Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(26)

Her body trembled against him and he held her tighter as if he could somehow take her anguish inside himself. She pulled back enough to look up at him. He scraped the loose tendrils of hair back from where they clung to her damp cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “It means a lot to hear that . . . to be reminded of that.”

Noses practically touching, he nodded, his gut suddenly clenching tightly in a way that he’d never felt before. Staring down into her tear-filled gaze, he felt like he was drowning. One thing for certain, he’d never met a woman like Cleopatra Hadley. She was stronger than he could have ever known . . . and he wanted her for his wife with a fierceness that stole his breath.

“Miss!” A maid rushed into the room. “Are you all right?” She eyed Logan suspiciously—as if he were the cause for her distress.

Cleo pulled away, sniffing loudly and wiping indelicately at her nose. He hated to leave her, but knew his presence here, with her, was vastly inappropriate. He read as much in the gaze of her maid. Cleo wasn’t his to comfort, as much as he might like her to be. At least not yet.

And yet a new purpose consumed him. Whether she ever belonged to him or not, there was something he could do for her.

Cleo watched Logan depart, staring hungrily at the broad expanse of his back. The gnawing ache at the center of her chest only intensified as he moved away from her. Somehow when he’d held her, talked to her . . . her pain had felt . . . less.

“Miss?” Berthe brushed a tendril back from her face. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, Berthe,” she whispered. “He didn’t hurt me.”

Quite the opposite. Shaking her head, she told herself that she shouldn’t let herself feel this way. Because she was now more determined than ever to marry Thrumgoodie. She lost Bess. She would not lose anyone else.





Chapter Eleven

Logan stared grimly at the man sniveling in the carriage across from him. Cleo’s stepfather clutched both hands over his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“What do you want from me?” he asked in a nasal whine. “I have money in my vest pocket. And I can get more . . .”

From Cleo, no doubt, after he sold her his children. Logan’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Easy,” Alexander advised from beside him, well aware of the hostility pumping through him . . . and his overwhelming urge to do more than land the two punches that it took to haul Roger out of the brothel and inside their carriage.

With Alexander’s help, it hadn’t taken long to track him down. Apparently Roger spent most of his time at a seedy brothel in St. Giles. What better way to spend the money Jack had given him than on women of ill repute?

“Who are you? What do you want?” Roger demanded as they rolled to a stop in front of one of Alexander’s ships.

Logan grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him from the carriage. The briney dock air immediately washed over him, mingling with the stench of rotted trash.

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” he growled, cutting through the fog and following Alexander up the rickety ramp, his hand clamped around the cuff of Roger’s coat.

“Who?”

Logan shook his head, unwilling to even mention Cleo’s name to this bastard—as if that would somehow sully her.

Reaching the ship’s deck, he spun Roger around so that they stood face to face. “You like to sell children.”

His eyes widened, and the understanding was there . . . mingled with fear. “What? No! What are you talking about. I never—”

“Your family. You haven’t done a very good job taking care of them, Roger.”

“What business is it of yours?” he railed. “They’re mine!”

“Too many have died on your watch. They’re not yours anymore. Do you understand?”

“Go to hell!”

Logan hauled back and struck him in the face, punctuating his words with the pound of his fist. “Not your children. Not your wife. Understand?”

Roger moaned and nodded, his head lolling before he managed to straighten his neck and focus on Logan. “What are you going to do with me?”

Logan released him. Roger staggered and fell. “You’ll take this ship to South Africa. Stay there. Go somewhere else.” He fished a pouch of gold from his pocket and tossed it on the deck beside the man. Roger dove for it. “I don’t care as long as you never return here. Never set foot in England again.”

Roger nodded jerkily, clutching the pouch close.

Logan bent down and hauled him up by his mussed cravat. Roger fixed unblinking eyes on Logan’s face. “If you ever show your face here again, I’ll see you never draw another breath. Nothing will stop me from making that happen. Is that clear?”

If possible, Roger’s eyes widened further. Understanding glimmered there . . . and defeat. “Yes.”

Logan released him and wiped his hands on his breeches as if he could rid himself of the feel of the man that brought such misery on Cleo and her family.

He looked up at Alexander, who stood beside the ship’s captain. The pair watched grimly. He nodded to them both. “I’m done here.”

“We’ll see him belowdecks and make sure he doesn’t sneak off.” The captain motioned to his men to fetch Roger.