by Jade Lee
“You know,” said his angel, “it is decidedly uncomfortable standing here like this. I should like to sit down. Do you mind, Kit?”
He shook his head. Of course he didn’t mind. Though he murmured in protest when she stopped touching his face. She was stepping away from him, and with the loss of her presence—her scent—the memories surged again.
“There now, that’s better,” she said. She settled on the floor, her back against a wine rack and her legs extended in front of her. Her skirt lay short of her feet, and so he could see her trim ankles.
“It must be uncomfortable there on your knees,” she said to him. He frowned and she smiled. Now that she mentioned it, his legs were abominably sore. “Come sit beside me.”
He shook his head, but the movement unfroze his body. He half rolled, half collapsed forward. She caught him. And with her help, he settled with his head on her lap. It was a good position. He could see her ankles this way. And he could smell her lavender and spice scent. It was so very, very English.
Her hand settled on his arm while the other brushed his hair off his forehead. He liked the soft stroke of her hand, like the lap of the waves. The ground wasn’t moving, but her fingers were, and so he could close his eyes and pretend he was on the boat. Or at home in England. Or anywhere he would like to be. Just so long as she kept stroking his face.
He slept.
Maddy let her head drop back against the wine rack. Kit was sleeping now. She tried to admonish herself for referring to him by his given name, even in her own thoughts. But after this last display, she couldn’t keep him at arm’s length anymore.
He was wounded in mind if not in body. She had seen enough of her father’s patients to recognize a man struggling with enormous pain. Who was Jeremy? she wondered. Likely a boy Kit had tried—and failed—to protect. Had the noises from the play made him relive the battle when he was first captured? She believed so, but of course couldn’t be sure.
All she could do was sit here and let the man sleep. Her father had often said that sleep was the best thing for mental pain. She could only pray it was true for Kit. And so she would do nothing to interfere with the man’s rest despite what this might do to her reputation.
She looked up at the huge doorman named Seth. He hadn’t moved from his position on the stairs except to glare at a few boys who had come to the cellar door. It was unnerving, the man’s absolute silence, but reassuring too. He seemed like a solid, silent bulwark against the outside world.
She sat on the floor for hours. She heard the noise of the performance as it ended. She heard men’s laughter and the actresses’ coy giggles. People came to the cellar, but their silent guard glared them away. And Kit slept on. In time, Maddy too let her eyes drift shut and she dozed.
“My God, it’s true.”
Maddy opened her eyes to see a tall, dark-eyed man descending the stairs. He was stripping off his great coat as he came down, and so she at first had the image of a great large bird, but he stilled quickly enough when she squeaked in alarm.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, as he slowed his steps. He had dark brown hair, matted down from his hat, and his gaze seemed to devour Kit. “How long has he been like this?”
Maddy had no idea, but the guard lifted three fingers.
“Three hours,” the man said as he stepped up beside Maddy. “And you have sat here patiently this whole time.”
Then his eyes slid back to Kit as if he could read answers from the curled form. “How can this be? Michael said he died.” He crouched down then reached out to touch Kit’s face, but stopped before he connected. Maddy took a breath as much to clear the sleep from her mind as anything else. But in that one moment of inattention, she must have jostled Kit. He woke in a sudden flurry of movement.
He grabbed the newcomer’s wrist and used it to shove him away hard. Then he rolled to his feet in a crouch in front of Maddy. He was protecting her as he snarled at the new man.
Maddy hastened to find her voice. She touched his back and tried to sound reassuring, though she croaked her words. “No, no! He’s not come to hurt you.”
She felt Kit’s back ripple but nothing else. Kit was staring at the newcomer, his body so tight she feared it might break.
“Kit,” said the newcomer, his voice low and gentle. “Do you remember me?”
“Brandon,” he answered, though the word came out as a harsh grunt. “Thief.”
She saw the word hit the newcomer like a blow. He flinched backward, but then he steadied. “We thought you dead. We went to your funeral, for God’s sake. Oh, Kit, what happened?”
Maddy’s eyes widened as she fit the pieces together. The newcomer was Brandon Cates, Viscount Blackstone. The man who had married Kit’s fiancée.
“Ah,” she said, her voice thankfully steadying into a conversational tone. “This is rather hard, isn’t it? To be woken from a sound sleep straight into an awkward situation. My goodness, I am parched. Are you thirsty, Kit? I vow I would simply love some tea. What about you, my lord? Isn’t tea a capital idea?” Good God, she sounded like an idiot.
The viscount looked at her for a moment as if she had lost her mind. After all, Kit was still crouched before them. Fortunately, he was able to recover his wits and was soon nodding at her.
“There is nothing like English tea, is there, Miss . . .”
“Madeline Wilson, my lord. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Ah yes. The intrepid Miss Wilson. It must be very cold there on the floor. Would you like some help to stand?”
He leaned forward, extending his hand, only to pull up short as Kit jerked into his way. It was no more than a slight shift, but it was clear that Kit would not let the viscount anywhere near her.
“Well, Kit, I suppose if you will not allow him to help me up, you will just have to do it yourself.” She winced as she rolled her ankles about. “I do find myself quite stiff.”
