Beautiful White Lies Duet

by K L Clare

  I tugged down my blouse and slipped into my heels. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” I looked around for my tattered panties. He’d stuck them in his pocket.

  “Nothing?” He stared at me with wide eyes like I’d committed an egregious crime. “How can you say—don’t dismiss what I’ve done to you.”

  “It’s from the wall, not by your hand. Honestly, Will. You should see your own back.”

  My words made him angrier. “Not by my hand but still my fault. I’m the last man who should ever leave a mark on you.” He raked his hair and paced, cursing at himself and the God he wasn’t convinced existed.

  “Stop it, Will. Please. We have more important things to deal with.”

  His fury escalated. “What? There is nothing more important to me than you. I’ve been clear about that. Still, you test me.”

  I reached for him.

  “You deserve so much better than this, than me.” He backed away until he bumped into a door. He turned and punched it. The old wooden door tore from its hinges and crashed to the floor. He kicked it, sent it flying several feet beyond the doorway. But that hadn’t been enough to satisfy his anger. He picked up the wrecked door and threw it, smashing it against the wall. It splintered into countless, raining pieces.

  I ran to him but he pulled away.

  “Will, stop this. Please!”

  He blew out slow, heavy breaths, though not from exertion. It was hard to tell if he was winding up further or calming himself.

  “Ellie, step away from him,” Thomas said behind me.

  “This doesn’t concern you. Get the fuck out of here,” Will snapped, stalking toward his brother.

  “That’s right. . . . Come at me, not her. What are you doing, brother?” Thomas snarled through his teeth, something I hadn’t witnessed before. “You want to hurt her?”

  Will stopped abruptly. He looked from Thomas to me, his eyes softening. “I love her. I’ll never hurt her.”

  “You’re losing it, and she’s too fucking stubborn to leave you to it. She will get hurt—look at her.”

  Will stared at me for a moment before extending his hand. When I took it, he pulled me to his chest and held me securely against his heaving body. “Going to London for a while, Elle.” He lifted my chin and found my eyes. “Stay with Thomas.”

  “No, I won’t. You can’t—”

  “Please. You will,” he commanded softly.

  “How long?” Hot tears stung my cheeks.

  He shook his head and then kissed my lips. “I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

  I clutched his shirt with both hands and buried my face there. “No, you can’t leave me. I won’t let you.” My breath stuttered as I sobbed the words. I choked when I heard them replay in my head—the same words I’d shouted at my dying sister.

  “I’m not leaving you, baby. There’s something I need to do—to fix this. I swear to you I’ll make it right.” His long fingers wiped at my cheeks, and his warm lips kissed mine. We both tasted my tears. “Go on. My brother will keep you safe.” He pried my clawing fingers from his shirt and eased me into Thomas’s hands. “Restrain her if you must, and keep the Six close at all times. She is their only purpose.”

  Thomas gripped my arms from behind.

  I twisted and pulled.

  My heart refused to accept what Will had just said. It panicked and told my brain he was leaving me, just as everyone else in my life had.

  I kicked and screamed.

  I struggled with Thomas until he had no choice but to secure his arms around me with force.

  “Please don’t leave me,” I whispered.

  Will picked up a metal box and walked away without looking back.

  33

  No one ever tells you love hurts. They tell you it heals your soul and gives you hope. You hear all the lovely stories, the fairy tales, the descriptions of euphoria—but the story about the pain goes untold.

  Gran used to tell me love was equal parts risk and reward, but she never elaborated on either one. Of course she hadn’t. She was old-school English, raised to be stone-cold in the face of love.

  Will loved me. He’d said the words several times since they had first spilled from his lips in London. And he told Thomas. I saw it in his eyes when they burned into mine and felt it in his always-fevered skin when he touched me. He loved me beyond obsession—killed for me—and I believed him when he said he’d never stop.

  Still, his leaving hurt.

  He struggled with Ethan’s death and the resulting responsibilities. When he said he’d make it right, he meant he’d make himself right. My heart fractured each time his words echoed inside my head. He was broken.

  Even so, his leaving hurt.

  Thomas and I were on the small floral sofa in my room, where he’d confined me. He sat on the edge and leaned forward, and I sat with my legs tucked beneath me and one side of my face pressed to the back. Two of the Six were armed and stood guard just outside the door while we waited for an all-clear from Ben, indicating the estate was secure.

  “He didn’t leave you, Ellie.”

  “Stop saying that,” I snapped.

  “Then stop thinking it.”

  “I’m here and he’s gone. He wouldn’t say why he was going or when he’s coming back. So, tell me, Thomas, what should I think?” I used the back of my hand to wipe at another tear muddied with mascara.

  He reached for my hand and thumbed away the dark drop and then held my hand between both of his. “You’re missing information that could help you better understand.” He kept his eyes on the floor. “When our father was murdered, Ethan was there to seek retribution. Will didn’t have that, didn’t get that for Ethan. I know it sounds archaic to you, but it’s what we know—what our father taught us.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The assassin who killed Ethan got away. Will won’t have peace until he avenges our brother’s death. He’ll grow angrier as the guilt rides him harder. He knows the cost if he allows it to continue driving him. Everything. You.”

