Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(22)

“I was already terrified just being there,” Violet said. “My nursemaid had told me so many dreadful stories about ghouls and beasties lurking in the attic. To warn me off exploring, I’m sure. And then Frederick, bless him, jumped out from behind that curtain…”

“Yes. I remember.”

Surprised, little Violet had shrieked and turned—and in so doing, whipped the fringe of her shawl straight through the candle flame. In a matter of moments, the cheap printed fabric had come ablaze. Fortunately, Christian had been in just the right position to yank loose the dormer draperies and smother the flames.

“If not for you, I could have been badly burnt,” she said. “As it was, I lost a good six inches off my braid. The house smelled of burnt hair for days. Oh, my parents were furious.”

“Your parents were furious?” Christian chuckled, recalling his blistered arse. “I ate all my meals standing for the following week.”

“I know.” Her voice turned pensive. “I know. And that’s what I never understood. It wasn’t your fault. You saved me, but you caught all the blame.”

“I took it readily.” He shrugged. “It truly was my fault. Everyone knew I was the mischief-maker. Frederick would have never been in that dormer at all, if not for me. And besides, I held up under a thrashing much better than he did.”

As he spoke of his brother, Christian’s throat swelled uncomfortably. His eyes began to itch. “Not that Frederick was weak, mind you. Not at all. He was brave and decent and…” He pounded the counter with the flat of his fist. “And so dashed good. It wasn’t the thrashing that hurt him so. He couldn’t abide having Father angry with him. I, on the other hand, was well accustomed to the feeling.” He gave her an ironic half-smile. “You know me, Violet. I’ve always been The Disappointment.”

She ceased fiddling with the lamp. “Christian…”

He waved off the pity in her tone. “That’s why I signed on for this, you know. The fieldwork. When we lost him, my parents lost the pride of the family. I’m always just scraping by, and George is… Well, he’s George. He was born fifty-eight years old, I think. But they were so damned proud of Frederick, and I wanted to give them that feeling back. I wanted to be a son they could take pride in.”

“Oh, Christian.” She was rounding the counter now. “You always have been.”

He blew out a breath. “Hardly. Just look at what I did to you. On the eve of my own supposed redemption, I pulled my worst trick yet. If someone had treated my own sister that way… If some other blackguard had touched you, Violet…” He swore, pushing back from the counter. “I’d kill the bastard.”

He paced away from her. Damn, this was just intolerable. Whatever course he took, he failed someone. If he went home to marry Violet, he’d be abandoning his duty. Drawing dishonor to the very name he hoped she would take as her own. But if he let her go back to London without him, he risked losing her forever—and losing any chance to right his misdeeds.

Add to all this, the knowledge that nothing—nothing he did, on this side of the Channel or the other—would ever balance Frederick’s loss. Not in the smallest portion.

He’d never felt more worthless, or less worthy of her.

“Should we go for the boat?” she asked.

What did it matter? What did any of it matter?

“Damn the boat.”

Violet cringed, watching him pace the shop from one end to the other, then back. His agitation was plain. She had to calm him somehow, or he’d draw attention to their presence. Aaron Dawes and Rufus Bright were somewhere all too near, keeping watch over the Queen’s Ruby and the rest of the sleeping village.

“I know you’re angry,” she said.

“Damn right, I’m angry.”

“You’re angry that Frederick was killed. It’s perfectly natural.”

“It’s perfect bollocks, is what it is.” He covered the length of the room in three long, tense strides, then turned on his heel. “It should not have been him. It should have been me.”

“No. Christian, please don’t talk that way. You could not have saved him, and you can’t bring him back. But we will love him, and honor his memory. And miss him. Dearly.”

He pulled to a halt. “I have missed him.” His head swiveled abruptly, and his gaze snared hers. “But not as much as I’ve missed you, which makes me feel even worse.”

As he stared at her, his chest rose and fell. “Every morning, Violet. Every morning, I should have awoken thinking of Frederick. Thanking God for any small part I could play in avenging his death. Instead, every morning I woke wanting you. Wishing I could stroll outside to the square, find you there waiting with the dogs. Looking lovely as the dawn. A little smile on your face, because you’d just untangled a new translation.” He cleared his throat. “Like this one. Tumi amar jeeboner dhruvotara.”

She tilted her head, puzzling over the phrase. “That’s not Hindustani.”

“Bengali. It means ‘You are my life’s bright star’ in Bengali.” The sweet words were edged with frustration, not tenderness. His knuckles cracked. “Obviously, I was saving that one. For the right morning.”

A forceful pang in her heart left her breathless.