Chapter Seven

This Woman

Good God.

This woman…

She made time stand still. His boots weren’t on the steps of Blaren House but planted in front of the forge of Gretna Green’s blacksmith. He’d committed his life to a very young bride, to love and protect her. Then it was all taken away. Chatsworth Adoniram Wilkinson, the Baron of Wycliff, had vowed never to surrender and never to lose again.

But this woman…

One gaze at her face and a sense of knowing swept over him, then a fierce wave of protection.

His stone heart awakened. Joy, then abject fear, seized the useless organ.

In a blink, he was young, a fool so in love he couldn’t eat or breathe or think. His every action centered on her—having her, knowing her, pleasing her.

This woman, his woman…

She was everything: a sun, the moon, the stars, all the firmaments of the universe.

People ran around him. Everyone screaming.

But he went back deeper in time to the docks near the Thames. A strong breeze had kicked up sand, making him turn to shield his eyes. That’s when he’d seen her standing near the warehouses. So beautiful with honey-brown skin. By the time he’d made an introduction, he was in love, worshiping her chocolate eyes flecked with indigo and gold. And those lashes, curly and long, he couldn’t wait to touch them, to touch her.

“Let me through.” A little woman, a pretty negress, hit at Lawden.

“Wycliff,” his man-of-all-work called out, “we must finish this, sir.”

“Yes. Finish. Keep all away.”

Yet, Wycliff didn’t move. He couldn’t crack his sjambok.

This woman…she’d died.

He’d seen her take her last breath, witnessed the convulsion that had stolen her life. At that moment, his heart had turned cold and black.

He’d wanted to die and take everyone who’d hurt her with him.

Now he had a different plan for vengeance and the means and the power to complete it.

“Wycliff, are you done?”

The trance broke. He lifted his head, snapped his sjambok whip. “Be gone and tell everyone. Blaren House has been restored to its true owner.”

“Don’t hurt Ruth! Let my sister alone.”

Oh, the sweetness of the name, Ruth.

His Ruth, His Ruthy. His miracle.

One man stopped running. He stood half in the bushes leading to the street. This one might run and report directly to Uncle Soulden or Wycliff’s cousin, Nicholas.

With everything at stake, Wycliff made his antics large, swinging his sjambok over his head. “A mighty bed wench delivered on time. A lovely celebration.”

Lord. If Ruth heard that slur, she’d never forgive him.

He sounded as awful as that innkeeper had their last day together, the last day they’d lived as man and wife.

Her little sister, the screaming thing, slipped around Lawden and ran at him. “Let her go, you beast!”

Oh, this was a bad time for a family reunion.

One slovenly soul, one whom Wycliff was sure he’d frightened into thinking his life was going to end, stopped and gawked.

What type of message would these henchmen take?

Wycliff snapped his sjambok twice. The leather whip crackled, stealing the casual smiles of those still looking toward Blaren House.

Ruth’s sister made it up the steps. “Ruth, hit him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Keeping Ruth on his shoulder, he backed up to the threshold. The sister followed as he suspected. “Two bed wenches for the price of one. Madame Talease is most generous and knows my healthy appetite.”

His laugh sounded lusty to his own ears. Repugnant, but it worked.

The goons started leaving again.

The short woman leaped at him and beat at his chest. “Put my sister down.”

He laughed, even snapped his whip to make things look as bad as possible—not like a man who’d just found the wife he’d thought dead. “Inside, you. I’ll have to complain to Madame. She knows I want my wenches compliant.”

The sister hit him again. Lucky for Wycliff, Ruth was tall and draped over all things vital.

The insistent thing punched him again, hitting his arm. “We are not—”

He spun the sister, clasped a hand over her mouth. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re sisters of the flesh. Well, I am of the brethren that needs great entertainment. We can negotiate a bigger payment inside. That is, if you please me.”

She struck him hard, bit his finger.

He whispered forgive me and shoved the fiery sprite inside.

Wycliff marched into Blaren House and barred the door. “What’s your name?”

“It’s not bed wench. Put my sister down. Let us go.”

He moved toward her and the little lady scrambled deeper into the wide hall. She picked up one of his uncle’s gaudy porcelain statues. The cheap imitation of Giambologna’s Abduction of the Sabine Women was hideous. A brutish sculpture of Roman soldiers stealing brides, hauling them away, sort of like Wycliff was doing. He’d have to get rid of the trash later.

The sister held it up as if she’d toss it. “Ruth, I’m here. I won’t leave you. Ruth, wake up.”

“You’re a feisty one, ma’am. But you’re more likely to hit your sister than me if you hurl that odious thing.”

“Listen you, you let us go.”

