Chapter Twenty-Nine

Candlelight

It would be easier to find Nickie and beat him to death with the sjambok. It would be wonderful and liberating for a moment, but Wycliff would never survive the inquest. Everything would point back to him. A barrister like Mr. Marks would make sure of a conviction.

No. The way to get Nickie was the same way all Wycliff’s enemies had been conquered, the financial transactions.

He stretched in his father’s chair and pored through the second ledger. The rhyme or rhythm of the accounts made no sense. This ledger made it appear as if Wycliff’s father had authorized Johnson’s illicit transfers. Algernon Nathaniel Wilkinson, ANW, was initialed page after page.

He drummed the desk, tapped the imitation bride sculpture. Wycliff hated the piece again. The romantic tale of men claiming their women was rubbish, horse leavings. Women shouldn’t be forced to do anything, not to become a bride, or a lover, or anything.

They shouldn’t have the truth hidden, either, even if it was for the best.

Blinking his tired eyes, he flipped another page. There had to be an answer between the two books—one that could end with Nickie jailed like Uncle Soulden would be tomorrow.

“Father, I wish I’d never promised you not to kill.” He lifted his glass of brandy, as if he toasted the air.

Lawden came into his study. “Everything is normal at Nineteen Fournier. All the Croomes are safe and accounted for, my lord. Get some sleep.”

“I can’t. I need to figure out how to end this.”

“Seems to me you need to think about beginnings. Mrs. Wilky would like to see you. She’s been asking for you.”

“This all must be very upsetting to her.”

“She’s pretty strong.” Lawden flipped through the other ledger. “Mrs. Wilky, she saved us. That bullet was marked for one of us.”

“I know, but she shouldn’t have been there. We shouldn’t have been there.”

Lawden shrugged. “The things you do for love. Don’t stay up too long. You know how you hate mornings. Tomorrow is a busy day.”

His man left.

Wycliff sat back in the well-worn chair. There was only one time in his life when he’d liked mornings. It had lasted a fortnight, four years ago.

He closed up the ledgers, tucked them under his arms with his sjambok, and headed to the second floor.

Everything was quiet.

From the window overlooking the grounds, he could see his grooms on alert.

Heading to one of his guest rooms, he noticed light streaming from his bedchamber. Ruth was in there. She was up. Maybe he should see her so she could sleep.

He knocked on the door and waited.

“Come in.”

Her voice made his heart dance. Pressing open the door, he found her dress was folded in a chair, laid out so it would not wrinkle.

Wearing one of his nightshirts, Ruth sat in the middle of his nicely-made bed, knees up, bare feet showing.

After putting the books and sjambok on his walnut chest, he opened a drawer and pulled out another nightshirt.

Unbuttoning his wrinkled waistcoat, his soiled shirt, he pulled them both off in one floundering motion. He shouldn’t rush. He probably looked ridiculous.

A gasp, not a laugh, came from behind.

Ruth must’ve seen the depth of his scars.

“Do those on your neck hurt?” Her voice was low, a little skittish.

“Yes.”

“My arm does sometimes, and you know my headaches.”

They were veterans of the same war. He’d never forget that or forgive himself. He finished dressing, pulling on the nightshirt and his onyx robe.

He turned to leave, but Ruth stood at the door.

“You say my footfalls are quiet. Yours are pretty quiet.”

“Well, you weren’t looking for me. I look for you. I like having you near, walking with you. Talking with you, too.”

Why did she have to look so lovely in his nightshirt and bare feet?

“Do you need something, Ruth?”

“I want you to talk to me. I don’t want to be by myself. I’ve never been an overnight guest in Blaren House or anywhere. I missed putting my son to bed.”

“I’ll have you back safe and sound tomorrow.”

She brushed at her temples, thick curls dropping to her neck. “What are we going to do?”

He tied his belt robe. “What do you mean?”

“I want to know what you want. I want to hear your opinion of how we go forward, Adoniram.”

He folded his arms. “Well, one, we never use that name.”

“Chatsworth? Is that better.”

“Definitely not better.”

“I need to know what to call my husband. A woman should know that.”

“You want this husband, Ruth? After everything I and my relations have done?”

“Yes. I almost lost you again. I don’t want that. I don’t care about your name anymore, and I don’t want to be alone in your house, in your room, in a bed that smells of Bay Rum, when you are here and alive. Do you know how often I sleep on your cape?”

“Ruth, you tell me how we fix this.”

She took his hands and put them to her temples. “These lenses have given me a terrible headache.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

With his fingertips, he stroked her skin. Then he put his thumbs to the nape of her creamy neck.

Her eyes were shut. Her lips were close and kissable.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you for saving me and Lawden.”

“You’d do the same if you had good aim.”

He chuckled. The laughter felt cleansing. “Heaven help me, I can’t even stay mad at you.”

“Perfect. What good is it to have a husband if I can’t have him near? I definitely can’t have him sleeping in his study while I’m comfortable in his bed. Stay with me.”

