A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(38)

“Game! I hardly think such an inquiry could be called a game. The man is clearly distraught and in need of answers.”

“He would be better off letting the dead lie,” Stoker replied.

“You were interested enough to listen to gossip about her disappearance at the tavern today. Besides, a moment ago you said she ran off, now you refer to her as dead,” I mocked. “Make up your mind. Is she a wayward bride or a murder victim?”

“She is none of my concern, and if you are wise, you will make her none of yours.”

“Oh, do go away and stop bossing me about,” I told him. “I already told you that you should not be here.”

“Ah, yes. Poor brother Tiberius’ reputation,” he said in a mocking tone.

“Never mind the fact that my own reputation would be in tatters,” I reminded him.

He slanted me a quizzical look. “Your reputation has never concerned you much before.”

I did not turn to meet his eyes. “You are in a nasty mood and I am tired. Have you said all you came to say?”

“In point of fact, I came to apologize. I have already apologized to Tiberius as well.”

I raised a brow in his direction. “You have apologized? Of your own free will? Do you have a fever? Shall I call someone?”

He passed a hand wearily over his face. “Go on. I deserve that, and a hundred more just like it.”

I turned to him, almost concerned. “You are contrite and reasonable. I don’t much like it.”

He shrugged. “I am sincere. I acted rashly, coming down here and thrusting myself into your little escapade. But Tiberius has always known how to prod me. If I did not know better, I would say he wanted me to come. But he denies it.”

“You and Tiberius have spoken?”

“After a fashion. He is still maddeningly opaque when it comes to his intentions with regard to you, but we all know this engagement is a thorough sham.”

I rolled my eyes. “His intentions with regard to me are nothing I cannot manage, and even if they were, they are not your affair.”

He fell silent a long moment, and I would have given a piece of my soul to have known his thoughts. My own were so disordered, I could not trust myself to speak. It was the smell of him, I thought idly. Whenever he was near, I detected leather and honey and something more—unplaceable but fresh and sharp like the wind off the sea.

I turned my head and studied his profile, the proud thrust of the nose, the long, elegant line of the jaw as his head tipped back. A lock of black hair fell across his brow, curling just above his eye. His collar was undone and the pulse beat slow and steady in the hollow at the base of his throat. His hands rested lightly on the arms of the chair, strong, capable hands that had held my life within them more than once. They were the hands of an aristocrat, beautifully shaped with long, tapering fingers, but also the hands of a workingman, broad of palm and heavy with calluses. They were hands that had never failed me.

I looked again to the pulse beating at the base of his throat and heard its echo in my own ears.

I swallowed hard, my lips parted. Now, I realized. This very moment, when everything slowed and time itself seemed to hold its breath. This was the moment to mend whatever I had torn. I had only to say the word and declare myself. Three short syllables stood between this present wretchedness and the terrifying bliss of baring my soul to him. I had pushed him away for his own sake, I had convinced myself. I had taken my own cowardice and framed it as an act of generosity. I had told him he needed to exorcise Caroline, but I was the one she haunted, that monstrous beauty with a soul as dark as sin. I was the one who trembled at the thought of being compared to her, of being found lacking somehow. For all my bravura displays of confidence, Caroline had become my bête noire, pricking my self-certainty because I feared above all things in the world becoming just such a woman—capable of inflicting the most profound of wounds upon someone I loved.

But no more. As the fire crackled upon the hearth and the little clock chimed the hour of midnight, I counted the strokes as they ticked off, telling myself that when it reached twelve, when the last echo faded away, I would take my heart in my hands and speak the truth at last.

One. Would I preface it with an apology for my capriciousness? The casual injuries I had dealt him?

Four. How could the seconds slip past so quickly? My heart beat faster, each thud quicker than the chime of the clock.

Seven. So few seconds left before I would speak and change our lives forever.

Ten. Only two more chimes and I must speak. But how to begin?

Eleven. Stoker.

Twelve. It was time.

I drew in a deep breath and my lips parted, joy and trepidation stretching my heart so full I could scarce contain it within me.

Suddenly, he turned his head to meet my gaze. “You were quite right, Veronica,” he said in a casual tone.

“I—I’m sorry, what was that?” I had begun to speak, had pushed the first syllable from me but nothing more. His remark cut smoothly across my words.

“Last night, what you said about Caroline. I did not want to hear it, and I daresay I was forty different varieties of rude, but you were right.”

I felt dizzy, the heat of the fire suddenly much too hot even as my hands and feet went very cold. “I was?”

He smiled, a ghost of his usual grin. “Do not take it too much to heart and lord it over me. I am unaccustomed to eating crow and I find it not to my taste. But you were right.”