A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(97)

She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what I have been saying?”

“And Tiberius?”

“Downstairs, eating his second breakfast since he had no dinner. The pair of you had drifted apart by the time the rescue boat arrived. They were able to recover him more quickly because he was directly in their path. You were carried a little distance away and quite unconscious by the time they pulled you from the sea. Old Trefusis himself administered the necessary remedies and I am told he quite enjoyed it,” she added with a sly smile. “And then you vomited up half the sea on him and he was rather less enchanted. But you were still unconscious when they carried you in, and Stoker ordered you put to bed with hot bricks and ladled whisky down your throat until you slept easily. He said rest was the best cure for you.”

“What time is it?” I asked, scarcely able to take in everything she had told me.

“Nearly gone noon. And the weather has cleared at last, nothing but glorious sun and clear skies,” she said, flinging the curtains back fully. The single patch of golden light burst into an unbearable brightness that illuminated the entire room.

“I have to dress,” I told her. She tried to prevent me, but I forced my way past her and she eventually lent a hand, muttering all the while.

“I could make you a restorative,” she suggested.

I buttoned my cuffs and tucked Chester into my pocket. “Where is Mrs. Trengrouse?”

She shrugged. “I do not know. First Malcolm and now Trenny. I do not know what strange happenings are at work here, but I hope soon to have an end to them.”

“You will,” I promised her. I flung open the door and rushed down to the breakfast room, taking the stairs as quickly as I dared.

Tiberius was, as she had told me, sitting in state, helping himself to plates of eggs and kidneys and piles of toast. As soon as I appeared in the doorway, he rose. He came to me, his expression a mixture of relief and something more. “My dear Veronica,” he murmured. “You are looking a fair sight better than when last I saw you.”

I grinned in spite of myself. He held out his hand, but I pushed past it and went to embrace him. His arms came around me and he murmured into my hair. “We are more than family now, I think.”

“More than family,” I agreed. “Where is Stoker?”

He resumed his breakfast, taking his seat at the table and buttering a fresh piece of toast. “He took himself off to the village to thank the lads who came out last night.”

I plucked the toast from his fingers and headed for the door. “More than family,” I reminded him as he protested.



* * *



? ? ?

I met Stoker on the path from the castle to the village. I was fairly flying down the hill, my skirts gathered in my hands, when I rounded a bend and there he was, suddenly before me. I strode towards him, not slowing my pace. I came upon him like a cataclysm, taking his face in mine and raining kisses upon him until we were both short of breath as if we had run a footrace.

“Veronica,” he said at last, his expression so full of emotion I could not speak for the fullness of it. I put my arms about him and pressed my face to his chest. “Don’t. Not yet,” I pleaded. “Tell me something mundane.”

A low laugh rumbled through his chest and I felt his lips upon my hair. “Very well. I have just been to see the village men. To thank them for their courage and skill last night.”

I nodded and he went on, speaking of things that mattered not at all.

“They were reluctant to go, but in the end, they overcame their fears and if it were not for them—” He broke off and his grip upon me tightened so that I knew I would never breathe again.

“Stoker.” The word was weighted with everything I meant to say and could not voice. I retrieved Chester from my pocket. I held the little mouse towards him on my palm with a question in my eyes.

“You were clutching him when they hauled you aboard. One of his ears was nearly off and the eyes were gone, but I still know my way around a needle,” he said lightly. I thought of the hours he must have spent, sitting at my bedside, putting each stitch into the velvet, slowly and methodically, marking them off like the pearls on a string of prayer beads.

“Stoker,” I repeated, turning my face to his, offering, asking, waiting.

He ducked his head, suddenly elusive.

I turned his face towards mine, almost able to master my emotion. “You think we will not speak of what you did?” I asked.

“Not now,” he said, and there was a harsh note of pleading I had never heard in his voice before. “I cannot bear to remember, much less to speak of it.”

“You risked your life to save us,” I reminded him. “Do you regret what you said?” I asked.

“No. I regret that you heard it,” he countered.

“Did you not mean it?”

He drew in a deep breath and leveled his gaze at me. “Veronica Speedwell, I meant it then and I mean it now and I shall mean it with every breath until my last. I love you.”

I opened my mouth, but he laid a finger upon it. “Not now,” he repeated. “Not here with my brother at hand and murderers lurking in the hedgerows. We have played a thousand games with one another, but the time for that is past. Whatever we mean to be to one another, we will speak of it when these other distractions are no more. We will speak of it—when we are free to act upon it,” he finished, rubbing his thumb across my lower lip.