by Eva Devon
He gazed up at her with wild eyes. “You,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “How could it be you?”
“Because,” she said with stunning clarity, “I would not tolerate your cruelty, and no one should have to. Ever again.” She pressed harder on his wound, locking gazes with him. “I am sorry for this,” she continued. “But I am not sorry that I did not let you hurt me.”
Those wide eyes of his stared at her in wild disbelief.
His mouth opened and closed several times, and then his face turned towards the wall. She lifted a hand to her lips and covered them, stifling a scream.
Although she hated her own sense of dramatics, there was every reason to feel horror. She had never hurt anyone in her entire life, let alone killed someone.
This was too much to bear, was it not?
And yet, she knew it had been the right thing. She was not willing to sacrifice herself on some altar of male privilege to protect his life, while she herself, had to put herself at risk.
No, this had been the right decision.
Even so, she trembled.
Even so, her stomach twisted and heaved. But she took in a long breath, knowing at least, she was safe from a man like him. At least Clara would be safe from a man like him.
For, knowing someone like Adams, he easily could have hurt Grey’s sister.
And now, thanks to her, luckily, Grey would never be hurt by Adams.
More importantly, neither would boys like Joe.
Joe, who she had never known.
Boys like he? They would never be tortured by Adams again. As the last breath slipped past Adams’ lips, she let her hands drop from her ripped skirt pressed to his abdomen.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway.
A servant threw open the door, and not far behind him, Clara and Grey staggered in.
Grey was holding onto Clara, moving as quickly as he could, and Clara’s face was whiter than the cream served at breakfast with tea and coffee.
Phillipa turned to them. “I killed him,” she said flatly.
“Are you unharmed?” Grey asked, his face strained and his voice deep with fear.
She nodded, wordless.
“Thank God.” Grey breathed.
Clara stared at the body on the ground and brought a hand to her face. “He is gone.”
Phillipa nodded again. “He was going to kill me. I think he intended to use me as a pawn to get you in a situation more favorable to him.”
Grey crossed over to her, hobbling, his leg barely able to bear his weight. No doubt, the long walk he had taken himself on this morning had left him exhausted.
Even so, he pulled her into his arms. “I can never forgive myself for putting you in this position.”
“You?” she said, not understanding. “It is not you. It was him. You did nothing. He is the one who was awful. His behavior was his own. It had nothing to do with you.”
“It did,” Anthony gritted. His eyes filled with terror. “If I had not exposed him, if I had not tried to ruin him.”
“Think of all the people who would be still hurting, if you had not,” she protested, determined to make him see reason. “You did the right thing, and I am glad we were able to end this. For, if he had just gone to a court of law, perhaps one day he would have been freed. Or as you said, perhaps he never would have been brought to justice at all.”
“But because of what you have done here, he has received justice,” Grey replied gently. “And a kind one.”
She did not know what to say at that. She did not think she had been kind, but he certainly could have been at the hands of a more brutal death than the one she had given him.
At least, it had been quick.
He had not had to go to rot in prison.
“What shall we do?” she asked, stunned.
Grey stroked his hand along her back, holding her close. “It just so happens I’m the local magistrate, and I shall make certain that nothing happens. His body shall find a wonderful resting place at the bottom of the cliffs in a secluded cave.”
“That does not sound like justice,” she replied carefully.
“Sometimes, justice is done without assistance from the law.” he countered.
“I do not know,” she said.
“No, my darling,” he assured. “You defended yourself. And I do not wish to put you through an inquest. Do you wish an inquest?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I wish it.”
He stared down at her, weighing his reply for a long time, and then he said steadily. “Then, we shall do whatever you desire, and I shall protect you every step of the way.”
She nodded. “Good. Because then justice will truly be done. Everyone will know what kind of man he was.”
“All that matters,” Grey said tightly, “is that you are safe and that you are here in my arms. I love you, Phillipa, and I shall never put you in such jeopardy again.”
She wrapped her arms about him, holding him steady. “You cannot make such promises, Anthony. This life is wild and full of danger. I left my father, who was not a kind man, only to be confronted by this man. You cannot promise me perfect safety, and I do not wish you to.”
She hesitated and gazed up into his eyes. “But you can promise you will always be by my side and that you will always support me. Will you?”
She found she was holding her breath as she awaited his answer.
“Yes,” he affirmed, his voice rich with emotion and determination. “I will never abandon you or leave you to face this world alone again. Even out of a foolish sense of self-righteousness. I love you, Phillipa. I love you with all my heart, and I am sorry for ever forsaking that love.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I love you too, and we need never be alone again. And we need never face a man like Adams alone again, either.”
He pulled her closer and led her out of the room. In the hall, he rested his head upon her head. “You are so very brave. I cannot tell you how much I admire you.”
She said nothing, but held onto Anthony.
