Felicity explained it all on the way back to the castle. About the turret’s secret passage and the occupant within. About her brother’s strokes and his determination not to be pitied or a burden to his children. About his tie to her through the butterfly cream she wore, and the pupas and the phonograph, and the deception she so fastidiously honored, in spite of the pain and sacrifices it won her. On either side of Nick, Fennigan and Tobias listened in silent awe as Nick asked questions pertaining to the novel Felicity’s brother wrote through her with his sister. Felicity assured him only Jasper could answer those. And for that, they had to hope and pray he would recuperate enough to hold conversations again one day soon.
Upon their arrival at the castle, the group was greeted by Aislinn at the door, her face tear-streaked and beaming. Between happy sobs, she said all their prayers were answered just after Felicity and the others left to find Lia. Jasper had fully awakened the moment his spirit successfully led Nick to the bog.
Since Lia fell asleep on the hike back to the castle, it was decided she would be told in the morning of her father’s existence. She’d already endured enough for one night. Binata agreed to rest with the little sprite in Aislinn’s bed until Aislinn had time to visit their father once more.
Then, Aislinn, Clooney, Felicity and Nick took the secret passage to the turret where Nick now stood at the foot of Jasper’s bed—soaked to the bone, exhausted and weary, but excruciatingly aware of everything around him. The scent and taste of ammonia. The subtle crackle of the coke which warmed the room and tossed out a glow from the potbellied stove.
He watched in wonder as Jasper sat up in his bed, eating broth and bread. The bearded professor was propped on pillows and awash in soft orange light. Clooney stood over him, checking the man’s pulse and reflexes. There next to them on a table sat the laudanum and the phonograph, explaining all that Felicity couldn’t of their misunderstanding earlier that morn.
Though frail and thin, Jasper had a noble and intelligent mien—a mix of Aislinn’s dark-hair-porcelain-skin coloring and the vigorous bone structure of a once stalwart man.
Still physically incapacitated to some degree, he could move his upper torso along with his head. His facial muscles appeared completely normal and responsive, but his vocal cords couldn’t emit sound and only his left arm and hand responded to his mind’s commands. Being ambidextrous, he wrote rough communications on a slate board.
Clooney took the tray of food and left the room, insisting he needed to check on his two patients. Donal was spending the night in the playroom, so he was to be his first stop.
Nick remained with Felicity and Aislinn. In the stale, echoing silence of the tower, the chalk tapped out each question or answer and Aislinn read them aloud, being the most adept at ciphering Jasper’s script. Despite his body’s insufficiencies, there was no doubting the professor’s brilliant mind remained alert and lucid.
“Brother …” Felicity sat on the edge of the mattress. “Nick has come a long way … and made many sacrifices … to understand the truth about these butterflies. He deserves to know. Did they lead you back to Bella, in the afterlife?” Felicity kept her gaze averted from Nick’s when he turned to her, both surprised and touched by the query.
Aislinn answered, reading her father’s scribblings on the slate.
“He never left this world. Never saw mother. He says his spirit was tied to the castle at first. He floated from room to room, only able to connect with the outer world through Aunt Felicity’s quill and ink. He sought a way to escape the castle but couldn’t until I intervened with the pupas.” She met her father’s gaze, then wiped away the chalk with a cloth to make room for Jasper to jot some more.
Her deep blue gaze followed the words while ciphering them. “The longwings are rumored to have spirits. It’s what sets them apart from other butterflies. It was when Father’s spirit connected with theirs that he materialized, taking their form as shadows, separate from his body. The purple moss was a divergent fungus he’d been experimenting with before his coma—a fungus that had the ability to heal cells as opposed to breaking them down. When he found his new form, he distributed the fungus himself, to treat the passion vines and counteract Donal’s effort to poison them.”
She paused, erasing the chalk again. Her features softened upon reading the rest of his answer. “It wasn’t the fungus that pulled him back into his body. It was love for Lia, me, and Aunt Felicity.” Her voice trembled. “He realized that we did need him—whatever state he was in.” Upon finishing the final word, Aislinn wrapped her arms around her father’s chest, sobbing.
