Nick shoved his opponent’s squirming body in place against the bars, pressed flush with him—nose to nose, thigh to thigh—to prevent any attempt at escape. He squeezed his captive’s neck against the bars, clamping his windpipe. Donal clawed at his wrists. His strength surprised Nick, prompting him to tighten his grip even more.
The Irishman’s inhalations threaded to tight whistles beneath the pressure; his peppermint breath stung Nick’s nostrils and fed his flame.
He thought about taking out his knife and slicing the man’s jugular. But this was much more satisfying. A perverse thrill rushed in as his captive started to flail and plead for release—eyes and veins bulging while he struggled to break Nick’s hold. The face transformed to Hayes … the hypocritical swine who’d stolen a young girl’s childhood, raped her, and forced her into a life of depravity before ripping away any chance to claim a woman’s dearest joy.
A toxic storm broke loose—his guilt for hurting Mina and the shame he felt when his father found him drugged out of his mind, combined with the helplessness of watching a young courtesan being drained of life. Every part of him, even the sockets of his eyes, pulsed with thunder and burned with venom.
He needed to stop the unending squall inside. To shut it down for good.
He’d once heard that killing someone released a high like no other. Laudanum be damned; he had a new drug now.
Turning Donal’s neck loose and easing back an inch, he cinched his fingers through the man’s frizzy, dark curls. Even as the Irishman gasped gratefully for breath, Nick slammed the back of his head into the gate—once, twice, three times—then lost count as the bell rang with each tremor.
Nick didn’t feel the wetness on his own face until the wind swept across him. From somewhere behind, he vaguely heard Tobias’s voice say, “Let him be, Lord Thornton. You’re killing him.” He barely noticed the shrill barking of a dog or registered the tap on his shoulder—prelude to someone grabbing him beneath his arms and peeling him off.
Enslaved by rage, Nick wrestled against the foreign hands. It took several more grasping fingers folded around his neck and shoulders to subdue him.
He only came back to himself when consecutive flashes of lightning lit up the scene, bringing everything into startling-bright focus.
First Nick noticed the aches in his body he’d been too engrossed to feel earlier. His nape throbbed where the glass had cut. Some must’ve sliced through his right upper thigh as well, because it was stinging noticeably. Then the surroundings became clear.
Tobias, Fennigan, and Clooney had hauled him a good three feet from the gate. Donal folded over in a slump, his nape slick with blood. Binata was on her knees beside him, crying. Lia was there, too, petting Donal’s head and whimpering senseless words.
“I’m sorry Uncle Donal!” She sobbed. “I didn’t know you were a dragon. I didn’t know!”
Aislinn stroked the sprite’s hair, trying to comfort.
Why the hell were the children here? Feeling a gentle touch on his arm, Nick looked down into Felicity’s apologetic gaze.
“You should’ve told me,” he accused.
The regret in her eyes only fueled his hurt.
He brushed off her hand and started toward Donal in Clooney’s wake, dragging Fennigan and Tobias along with him as they attempted to hold him back.
“Take your sister into the castle,” Nick said to Aislinn upon getting closer. “She shouldn’t be here. Nor should you.” His command came out much gruffer than he intended.
Nodding, Aislinn tugged on Lia’s arm.
The sprite stood and stared up at Nick, hands laced beneath her chin as if in prayer. “Please don’t kill him, Mister Sir,” she wailed. “My wish was bad! It was bad!” She sobbed harder, tears coating those long lashes.
“Hush now. Don’t cry.” Nick reached out to smooth her hair but she flinched away. Her reaction ripped him apart at the seams. Then he caught sight of the blood on his hands and understood. Ashamed, he stepped back to wipe his palms on his trousers.
Aislinn propped her sister against her and walk the path toward the castle with Nutmeg trailing them.
Binata glared up at Nick. He stumbled for words. “I-I don’t know what came over me.”