Kit still had not said anything beyond the two words that labeled the viscount a thief. She wasn’t remotely sure that he knew where he was or what was happening. But there was consciousness there, she was certain of that. He was not insane. Merely somewhat uncivilized at the moment. So the best course of action was to be civil around him such that he could remember how to act.
She gently trailed her fingers down his arm until she gripped his hand. He watched her do it, his body taut with a kind of lethal awareness. But he didn’t strike out. And when she reached his palm, he gripped her fingers.
She maneuvered her legs under her, gasping slightly as the blood flowed through her limbs. She meant to push up off the floor with her other hand, but Kit was there before her. He reached under her far arm and raised her up. He leaned over, hooked his free arm around her ribs, and gently stood up, carrying her with him. It was the most extraordinary feat of strength and grace she had ever experienced. And as she was of rather large proportions, she found herself quite breathless with awe when he at last set her on her feet.
She looked into his eyes. They were nearly face-to-face. She felt his heat again, but mostly what she saw was the pain in his eyes. He was not insensate. He was not confused. He knew that he had been found asleep on a woman’s lap after a period of madness. And the man who had discovered him was none other than his cousin—a viscount—who had married his fiancée.
“Oh, Kit,” she breathed, “we shall sort it all out. I promise.”
His eyes dropped to her lips. She would swear he was thinking of kissing her. Or perhaps that was her own wickedness. She licked her lips, wishing more than anything that they could return to that moment before his madness. She wanted to be mindless in his arms again. And maybe this time, she wouldn’t stop him. After all, it must be nearly dawn now. She would soon be discovered absent from her bed. If she were to be a fallen woman, she might as well be one in truth.
“Seth has put the kettle on,” said the viscount, breaking through her wicked thoughts. “I told him to make it strong. You know how they like to water th
ings down here, don’t you, Kit?”
Kit turned, looking at his cousin with a dark stare. “I remember,” he said clearly. “It saves money on tea and encourages the sale of the stronger stuff.”
“Exactly so,” returned the viscount with an encouraging smile. “We should go drink some now while it’s hot. And then, I would expect that Miss Wilson needs to get home. It’s a couple hours before dawn,” he said more to Maddy than to Kit. “Plenty of time to get you in bed before light.”
Before anyone knew where she had spent the night, he meant. Which told her that there was still hope of salvaging her reputation.
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
“I will take her home,” said Kit firmly.
The viscount inclined his head in agreement, but his expression was troubled as he looked at the two of them. She was still wrapped in Kit’s arm, held up by his strength. She could probably gently disengage herself but was loathe to do it. He wanted her tucked close, and she would stay there for his peace of mind.
“Well,” said the viscount, “whomever takes her home, I want tea first. Kit how about you help me while we allow Miss Wilson a moment to collect herself?”
But Kit didn’t move. He held her firmly, his eyes searching her face. So she smiled at the viscount. “Go on, my lord. We shall be up directly.”
“Very well,” said the viscount slowly. “But I shall be . . . I’m right up here. In case of anything.”
Kit didn’t move until the viscount disappeared. Only then did he slowly release her and step back, a blankness taking over his expression. The sight was chilling. She knew he was tucking away all that pain he suffered, hiding it from himself as well as everyone else. But she didn’t want such a thing for him. He needed to feel his pain, not run from it.
“Don’t hide,” she began, but her voice faltered. She didn’t know what to say.
“I have abused you most abominably tonight,” he said in an undertone.
“No—”
“I have. I cannot apologize enough.”
“There is no need for that,” she said, wishing she could say more. There was no need to hide his anguish from her, to retreat into polite banter, to become civilized again, even though that was exactly what she had wanted a moment ago. “I understand the need to be wild sometimes,” she said. “I have wished it a million times since coming to London.”
He didn’t answer, but she saw a silent misery enter his eyes. He didn’t believe her, didn’t think she understood pain or even the need to scream at the world like a beast howling at the moon.
“I don’t understand what you suffered,” she said firmly. “But I do know about feeling wrong from the inside out.”
“There is nothing wrong about you,” he said. “Nothing at all.” And then before she could say more, he stepped away from her. “There is a necessary just off the Green Room. Come, I will show you where it is.”
His wits were fully returned. She would get no more glimpses into his past now, and she didn’t dare question him. Not now when they were finally climbing out of the cellar. But she wondered, and she vowed to find out someday. Not for her own curiosity, though she had plenty of that. For Kit because she very much feared these episodes would haunt him until he made peace with them.
But in the meantime, she had to freshen her gown. She had to have tea with the man who had taken Kit’s fiancée away. And she had to do it all as if Kit meant no more to her than a man—any man—whom she had just met two days ago.
Chapter 9
“What happened, Kit? How did . . . How did this all happen?”
Kit swallowed his tea without tasting it. He sat in the Green Room with his cousin Brandon while his angel did whatever women did during their toilette. He didn’t answer. He wasn’t really sure what to say. In truth, without his angel here to ground him, he felt himself slipping into the cold, angry horror of his years as a slave.
“You know,” his cousin commented. “When I first came back from India, I spent months as a snarling monster. I abandoned my friends, crawled into a brothel, then drank and whored until I couldn’t hear the screams in my head.”