And she knew she might have sleepless nights over these terrible events, but at the same time, she could not help a sigh of relief.
For, everything Anthony and Merrill had said about Adams was true.
The world had been freed from a monster, a monster in the shape of a man, a man who had all but admitted to torturing children.
And for that, she could not feel very sorry.
Chapter 17
The events of the day had made it impossible for him to peruse the note Tom had brought him at the lake immediately.
But he had not forgotten its existence or the words that might lie therein.
Those words had the power to give him hope or leave him in the obscurity of never truly knowing what had become of Joe.
Forgetting the note was not a possibility.
It had burned a hole in his pocket the entirety of the time that he had assisted to calm the servants, called for Merrill, and informed the local authorities—though he was the most powerful of those authorities—of what had transpired.
Yes, he had to be careful. Ensure the proper steps were taken for the inquest and ensure that Phillipa and his sister were cared for.
Whether or not Adams was a devil, what had happened to Phillipa was no small thing. He’d all but hovered, holding her hand whenever possible. He’d arranged tea laced with spirits and warm blankets.
The whole day, the day of Adams’s death, had been devoted entirely to Phillipa and his sister.
Reading the note would require his full attention. So, he had kept it. Safe.
The knowledge it was there had always danced at the edge of his mind.
But due to the intensity of it all, that part of his mind had to be put aside. And unsurprisingly, despite the enormity of Adams’s death, that had been hell.
Because the blatant fact was that he had been thinking of Joe for months and agonizing nightly over what had befallen him.
And if he was honest, he’d hoped to God a million
times that Joe had not died.
Of course, his mind assured him that Joe had died at sea just as Merrill had informed him aboard the Indomitable, but his heart had told him something very different indeed.
Anthony had been unable to ignore the hollering of his heart.
He shuddered as he thought of the moment he’d been handed the note. He shuddered thinking of Tom’s words and the announcement that the Earl of Harrowton had come to call.
Anthony had known immediately that something was truly amiss. There was no way the Earl of Harrowton would return to England so abruptly and come to him.
No, Harrowton had to have known his reputation, that he would thrash him within an inch of his life for daring to come to his castle and manipulate Phillipa.
This knowledge had placed a splinter of fear in him.
So, he had not wasted a moment’s time and hurried back as best as someone like him could hurry.
He had only returned just in time to hear a pistol crack. That crack had nearly broken his mind and his heart in one moment. If he thought the Battle of Trafalgar had been one that could break him, he had been vastly mistaken.
For standing at his castle’s entrance, the shot reverberating through the air? That moment had nearly suspended his life in time.
For a horrific instant, he'd wanted to die upon the spot, fearing that the very worst might have come to pass.
But he had been compelled to move forward to ascertain what had happened, willing with each moment as he had never willed before in his entire life that it had not been Phillipa who had fallen.
He willed and hoped and bargained.
Oh, how he'd prayed as he had forced his shaking body laced with pain across the foyer of his ancient castle. A castle that had seen civil wars, Scottish invaders, and a host of volatile ancestors.
When he’d raced through the great hall, he’d met Clara's white-faced visage, and he’d grabbed hold of her, hoping that with his sister’s able assistance, he would be able to cover more ground quickly.
She had held him with the strength of the most powerful rock and pulled him towards the room from which the shot had been fired. When he had spotted Phillipa above the body, pressing her own gown into that seeping wound, his heart had slammed. Not with horror but with relief.
So much relief had echoed and boomed through him that he had not known if he could tolerate it. The world had raced, his thoughts spun, and the room seemed to sway like the ships he helped command.
But she was alive. Alive.
The idea that he had ever thought anything else could possibly matter was absurd.
In that moment, he had known that he would do whatever it took and thank whatever God, whatever source he had to, for Phillipa's safety.
He'd also known in that moment that he could no longer play a fool.
And he had been playing a privileged, indulgent fool.
In that moment, knowing that Adams had been alone with Phillipa with a pistol in the room?
It had been absolutely clear to him that he had been the most ridiculous of men.
To think that he had tried to push her away to protect her from his wounds. The very idea was now clearly absurd.
Men like Adams were the danger in this world, not his wounds.
His wounds were a difficulty, a problem, there was no question. But Phillipa was more than capable of dealing with those sorts of issues.
She was a strong, capable of woman who, while romantic and lovely, was ultimately practical and interested in the realities of this world.
Adams, on the other hand, was a scourge upon the earth, and much to his horror, Anthony had allowed her to be close to that. Without, at the very least, letting her know how much he loved and wanted her in his life.
The knowledge of it nearly undid him.
He was horrified because he had not properly thought out what could occur.
But how could he?
It had not seemed as if Phillipa could be a victim of Adams at first, but now it made perfect sense to him.
Adams was a brutal man but now. . . He was gone.
Bloody hell, Anthony was glad.