Nick had never seen the girl so innocuous and tender, nor had he ever felt more out of place or extraneous. Overwhelmed by the night’s revelations and physical exertions, he started for the door. Felicity stopped him at the threshold with her hand on his shoulder.
“Wait, please. My brother has one thing more he wishes to say to you.”
Nick cradled the tips of her fingers in his. He turned on his heel to look down at her tattered dress and smudged face. Why couldn’t everyone else just disappear so he and his bride could mend what was broken between them? But would she want to fix it now? Jasper was back. She no longer needed a husband to secure her guardianship over the girls. That was the only reason she’d married him, wasn’t it? An arrangement to appease a necessity which was no longer pressing.
Smothering a groan, he released her hand and returned to the bed’s edge.
Jasper clacked the chalk against the slate then handed the message off to Felicity this time before curving his functioning arm around his emotional daughter.
Felicity’s lips moved silently as she read, then she met Nick’s gaze. “He thinks the plan for harvesting the peat bogs is brilliant. He wants to thank his new brother-in-law for taking care of his sister and girls. He says not many children are blessed enough to have two fathers.” Felicity’s chin quivered upon her delivery of the last sentence.
Moved by the sentiment, Nick stepped up to shake Jasper’s left hand. He was impressed by the vigor of the man’s grip, in spite of his atrophied muscles, and surmised this man’s inner strength had yet to be fully tapped. He believed the professor would one day make a full recovery.
Nick cleared his throat. “The novel … the one you wrote with my sister.” He offered a stern look, from one older brother to another. “She must be told you were her co-author. She deserves to know. But I’m willing to wait until you can tell her yourself.”
Furrowing his dark eyebrows, Jasper tipped his head in gratitude. Yet something blazed behind his eyes … something Nick recognized, having seen it in his own: a desperate craving. Perhaps it was for a life of normalcy, for the use of voice, arms and legs, as they once had been. Or perhaps it had to do with Emilia herself.
Nick bit back the urge to question the man further. This wasn’t the time, for he yet had his own inner demons to quell.
Offering a goodnight to Aislinn, Nick turned without a glance to Felicity and took the stairs through the passageway, intent on shutting himself in Lia’s familiar chamber—it being the only room that was available. He would throw himself across that tiny bedframe and allow his aching body some rest.
He didn’t expect to sleep, having too much to consider. He could leave at sunrise, now, before the guests began to arrive. He no longer needed to stay and face his father or his past since Felicity wasn’t in danger of having the girls taken away.
So, where was the sense of relief? Why the hell, on the eve of this magnificent pardon, did he feel as if his world was ending?
Chapter Thirty-six
Felicity followed her husband down the stairs yet kept her distance. She pressed her spine into crevices and blended into the shadows each time he glanced behind.
Slinking out from the stairway, she ducked into her room the moment she heard Lia’s chamber latch click. Weary from the night’s emotional uproar, she glanced longingly at her bed. But she had one thing left to do, and as she teetered between
hope and despair, her body released an unexpected reserve of energy, giving her the stamina she needed.
She took time enough to brush out her hair, strip down and change into a chemise which buttoned up the front and place the carving Nick had made in one of its pockets. She didn’t wash off with the water she’d had Cook heat up earlier. Instead, she gathered the basin and washrag and came to stand at Nick’s closed door, intent to catch him before he went to the water closet.
Her shoulders ached beneath the basin’s weight, still strained from pulling Lianna and Nick onto the banks earlier. Her husband knew how grateful she was; she’d told him countless times on the way back to the castle between her confessions of Jasper. But she doubted he would allow her to clean him and dress his wounds.
If nothing else, he would have to let her in to set the water on Lia’s tea table. That would barter a moment alone with him. All she needed was a moment.
