Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(35)

“You don’t have to be grateful. It’s a host’s responsibility not to let a dairy bull gore the houseguests.”

“I wish I could do something for you in return. I wish . . .” Phoebe flushed as it occurred to her that appearing uninvited in a man’s room and making such a statement while he was half dressed could easily be misinterpreted.

But he was being a gentleman about it. There were no mocking or teasing comments as he watched her fasten his other shirt cuff. “What I’d like more than anything,” he said quietly, “is for you to listen to an apology.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m afraid I do.” He let out a measured breath. “But first, I have something to give you.”

He went to a cabinet in a corner of the room and rummaged through its contents. Finding the object he sought . . . a small book . . . he brought it to her.

Phoebe blinked in wonder as she read the gold and black lettering on the battered cloth cover. The title was worn and faded, but still legible.

Stephen Armstrong: Treasure Hunter



Opening the book with unsteady fingers, she found the words written on the inside cover in her own childish hand, long ago.

Dear Henry, whenever you feel alone, look for the kisses I left for you on my favorite pages.



Blinded by a hot, stinging blur, Phoebe closed the book. Even without looking, she knew there were tiny x’s in the margins of several chapters.

Mr. Ravenel’s voice was hushed and gravelly. “You wrote that.”

Unable to speak, she nodded and bent her head, a tear splashing on her wrist.

“After we talked at dinner,” he said, “I realized your Henry was the one I knew at boarding school.”

“Henry was sure you were the one who took this book,” she managed to say. “He thought you’d destroyed it.”

He sounded utterly humble. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t believe you kept it all these years.” She tugged a handkerchief from the bodice of her dress and pressed it hard over her eyes, willing the tears to stop. “I cry too easily,” she said in vexation. “I always have. I hate it.”

“Why?”

“It shows weakness.”

“It shows strength,” he said. “Stoic people are the weak ones.”

Phoebe blew her nose and looked up at him. “Do you really think so?”

“No, but I thought saying that might make you feel better.”

A laugh trembled in her throat, and her eyes stopped watering.

“You sat down to dinner with me,” Mr. Ravenel said, “knowing what a brute I was to Henry, and you said nothing. Why?”

“I thought it would be kinder to keep silent.”

Something relaxed in his expression. “Phoebe,” he said softly. The way he said her name, like an endearment, made her insides feel pleasantly weighted. “I don’t deserve such kindness. I was born wicked, and I only grew worse after that.”

“No one is born wicked,” she said. “There were reasons why you fell into mischief. Had your parents lived, they would have loved you and taught you right from wrong—”

“Sweetheart . . . no.” His smile was edged with bitterness. “My father was usually too far in the drink to remember he had children. My mother was half mad and had fewer morals than the barn cat we brought back today. Since none of our relations wanted custody of a pair of impoverished brats, Devon and I were sent to boarding school. We stayed there most holidays. I became a bully. I hated everyone. Henry was especially irritating—skinny, odd, fussy about his food. Always reading. I stole that book from the box under his bed because it seemed to be his favorite.”

Pausing uncomfortably, Mr. Ravenel raked a hand through his disordered hair, and it promptly fell back into the same gleaming, untidy layers. “I didn’t plan to keep it. I was going to embarrass him by reading parts of it aloud in front of him. And when I saw what you’d written on the inside cover, I could hardly wait to torture him about it. But then I read the first page.”

“In which Stephen Armstrong is sinking in a pit of quicksand,” Phoebe said with a tremulous smile.

“Exactly. I had to find out what happened next.”

“After escaping the quicksand, he has to save his true love, Catriona, from the crocodiles.”

A husky sound of amusement. “You marked x’s all over those pages.”

“I secretly longed for a hero to rescue me from crocodiles someday.”

“I secretly longed to be a hero. Despite having far more in common with the crocodiles.” Mr. Ravenel’s gaze focused inward as he sorted through long-ago memories. “I didn’t know reading could be like that,” he eventually said. “A ride on a magic carpet. I stopped bullying Henry after that. I couldn’t jeer at him for loving that book. In fact, I wished I could talk to him about it.”

“He would have adored that. Why didn’t you?”

“I was embarrassed that I’d stolen it. And I wanted to keep it just a little longer. I’d never had a book of my own.” He paused, still remembering. “I loved finding the marks you put on your favorite scenes. Forty-seven kisses, all totaled. I pretended they were for me.”

It had never occurred to Phoebe that the book might have meant just as much to West Ravenel—more, even—than it had to her and Henry. Oh, how strange life was. She would never have dreamed she would someday feel such sympathy for him.