And wings. Butterfly wings splayed out from behind her shoulders—the one part of her which had been painted to a vivid burst of color.
A whimper caught in her chest. This dear, sweet man had given her wings.
In trembling reverence, Felicity trailed a finger along the carving’s left appendage where it must have snapped during his scuff with Landrigan. A wet, reddish stain colored the splintered tip.
Nick’s blood.
“You know”—his murmur brushed her nape— “I debated about the scar. Left it off in the end to please you. But it’s better with her broken. She’s more valuable this way. There’s a wisdom and depth to her—an aching loveliness which haunts the beholder into his very dreams.”
Sobbing quietly, Felicity could look at nothing but her husband’s masterpiece. What a fool she’d been. He loved her. Who needed words? His actions had been screaming the sentiment for weeks. She’d simply lacked faith enough to listen. And now … now she’d trampled those feelings to dust.
“Felicity,” he said against the shell of her ear, “there’s something you have that I want. Very much.”
A hot flush of hope warmed her body.
Yes. Say you forgive me, say you still love me… say you want my heart. My body. They’re yours already. They’ve been yours since the first time I saw you, when you begged for me to live. When you made it possible that I could.
Felicity struggled to turn around, to throw herself into his embrace and sing the admittance like a hymn of praise, beg him to take her upstairs and open the floodgates of their passions. But he held her wedged against the island so she couldn’t move. His arm crossed her from behind and he caught the whiskey bottle at her chest, jostling the contents within the glass to assure it was full.
Only then did she understand…
“Don’t come looking for me,” he said roughly. “I prefer to drink alone.” He tugged the bottle from her grasp and left the room.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her erratic pulse tied to the volley of his footsteps and the slamming quake of the castle door.
Tinkling strains drifted from the phonograph—a haunting melody which echoed in the dim turret.
Felicity inhaled the familiar scents of dormancy: the warm musk of Jasper’s sleep-ridden body; the sting of stale disinfectants; the heavy weight of dust caked along rain-drenched windows.
Lightning blinked, and thunder rolled through her bones.
Seated on the bed’s edge, she waited for the music to invoke her brother’s spirit. She studied him in the orange-gold flickers of candle light. Never had she felt closer to him. Dead on the outside—numb and drained of life like a tree in winter. But on the inside, emotions boiled like untapped sap—a constant humming tide of subsistence, clawing to be free.
For so long she’d been going through the motions of living. It took a man like Nick to tap that vein, to show her how much she’d been missing.
The same things that she loved about him, she also envied. His contagious wit and almost dewy-eyed eagerness to embrace the unbelievable. The raging fury of a defender held at bay by the gentle spirit of a lover. The ability to give of himself freely and unreservedly, honest to a fault.
Her lips battled a wry smile. Who would’ve thought a thief could be honest?
She’d been so blind not to see his feelings for her. Perhaps because they reached far beyond lust or shallow animalistic needs. Love was a depth of emotion she’d never experienced from a man, other than her father and Clooney’s paternal affections, and Jasper’s sibling adoration.
Unconditional, abiding love wasn’t at all about pretty words spoken in the heat of a physical act. It was an execution of silent, selfless deeds played out in the shadows so as not to call attention to themselves.
And it wasn’t only her that Nick loved.
He had given away his best friend in the world, just to put a smile on Lianna’s face. And he’d sold his diamond—that one connection to Mina—to provide for Felicity and the girls. He did those things believing he wouldn’t witness or reap the benefits of their gratitude.
Love was enacting without expectation. He’d done that for all three of them.
She had tried to mimic him. But her attempt paled because her motivations weren’t pure. Yes, she’d given away her mother’s precious gift. But it wasn’t just for him. It was for her, too … so he might be moved enough by the gesture to stay after tomorrow.
Now that she understood her failing, she would atone. She would let him leave for his own peace of mind, and deal with the consequences on her own.
Jasper’s lashes began to quiver, opening slowly. His gaze locked on hers.
