Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(29)

"And I knew," he said quietly, "that if I had come sooner...I could have saved him."

"No," Vivien replied, shocked. "You mustn't think of it that way."

"It's a fact. There's no other way to think of it."

"You're not being fair to yourself."

"I failed him," he said flatly. "That's all that matters." He stood in one fluid movement and turned to the fire, staring into the sputtering coals. Snatching up a poker, he jabbed at a log until it erupted into fiery life.

Vivien stood as well, her hands clenched into fists as she stared at his broad, hard back, his dark head silhouetted in fire-glow. Her compassion for him overrode any concerns about her own problems. Morgan had devoted his life to saving others because he hadn't been able to save his brother. Yet no matter how many times he rescued and helped and served others, he would never be able to absolve himself of his one great failure. He would be haunted by guilt for the rest of his life. Her entire being was filled with one aching wish...that she could find some way to help him. But there was nothing she could do.

Her hand touched his shoulder, lingered, then slid to the hot nape of his neck. His entire body seemed to stiffen at her touch, and she felt the ripple of nerves in his neck. He jerked away with a muffled curse, looking as if she had stabbed him. "No," he said savagely. "I don't need pity from a--" He stopped, choking off the rest of the sentence.

The unspoken word floated in the air between them.

Vivien knew perfectly well what he had been about to say, and the hurt of it jolted through her. But why hadn't he completed the sentence? Why had he reined in his temper in a last-second attempt to spare her feelings? She stared at him curiously, while a feeling of artificial calmness descended on her. "Thank you," she said with only a slight tremor in her voice. "Thank you for not saying it."

"Vivien," he said gruffly, "I--"

"I shouldn't have asked such personal questions," she said, clinging to her meager supply of dignity as she began to retreat from the room. "I am very tired, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps I'll go upstairs and rest." She heard him begin to say something else, but she fled the library as quickly as possible, leaving him to his brooding contemplation of the fire.

Morgan left the town house well before supper, while Vivien dined in solitude. She wondered what companions he would seek tonight, if he would lounge in a coffeehouse and take part in some political discussion, or visit his club and play cards while a saucy wench perched on his knee. There would be no shortage of available women for such a man. Morgan had the appearance of a gentleman, but he possessed a hint of street swagger, a combination irresistible to any female. No doubt he had inspired countless fantasies among the women of London, both high and low.

A cold heaviness settled in her chest, making it difficult to eat more than a few bites of supper. Taking several books with her, Vivien retired to bed and read until midnight. However, the books failed to work their magic. She couldn't lose herself in the written word when an array of problems seemed to hover over the bed like malevolent spirits.

Someone had tried to murder her, and would possibly try again when it was discovered that she was alive. Although she had faith in Morgan's ability to protect her and uncover the identity of her assailant, she also knew that he was not infallible. And instead of being a help to him and supplying the information that would solve everything, she sat here like a dunce, all relevant facts locked away in some impenetrable vault in her mind. It was maddening.

Setting the book aside, Vivien rolled to her stomach and contemplated the shadows cast by the bedside lamp. What would become of her? She had ruined herself by choosing a path that no decent woman would venture along. There were few options left, other than to return to prostitution, to find some man who might condescend to marry her, or to try her hand at some kind of respectable work that might yield enough to support her. Only the third choice held any appeal. But who would employ her when she had a publicly ruined character?

Morosely Vivien stared at a lock of her own flamboyant red hair as it curled across the mattress. Without vanity, she understood that her looks were sufficient to attract men, whether or not she desired their attentions. And she would never be able to hide the fact that she had once been a prostitute. The truth would always come out. No matter what position she held, there would be men, insulting and propositioning, offering sexual bargains if she wished to retain her job.

Vivien wrestled with the increasingly unpleasant thoughts before falling into an uneasy sleep. More nightmares awaited her, dreams of water and drowning and choking. She twisted against the sheets, kicked and struggled until the bed was a shambles. Finally she awakened with a low cry and sat bolt upright, breathing hard, eyes staring blankly in the darkness.

"Vivien."

The quiet voice made her quiver in startled reaction. "What--"

"I heard you cry out. I came to see if you were all right."

Morgan, she thought, but his familiar presence did not make her relax. For a split second she feared that he had come to demand that she take him into her bed. Or his bed, as the case was. "It was only a nightmare," she said shakily. "I'm all right now. I'm sorry if I bothered you." Vivien saw Morgan's outline in the darkness, a huge shadowy figure that approached the side of the bed. Her heartbeat fluttered and faltered in alarm. Shrinking to the center of the mattress, she went rigid as he reached for the covers. In a few quick, deft motions he straightened the linens and folded the top of the sheet over the edge of the blankets. "Would you like a glass of water?" he asked matter-of-factly.