He chuckled at the passion in the sister’s voice, as if he’d ever let Ruth, his Ruthy go. “I need to make sure she’s unharmed. She took a hard fall. Come with me Miss…”

“Mrs. Bexeley.”

“Come, Mrs. Bexeley. Bring your ugly statue. Consider it a gift for my rude reception. Your sister may have a concuss of the skull.”

The little woman lowered her weapon. For the moment, she might trust Wycliff. Well, she had no choice, since her sister was upon his shoulder.

He curled Ruth into the fullness of his arms, carrying her as he had when he’d been a scrawny young bridegroom taking her across their wedded threshold.

A week of living and loving. The best time in his miserable thirty-year life. Ruth had been his everything, his best dream. Her death had been the nightmare he could never outrun. How could she be alive?

Her head bobbled, and he tucked it under his chin. Still beautiful, from a crown of curly tresses to the scar above her right eye.

Beautiful and alive.

How was this true?

Had he finally given in to madness?

Did madness smell like citrus and roses?

Did madness have a sister-in-law poking him in the back with the porcelain statue’s breasts?

Lawden met him at the door to his study. “Lord Wycliff, I came in through the rear. I have the grooms securing the rest of the house.”

“Good. Give the lady’s driver a guinea and send them away. I’ll see to their transport.”

Mrs. Bexeley pressed close and touched Ruth’s cheek. “Wait a minute. You can’t—”

“It’s done. There’s no time to argue. We must see to your sister. Come into my study. We’ll revive her there.”

He started into the big room, his father’s wonderful study, and paused.

Freed from impressment, newly back to London, he’d slipped into this room four months ago. Blaren House had become a secret gaming hell. Gambling and debauchery had filled the rooms. No one had noticed Wycliff easing into the study and taking the ledger book he’d hidden on the tall bookshelf behind the big desk four years earlier. The information inside had enabled his current plan to destroy his enemies.

Mrs. Bexeley shoved him in his back again. “You stopped in the doorway. Put her down or put us in a carriage. You can’t keep us.”

“You can leave.” His tone was harsh but true. Ruth was all he cared about, all he’d ever cared about. “I’ll take care of her.”

Stepping fully into the room, he tangled his fingers in Ruth’s hair. A thick healthy curl. His wife was alive.

Another shove to his back hurt and would probably leave a bruise. “I take it you wish to remain, Mrs. Bexeley?”

“This is not funny. Put her down.”

It was funny and tragic and humbling. He debated putting Ruth on the gaudy fur rug, the desk, or the settee by the bookcase. From what he’d witnessed during the eviction, particularly the indelicate situation on the desk, every bit of Blaren House would need to be washed with lye soap.

“I…I think the settee is best.” Supporting Ruth in one hand, he moved to the striped satin bench and covered it with his cape then laid his love upon it. Tall, gorgeous Ruth’s feet dangled over the settee’s padded arm.

Wanting to hold her hand, touch the satin of her lips—lips he still dreamed of when he allowed his mind to be undisciplined—he forced himself away. Ruth must awaken and recognize him before there could be any celebration.

“Go to the sideboard, to the right of the desk, Mrs. Bexeley. There looks to be something like brandy there.”

She ran to it, picked up the crystal decanter, and shook it. “Will this help Ruth?”

“No, but I could use a drink. Pour me a glass. Get yourself one, too.”

She hefted the bottle, one hand had the statue, the other the liquor. “I don’t want jokes. Just let us go.”

He undid his cravat very carefully and left his collar buttoned. “I told you, you may go. This woman won’t, not until she has awakened and can leave on her own power.”

His sister-in-law bit her lip. She put the bottle down and then put the statue on the desk with a thud. “If you hadn’t sent my driver away, I’d go get him, but I’d never leave you alone with my sister.”

“Then I would have dealt with your driver as I have the thieves I evicted from Blaren House. This woman will go nowhere, not until I know she’s well. An injury to the head is very serious. Catch, Mrs. Bexeley.” He tossed her his cravat.

“Soak it in the brandy. We’ll use it as a restorative.”

Mrs. Bexeley’s head shook, but she did as he requested. “Did I hear your name to be Wycliff? I need to tell my husband and my father who to go after.”

He could tell the sister loved Ruth, but he didn’t care. Wycliff’s world was shifting. Part of the revenge he sought had been for Ruth’s death.

Now what?

Could he half destroy his enemies?

“The name’s Wycliff, the Baron of Wycliff. Make sure they go after the right man. Vengeance should be earned. Hurry with the cravat. I don’t like how she’s breathing.”

If he was assured the scum he evicted wouldn’t return, he’d send his man for a physician. Ruth, be all right. He stroked her hair, lifting a strand from her face, then studied the rise and fall of her chest. His mind again went to four years ago—the night before she had died, their last night at that foul inn.

