She slid off the bed and slipped through his fingers.
Twenty
Veronica couldn’t bear to look at him as he sat on the edge of the bed and waited patiently for her to explain, so she moved around the room to pick up the pieces of clothing she’d discarded as she’d bared herself to him. She had to keep busy for fear of glimpsing the bewildered look that was surely on his face, and for fear of rushing back into his arms and begging him to make love to her one last time.
She wouldn’t argue, cry, beg—she wouldn’t do any of those things silly misses did because of love. She simply didn’t have it in her. But she did have her pride, and she would never let him see how much anguish churned inside her.
She picked up the shift and saw the blood stains. Just another reminder of how her real world was destroying the fantasy he’d created for her tonight. There was no hope for her here. Or for them.
“Explain,” he finally ordered, quietly but brooking no refusal.
“I have to leave London,” she repeated.
“Why?”
“I can’t stay.”
“You can. London’s your home now.”
“Not the one I want.” Exasperation slammed into her. He didn’t understand at all.
“Once you have your pardon, you—”
“And you, Merritt?” She wheeled on him as she unleashed the truth. “Will I ever have you?”
As soon as the question passed her lips, she regretted it. Shame and embarrassment surged into her chest, right up her neck and into a hot flush in her cheeks. She was such a cake! To even venture the idea of wanting a life with him, when he’d most likely thought nothing of her beyond the end of his bed—no, not a cake. A damn fool.
Yet she somehow found the resolve to not look away as he silently returned her gaze with a stunned one of his own.
But when his confused expression melted into guilt and grief, her heart melted with it.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I’m not some goose of a society girl dreaming of marriage. I know how impossible you are for me. I’ve known it all along.”
Unable to bear whatever he might say to try to console her—and knowing he couldn’t contradict her—she turned away and pulled on her shift. A thin barrier that did little to protect her.
“A foreign lord’s bastard daughter with a respectable baron, a King’s Counsel with a confessed criminal…” Even as she said the words, the impossibility of it crashed over her. She covered the slump of her shoulders in anguished acceptance by fussing with the shift’s straps. “A pardon would make no difference to any of that.”
None. His career would still be ruined, his barony turned into a laughingstock, and his reputation destroyed. Perhaps his father’s right along with his. And her as a baroness—simply laughable!
“I didn’t come here tonight to try to persuade you differently.” I came here because I love you. Because I needed to bare my soul to you just as much as I wanted to bare my body, to draw on your strength and resolve. Because I needed you the way I have never needed another man in my life. She shrugged. “I wanted to be in your bed. That’s all.”
At that blatant lie, she bent over to slip on her stockings and blinked hard. Once. That was the only emotion she would allow herself. She’d accepted that tonight would be their only intimacy, knew she had to live on without him…yet, oh God, how much it hurt!
She hesitated as she reached for her stays. How would she ever put them on without his help? She choked back a sob. How would she manage to survive at all without him?
“As I said,” she forced past the knot in her throat, as much to convince herself as him, “I came to say good—”
“You’re right, Veronica. You are impossible for me,” he admitted hoarsely. “But not at all for the reason you think.”
The grief in his voice thundered through her. So did the realization that he was standing right behind her, having come up silently until he stood a handful of inches away. She held her breath, not daring to move.
“Her name was Joanna Gordon.” The wretched sadness in his voice chilled her to the bone. “She was my fiancée.”
“You don’t have to tell me about her,” she whispered. “I don’t need to know.”
Didn’t want to know. How could she bear to hear about how much he’d loved another woman, even a dead one, when his musky scent still lingered on her?
“Her name was Joanna,” he repeated. He took her shoulders and drew her back against him. “We’d grown up together. Our parents were longtime friends, and a marriage was expected.” He slipped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. “She was a good and kind woman, pretty, well educated. The perfect sort to be a barrister’s wife.” He paused. “And I loved her.”
Harsh jealousy sliced into her.
“She died before we could marry.”
“Merritt,” she pleaded for mercy, “I don’t need to—”
“We were coming back from a party and were caught up in a riot. The carriage was overturned, the doors ripped open. She was pulled out into the street by the mob.” He sucked in a pained breath. “They killed her—he killed her. A man with a hammer struck her in the back of the head as she was trying to crawl away.”
She shuddered in his arms. To have seen his fiancée killed like that… Good God. A tear of grief for him slid down her cheek.
“Christ! I felt so helpless.” His agony was palpable, and he tightened his arms around her as if afraid she might be torn from him just as Joanna had been. “I couldn’t keep her with me inside the carriage, couldn’t fight them off… I wasn’t the man she needed to keep her safe.”
“There was nothing you could have done.” Yet even as she breathed out the words, she knew he wouldn’t believe them. He’d been punishing himself since that night, and there was nothing she could say that would bring him peace. But she loved him enough to try. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one could have stopped what happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
He shook his head. “I failed her that night.” His voice ached. “And I’ve been failing her ever since.”