Clooney helped her lift Donal to his feet. Relief ushered through Nick when the Irishman met his gaze. The man was in somewhat of a stupor, but at least he could stand and walk. He staggered next to his aunt and the groundskeeper as they led him along the path behind the girls, leaving Nick alone with his wife.
She uttered his name—her voice little more than a tremor of air.
Jaw clenched against answering, he turned to look at the bars on the gate where Donal’s blood glimmered dark and thick beneath another blaze of lightning. It was the very place Nick had held Felicity for a kiss so intense he lost sight of his shortcomings. Shortcomings that were now blatantly staring him in the face.
He didn’t belong here. He’d tainted these people’s lives just as he had Mina’s and his family’s.
Without sparing Felicity a glance, he headed for the castle. He sensed her silently following. Smelled her, tasted her, wanted her even now—despite her betrayal.
Why’d she have to look so beautiful tonight … all aglow in the moonlight, the fuchsia of her gown reflecting in a rosy hue off her cheeks? He had to be hallucinating. Because she wasn’t a rose. She was a thorn—hidden out of sight until one stepped upon her, bare-souled; then vicious and piercing, she drew blood.
His mind attempted to displace her presence, focusing instead on the pangs resonating throughout his injured body.
Still, she was everywhere.
They passed the greenhouse where she first stopped his breath with her childhood dreams; through the latticework tunnel covered with trumpet vines, where he hid and witnessed her bravery when she cracked her whip and left the Irishman’s threats and sugary appetites crushed on the ground beneath his feet.
Upon their arrival in the castle, he paused long enough to peer into the dining hall and even found Felicity there, in the decorations so painstakingly set in place for a party which would never be.
He had a passing thought of Lia’s request, and his soul twisted like a used rag. She would never ask him to bump her noggin for her birthday again, for she feared him now.
Biting back a groan, he noticed where Clooney and Binata tended Donal’s wounds on the settee. The Irishman was talking, responsive to questions. It appeared he would be all right.
Nick started for the stairs, limping.
Felicity grabbed his shirt from behind. “Where are you going?”
His response came swift and biting. “To pack my things and leave.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Cold terror clawed through Felicity at his words. It wasn’t just the statement that chilled, but the bitter resolve edging his voice.
“Nick, you cannot leave. Not like this…”
He turned on his heel. His eyes were as dark and lifeless as tarnished steel—as if the bruises on his soul had seeped into their depths, dulling them.
Bruises born of her actions.
She waited for him to speak, but he held his stubborn lips tight. Daring her to give him a reason to stay.
“We’re married,” she whispered the lame attempt.
He launched a brittle laugh. “That’s a rather lofty claim. We’ve not even consummated the union. We were playing at marriage. Adrift on clouds of pretense and fantasy.” His strong jaw twitched as he took off his ring. “The thing about clouds, Felicity. They have a tendency to dissipate. The sun breaks through and bares reality down to its raw, grisly bones.”
He offered the ring and she took it, reluctant. Her teeth clenched. If he thought she would give up so easily, he was sorely mistaken.
“You speak of reality? Here is your reality.” She forced the ring back on his pinky and curled his fingers closed. His skin felt hot against hers. “Those girls need you now more than ever. Jasper never finalized his will. My nie
ces are not legally mine. And should my past come out when I’ve no husband to vie for me…” The possibility stalled in her throat to a grinding lump.
His answering scowl pierced like poison arrows. “Those girls think I’m a monster. They saw me nearly kill a man they consider family. And I’m to be a father to them? You sold your brooch for naught, Felicity. There’s no music box grand enough to salvage Lia’s faith in me now. Take it from one who knows: trust is impossible to win back once it’s lost.”
His focus tightened on her and she flinched at the double entendre. “No. She’ll forgive and forget in no time.”
“She saw my hands covered in blood!” He held up his palms in the light. “The sprite’s terrified of me. She thinks I’ll hurt her. Me … who believes her an angel—” His voice cracked. “Damnit! Why the hell did you bring them with you?”