He could not feel a hint of sorrow at the man’s passing. The only thing he felt sorry for was the fact that Phillipa had had to do it.
He did not wish her the pain and the dreams that sometimes occurred after such an act, but she had taken it in remarkable stride.
And from what he could see, it was because she understood that what she had done had been righteous. It had been the good thing to do, and she had potentially saved many lives and protected many children by choosing to act boldly and swiftly. And instead of feeling shame or shock at her actions, she almost seemed proud.
He was proud of her too, because she had not fallen into victimhood. She had not allowed herself to be taken. Oh, he would have understood if she had.
Terror was no small thing.
Adams was a terror.
Anthony had seen men quake in battles, but, my God, she had stood up to Adams, and she had saved herself.
It was a stunning thing really.
He'd been so certain that he needed to be strong for her.
Again, he had to acknowledge that he was a fool. A silly, male fool.
It was one of the reasons why he'd been so certain that they needed to part, after all. With his body the way it was, he’d convinced himself that without his previous physical prowess, he was not worthy of her.
But Phillipa did not need him to protect her like that.
She needed a partner, a companion, and someone who saw her and loved her for who she was, and that was exactly what he could and would do.
So, late that evening, they sat before the fire drinking brandy and trying to steal their nerves from the day. He was glad that he was the Duke of Grey because, as the duke, there was no way she was going to meet any serious trouble for this incident.
At long last, in the silence of the night filled only with the crackling fire, he took out the note. He held its light weight in his palm, then pointedly cracked the red wax seal.
He unfolded the thick parchment and opened it flat.
His breathing slowed as he steeled himself for bad news. He prepared himself to read the same words that he always read when the reports rolled in.
The black ink would scrawl the words Joe is still missing.
Though he tried to not let himself hope, he couldn’t help but feel the smallest trace of a feeling. . .
And as he read the boldly inked words, tears stung his eyes. His hand began to shake, and he had to will himself to remain steady.
Today? Today, the note said something different entirely. His man wrote boldly and rather wildly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself, that Joe had been found at an inn in southern France, near the coast.
He was, of all things, a cook’s assistant, working in the kitchen. Not as some sort of cleaning boy, but as someone learning to handle food and appreciate cuisine.
Anthony read on, barely daring to believe the story unfolding in the missive.
Joe had been taken in when he had washed up on shore after the battle.
The French people in the town had protected him because he had been such a character and so young. Instead of turning him over to French authorities, they had given him a home, good food to eat, a position, safety, and an opportunity to learn.
It was far more than the English had ever done for Joe. It was a galling point to read, but that did not stop his relief that Joe had not been suffering greatly these last months but had been cared for.
Apparently, Joe was learning to make omelets and tarts.
Months ago, he had briefly considered coming back, according to Anthony’s man’s words. But, quite sensibly, Joe had not wanted to chance the possibility of being forced back into the service of the Navy. He’d found peace in the south of France. Loading cannon could not have been an appealing proposition.
Nor a return to the brutal treatment aboard ship.
> So, unlike many of the other English sailors who had washed up on the French beaches but had not been taken into custody, Joe did not attempt to gain berth on one of the smuggling vessels running the English Channel.
Apparently, the knowledge that Anthony was now the Duke of Grey had quite stunned Joe.
And when offered the opportunity to return to England under Anthony’s guardianship, Joe decided to come back.
For though, the note claimed, he'd begun to be happy in the south of France, he preferred to be with his friend.
Anthony blinked his eyes rapidly, swallowing a thick sensation in his throat.
He was going to see Joe again.
He read on, desperate to know all the details, hardly believing them, and yet glad he had never given up. As his heart had instructed.
The note stated that Joe would be arriving on a ship returning to Cornwall quite soon.
Joe was eager to take up residence with the Duke of Grey. Anthony stared down at the black words, struggling to truly fathom them. And at last, joy and relief filled him, washing over his sorrows and fears, lifting him up and taking away the dark weight which had nearly drowned him in sorrow these last months.
Anthony lifted his gaze and brought his eyes to Phillipa, who was sipping brandy with a blanket tucked about her shoulders.
She was staring at him, positively riveted.
And he realized she’d been watching him since the moment he’d opened the note. He was most impressed that she had not interrupted his reading with questions.
“You'll never guess” he whispered, his voice full of happiness.
“What is it?” she asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope at his reaction.
He drew in a deep breath and said the words aloud. “Joe is alive.”
“I beg your pardon?” she gasped, leaning forward to eye the note.
“He is alive,” he reiterated firmly. A smile so wide it hurt tilted his lips. “And he is coming here.”
She reached out and enfolded his hand with hers. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, filled with tears of joy. They slipped down her cheeks and she beamed. Amazement gave way to excitement.
“He is coming home,” she stated.
Oh, his beautiful Phillipa. No one in the world had as beautiful a soul as she. A soul which understood him so well and what he hoped for.