He hesitated a moment then he picked her up in his arms, carrying her like delicate crystal to his grand mattress.

The bed was still red and gaudy, but the ivory sheets were sleek and smooth.

He laid Ruth down and followed her beneath the bedclothes. One moment, they were a foot apart. The next, he snuggled her close. “What’s the use of having a husband if you can’t share his pillow?”

“My sentiments exactly.”

She kissed him and put his palm to her face.

He drew her hand away. “There’s nothing to prove. We can take our time, Ruth, learning how we fit together.”

“That would only work if you loved me.”

“You know I do. Old habits are hard to break.”

“I love you, Adoniram. You are the best of Wycliff and Adam.”

He kissed her brow. “Just tell no one of that name.”

“Are you the only one with such a horrible name?”

“Well, let’s see. My father is Algernon Nathaniel Wilkinson.”

She laughed a little. “That’s not so bad.”

And Nickie was Aylmer Nicholas Wilkinson…ANW. He wouldn’t say the scourge’s name aloud, but that was the answer.

ANW. That was why the accounts had never changed. Nickie had been the embezzler for Johnson.

He kissed her temples. “You’re brilliant.”

“Why, because I ordered you to bed with me?”

“Well, that is genius, but I think you solved the problem. I know how to make the last culprit pay.”

“I don’t want to talk about him. And not while I’m in your bed.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and held her tight. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her smile returned. “We need to discuss marrying. You need to make me your wife again. I want that. This is pretty scandalous, the Baron of Wycliff and his bed wench.”

“What if I told you that I didn’t exactly burn your half of the registry? That it may have been a sleight of hand and your mother’s Morning Post was destroyed instead.”

“Adoniram? You manipulative thing.”

“Ruth, my only defense is that I’m too much in love with you to ever let you go. I love you, sweetheart, even when I am mad at the world.”

“I’m glad we’re married. I’m not the kind of woman to stay with a bachelor, and definitely not in his arms.”

“You rest and get used to these arms again. But cousin Wycliff needs to marry Mrs. Wilky in a public event. No more hiding for us.”

She stroked his beard, her fingers stopping upon his mouth. “I know you are plotting. I want to be there, Wycliff. I want to see the fear in my enemy’s eyes when he’s caught.”

“Ruth, I don’t know. Your eyesight is pretty poor. I don’t want him that close to you, definitely not in your face.”

“I need to see it.”

She did need to see it, needed to witness Nickie punished for his violence. “I should’ve taught you how to use the sjambok so you could whip the fool. Keep your folding knife on you. That cute little weapon could offer a bit of protection.”

“It’s my father’s. It’s purposely discreet.” She rubbed his beard, where it curled about his jaw. “I need to see him brought to justice.”

“I’ll try, but if you can’t… If you feel drained or tired, you must leave my study. You come back up here, snuggle under these bedsheets, and wait for me.”

She put her arms about his chest and held him tight. “I will. Thank you for trusting me to know my own mind.”

He did, and he knew she had to see Nickie’s downfall. Wycliff tucked her onto his shoulder and tried to relax. Tomorrow, he’d begin sending for people, making the right offers.

Judgement would come for Uncle Soulden and Nicholas. It would, if everything finally went according to his plan.

It had to be well past midnight. Wycliff blinked and adjusted to the darkness of his bedchamber. The candle had died. He should stretch and light it again, but Ruth remained snuggled in his arms. She breathed warm air onto his scars.

He’d closed his eyes several times but jolted awake every few minutes to check on her—to see if she was truly here, to see if she was frightened, to see if this was all a cruel dream and he was still captive on the HMS Liverpool.

It wasn’t possible to push out of his head the horror she’d lived through. Leaning a little, pulling free a little, he scooped up a match and struck it. The sulfur smell chased away the scent of roses coming from her hair.

Then she angled her face deeper into his chest, hiding from the light. The rose scent returned.

“You’re not sleeping. You’re thinking too much.” Her voice was crisp, no yawn, not sounding tired.

He adjusted the pillow under his head. “Well, I must be changing. Suddenly I don’t want to be a lazybones and lounge in bed. I should be up, getting notes ready for the traps I’ve planned.”

Her pinkie dragged upon his chest, forming a slow heart. “You still hate mornings? That I remember. Me, too. But I can’t sleep, either.”

“Then we should not fight this. We should get up and start the day. Good plan, Lady Wycliff.”

“You sure that’s the right name?”

“Quite sure. Neither of us has eaten. Maybe we should go downstairs and see what is in the kitchen? I remember you having a healthy appetite.”

Ruth sat up, drew her knees to her, but stayed close. “No, I don’t want to leave this room and traipse in the darkness and shadows of Blaren House.”

There was a look in her soulful brown eyes that made his heart beat fast. It could be the entire percussion section for the theater pit. “No oysters? Or beefsteak? Teacakes?”

“Just you.”

