What Happened at Midnight(22)
“Thank God,” John said.
“And do you know why I did it?” she continued. “Not because I would have balked at that exchange, for the chance at my father’s eternal rest. I wasn’t above making the trade. It was because I knew that once he found he could obtain that sort of concession from me, he would not stop. He’d require more from me—more and more. There was no truth in his bargain. I didn’t stop because I refused to sell my body.” Her voice shook. “I stopped because I didn’t trust him to keep his word.”
“Shh.” He stroked her hair.
“And so I told myself I deserved what Sir Walter was doing to me. I was practically a whore, and the fact that he didn’t use me as one gave him the right to do everything else.”
“You don’t still believe that.” He set his hand against her hair, caressing the soft silk.
“No. But I’ve been so afraid—so angry with myself, with everyone.”
“You should be,” he said bitterly. “You should be angry with me, not yourself. I let you walk away from me in a fit of pique. I didn’t think what it might mean to you. And there you were, with…” He paused, the ramifications of what she had told him spilling through him. If her father had died in Southampton, and been buried in Basingstoke…
He stopped and remembered that great big steamer trunk that Mary had taken with her. At the time, he’d assumed it had been filled with clothing—petticoats and corsets and crinolines and gowns would have easily filled the available space.
“You hid your father’s body in your trunk,” he said.
“Yes.” Her emotion was beginning to leak out in ragged, rapid gasps of breath. “I had to. I couldn’t let everyone think he was a suicide on top of being a thief. At the time, I could think only of his reputation.”
“Oh, Mary.” There had been lies from her—of course there had been. But they’d come from pain and loyalty, not from deceit.
“He’d done so much for me—I thought that I could do just one thing for him. He wrote his final note explaining why he’d taken his life in the account book where he’d documented his thefts. I could see that he had done it for me—to give me a chance that no other girl in Southampton had, to buy me gowns, to give me lessons, to make the world right for me. He’d done it all for me.”
“He wrote the note in the account book,” John said slowly. “That’s why you took it, when first you left?”
“Yes. I didn’t even realize what else was in the volume until a few days later.” She sniffled. “I suppose I should have checked, but it was not my most rational hour.”
“And that’s why, when you sent it back, two pages had been sliced from the middle. You didn’t want anyone to find his note.”
She nodded.
He’d wanted the truth. It was this: There was no money left to recover. Mary hadn’t stolen it. He’d lied to her, accused her, and threatened her, when her crime had been having too loyal a heart. He had his arms around her now in false pretenses. He’d only pretended to be her friend, but she’d been his in truth. Everything he’d accused her of doing to him, he had done to her.
And the hell of it was he wouldn’t have taken his arms from her in that moment. Not even if it would have meant the return of every missing guinea.
“It took me months to grow angry with him,” Mary was saying. “I never asked him to steal for me. I didn’t need vastly expensive pianoforte lessons in Vienna. It wasn’t even originally my idea—it was his. He said he did it for me, but he didn’t. He did it for himself.” Her whole body trembled against his. “That’s all everyone ever does—they hurt me, claiming it’s for my benefit. My safety. My wellbeing. And it’s all lies. It wasn’t for me at all.”
His arms were still around her. She hadn’t pushed him away. And she was the woman he could have held for the rest of his life. She’d been changed by what had happened to her, but she’d not been destroyed by it. He could scarcely see her, flush against him, but he could feel the strength of her.
“I’m so sorry,” John said, leaning into her. “I’m sorry I—”
“Oh,” she said in surprise, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean everyone. I didn’t mean you.”
Her eyes were so bright. Her body was so warm. He was looking down at her, their faces mere inches apart.
“You were a little nasty in the beginning,” she said, “but at least you always told me the truth.”
He should have told her right then. But he didn’t. Instead, he slid his hand around her neck. He wanted her. He wanted the woman who stood before him now. He adored her bravery in the face of monsters. He wanted to believe that the light in her eyes reflected the truth of him, not the partial truths he’d given her. He wished this were clean and uncomplicated.
But it was messy and complex. And warm, like the intermingling of their breath. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from leaning over her, his lips brushing hers in a brief prelude.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he let out a gasp of air against her lips—a single, desirous exhalation—before he took her mouth. No more shyness between them—just that heated storm of a kiss. There was no lightning in the air, no thunder on the horizon. But there should have been. The atmosphere seemed charged and humid, as if some great bolt of electricity were about to arc up from the ground, starting right between them.