They’d loved one another, and she’d slept close, right at his side. The scent of lush roses had anointed her skin, and like now, he’d watched her breathe, thinking how perfect the moment had been. It had been the beginning of forever.

Oh, was he stupid, as Ruth had often called his actions when she’d teased him about being overcautious.

He should’ve known heaven and hell were separated by hours. They should’ve gone north and not returned to London to face her father. Then they wouldn’t have been attacked. Perhaps they’d be here at Blaren House now with arms and arms of children.

Happy-ever-after was rubbish.

Well. It had been until a few minutes ago, when he’d learned Ruth was alive.

Wycliff dropped to his knees and carefully traced the wide scar on her temple. How much pain had she endured for their love?

Mrs. Bexeley stood over him. “Here.”

He took the brandy-soaked cloth and mopped at Ruth’s nose.

Nothing.

No wrinkling of her nostrils.

No lines crinkling at her lips when she smiled.

Nothing.

He’d felt nothing for four years. Now she was here, and he felt too much.

How was he still enslaved to this love?

And how had she lived?

Was she still ticklish about her ribs? Did she miss him?

When she opened her eyes, would she love him still?

“It’s not working, Mr. Wycliff.”

“It’s Lord Wycliff. She took a hard fall.”

“Do something. Call for a physician.”

He seized the opportunity to put both hands to Ruth’s face. He massaged her neck, savoring the feel of her blood coursing, her pulse strong beneath his fingertips.

His stone heart became mush ladened with memories. If she didn’t awaken… He couldn’t lose her again.

That loss wrapped about him, heavy like iron chains, dragging him low, his horrible throat closing up as he drowned.

Mrs. Bexeley knelt beside him. “Are you a physician?”

A cough forced air into his chest. “Some training. Patched up a few men on my frigate.” He soured at how empty his raspy voice sounded. He tapped the brandy to Ruth’s nose again. “Awaken la belle au bois dormant, my sleeping beauty.”

Ruth choked. Her eyes opened.

He held his breath and waited for hints of her wits returning. Hints of recognition.

She started flailing her arms. “Ester? Ester, are you here?

“Ruth.” Mrs. Bexeley pushed Wycliff out of the way. “I’m here. Focus. Let your eyes warm to the room. You took a hard fall.”

Her breathing remained uneven, as if Ruth had run up and down a long flight of stairs.

Fear for her health battled his impatience. Recognize me. He waved a hand over her face. Her pupils didn’t move, not until he was inches from her face. “How do you feel?”

She swatted his fingers. “Who are you?”

His mouth became dry, drier than a desert. “Wycliff, dearest.”

“Lord Wycliff is full of jokes, Ruth. I’m here. Are you much hurt?”

Grasping her sister’s arm, she sat up an inch before flopping back down. “A headache. A bad one, but I’m fine. I’m fine. Did they move things around again? The lamplight—it’s wrong, the glow is in the wrong place. I hate when they move my things.”

“What?” Mrs. Bexeley smoothed Ruth’s palm. “We’re not at home. We’re at that Blaren House. You went to see Wilkinson, your Adam’s father.”

“Oh.” She rubbed at her neck. “For a moment, I thought Mama or Mrs. Fitterwall moved my things again.”

She put both hands to her temples. “Never mind. What happened? Did I panic?”

Ruth hadn’t looked his way. She hadn’t looked about the room. Something was very wrong. And why did she come for his father, especially since the good man was only here in spirit? “It’s irritating, dear, to have your things shifted,” he said. “I know it to be irksome, like having something stolen.”

“Hush you.” Mrs. Bexeley helped Ruth lean against the settee back. “Can you stand?”

His poor Ruth looked so pale, so fragile.

She’d had a bad fall, but would that alone confuse her?

He tried to push away the memories of the blow she’d taken to her head. During their attack, the trunk where he’d hidden the other copied ledger had smashed against her skull.

Wycliff shook himself. He was never this timid. “Ma’am, you lost your balance. The uproar at Blaren House did that. Sorry, my dear.”

He gripped his sjambok, his favorite whip made of the toughest leather of rhinoceros skin. Curling the end of the long shaft about his palm, he readied to snap it. Then he thought better of it. The noise of it might upset Ruth. “Why did you ladies come tonight? As you can see, I have just taken control of this place. I’m not ready for guests.”

Ruth took her sister’s arm and stood. “Take me to Wycliff.”

Her sister led her as if she were a blind woman.

Wobbling, she approached and stood in front of him.

This was the moment.

He dropped his sjambok and opened his arms.

She raised her hand to his face.

The sweetness of this reunion flooded through him, like a dam breaking. He dipped his head to kiss her fingers, but she reared her hand back.

Smack.

She’d slapped him, hard. “You frightened me nearly to death, Lord Wycliff. That wasn’t right.”