Kit looked up at his cousin’s face. It wasn’t as haggard as he remembered. His skin seemed healthier, his body less angled and harsh. “You’ve put on weight,” he said, startled to find that he could indeed talk rationally.
Brandon smiled and looked down at his belly. He didn’t have one, but he ran his hand over his stomach nonetheless. “Well, a good life does that to a man.”
“She is happy then?” Neither of them needed to say her name. Scheherazade. The woman Kit had once loved and Brandon had married.
“I believe so,” he said, his expression open as Kit had never seen before. “I thank God every day for her. I will do anything she needs to make her happy.” He swallowed. “Kit, I am sorry for everything, but you have to know. I will not give her up.”
He felt his hackles rise. Not because he had any claim to Scheherazade. He’d given her up as lost a very long time ago. She was more of a nostalgic memory than a true desire. But there was something primal about staking a claim on a woman. A lifetime ago, he had claimed Scher for his bride, and now here was Brandon doing the same. He reacted as a beast, his hands tightening into claws. Not because he wanted the prize, but because someone dared challenge him for it.
“Thank you, sir,” said his angel from behind him. “You have been most kind.”
Both men turned to see Maddy stepping into the Green Room behind Seth, who was leading the way.
“Will you be joining us for tea?”
The big man shook his head even as he gave her a slight bow.
“He has to be up early with the stage boys,” said Brandon. “I fear that we have kept him much later than usual.”
“I understand completely,” Maddy said with a slight nod. “But I’m afraid we were never properly introduced. My name is Maddy Wilson.” She held out her hand to the big man, who bowed formally over her fingers.
“His name is Seth Mills,” supplied Brandon. “And he is greatly honored to meet you.”
Maddy smiled warmly at the large man. “Oh, but the honor was all mine. You were a wonderful help in the cellar.”
Then something happened that Kit had never seen. Seth blushed. What started as a soft rose in his cheeks rapidly became a flaming red that made his ears appear to burn. The man bowed again then ducked away, still half bent.
Brandon watched, his mouth open in shock. Kit was no better, though his mind remained stuck on something else. Not the sight of Seth’s fiery blush, but the way Maddy exuded warmth toward the big man. How easily she brought joy to everyone around her. Then she smoothly crossed the room to join them at the table, effortlessly reaching for the teapot and offering to refresh their cups. In short, she was a lady and much too refined to be sitting on a cellar floor with him.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him blush like that,” Brandon said, his voice laced with amusement. “You are a woman of many surprises, Miss Wilson.”
“I don’t know about that, my lord. My father would say that I am a woman who ends up in surprising—and vastly inappropriate—situations.”
“He sounds like a man I should like to meet.”
“You can’t,” Kit interrupted, his voice thick with emotions he could not name. “He’s dead.” Then he silently cursed himself. He sounded like a churlish child.
Not surprisingly, Brandon stared at him. Maddy, however, graced him with a sad smile. “Yes, he has been gone for some time now. I am staying with my uncle Frank, the Earl of Millsford.”
“Ah yes. I know the man.” From the sound of it, Brandon didn’t much like him either. Kit couldn’t disagree.
The other two continued to chat, speaking about mutual acquaintances and their respective families. The conversation flowed as it would in any parlor of the ton. Once, Kit had been a master of just such polite discussions. But now, he was unable to say anything, to do anything, while his cousin sa
t right there and charmed his angel.
It was ridiculous, and Kit felt his fury grow. At himself. At his cousin. Even at Maddy, who laughed and poured tea like she was a lady born. She wasn’t. Her only pretense to a title was her uncle who wanted to make her his mistress. Her lineage was no better than his, and yet watching her now, he knew she was destined for a brilliant match. An earl at least, if not a duke. She was a lady and he was a slave. The differences could not be more clear.
Kit abruptly stood up, and his chair scraped loudly in the room. Maddy gasped in surprise, and Kit once again damned himself for being a cad. “It is late,” he said, working hard to keep his voice genteel. “You should get home.”
Maddy recovered quickly. Of course she would. “You are quite right,” she said, but then her gaze slid to Brandon. “But I do have one rather impertinent request, my lord.”
Kit didn’t like her looking at Brandon, but he couldn’t stop her. So he held himself still and waited, hating every moment that she looked at Brandon and not at him.
“I came to the playhouse tonight expressly to find your lady wife,” Maddy said, her expression apologetic.
Brandon frowned but moved smoothly behind her to pull out her chair. Hell and damnation, why hadn’t Kit thought of that? Gentlemen assist ladies to rise. How could he have forgotten?
Meanwhile, his cousin was speaking. “Why would you be looking for Scher?”
“It is for Rose,” she said her cheeks flushing. “My cousin, Lady Rose, wants to have a tea where Kit . . . er, Mr. Frazier and your wife both attend.”
“Ah,” responded Brandon, and in that one word was a wealth of understatement. He knew exactly what Rose’s motivations were for having the tea. The hostess who could catch both Kit and Scheherazade in the same room would have the event of the Season.
“I know it is a terrible imposition,” she continued.