“Good evening, dear brother.” She sighed. “I hope you’re ready to come home. Whatever you have to do to put yourself back in your body permanently … Tis time to do it.” Delving into the jar of fungal paste she’d made to treat her scar, she smoothed the purple mixture over Jasper’s forehead and temples, then smudged a circle atop his sternum, just over his heart.
His eyes followed her movements.
She felt inclined to explain. “I can’t decide if it’s your head or your heart keeping you away. So, we’re trying both.”
The idea had occurred shortly after Nick left her crying in the kitchen. If the fungus could rejuvenate passion flowers and heal fresh wounds, perhaps it could bring her brother back to himself. Perhaps that had been what his spirit was trying to tell her all along, by leaving trails of it on the sickly vines in the greenhouse.
Jasper’s gaze sat heavy upon her, a question darkening their oceanic blue depths.
She awaited his whisper, but he seemed too drowsy yet to attempt it. To bridge the silence, she took a guess as to what he might be wondering.
“I’ve made a terrible mess of everything,” she said, wiping the purple paste from her fingers and returning the lid to her jar. “I’ve trapped the man I love into an unthinkable position. The only way I can right this and not lose the girls is for you to return. Then Nick can avoid his past and leave us without any reservations. If the girls’ father is here—fully lucid—and can speak for himself, no one will take them away even after my identity is revealed.”
Humiliation stuck in her lungs and made her breaths shallow. She would be recognized tomorrow without a doubt. Those three men she’d told Nick of had been monthly regulars to Jasmine. She’d lived up to her name; became their transport to sexual bliss, however much she’d abhorred it.
They would remember her for that—regardless of any shoddy disguise.
Knowing that, she was not to wear the wrinkles tomorrow. Already the lines were fading, and she wouldn’t reapply her cream ever again. She was finished with this masquerade. Tonight, her servants would see her for who she was, and tomorrow, so would her patrons.
Nick didn’t want to embrace his past any more than she did hers, yet here she’d asked him to do it for the girls’ sake without a mask to hide behind. Even if Jasper didn’t come back, Felicity would face her guests head on—bared and exposed. Because that’s what she had asked of Nick.
All these years she’d deprived her girls of life by forcing them to hide from her mistakes. It was time they attended school and mass and made friends their age. The only way that would ever happen was if she finally made peace with her past and moved forward. Just like Nick said. It was time she forgave herself and embraced the woman she had grown to be. Being loved by a man as benevolent and giving as Nicolas Thornton, enabled her to see herself for who she really was.
She was a fighter. Those cruel years had given her the power to fend for herself, but Nick’s love gave her the mettle she once lacked. Surely these men coming wished to keep their affiliation with her secret just as much as she did. There was such a thing as blackmail. Should they threaten her family, she would shake them in their high and mighty trees, and let the leaves fall where they may.
“Your heart…” Jasper’s whisper shook Felicity from her defiant thoughts.
Her pulse jittered.
“My heart will survive Nick leaving,” she answered her brother’s piercing gaze. “As long as I have you and the girls.”
“Lies…” The muscles in his face twitched to a scowl.
She nearly choked, both thrilled to see her brother find the strength to defy her and leveled by the wisdom in that one word. “Yes! It’s a lie. My whole life has been a lie. Here’s the only truth there is: I love him; I need him. I want him beside me from this day forward. But I’ve brought him nothing but misery and pain. No more. I’m setting him free. Make it simpler. Come back to us tonight.”
The turret door creaked open to reveal Aislinn’s weary face. “Yes, Father.” She padded in her stockinged feet toward the bed. “Come back. We need you.”
Felicity wondered how long she’d been listening. “Is your sister asleep?”
Aislinn nodded without turning from Jasper whose gaze had shifted to her.
“Bini promised to check on her.” Aislinn stroked her father’s beard. “After Clooney is done treating Mister Landrigan’s wounds.” She studied her father’s prone form, focused on the spread of purple at his chest. She didn’t even ask. By the way she touched her own healed forehead, it was obvious she understood. “No one has been able to find Nick,” the girl muttered, a worried pinch to her voice.