  “So he’s gone to find the man who murdered Ethan. Why couldn’t he tell me?”

  I understood. I could relate to the desire for vengeance. It still burned within me, though I was forced to admit that the magnitude of my enemy was beyond the scope of my ability, even if I learned to fight. The influence behind it was one of the world’s most powerful. We worked hard to deny it—to accuse the Queen would be high treason, punishable by life in prison—but my heart told me the Crown or someone very close was more than an innocent bystander.

  “C’mon. You know he’ll move mountains to spare you anything he can. Listen. You must understand we’re at war here. It may not be a grand war of countrymen defending the kingdom, but it is war. Forget the romanticized stories found in history books. No matter the size of the war waged, it’s never gallant, nor is it ever easy. And he worries about the nightmares. I hear it’s quite awful.”

  I shrunk away from those eyes with which he watched me. They were too much like Will’s. “Ethan told you?”

  “Yeah. I can’t stay in here with you, but if you choose to sleep downstairs in one of the open rooms, I can stay close.”

  The idea of anyone other than Will near me when I slept was uncomfortable. Thomas would always be my defender in Will’s absence—the next Hastings in line who wore the inked shield on his shoulder. I needed to get used to it. Will inherited more responsibility than most were challenged with in a lifetime, and I needed to be supportive, but my formidable desire to be with him would cause me to battle with myself over and again.

  “I’ll be fine up here, but thank you, Thomas.”

  He nodded. His half smile was hopeful, but his bouncing leg and wrinkled brow revealed something different. He knew I was lying.

  * * *

  The next morning, Thomas stopped me in the corridor. “Have breakfast with me,” he said. “Coffee and two bites of toast in your room isn’t enough. And, yes, I asked Lily.”

  I shrugged.
“I’m not a breakfast person. And you know Mrs. Bates will take a switch to us both if she finds me in the kitchen with you men.”

  “Fuck that. Let’s go.” He pointed to the staircase.

  I rolled my eyes and headed down to the kitchen.

  John delivered a heated explanation to the table of men in their military-style training clothes. “I’m telling you, man, the Earls of Arundel and Sussex were one and the same. The names were interchangeable for centuries.”

  “Kid’s right,” Thomas said. He handed me a plate and started to fill it.

  “That’s too much. Take the sausage back. I won’t eat that.”

  He glared at me as he moved the sausage to his own plate.

  “American women don’t eat the way English women eat,” John teased.

  “She’s not American, she’s high-born English. The highest. Try to remember that, little brother, before Will beats your arse again.”

  Will hated it when others referred to me as American or the American. He encouraged me to embrace my English heritage. “Your blood is the purest that exists,” he often reminded me.

  “She sounds like one,” John said, using his best American accent.

  “That’ll change in time.”

  “Knock it off, guys. And, by the way, many American women eat sausage. So what’s this talk of earls?”

  Thomas looked up from his plate-filling mission and stared at me. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Christ. Maybe there’s a reason he hasn’t told you. Wait for Will to tell you.”

  “Or maybe it just hasn’t come up yet with all that’s happened. He swore there’d be no secrets, so spill it, Thomas. Now.”

  “Will is the Earl of Sussex. I mean, he could be, if he chooses it. Our father had a disagreement with the Queen and renounced the title when our grandfather died, and as a matter of respect, Ethan honored that decision.”

  “What?” The bombshells never seemed to end.

  The Hastings men descended not only from George Plantagenet but also from an ancient line of fierce warriors, rewarded for their victories by kings and queens many times over. One of the countless spoils of war was a prominent position among the peerage with the Earldom of Sussex.

  “He must see the Queen’s ministers and inform them of his intention. He’s probably meeting with them this week.”

  “So he’s no longer avoiding interacting with others?”

  “I didn’t say that, Ellie.”

  “Of course you did. . . . Maybe I should go to London.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “You do realize I’m a grown woman?” I snapped.

  “Yes” was all he could say.

  * * *

  I went to bed early that evening, right after Lissie did, and as I’d expected, tossed and turned for hours. When my phone rang at three in the morning, I was still awake. Stumbling through the darkness, I banged into the table with my hip and fumbled until I found the ring’s source. I switched on the lamp and picked up the phone with caution—it had morphed into a ticking bomb.

  “That’s your own heart drumming,” I whispered as my legs weakened, lowering my bottom to the floor. I stared at the phone without answering.

  What if he wasn’t coming back?

  It rang a second time, again revealing Will’s name and the photo of us on the beach. John had snapped that photo the day we all went to Old Town—the day Will supported me in his arms as I reached out to the sea and reclaimed myself. The day my head and heart finally connected as one.

  I swiped to take the call, but there was no air left in me to push out the sound of my voice when I mouthed his name.

  “Elle,” he breathed into the phone.

  “Will.”

  “Forgive me.”

  Tears welled, flooding my vision. The sob that clung to the back of my throat prevented words. Just one would release its hold and break me. I listened to him breathe instead.