She suspected he would sleep a few hours then be gone before dawn to avoid his father. Now that he had no obligation to protect the girls, her time with him was short and precious, and she would not squander this last chance to prove her feelings to him. She would not allow him to leave without his knowing.
Alone in the dark corridor, her pulse jittered in her neck and rapid breaths clawed her dry throat—short and shallow. She gulped twice to assuage the sensations before making her presence known.
Tapping the toe of her stocking against the door resulted in little more than a scraping sound, but Nick—no doubt attuned to such indirect signals after all his years with Johnny Boy—heard her. The shuffle of bare feet crossed the room and preempted the door’s creaking hinges as it opened.
Something in the rawness of his gaze made him appear younger, like the reckless youth who had saved her life. His hair was rumpled, and he’d already started to undress for the night. Soft candlelight glazed his bare chest, accentuating those broad shoulders, the cut of his muscles, and that fine spattering of blonde hair which disappeared to a “v” at the waist of his trousers. Her attention snagged on the pale petals which clung to several of those hairs at his waist, remnants of the flowers that he’d trudged through during his courageous rescue at the bog.
Bits and pieces of broken apologies, clinging to his skin.
Steam from the basin rose up between them, heating her already flushed face.
A flash of his naked body cavorted through her memory, a titillating reminder of their first official encounter in the playroom upstairs. Things had been uncomfortable then, but rife with possibility. The chasm that yawned between them now was much wider, carved deep and hopeless by shattered promises and hidden truths—all on her part. Her footing was precarious at best … and impending death imminent if he opted not to catch her when she fell.
Studying the basin, Nick stepped aside so she could come in. She hesitated for an instant, noticing the cheval mirror she’d bound in satin for Lianna’s gift. The two stable hands had brought it here before heading out to the gate earlier. Just the presence of the mirror set her inner qualms to spinning, and she would’ve slunk away like a coward, except for the fact that it still remained covered. With all the excitement, Lianna had yet to “open” it.
Taking a deep breath, Felicity passed Nick and crossed the threshold, the scent of his sweat resonant and sensual beneath the bog’s subtle tang on his skin. Her mouth watered in reaction to the palpable masculinity heavy throughout the room—a sharp contrast to the little girl decor.
He nudged the door behind her but left it open a crack. After her past with men, being alone in a room with one should be old hat to her. But somehow, everything about her husband was new and exciting, yet terrifying … all at once. For a moment, dizziness weakened her arms. It caused her to set the water down too heavily. Some sloshed onto her wrists and the small table where Lia used to keep her porcelain dishes.
The water—hotter than expected—made her yelp.
Nick was standing over her in an instant, his strong hands catching her arms. He pushed her wet sleeves to her elbows and turned her wrists to the light. “Are you burned?”
She considered saying that the scalding patches hurt more than they did to prolong his touch. But she’d lied enough to him already. Nothing but honesty would suffice from this moment forward.
She shook her head in answer. “I’m fine. You look exhausted.”
He released her and took a step back. “As do you. I’m surprised you’re not already abed.”
“Oh, I fear I won’t sleep tonight…”
They stood regarding one another with the candles popping and flickering in the background—the only cessation to an interminable silence.
“Perchance Cook might make you some warm milk and brandy,” he finally offered. His eyes softened to a curious fray—a splash of gray with flecks of gold reflected from the candles—behind long lashes. She knew in that moment that he could see right through her empty pleasantries. He was baiting her, daring her to speak her heart.
She should leave. Back out. She’d never bared her soul to anyone. But sweet heaven, how she longed to now. This man deserved that and so much more.
Fingers clenched in the pleats of her chemise, she blurted out the words she’d been practicing in her head since he first walked out of the kitchen. “I cannot stop worrying that I’ll wake up in the morning and you’ll be gone.” She swallowed against a sob. “You’ll be gone, and I’ll have never shown you.”
His gaze intensified, the dare harder-edged—relentless in its search for the truth. “Shown me what?”
She leaned a hip against one of Lia’s chairs to support her tired legs. “That I am capable of being honest, for one.”