A boom of thunder shook the window panes, as if an omen.
Felicity’s body numbed. “I’ve lost him.”
“He’s leaving you? Due to his fight with Mister Landrigan? Or was it your secrets? He isn’t worthy of you Auntie, if he can’t accept your scar.”
Before Felicity could jump to Nick’s defense, Jasper’s gaze began to seek about the room, frantic.
“Lianna’s wish…” His whisper—panicked and hissing—stretched louder than the chords of music in the background. “Heaven … help her.” His left hand shot out to snag Felicity’s fingers, squeezing them. Then the music stopped and his eyes snapped shut.
Mouth agape, Felicity met Aislinn’s shocked gaze. The candles snuffed out on a gust of frigid wind, leaving the turret ensconced in darkness.
Chapter Thirty-four
What had he expected? To go through life and never face his old man again? Never face the consequences of all the shame he’d brought upon his family?
Hell yes.
Legs stretched and crossed at the ankle, Nick took another swig of whiskey and let it burn from his esophagus to his belly. Leaning his head against the musty wooden wall, he glanced up at the outlook’s low-hung ceiling.
He lifted his pinky to study the wedding ring Felicity had forced back onto his finger. It wasn’t just facing his family that stone-cold terrified him. It was the possibility of his bride learning the truth. That her husband was once so weak he nearly sold his body to an abusive man who wished to own him.
She’d be as repulsed as his father—unable to ever wash the image from her mind. Once she knew how low he’d crawled, he’d lose the ability to hide the fact from himself.
Johnny Boy’s company had been so much easier to maintain. Such an uncomplicated comfort. One never had to worry about disappointing a dog.
Nostalgic for the pit bull’s crooked grin, Nick watched the kerosene lantern sway in the midst of the ceiling. The flame he’d lit flickered within the globe, stirred by the rain-dampened gusts seeping through opened windows. Cobwebs coated the copper framework of the lamp. A spider scurried along the sylphlike lines, repairing one that the gust broke free.
Little blood-thirsty acrobat, setting its trap.
Nick snorted, gulping down another sip. What he wouldn’t give to switch places with the insect: his only concern the completion of a masterpiece and the appeasement of appetites.
Then again, it seemed they had more in common than he cared to admit. He fingered the carving knife still at rest in his pocket. He’d used his masterpiece to suck the life from someone tonight. That might’ve been his blood on the carving’s broken wing, but it was Felicity’s soul pierced by the tip.
He’d savored it—wounding her with the gift that had been meant to free her. His bitter victory was palpable. He could almost taste the salt of her tears on his tongue.
His stomach seized at such cruelty.
Gritting his teeth, he banged his head against the wall to silence his conscience. He had no reason to be penitent. She was the one who lied. He might’ve started out as an imposter, but in the end, all his words and actions had been genuine and heartfelt.
Lot of bloody good it did.
Focused on the windows, he sucked down more fiery liquid and hissed as the sky streaked to brilliance on a splay of lightning—illumining glittery sheets of rain.
The memory of Felicity sitting opposite him in this place bit with the vengeance of an asp. She’d laid out her tortured past here. Admitted her walk as a courtesan. Yet he never accepted that as her profession because she did not choose that path. He still didn’t accept it, in spite of her treachery.
Hands clenched around the bottle, he shuddered.
He’d clenched her mouth when she’d called herself a whore earlier. His fingers left white streaks on her lips until blood filled the print back in. It wasn’t a slap … not driven by maliciousness or violence; it wasn’t enacted out of rage or oppression. He’d wanted to get her attention, for her to realize that those words should never leave her beautiful lips. But emotions had been too intense, and he’d held her a moment too long. He only hoped it wouldn’t leave a physical bruise. He’d never forgive himself if he’d marked her.
He winced—the thought unbearable. He should’ve kissed her to silence instead.