She leaned down and kissed him, boldly, forcing him to confront his hunger for her.

The press of her body against his was undeniable.

She was perfect and beautiful.

Sleep would soon be an excruciating thing.

“You’re my weakness, Ruth, but you need to slow down.”

He put his hands upon her shoulders. “Platonic marriage. Taking time. Me becoming a eunuch. I thought we discussed that.”

“I think that applies to new marriages. We’re an old married couple of four years. And you knew me before. And I am with you in my head between the nightmares. I need you, always.”

Her grin was different, her mouth ever delicious. The taste for her on his tongue was fresh. “Ruthy, no beefsteak? I know there’s some in the larder. I’ve never lost my hunger…”

The way she looked at him. That stole all the words from his sore throat.

The feel of her lips on his scars—heaven. “You are making this hard, Ruth.”

“Then surrender. Take me in love as far as we can go. I want you in my head. I need your love to be louder than the darkness. Don’t turn me away.”

The hardest thing to do was to say no, to deny how he longed for her.

Ruth, his wife, his weakness.

To deny her was to deny his life.

He stopped fighting the logic of waiting—waiting until he knew she was ready, waiting until his enemies were vanquished, waiting for everything to be perfect. Heaven and hell could be an hour apart.

His wife knew her mind. She wanted love to vanquish her enemy, and he trusted her.

“I want my husband to know me as I am supposed to be. Tend to me with gentleness and care.”

“And with love, Ruthy, always love.”

She took his hands and put them to her shoulders.

Wycliff’s fingers tangled in her loosed curls. He angled his face up to hers.

The candlelight sparkled like diamonds in her eyes, and it cast shadows upon her nightshirt down her exposed shoulder, and more.

Breathtaking. Then he spied her arm. It was swollen below her elbow, the evidence of a bad set. It had been broken by Nickie and the others.

Gutted, broken, hurting for her, he gathered her up like fragile china and tucked her to his chest. “I need this slow, Ruthy. I need slow.”

She pulled away. With her eyes closed tight, she undid the laces of her nightshirt. It was big on her, so it slid all the way down to her waist.

A work of art, she was. The shadows, the lightness, a canvas of curves, a sculpture to shape and mold in his hands.

This was better than the nude bride statuette on his desk.

His bride wasn’t porcelain. Ruth wasn’t fragile. She was strong. She’d been tested. She was fire. Wycliff vowed to protect and worship this treasure forever. “You’ve walked through the ashes. You’re beautiful.”

“Then love me. Wycliff, let it only be you in my head.”

He took her into his arms. “Good plan.”

Ruth slipped her palms about his neck. She was gentle, taking care with his scars.

Tomorrow wasn’t promised, but tonight, he’d be everything she wanted.

And he gave himself up to this slow, perfect union.

…

I kissed my husband with my eyes closed.

That wasn’t unusual.

I’d kissed him several times like this but only in my dreams.

But then he was dead, and this part of me, this broken, stolen part of me, I thought dead, too.

It wasn’t.

It had been hidden inside the space where my heart had died. The space where it had been reborn.

My chest was full again, and I felt new.

“Open your eyes, my love, my Ruthy.”

Wycliff ’s raspy voice singed my throat, and I offered it to him.

I was new. We were new.

I held Wycliff, traced his scars from his neck to his chest, to me.

I was burned and spent but wanted more of his kiss, more of his mouth on mine.

The craving to be cared for, to be nurtured, coiled about me, linking me more and more to him.

I blinked a few times.

My lashes were damp and sticky, but I saw the face of a man who loved me more than himself.

My Adam, my Wycliff, my Adoniram was alive.

This feeling—the closeness, the not knowing where I began and he ended—I’d thought it gone. It was resurrected in his love. Nothing separated us—no nightshirts, no bedsheets, no secrets.

I wanted his closeness. My passion lived again. Our marriage was whole.

His finger wiped the corner of my eye.

My face leaked.

Tears of joy and pain anointed our lovemaking.

I touched his cheek, and it was wet, too.

His face was so near. I saw him whisper my name.

He asked me questions, like I could answer.

It was him caring for me, making sure I knew I was valued and protected and pleased.

My husband wanted me here with him, nowhere else.

And I am.

Wycliff was my new beating heart, and I was the only one he saw.

And that vision was clean and whole and light.

This was how things were supposed to be.

Me being his breath, him being mine.

We stayed like this, close to each other, until the sun crawled inside Blaren House. It peeked at us through the curtains.

I was tired and spent, but my Wycliff, restless Wycliff, rose from our bed.

After saying his blessings for me, for our Chris, for himself, he headed from the room with the ledgers and his sjambok.

His countenance was strong, battle hardened. He looked ready to fight dragons.

The dragons I knew were mean.

They breathed fire. They didn’t fight fair.

Yet, I was no longer afraid.

I was grateful for Wycliff, for my family, for peace, and for war.

I scooted to dress and fight at his side. Dragons and darkness wouldn’t win.