Unraveled (Turner #3)(29)

“Get out of my way.” He spoke in an intimidating growl.

Miranda wasn’t about to be intimidated. She set her hands on his chest. “Please. Listen.”

He put his hands about her shoulders. His face was white, his lips pressed together in tight resolve. For a second, Miranda thought he was actually going to shake her. Maybe even strike her. She felt an instant of real fear. Instead, his fingers bit into her flesh—hard. He lifted her up—she hadn’t thought him so strong as to simply heft her in the air. And he set her down so roughly that she stumbled. Her arms stung where he’d held her.

“Don’t you dare manhandle me,” she hissed.

But he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking back at the gaol he’d quit so hastily. Instead, he doubled over as if in pain and fell to his knees.

And then, before she could quite comprehend what was happening, Lord Justice vomited into the bushes.

Chapter Eight

AFTER THE FIT OF retching passed, Smite became aware of two things. First, the mud was soaking through the knees of his trousers. And second, he’d just vomited in front of a woman. He was dirty and bedraggled. Miss Darling stood behind him, her breaths echoing amidst the sound of falling rain.

For a long second, he stared at the bushes in front of him, willing Miss Darling to disappear.

He had thought as long as it was dry and he wasn’t alone, he could manage the darkness. But the smallest sound of liquid—the bare splash of water—and he’d been transported back. Back to that cellar. He had been the one shivering on the cold floor, the one who had felt the water seep through the one thin blanket that had been allotted him. In that moment, he’d been transported back to the truth of his past, and he’d felt all that old terror.

He took a deep breath of cleansing air and looked up at her. For one second, he hoped she had misconstrued what she’d seen.

Instead, her face was a mask of confused sympathy. She stood, staring at him, her lips pressed together. She appeared to be searching for something to say.

“Don’t bother with platitudes. Don’t ask after my health.” He found a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his mouth off. “I’m perfectly well,” he added, feeling idiotic.

“Actually,” she said, “what I was going to say was: I’m sorry.”

He winced. “That’s even worse. Don’t pity me, for God’s sake.”

“I’m apologizing. I thought you were an unfeeling brute. But—you’re not. Are you.” It was not a question she was asking.

He spat again, his mouth sour. “Don’t make too much of it. It was just bad fish, understand?”

Her clear green eyes bored into his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “That’s as bad as your story about the cats.”

He bowed his head, not wanting to acknowledge that. “I’ll just need a moment.” He coughed and planted one foot on the ground. “I’ll go back.” He curled his lip, and he attempted to stand. His muscles ached. Deep inside, that image swirled, floodwaters washing up.

“You’re shaking.” Her hand landed on his shoulder. “Was it…that wasn’t the smell, was it?”

“Yes,” he said, a moment too late for believability.

Her nose wrinkled.

“No,” he amended softly. “It wasn’t the smell. But I can return.” He just wasn’t sure what would happen if he did.

“No. George isn’t there now. If he was killed by the other inmates, he won’t be any less gone if we go back immediately. You shouldn’t subject yourself to…” She trailed off, not knowing what it was.

He shouldn’t have been so relieved at the reprieve. “I should have sent my clerk. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have delegated the task. He’s better at this sort of thing.” He started to stand.

Her hand was surprisingly strong, driving him back to his knees. For one second, it seemed precisely right that he should be brought low before her. The rain fell around them. It dampened her hair into separate strings; in the uneven light, they seemed bright red against the dark color of her dress. He knelt before her, as if he were some kind of bedraggled knight, and the umbrella lying on the ground before him her sword.

A fanciful thought, rather belied by reality. The rain fell on his face, belled on his eyelashes. She seemed almost mystical, outlined by the water that stung his eyes. Before her, rain was just rain, washing everything away.

She reached into her own pocket and drew out a white scrap. And then she reached forward to wipe the rain from his forehead.

He snatched the fabric from her hand. “I can’t abide being fussed over.”

“Lord Justice,” she said, “I think you should go home and rest.”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve no need.”

“What was that back there? It wasn’t fish, and it wasn’t the scent.”

He stared mutely at her, and then held out her handkerchief in return.

She sighed and reached out to help him up. He was shaky enough that he took her arm, and he leaned on it. He let her open the umbrella.

“Is there anyone here to accompany you home?”

He glanced back at the gaol. Briefly, he considered lying. Only briefly. He shook his head.

“Will there be someone waiting for your arrival?”