He motioned to the bed. “Do you want to sit?”
“No. I-I just want to do this, quickly.”
“All right.”
“First, I need to tell you why I was stabbed. The real reason.”
Sporting a cautious frown, he nodded.
She locked her arms around her stomach, hugging herself. “I was with child.”
Nick’s chin trembled beneath a stunned expression.
“I wasn’t sure who the father was. But I was desperate, so I told Hayes it was his, and that I wished to leave the brothel. That it was time for him to make good on his promise and bring me here to the estate where we could raise a family. But he wasn’t ready. He had accrued many gambling debts, and I was to help him pay them. He insisted I induce a miscarriage, and said if Clooney wouldn’t assist, he’d find a physician that would.” A lump caught in the base of her throat, but she pressed on. “I refused. It was the first time I’d ever stood up to the Earl. I had something worth fighting for, you see. I would not harm my baby or raise a child in that debase world.” The sob she suppressed cut through, lodging higher in her throat as an aching mass. “He hit me … he threatened me … but I told him nothing mattered. Nothing but my baby. Then I started to walk away from him. He couldn’t make me stay. That’s what I told him … that’s what I said. His knife said otherwise.”
“Dear God.” Lashes wet with tears, Nick started toward her.
She raised a quivering hand to stop him. “Please, I need to finish this.”
The same expression crossed his face that he’d worn upon learning of her barrenness. Grim nausea. He took a seat on the tiny bed, looking rather like a giant amongst all of Lia’s miniature things. The bed’s frame groaned beneath him as he shifted and stared at her. His fingers had found the petals clinging to that line of hair on his abdomen. He pulled the flowers free, absently, intent only on her.
She played with the ring on her finger and began to pace, the tile floor slick and cool beneath her bare feet. “When I learned that you’d lost a son, I knew your pain—intimately. I wanted you to have other children. So I tried to push you away. Until my nieces’ needs overstepped yours. But now, you’re no longer obligated to stay for them. You’re free. You can leave and make a family for yourself, elsewhere. It would be best for you if you did.”
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Nick stood, movements measured and tense. His broad shoulders twitched. “Only I know what’s best for me.” He glanced at the ring on his pinky then looked up, eyes narrowed. “Why are you so bent on being the martyr? You, too, have been set free tonight. You’re not defined by the needs of those around you any more than I am. It is your life to live once again. Yours. So, live it for you. What do you want, Felicity?”
Candlelight snapped and flickered, casting dancing shadows over his determined face.
“You,” she answered, surprised by the volume and strength of her voice. “To love you … and be loved by you … until the day I die.”
His glare surrendered to arrested suspension, as if it was the very last thing he’d expected her to say. He opened his mouth on a response, but Felicity barreled forward, needing to spill everything at once or she’d lose courage.
“You needn’t say it back,” she said. “You’ve shown me every day how you feel. And if you stay, I’ll spend the rest of my life finding ways to show you. I’ll start now. By proving the depth of my faith in you.” Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots—screaming at her to stop. To stop before she lost him for good. “By proving I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone else in this world. More than even myself.” She glanced at the cloaked mirror then bit back a wave of nerves.
Before she could change her mind, she worked her top button free, then the next and the next, not stopping until she’d reached her waist. The placket stayed closed within the clasp of her trembling fingers.
Nick watched, rapt and unspeaking, silent tears slipping down his face.
With her eyes shut, she took a shuddering breath then dropped her hands to bare her shame. The fabric rolled open, skimmed off her shoulders to stall at bent elbows. Cool air hit her scar and breasts, ruthless as the sharpest dagger.
She forced her lashes open and gauged her husband’s response. Wonder and compassion moved through his expression. But there was no pity. And he didn’t turn away in revulsion as she’d once dreaded he might. Instead, he swiped a hand across his wet face and regarded her from abdomen to chest in a slow and languid sweep, gaze stopping upon her breasts.
The Glass Butterfly Page 37