Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(79)

Lottie stiffened her legs to keep from leaping out of bed and rushing to him. The heat of unshed tears filled her eyes as she stared at his dark, shadowed form. "How did Gentry die?" she asked.

His throat worked, and he shook his head.

Faced with his silent struggle, Lottie sought for some way to tip the balance. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I'll stay with you no matter what."

Averting his face, he squinted fiercely, as if he had just been exposed to brilliant light after spending too long in the dark. "One night I was attacked by one of the prisoners. His name was Styles. He dragged me off the platform while I was sleeping and pinned me to the floor. I fought like hell, but he was twice my size, and no one was going to interfere. They were all afraid of him. I called out to Gentry, to pull the bastard off of me before he could-" Breaking off, he made a strange sound, a shaky laugh that contained no trace of humor.

"And did he help you?" Lottie asked.

"Yes...the stupid bastard." His breath caught in a low sob. "He knew there was no point in doing a damn thing for me. If I wasn't buggered right then, I would be after he was released. I shouldn't have asked for his help, and he shouldn't have given it. But he drove Styles off, and..."

Another long silence passed. "Did Nick die during the fight?" Lottie made herself ask.

"Later that night. He'd made an enemy of Styles by helping me, and retribution wasn't long in coming. Just before morning, Styles strangled Nick in his sleep. By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late. I went to Nick...tried to make him wake up, to breathe. He wouldn't move. He turned cold in my arms." His jaw shook, and he cleared his throat roughly.

Lottie couldn't let it end there, without knowing the full story. "How did you switch places with Gentry?"

"Every morning the assistant medical officer and one of the guards came down to collect the bodies of the men who had died during the night, of disease, or starvation, or something they called 'depression of the spirits.' Those who hadn't finished dying were taken up to the forecastle. I pretended to be ill, which wasn't difficult at that point. They took us both up to the deck, and asked who I was, and if I knew the dead man's name. The guards knew hardly any of the prisoners-to them we were all the same. And I had changed clothes with his...his corpse, so they had little reason to doubt me when I told them I was Nick Gentry, and the dead boy was John Sydney. For the next few days I stayed in the forecastle, feigning illness so I wouldn't be sent back down to the prison deck. The other men who'd been brought there were too sick or weak to give a damn what I called myself."

"And soon you were released," Lottie said quietly, "in Gentry's place."

"He was buried in a mass grave near the docks, while I went free. And now his name is more real to me than my own."

Lottie was overwhelmed. No wonder he had wanted to keep Nick Gentry's name. In some way he must have felt that he could keep a part of him alive by retaining it. The name had been a talisman, a new beginning. She couldn't begin to understand the amount of shame he had attached to his true identity, believing that he was responsible for his friend's death. It wasn't his fault, of course. But even if she could make him admit the flaws in his reasoning, she could never expunge his guilt.

Lottie slipped out of bed, the thick-piled wool carpeting prickling beneath her bare soles. As she approached him, she was swamped in a sense of utter inadequacy. If she treated him with kindness, he would receive it as pity. If she said nothing, he would take it as a sign of scorn or disgust.

"Nick," she said softly, but he would not face her. She went to stand before him, listening to the broken pattern of his breathing. "You did nothing wrong in calling out for help. And he wanted to help you, as any true friend would. Neither of you did anything wrong."

He dragged his sleeve over his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. "I stole his life."

"No," she said urgently. "He wouldn't have wanted you to stay there-whom would it have served?" A hot trickle touched the corner of her lips, flavoring them with salt. How well she understood guilt, the self-hatred it caused, especially in the absence of forgiveness. And the person that Nick needed forgiveness from was dead. "He can't be here to absolve you," she said. "But I'm going to speak for him. If he could, he would tell you, 'You're forgiven. It's all right now. I'm at peace, and you should be as well. And it is long past time for you to forgive yourself.'"

"How do you know he would say that?"

"Because anyone who cared for you would. And he did care for you, or he wouldn't have risked his life to protect you." Stepping forward, Lottie put her arms around his rigid neck. "I care for you, too." She had to use her full weight to make him bend to her. "I love you," she whispered. "Please don't turn me away." And she brought her mouth to his.

It took a long time for him to respond to the soft pressure of her lips. He made a faint sound in his throat, and slowly his shaking hands came to her face, holding her still while his mouth molded over hers. His cheeks were wet with sweat and tears, and his kiss was bruising in its fervor.

"Does it help to hear those words?" Lottie whispered when his mouth lifted.

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

"Then I'll say them whenever you need to hear them, until you begin to believe." She slid her hand behind his neck and tugged his head down for another kiss.