His head tipped back so another trail of liquor could scorch his throat. Lightning flashed and he held up the bottle to find the contents half gone. He’d have to pace himself if he wished it to last.
Closing his eyes, he held his cold ring to his lips and tried to forget the effect Felicity had on him when he braced her against that island in the kitchen. How her hair had caught on his cheek as he leaned over to set the carving on the edge. How his nose grazed her ear when he whispered to her. How the scent of her nigh undid him.
That damn perfume—botanical, citrusy.
Ambrosia.
A blast of thunder forced his eyes open.
Grinding his heels into the floor, he shoved his spine hard against the wall and growled. How could he even consider leaving her? The girls?
The three of them were his world now.
Felicity, who left him beguiled and bewildered each time her face lit up like a dreamy child’s while tending her butterflies. Who challenged him at every turn—intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. Who leveled him to reverence with the maternal nurturing she rained upon her nieces.
At times, she frustrated him. Her stubbornness, her independence, her cynicism and inability to trust. But the tenderness her vulnerability inspired, and his awe at her capacity for forgiveness—a reserve so deep he could drown in it—went far beyond any emotion he’d felt in all his years.
He drained more of the whiskey, not even tasting it this time.
And the girls … little Lia’s tongue, sharp as her aunt’s whip yet sweet as clover wine. Her outlook on life, so innocent and untouched. The way she took his hand and made him feel like he could conquer the world and all its dragons—just for her. And Aislinn: her stunning intellect, irreverent wit, and perceptive empathy. Her desire to right every wrong, and her extraordinary devotion to a father long dead.
A devotion Nick envied. For to face his own father, to once more see the look of disappointment in that steady gray gaze would be hell on earth.
The heaviness in his chest threatened to strangle him. Throwing caution to the storm, he sealed his mouth around the bottle’s spout. He would drink every last drop—teeter into oblivion and forget everything: this night, his choices, and the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
If he required another bottle to send him over the edge … well, there was always more where this came from.
He closed his eyes to let the whiskey glide down, barely aware of a frigid gust until it circled him like a whirlwind. The sensation shook him enough to open his eyes when the gust abruptly changed direction.
As if caught by the wind, the bottle snapped out of his hand. A jolt rushed through his lips as the glass flew to the opposite wall—knocked there by some unseen force. Slack-jawed, Nick chewed his tongue. The remaining liquor leaked onto the wooden floor and drizzled between the slats.
A surge of leaves fluttered around the small space. Weak-legged and woozy, Nick stood, back propped against the wall. He didn’t remember there being any leaves earlier. Certainly not such sodden and decayed specimens. They were black as velvet and made no sound.
Not a scrape, not a crackle. Simply … swished.
He realized with a stunned yelp that they weren’t leaves at all. They were shadows.
Butterfly shadows…
“Jasper,” he whispered, hoping it wasn’t the liquor toying with his mind. He’d waited so long to meet the man—the spirit.
Dizziness bumbled his thoughts. If this was truly happening, the professor had succeeded … he’d somehow joined his spirit to the butterflies. That must mean it was possible to cross into the afterlife…
The shadows came together to form a silhouette. It lifted an arm and pointed out the window in the direction of the storm-shaken trees.
What was it trying to tell him? Was it showing him the way to Mina?
Nick didn’t budge, his thoughts still chained to Felicity. A sensation of sandpaper scraped his throat. All those miserable months spent seeking the portal to his dead bride, and here it was staring him in the face. Yet the only thing on his mind was how to cross to his living bride, the one woman who haunted him day and night.
Nick took too long to respond to the silhouette. In a gesture which could only be construed as frustration, the shadows shrugged and burst apart, snuffing out the lantern.
Disoriented by the darkness, Nick pressed his shoulders harder against the wall. A pulsing cold breeze rushed over his skin then caught hold, winding him within its momentum. Falling off balance, air shunted from his lungs upon impact with the floor. The cold wind scuttled over him, dragged him to the opened trapdoor, then tugged him through.
The Glass Butterfly Page 35