The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(39)

He was going to want the sweet taste of her, the feel of her fingers resting in his until the end of his days. The arsonist had stomped on his hand; it was badly bruised. Perhaps that was why he squeezed her hand in his, welcoming the sharp pain as a reminder.

He pulled away. Her eyes shone up at him, bright and hazed with desire.

Oh, he had known this was happening from the first moment he’d met her. He’d known, and he’d lied to himself, calling it desire, want, revenge—anything but what it was: He was falling in love with her.

He hadn’t thought there was anything left to him that could fall in love.

He pulled away. But he couldn’t make himself be abrupt with her. Not even now. “Free. Darling.” His hand slid in her hair, stroking it gently. “Get some sleep.”

He stood.

It was only when he was at the door of her office that she spoke.

“Was it in Strasbourg that you were tortured?”

A sick, black pit opened around him. This time, she had not said that you watched a man be tortured. She’d figured that out as well. He stood in place for a moment, simply forcing his lungs to work.

When he had control of himself, he turned back to her. He made himself smile, even though the smile was a lie. He made sure his voice was easy, even though nothing about him would ever be easy again.

“No,” he said. Casual—that was what he wanted. Casual, so that she’d not suspect the truth. A casual man would not have lost himself completely.

He shrugged negligently, and even though she could not see it, he found a negligent smile. “That came after.”

FREE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the sound of someone moving about her press. She jerked to her feet, brushing her unruly hair into some semblance of order with her fingers.

But the only person she saw through the window was Clarice, the woman whose morning duties required her to get everything in readiness for the day. Clarice was folding up the blankets where Edward had slept that night.

He wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Free dressed swiftly and came out into the main room. “Good morning.” She wondered if Clarice knew why she’d slept in her office—but by the sympathetic look on her face, she’d been told everything.

At least, everything that had happened until midnight.

“Here,” Clarice said, handing her a piece of paper. “Mr. Clark gave me this a half hour ago, as he was leaving.”

Leaving.

She took the paper.

Miss Marshall—

Business takes me elsewhere for the moment. I’ll be back this afternoon.

—E.

Nothing more. Last night, everything had changed between them, and it wasn’t just the kiss. There was something about sitting with a man in the dark, sharing secrets well past midnight, that altered the course of what was to come.

Two days ago, she’d have said she didn’t trust him.

This morning?

It felt as if he were still here, still holding her hand. Still telling her that he couldn’t comprehend how she continued. She felt all of that even though he wasn’t here.

And yet he had the right of it. There was business to take care of—more than she could possibly comprehend. Reality landed on her shoulders like sacks of heavy flour.

She had men to hire to secure the place at night. She had to see to the details of her burned-out home, and incidentally, she ought to find another place to stay until she could build a new one. She needed clothing, a comb, tooth powder—too many items to list. There were advertisers to appease, a story to discover, and James Delacey to destroy. And on top of that all, the paper would have to go out yet again tomorrow.

Better to begin early. Free raised her chin. “Well, let’s get started.”

Chapter Ten

THE STABLES WERE QUIET and peaceful, pleasantly dark after the midmorning sun. Edward felt totally at odds as he stepped inside. His right hand had hurt last night; it ached now. His palm was dark red with a forming bruise—but nothing was broken, and pain was the least of his worries.

Patrick Shaughnessy stood at the far end of the stables, examining a mare’s hind leg. He glanced up as Edward came in, but kept on with his work with no more than a nod of acknowledgment. Patrick’s father had been like that, too—not one to interrupt his work unless there was blood or a broken limb.

After a moment, Edward mounted the ladder to the hayloft and found a pitchfork. Pitching hay with his bruised hand was a difficult prospect. At first, the pain was just a twinge, but it grew to a sharp throb. Every forkful hurt a little more. It was as good a reminder as any. Deep down, there was nothing but pain.

It took some ten minutes for his muscles to remember the proper rhythm for the work. The pain concentrated in the palm of his hand, pulsing in time to each thrust.

All you see is the river, but I care about the roses.

Hard to remember there was more than the river, when it had once overflowed its banks and swept him away. He’d almost drowned. He’d learned his lesson: Don’t go near rivers. Don’t go anywhere near rivers.

Miss Marshall spent her life daring those more powerful than her to swat her down. The hell of it was, her determination was some kind of contagion. He could feel it infecting him, making him believe. Making him tell himself lies like I could do some good and I want her forever.

He gritted his teeth and pitched hay, picking up a heavy forkful and letting it slide to the box in the stall below.