A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(96)

He pressed the blade deeper, and Derek inhaled, sharply. “What do you think your patrons would say if you were found here, in this dark hallway, gutted by Macbeth’s blade? Do you think they would believe you summoned him here, to this playhouse? What is it they call it? The Scottish Curse?” Derek’s eyes closed and Alec leaned in close. “I am your Scottish Curse, peacock. More terrifying than any ghost story you could imagine. But take heart. I’ve no intention of killing you.

“I promised you once that I would destroy you,” Alec said, his words barely there and somehow shaking the walls. “Make no mistake—I will ruin you just as you ruined her. And when you are old and withered and no one in the world can remember your name, you will quake with the memory of mine.”

Derek inhaled quickly and then released a little cry of pain, and Lily started at the sound, which was punctuated by a wild clatter of the sword as Alec flung it down the dark hallway. “Fetch, dog. ’Tis your cue.”

And Derek did, running after the sword, collecting it without looking back.

Lily watched Alec for a long moment, his breath coming in and out on waves of fury, his hands clenched and that tic in his jaw becoming more pronounced. He looked as though he were on springs—as though at any moment he might launch himself down the hall and onto the stage to finish what he had started.

She ached to go to him, and then she did, moving to his side. Taking his big, beautiful arm in hand, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her touch. “You did not have to defend me.”

Alec looked to her. “What?”

“To Derek. He is not wrong.”

“What?” His brow furrowed, and for a moment Lily wondered if it was possible that she was speaking a language other than English.

“It is my mistake, is it not? I sat for the painting. I trusted him. I . . .” She hesitated. “I thought. . . .”

He came at her, taking her shoulders in his hands. Holding her with a firmness she would later dream of. Ache for. “Hear me, Lillian Hargrove. You did nothing wrong. It was not your mistake. You loved him.”

“I did not, though. I see that now.” She gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “I suppose I should be grateful for the realization.”

“How?” he asked.

Her brow furrowed. “How?”

“How do you see it now?”

She smiled. Told the truth. “Now, I know what love is. How it feels. And what I would do for it in earnest.”

He closed his eyes at the words. Turned his head away. “We must return above. I’ve work to do. We’ve one day to find that painting.”

She released him at the words. At the hope in them. At their meaning. He still hoped to find it. To remove it from exhibition. To set her free.

It was ironic, was it not, that she had once fairly begged him for her freedom. She’d asked for money. For independence. She’d begged him to leave her and return to Scotland and let her make her own choices. Carve her own path. Face her own fortune.

And now, as he offered it to her, all she wished was to be trapped. By him.

I love you beyond reason.

“Alec.” She did not know what she would say next. How she would keep him. How she would win him.

So, she was unable to do either, as he was ignoring her, already moving, headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and she hurried to keep up with his long strides. She was tall, but he was Herculean, and by the time they reached the hallway that abutted the boxes, he was yards ahead of her, striding purposefully past the West box even as Sesily poked her head out to find Lily.

“You’ve something on your gown.” Her friend’s eyes went wide. “Good Lord. Is it blood?”

Lily looked down, taking in the mark at the shoulder of the beautiful blue dress, where Alec had held her firmly and told her that the past was not hers to bear.

As he bled for her.

“Is it Hawkins’s?” Sesily asked. “He’s back on the stage, but with a gash in his cheek that I’m not certain is called for in the play. Though, to be honest, I haven’t been paying much attention. I confess I like a witch now and then, but not near as much as I like the idea of Alec putting a gash in Hawkins’s cheek.”

“It is not Hawkins’s blood. It’s Alec’s.”

“Good God,” Sesily whispered.

“You shouldn’t curse so much, you know.”

Sesily cut her a look. “Are you about to tell me it is not ladylike?”

Lily shook her head. “I am not exactly a paragon of respectability.”

“Excellent. Then hang anyone who prefers I not curse. Sometimes, the words simply suit.”

Lily nodded. Then, after a long silence, she said, barely loud enough to be heard, “Shit.”

Sesily’s gaze was instantly on hers, and Lily saw the pity there. “What has happened?”

And there, in the hallway of the Hawkins Theater—the only place in London she should be stoic—Lily began to cry. She’d made a hash of it all. The painting was to be made public. And there was nothing to be done. And still, that was not her sadness. “He loves me beyond reason.”

Sesily tilted her head. “That does not sound so bad.”

“And still he refuses me. Claims he is unworthy of me for some ridiculous reason.”