Icy realization of what he meant sank over her. She turned in his arms to search his face. His expression was hardened by guilt and shame, and by something else so cold and dark that it made her shiver.
When he said nothing, simply holding her gaze with that same terrible expression, she knew why he’d put himself at such risk, why he rushed into the heart of the riots—
He was chasing a ghost.
Her blood turned cold. No…not chasing. “You’ve been hunting him.”
He released her and turned away. Not looking at her, he yanked on a pair of trousers tossed over the back of a chair and began to pace the room. He scoured his hand over his face as his shoulders tightened visibly.
“That’s why you went into the army, too, isn’t it?” she guessed, but she knew she wasn’t wrong. “Not to learn to fight but to learn to hunt.”
The fighting, the swords, the knives…prowling the streets, stopping the riots—it all made dreadful sense now. So did the futility of what he was attempting to do. He wanted to prove to Joanna’s memory that he loved her, that he would find her killer and put everything to rights.
But the task was impossible. That healing would never come.
“I went into the army so I could get away from London and all the memories here. Learning to fight was simply a bonus.” He paused in front of the cold fireplace and stared down at it. “The day I left for the Continent, I went to the churchyard and placed flowers on her grave.” He paused, a single heartbeat of agonizing silence. “That morning should have been our wedding day.”
She ached to reach for him, to wrap her arms around him and ease his pain, but she knew he’d only push her away. He wasn’t ready to be comforted.
“When I had the chance to learn to
fight, I took it—every type of fighting, every weapon I could get my hands on, every master boxer and fencer who was willing to teach me.” He reached for the iron poker but stopped short before jabbing it into the ashes, as if he simply needed the solidity of it in his hand. Like a weapon. “I swore to myself that I would never be helpless again. I mean to keep that promise.”
“From what I’ve seen,” she murmured, “I think you’ve achieved it.”
“Not at all.” He replaced the poker and turned away from the fireplace to slowly approach her. His mouth twisted ruefully as if at some private joke she didn’t understand. “Even now, after all the training and fighting, I still can’t protect the people I care about.”
He reached out and touched the blood stain on her shift. She sucked in a sharp breath.
“That’s why you’re impossible for me, Veronica. Because I can’t protect you.” He cupped her face between his hands and placed a tender kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there as if he, too, yearned for all they could never have. He rasped out, his voice raw with guilt and dread, “If I lost another woman who was in my care…it would end me.”
She whispered painfully, “Merritt—”
Without warning, he jerked back and cocked his head toward the door. His body tensed, and Veronica felt his heartbeat jump beneath her hand as it rested on his chest, her own pulse immediately matching his. Quick fear licked at her toes.
“What’s—”
He tapped his finger against her lips in a warning to keep silent, then pointed at the door.
She held her breath and listened, straining to hear over the pounding rush of blood in her ears—
A footstep on the stairs.
His eyes darted down to hers. A low warning glowed in their dark depths… Someone’s in the house.
He pulled her silently to the bed, gestured for her to lie down, and stretched out next to her.
“Don’t move,” he mouthed as he gently put her head down onto the pillow where she could pretend to be asleep.
She nodded. If the intruder was only a burglar who wanted to rob the house, he most likely wouldn’t harm them as long as he thought they were asleep. But the ball of fear in her belly held little hope for that.
Someone had come after her tonight to kill her. Now they were coming after Merritt.
He turned onto his back at the edge of the mattress. With his left arm lying across his abdomen, he reached beneath the bed with his right. Then he lay still.
The footsteps drew closer. Not one set but two. From the hitch in his breath, Merritt realized that, too. But neither of them moved, keeping their eyes closed and pretending to sleep even as the intruders moved steadily toward them.
A stretch of silence came as the men paused on the landing, followed by the opening of the door to the other room. A few seconds passed as they looked inside, then the door closed.
Her heart lurched into her throat. Not burglars. Hunters.
The door to their room opened with a soft click, followed by the same pause as before. But this time, the quiet shuffling of fabric and boots as they entered revealed that the two men had found what they’d been looking for. Merritt, asleep in his bed.
But they hadn’t expected him to have company.
“Look at that,” one whispered to the other.
The second man drawled, “A pretty little present.”
Veronica forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. She pretended to be asleep, yet every one of her senses came alert, her muscles ready to spring.
“Don’t even have to unwrap it,” he joked.
“Used gift.”
“Still tasty, though. And a fun treat after our work.”
She opened her eyes, unable to keep them closed a heartbeat longer. The two men stood silhouetted by the frame of the open door, one wide and hulking and the other slender but tall. A slant of moonlight revealed the steely flash of knives.
“You take him,” the smaller man ordered and pointed his knife at Merritt. “I’ll take the whore.”
The big man nodded and started toward the bed.
