” Milton said, stepping directly into Victor’s path.
He reared back, gaping at the butler. Good God, where had he come from? Milton’s ability to materialize out of nowhere still confounded him. “Get out of my way, man,” he said, pushing the butler aside.
Milton clasped Victor’s forearm in a surprisingly strong grip, stalling his progress.
“The breakfast room is through the stairwell and to your right, as it has always been,” came his haughty announcement. “I’m certain you were headed in the direction of the front entrance. But that cannot be your true intention. To leave, that is. Not when you haven’t greeted your mother and father, nor laid eyes on your nephew for the first time.”
Milton was right. Victor wasn’t a coward. For the first time in four centuries, there was hope for ending the Blackburn curse, no matter the distasteful means of achieving that end. He’d come this far already.
“Yes, of course,” he said, heading in the correct direction. “I became confused for a moment.”
Gripping his bundle of letters tighter, he neared the door to the breakfast room. His father’s baritone could be heard as he laughed at some comment or other, presumably from Victor’s mother. His hand remained poised over the doorknob, and his heart thumped so hard he could feel the reverberations in his throat.
Open the door.
He pushed the door open, and his mother’s perfect form came into view, draped in a navy silk gown with delicate lace trim. She stood by the sideboard, filling her plate with scrambled eggs.
“Mother.” The word rolled off his tongue of its own accord.
She glanced up, and her plate crashed to the floor. A range of emotions flittered across her face . . . elation . . . disbelief . . . sadness. And perhaps a smidgeon of anger, until
her lips split into an incredulous smile and she dashed toward him. He opened his arms wide and caught her in his embrace, laughing along with her.
“Victor! Is it really you, my dear boy?”
The impact of her body almost knocked the bundle of letters from his hold. He lifted his mother and twirled her around once. She screamed and hugged him tighter.
“Yes, Mother.” Setting her down, he gazed into her tear-filled eyes. “You haven’t aged a single day. Truly, you look very well.”
She clasped his face between her hands and held his stare. “Your father ought to lay you over his knees and paddle your bottom for staying away from us for so long without a single word! But I suppose you are too old for such punishment?”
Victor chuckled and rubbed his cheek harder against her hand, breathing in her rose-scented skin. “Far too old for a spanking. But he may dress me down all he likes. Lord knows I deserve it for keeping you in the dark for over ten years—especially considering your ever faithful correspondence. Please, Mother, will you forgive me?”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she nodded. “I’m so glad you’re home, Victor. There is nothing to forgive.”
He cleared his throat, which had become dry and constricted to an almost painful level, as he gazed down into her loving face, a face he had found difficult to repaint in his mind’s eye after so many years away. But now that he held her close, it was as though he had never left home.
Taking a step back, he offered her the letters. “Your letters meant the world to me, and I responded to every single one of them, though I chose not to post them, lest I give you false hope. Accept them now, if you wish.”
“Oh, Victor!” She sobbed then, one hand covering her mouth as she took the bundle.
A strong hand fell on Victor’s shoulder, and he turned to face his father eye to eye. His father had not been as fortunate as his mother. Wrinkles lined the edges of his eyes and lips. Without a word, his father pulled him into a bear hug and clapped him hard on the back.
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 14