Still feisty.

He rubbed his stinging face. The gold band on her finger surely left a mark upon his cheek.

Gold.

The one he’d given Ruth had been silver.

He stepped back a safer distance and stood against his desk. “I suppose I deserve that, but I have a one-hit rule.”

Ruth broke free of the sister and stepped closer. “That was for calling me a bed wench. And this is for tossing me over your shoulder.” She reared back again.

He caught her palm and held it. “One shot, madam. Even if you are rightly offended.”

“I’m a respectable woman. So is my sister. Do not forget this.”

“What are respectable women doing at my residence without a proper invitation?”

She drew her hand away, and he loathed letting it go.

“I came to see Mr. Wilkinson.”

“Which Mr. Wilkinson?”

“Algernon Nathaniel Wilkinson.”

At least she didn’t say Soulden or even his changeable cousin, Nicholas. “Oh, A. N. Wilkinson, the late Lord Wycliff.”

“Oh.” Ruth looked down. “Oh.”

“He’s dead, Ruth. Let’s go,” Mrs. Bexeley said. “We need to go. Please send for a carriage.”

“No. Wait. He might know.” Ruth’s voice sounded softer than before. “I came to ask about his son.”

A fire lit in Wycliff. Ruth came to look for him but couldn’t tell he stood before her. His throat burned white hot. “The late Baron of Wycliff died two months ago.”

He stared down at this woman whose lips were close enough to kiss. “I’m now the head of the Wilkinson family. I am Lord Wycliff. I can help.”

“Then did you know Adam Wilky? Did Adam live here?”

“Yes, Adam lived here.”

A sigh left Ruth as if he’d answered some sort of prayer.

Mrs. Bexeley tugged on Ruth’s wrinkled skirt, a pale thing of pink and lace. Sweet and pale, not a choice he remembered his wife liking.

“Let’s go, Ruth.”

“Ester, did you not hear him? He knew Adam Wilky, and he said he lived here.”

Were those tears in her blank eyes?

Ruth turned and hugged her stiff sister.

Mrs. Bexeley patted her back. “But Ruth, that doesn’t prove the rest of your story. Whip man just said he knew him.”

The color that had birthed in Ruth’s cheeks drained. She looked as if she’d faint as she put distance between Mrs. Bexeley and herself. “Yes, why would you just hearing someone say I was telling the truth be enough? I need proof of Adam Wilky being a true person and undeniable proof of our marriage.”

“Proof?” he said, barely masking his curiosity, his hope. “Proof concerning Adam? You think he’s alive?”

“No. He’s dead.” Ruth folded her arms. “You know he’s dead.”

Her confident rebuke would be perfectly done if she had not swayed. She wobbled, then tipped forward.

He caught her before she fell. “You’re not…steady.”

Pressed in his arms, she smelled of sweet brandy and roses. Her heart drummed against his chest, and his pulse gave chase. It hadn’t forgotten the rush, the joy of holding her, the heady feeling of finding the one woman who gave him purpose beyond the rage.

Yet, Ruth knew him not.

Well, he’d never been a man who had it all. “You’ll stay, until you are less dizzy. I insist.”

“I’m fine. You’re the one that sounds out of breath. Making fun of women too taxing? Release me.”

Forcing himself to move, he lifted her atop the desk. “Sit, until I am convinced you won’t tumble down the stairs. Since I am to put you in one of my carriages, I think it necessary you comply.”

Mrs. Bexeley came close and tried to catch Ruth’s hand. “Let’s take a moment. I can’t watch you fall again.”

Ruth folded her arms, leaving Mrs. Bexeley’s palm in the air. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s this crazy man.”

“I’m not crazy. I’m handling business, but the wee one is right. You could tumble again. Now explain to me what your proof business is with Adam. As I said, I am Lord Wycliff, Adoniram Wilkinson. I know, such a horrid, pretentious name. I never use it.”

That was true. It was why he’d gone by Adam and had given everyone that name so the gossips could never tie him to the fights he’d found himself embroiled in. He’d never wanted to distress his father.

Wycliff walked around to the other side of the desk and glanced toward the mirror framed above the sideboard.

Did he look so different?

He wasn’t gaunt anymore. His hair was cropped low to not show the kink of his curls. Passing was the root of his power, the only reason he was alive, but his Ruth knew that.

“I’m waiting, ladies. Which one of you shall go first? Should I toss a coin?”

If Wycliff were a bigger man, he’d let things be. Ruth couldn’t find Adam. His world was no safer. His uncle and his ilk were still dangerous.

But a man who loved as deeply as Wycliff wasn’t capable of giving up. He’d never relinquish an opportunity to win Ruth back. Never. Not even if she wore another man’s ring.