Merritt sprang. He slashed with his knife in his right hand as he spun in a half circle and kicked his leg. His foot plowed into the shorter man’s chest and sent him staggering back. Then he dropped into a crouch and slashed with his knife at the other man. The blade sliced through the man’s trousers and into his calf.
The attacker let out a howl of pain but somehow found the lucidity to strike back and lunged forward on his good leg to thrust the knife at Merritt’s shoulder.
Merritt dodged the blow, dropped his shoulder, and charged forward like a bull. He slammed his shoulder into the man’s midriff and threw him backward halfway across the room. The two men grappled, their knives flashing in the moonlight.
The smaller of the two men recovered and came at Veronica.
She rolled off the bed and darted to the fireplace to grab the iron poker. When she brandished it in front of her, the man laughed, only for a groan of pain to escape when she swung and caught him on the boney edge of his hip. He lunged. She jumped to the side and stabbed the poker forward like a sword. But the dulled tip didn’t puncture the man’s clothes and simply bounced off the hard flesh beneath as if she’d never touched him at all.
Panting hard from exertion and fear, she retreated slowly but kept the poker gripped tightly in her hand. Her heart pounded so hard that each beat jarred against her breastbone and ricocheted painfully. So did the slap of iron in her ungloved palm as she swung the poker again, this time in a wide arc that hit his shoulder with a dull thud.
“You bitch!” he bellowed.
With a fierce cry, she swung again. The iron poker caught him on the side of the head and dropped him to his knees.
He remained on all fours on the floor at her feet, stunned and breathless. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. When he tilted back his head and looked up at her, his rage-filled expression made her gasp.
Before she could swing a second time, he snarled and flung himself at her. He grabbed her by the legs and tossed her to the floor, then climbed on top of her to pin her down. He clutched her throat.
She kicked and punched, but he was too large and heavy. She couldn’t shove him away! No scream left her lips, only a soft gargling as he squeezed her throat. She couldn’t see around him to find Merritt, had no idea if Merritt was still fighting. Or if he was still alive. All she could hear was the deafening roar of blood in her ears with every pounding heartbeat.
He drew back the other hand that still held his knife and flashed it in front of her face.
He lowered his face close to hers. So close that she saw the jagged scar marking his cheek and smelled the stench of his hot breath. “I’m going to gut you for that.”
He lowered the tip of the knife toward her belly.
An arm shot around his neck. The bicep flexed hard like steel as the man was yanked off her and flung against the wall so hard that the room shook from the impact. The air whooshed from his lungs.
Merritt pinned the man to the wall and shoved his knife blade under the man’s chin. Blood splatter covered Merritt’s bare chest and dripped down his thighs.
Yet the bloodied sight of him wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the look of sheer hatred that gripped his face.
“You won’t hurt her again, you bastard,” he seethed. “You won’t take her from me again.”
He pulled back his arm to slice the man’s throat—
“Merritt, no!” Veronica cried out. “We need him alive!”
He whipped his head toward her and stared at her as if he were staring at a ghost… No, she realized as icy fingers wrapped around her spine. Not at a ghost. At Joanna. He wasn’t with her; he was lost in his memories from five years ago. That horrible night had blended into this one for him, and she had blended into Joanna.
He shook his head hard, but when he glanced at her again, there was no recognition in his eyes.
The attacker shoved him back and slashed his knife. Merritt darted to the side to avoid the sharp blade.
The man raced from the room. His boots pounded hard on the steps as he fled from the house and out into the night.
Merritt started after him—
“No!” she called out, terrified of what would happen to him if he left.
He halted and looked over his shoulder at her. The murderous set of his face shuddered through her, strangling her throat in shock and preventing her from calling out to him again.
Then he ignored her and chased after the attacker in cold-blooded pursuit.
Veronica fought to catch back her breath and slowly crawled to her feet, leaning back against the wall for support. The iron poker fell from her hand and clanked against the floor. Six feet away lay a dead man.
She shook violently as her heart pounded out every second Merritt was gone. Her deep and labored breaths burned her lungs at the realization of why he’d chased after the attacker. Not to capture the man to interrogate him for answers but to kill him, to take revenge for this night the way he hadn’t been able to do five years ago.
You won’t hurt her again… You won’t take her from me again… Again.
He didn’t mean her.
Merritt reappeared in the doorway, dripping blood onto the rug and still clasping the knife in his hand. His face was set hard as stone, and his bare chest heaved with exertion.
“You killed him, then?” she breathed out, unable to find enough voice to even whisper.
He shamefully shook his head.
Thank God. She slumped back against the wall as the terror of losing him fled.
He dropped his knife and hurried to her. He ran his hands over her, not to comfort her, she knew, but to check for wounds. Finding none, he cupped her face between his blood-sticky hands and pressed his lips to her forehead.
“I’m not hurt,” she told him, desperate to ease the turmoil pulsing from him. The same anguish roiled inside her. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”
An Extraordinary Lord Page 22