  “I’ll be home today. Don’t leave the house. Wait for me.”

  Thomas had told him that I’d mouthed off about London. Anger burned away the pooled tears. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t resolve the unbidden pain that his leaving had caused.

  “You heard. I threatened to leave, and now you’re coming back to do your job.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. That’s not—” He released a heavy sigh and softened his words. “I’m coming home to you because I never left you. There were matters to be handled, none of which could challenge my desire for you. And I won’t allow you to leave because I can’t live without you. I know I hurt you . . . should have called sooner. I swear I’ll make it up to you. I fucked up, Elle. Just say you’ll forgive me.”

  His words dripped with sincerity and broke me. There was no holding back—I choked on the ambush of emotion.

  “Goddammit, Elle. Don’t do that. Don’t cry.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll wait for me. You will not leave the house without me.” And then he hung up.

  I blew my nose and dried my eyes, smiling as my heart recognized that it had been my Will on the phone—the commanding, controlled warrior who refused to live without me.

  He’d slain his demons.

  My phone rang a third time.

  “You’re not a job. Never have been. I love you, baby.”

  “Tell me when you get home.”

  34

  John corrected my position before he demonstrated the proper technique for powering through with the left shoulder to throw a right cross. “Your reaction time has been great. Let’s try it again. You duck, I throw this time. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “I’ve played a lot of tennis. That helps.” I shifted into a defensive position. “I’m ready.”

  I’d started training on the mats with him the day after Will had left. Will refused to teach me, insisting it was his job to fight, not mine. We’d argued for several days before I had come up with another plan, and when he left, I was pissed off enough to implement it.

  John could fight. Like his three brothers before him, John began training when he was twelve, but unlike his brothers, he was easier to convince that I should know how to defend myself. But I wasn’t so naive as to believe I’d manipulated a Hastings male into beating me with his fists. I knew he’d been given permission and unequivocal instructions, and only because he was much smaller than the others and had no real fighting experience outside the gym.

  I’d approached Thomas first, but he’d given me a lecture similar to Will’s. “There’s a lot of pain that comes with hand-to-hand training. I won’t allow you to suffer that way. You can’t imagine the physical strength involved. When we fight, it takes over, and we become something . . . else. It has to be that way, or we die out there. Don’t ask me again. I won’t do it. Not ever.”

  But I could imagine. I’d seen it the day Will fought both brothers at once and had experienced it the night he took me hard against that stone wall. It was raw, animal-like strength, like nothing I’d ever witnessed.

  “Forget about it, Ellie. Anything you’ve seen here in this house is nothing more than a scratch to the surface,” Thomas had said after he’d read the thoughts written on my face.

  “Get out of your head,” John said, drawing my focus back to him. “Ready? Let’s go.”

  Will appeared beyond John’s shoulder just as John swung his fist.

  It was an immediate distraction, and I missed my cue to evade the hit, taking a blow to the face. The force knocked me on my ass. I hadn’t lost consciousness, although it took several seconds before I regained my vision, black slowly giving way to light.

  The thump and Will’s snarl registered in my ears before my rattled brain could grasp what was happening. He’d slammed John against the wall. “Take care not to hit her again if you want to live to see another fucking day.”

  After Will released him, John crouched forward and placed his hands on his knees. He raised his head and stared at me as he worked to catch
his breath.

  “I’m fine. Sorry,” I mouthed.

  Will turned to me, his eyes diving into mine, and he moved in. He pulled me to my feet and towered above. “Are you hurt, baby?” His spiced heat saturated my senses.

  I shook my head.

  My heart banged around in my chest, wanting him with desperation but hesitating. It hadn’t yet found its resolve from the pain it was never entitled to in the first place. I had no right to be angry with him. Not only was he grieving and broken when he left, but he’d always been the broken one. It was through no fault of his own. His father and I—we broke him. Richard Hastings gave his son no choice, raising Will to fight, forcing him to take lives. To save mine.

  Still, anger circumvented reason, and I hit him. Tears erupted as I pounded on his chest with the sides of my fists. I shouted at him, “Never do that to me again!”

  He secured my wrists and pulled me tightly against his chest, forcing me to reconnect with his eyes before he pushed his way into my mouth. His kiss was a tempest of emotion. It was passionate and fierce, tender and apologetic. It was perfect.

  I fought him still. I twisted and pulled back.

  Those eyes burned into mine with determination while his fingers opened and released my wrists. “Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what you need.” The gravel in his voice drove shivers through me.

  I wanted him to kiss me again. I needed him to hold me.

  I slapped his face.

  He accepted that harsh slap without a word, nodding to assure me that he had. Then he took my wrists back and pulled me against his body again.

  “Get the fuck out,” Will said to our audience, his voice booming with authority, rumbling through the rafters. John and the other guys scurried into the locker room.

  He slanted his mouth over mine and claimed it, allowing his emotions to drive him. There was no anger, no rage. Only love. Possessive, all-consuming love. The only thing that could have completed me more than that kiss would have been having him inside me.