Unraveled (Turner #3)(31)

“Oh?” He could feel the puff of breath from that word against his nose.

“Don’t even think of arguing.”

She shook her head. Her lips opened, an impossible, inviting fraction.

He set the fork in the palm of her hand and closed his fingers tightly around hers. “I want you to eat,” he said.

“But—”

“I’ve seen your wrists, Miss Darling. And your dinners. When I tell you to eat, damn it, you are going to do so. Now have a seat.”

He turned and pulled a trunk from the wall, and shoved it up against the other side of the table to form a makeshift second seat. She did sit down, and as he went to pile a second plate high with more meat, she picked up a forkful of chicken.

When he returned, she glanced at his plate. “You should have peas, too.”

“Hmm,” was all he said in reply.

She had impeccable table manners for a woman who lived in the slums. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering about her. There was her accent, changing to match whoever was around her. And then there was Antigone. She was a conundrum, really.

He ripped a piece of chicken from the bone. She watched him curiously; her eyes narrowed as he held it out to his dog, who took it nimbly.

“Ghost doesn’t like peas,” he explained.

She didn’t ask why a duke’s brother had no servants, no long, splendid table set with silver. He didn’t ask her where she’d acquired her manners. It would have broken the spell that seemed to enfold them.

If this was magic, magic was tiring. It drained him until he was bone-weary, until all that was left was a deep, empty ache, and a desire to belong to someone else, if only for a few moments.

He spoke as nonchalantly as he dared. “I suppose you’re wondering about what happened. Back there. At the gaol.”

She gave him a measured look and took a mouthful of potatoes. She chewed carefully and then shrugged. “I suppose I am.”

He usually fobbed off such inquiries with frowns. But she wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t likely to see her again, and so he’d not have to bear the burden of her pity. And so what came out was the truth. “When I was twelve, my mother locked me in the cellar. She kept me there for days. There was no light.” He smiled faintly. “There were turnips. Beets. Also onions. A great many onions. I can’t stand them anymore.”

He leaned back on the trunk, looking up at the ceiling. The trunk was bound by metal straps; they were uncomfortable beneath him, and it was just as well, because the discomfort kept him firmly grounded in the present. “And then it began to rain. It was the worst rain that Shepton Mallet had experienced in living memory. The basement walls began to seep water, and then to fill. It came on terribly fast. The water crept to my ankles, and then before I knew it, it was up to my thighs. There were no stairs, just a wooden ladder descending into the cellar. So I clung to the top for hours, beating on the door and praying. If I let go, I would drown. Even if I held on, I had no escape, and the water was rising.” He took a deep breath.

She set her fork down gently. But she didn’t say anything.

“I was trapped. I was certain I would die.” If he shut his eyes, he could still feel the cramp of his hands, clenched around the wood of the ladder. He’d been certain he’d not be able to hold on much longer.

“But you survived.”

“My brother stole the key eventually.”

“What did you do that warranted such treatment?”

“Hanging is fast,” he snapped back. “You think leaving me to drown in freezing water was warranted?”

She held up her hands. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

It was all too easy to see everything as an attack when he thought of the cellar. He forced himself to breathe slowly. He could trace it back, step by step. Years ago, he’d questioned each decision, wondering if he could have averted calamity after all. Now, he simply accepted what it had made of him.

“The day before, I went to the town elders and told them my mother was mad. That if they didn’t intervene, we would be in danger.” He met her gaze. “They laughed at me, and scarcely listened to my tale. I went home. Someone informed her that I’d asked for help, and she flew into a fury. Hence the cellar.” He ripped off another piece of chicken, and passed it under the table. “So I know what happens when justice lapses.”

She nodded.

“It’s why my duty is so important to me. When people come to me, I listen. So that what happened to me doesn’t happen to anyone else. Don’t feel sorry for me. Most people can’t change their past. I change mine every day.”

“I see,” she said quietly.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “rain and darkness and closed quarters have an odd effect on me. It passes quickly enough. All of which is to say, this is quite normal. I haven’t any need for your company any longer.”

An odd smile crossed her face. “How like you, to be arrogant even when you’re vulnerable.”

“I’m not vulnerable.”

“Yes, you are,” she contradicted. “You’re looking at me as if I’m supposed to...”

His eyes riveted on her lips, and she stopped speaking. The heat in the room swirled about him, sinking beneath his skin. She blushed again. He stood. Two steps, and he was standing before her. She tilted her head back to look him in the face. Her eyes were wide and luminous, and he leaned down to her. She smelled softly, subtly sweet—like mint leaves, dried for tea.