“I didn’t realize they were following. My only thought was—”
“Silencing the Irishman,” Nick intoned, rubbing a palm across his smooth chin. “My father is on his way to this castle. The one man I’ve gone to the ends of the earth to avoid. For weeks you’ve known, yet you deemed it acceptable to keep me in the dark.” He looked down at the ring on his pinky. “You’ve done nothing but lie to me.”
Felicity tugged her gaze away. He was right. She’d cost him any chance at an heir and left him bound and gagged at the feet of his most crippling fear. What a fine wife she had turned out to be.
Trying to distance herself from the guilt, she regarded his appearance in search of injuries. She’d never seen a man so overcome with righteous fury that he’d forget his own welfare. But she had once seen a boy of sixteen who shared that characteristic.
Twice now he had fought for her, throwing caution to the wind. Her heart tumbled at his devotion. To think she’d repaid him through dishonesty and selfishness made the regret so palpable it stitched pinholes of fire along her scar, like a needle threaded with flame.
The time had come for him to know everything. Every last secret.
Noting the blood wetting his trousers on his right thigh, she caught his wrist. “Come.” She didn’t let him pull free. Instead, she led him into the kitchen and sat him on a stool. “We need to see to your wounds.”
He slumped in place—broad shoulders hunched as he stared down at the marble floor, the thick muscles in his neck corded and strained. It was apparent he had let her win the battle only on the grounds that he was weary from the war.
Felicity glanced at the birthday meal Cook had prepared earlier. Fried potato farls, whortleberries, barmbrack bread, and pickled crúibíns waited in trays on an island crafted of pine which matched the larder cupboard opposite Nick’s stool. The scent of the food filled the room—a taunting reminder of happy memories never to be made.
Lianna’s birthday had morphed into a nightmare.
Felicity fisted her hands against an overwhelming urge to check on the child. In her present state of mind, she would do nothing but add to Lianna’s angst. Her eldest niece would be the best company for now. If anyone could get Lianna settled and asleep, it would be Aislinn—with her level temperament and soothing ways.
The rain started again. Heavy droplets pelted the window—a melancholy song that did little to lift Felicity’s spirits. Searching within the cupboard, pushing aside preserves and wines, she found a bottle of Irish whiskey, new and unopened. When she worked off the cork, it popped over her head and landed atop Lianna’s untouched birthday cake, leaving a dent in the white, fluffy frosting.
“She’ll think that was my doing,” Nick said with a self-deprecating grimace.
“I shall tell her it was mine.” Felicity stepped behind him and coaxed his head forward to a bowed position. She untied the cravat he’d wound around his hair and pushed the loosened golden fall aside. Her fingers glided through the soft strands and she longed to bury her nose in them. To breathe in that scent which left her senses spiraling to heavenly heights.
He stiffened beneath her touch.
Checked by his obvious repulsion, she concentrated on the glimmering bits of glass. Oh, to go back to earlier today, when he touched and kissed her with unrestrained abandon. When he offered to fix her. Before he’d realized how very unfixable she was.
Plucking shards from his nape, she dropped each one with a clink into an empty bowl. Blood bloomed across his skin like miniature petals unfolding. She used a soft washcloth doused with whiskey to dab the cuts.
He hissed and flinched at her ministrations.
In spite of his reaction, she reaped a deep and possessive pleasure in tending his needs. If only she could be the one to nurture him for the rest of his life. After tonight’s disasters, she’d be lucky if she had him even one more day.
Upon finishing his nape, she knelt beside him, running her palm over his injured thigh. “How did you do this?”
Shoving long strands of hair off his face, he stared at the back of her hand so intensely she felt a burn and removed it from his leg.
“The trousers aren’t torn.” She tried again to engage him in conversation. “So the cut is underneath the fabric … you didn’t have your knife in your pocket, did you?”
His hand drifted to the pocket just above the seeping wound. He lingered there, fingers trembling, as if contemplating what was within. “Wrong side,” he muttered absently. “The men coming in the morn. Your patrons. They’re more than mere butterfly boomers.”
Felicity startled, taken aback by his swift change in subject. “Yes. Three of them were Jasmine’s clients.”
“My father,” Nick murmured. “Was he one?”
Felicity winced. She could only imagine how long that ugly possibility had been twisting in his mind. “Oh, no. No, Nick. I’ve never even met him. But I know he must be very honorable.”
“You know, do you.”
“I do. For his son is the noblest man I’ve ever known.”
His lashes drifted up to unveil immeasurable depths of suffering. “According to my father, I’m no man at all.”
Laying her palm on his knee, Felicity squeezed. “I don’t believe that.”
“And I intend to see that you’ll never have reason to.”
Confused by the cryptic response, Felicity frowned. He tensed against her and she realized he wanted to stand. “No. You need to rest.”
He took her hand in his, held it far too short a span, then pushed it aside. “I need to think.”
“You’re still considering leaving?”
His Adam’s apple moved on a swallow.
The tenor of his silence stung like a slap. “So, you’re choosing to run again. Just like you always have.”
“This from the woman who hides in a castle.”
“Fair enough. Then come with me … come with me to the turret and I’ll show you why I hide.” She clasped her fingers through his. At this point, she was so determined to keep him with her she’d even share him with Mina’s ghost.
He jerked free. “I’ve no desire to look at those broken stairs again. Just like everything with you, they lead nowhere but an agonizing descent into bleakness and shadows.”
The acerbic comment stirred a prick behind her eyelids. Ugly images of her past sins with men tore through her, and she wondered if the same pictures taunted his mind’s eye. “At last you see me for what I am. A disreputable, disfigured whore.”
He leaned forward on the stool and clutched her mouth. “Never say that,” he snarled. “Never say those words again.” His grip pinched and his gaze penetrated. Coming back to himself, he dropped his hand, face pale in the dim light.
Felicity felt a chill from his abandoned hand, then warmth as blood started to refill the fingerprints where he’d squeezed her. She turned away, ashamed to let him see her tears. Desperate for something to do, she walked to the island. Hands aquiver, she dug the cork from Lianna’s cake and cleaned it off. She couldn’t help but remember the frosting from the wedding cake—how she’d shared that flavor with Nick in a deep, binding kiss after
their dance in the dining hall.
Upon shoving the cork into the whiskey bottle’s neck, she held the cool glass against her chest in hopes to stop the scalded swell along her scar.
Before she’d even taken a breath, Nick stood behind her, close enough his body heat taunted and teased. She ached to burrow her head beneath his chin. To absorb his strength. To feel love surround her as he held her in his arms.
But it was all fancy and whim. For he’d never once even mentioned love. That was why he wouldn’t stay. He didn’t love her.
It doesn’t matter. I love you enough for both of us. Her confession remained mute—tightly tethered to her heart. Because however sweet the words, her actions implied otherwise and he would never believe her now.
She felt some movement against her hip and an expectant tingle awakened in her core at his proximity before she realized he was digging in his right pocket. Reluctant to turn around, she faced the island and the neglected food, waiting blindly for his next move. Anticipation and dread cinched her stomach into a tangle.
“You once told me to forgive myself of my sins against Mina,” he said as his ribs pressed against her shoulder blades. “It’s time you take your own advice.”
The fabric of her bodice caught on his shirt sleeve as his hand eased around to place something on the island’s edge.
“I made this for you,” he said. “In hopes you could finally fly above your sadness and regret. All I’ve ever wanted was to be your sanctuary. A place of safety where you could light and perch when your wings grew weary.” His breath stroked her nape.
When he lifted his palm away, she gaped at what waited beneath.
Never had she seen a more beautiful rendition of a woman. So delicate … so intricate. Her husband must’ve worked on the carving both day and night. All at once, she realized: this was his perception of her.
She was naked, her breasts a gentle rise of twin curves, her belly softly rounded, legs long and flawless.
Flawless … the ideal description. For this woman’s figure had been sanded to perfection. She bore no scars, no splinters, no lines to detract from her sensual appeal.
The Glass Butterfly Page 34