The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(18)
A life Ash knew would be vastly improved if it had one less brother in it.
CHAPTER FOUR
The perfect opportunity to rid the world of Mortimer Weatherstoke presented itself several weeks later.
“Are you certain I can’t accompany you into Heybridge today?” Lorelai asked, her azure eyes brimming with hope.
Ash looked at his feet, concentrating mightily on picking his way back through the verdant marshes toward Southbourne Grove. In truth, he simply hadn’t the constitution to meet the hope, and subsequent disappointment, in Lorelai’s expression.
He ran his hands over a clump of tall grasses, snatching at one and using it as an idle switch against an occasional cloud of gnats. “The trip will be dull as dishwater,” he lied. “Sir Robert has secured me an apprenticeship, and I’ll retrieve a suit at the tailor just in time to meet with dry old men all day. You’d be unspeakably bored.”
As much as Ash despised denying her anything, he couldn’t allow her to be privy to his nefarious intentions.
“I’m never bored when I’m with you,” she said earnestly, threading her slim fingers through his, and grasp ing his bicep with her other hand. They often walked like this, her grip letting him support some of her weight. “And I should very much like to see you in a suit, I think.”
His fingers engulfed her hand, perfectly cradled in the grooves between her knuckles. He did his best not to cling to her as an emotion shimmered through him, one he was beginning to identify.
One he fiercely hoped she’d one day return.
He hated the idea of wearing a suit less than he had before, if the sight of him in it would please her. Since he’d risen from his sickbed, his wardrobe had consisted of Mortimer’s cast-off white shirtsleeves, some ready-made trousers, and dusty old vests. Not that he minded. Clothes were simply a means by which to cover his scars.
Ash found it a chore to match his long stride to her stilted one, even as the mud gave way to the vast grounds of the manor home, but he’d rather crawl on his hands and knees than cause her discomfiture over her impediment. How she made this trek through the treacherous marshes alone so often, he’d never know.
For a few months now, he’d become her official packhorse, carting crates and animals back and forth to the estuary. The journey had been difficult on his ankle, at first, but surging across soggy, unsteady ground seemed to strengthen him quickly. Besides, Lorelai knew all the paths through the wetlands, showing him just where to step to avoid a bog or a hidden pond beneath the cover of reeds.
This was her sanctuary, belonging as much to her as it did the wildlife here.
At dawn, they’d made the journey to free Hannibal the snake back into the reeds, his missing tail having healed over to a round nub sufficient for slithering about.
Lorelai had barely shed any tears this time, but they’d stood for a silent while, watching the impossibly green fens dappled by ponds give way to the sea. The water stretched out until the curve of the earth met the low-hanging clouds on the horizon. Clouds that seemed to be crawling over each other in a race to reach the shore.
Now they had to hurry back to Southbourne in time for him to disembark.
“It’s not fair that Mortimer can accompany you, but I cannot,” she complained.
“Mortimer is your father’s representative to the foundry owners.” Ash lifted a nonchalant shoulder, as though he accepted that to be the way of things.
“Father is so old-fashioned, don’t you think? Refusing to be seen with the working class is antiquated at best. He’s only an earl, after all, and became one because his ancestors were industrious men, too rich for the crown to ignore.” She rested her head against his arm as they walked along. “The older he gets, the more it seems he makes excuses not to leave the house. Especially since Mortimer hit him.”
“Let’s not speak of your brother just now.” Ash squeezed her hand. That would all be taken care of soon. “It was kind of your father to secure me a position. He seemed to think that in a few years’ time I could help Mr. Thatcher run the foundry or Mr. Robbins run the salt mines … There’s a chance for me to make a good fortune there.” He blithely changed the subject, and noted the moment she took the bait.
“Father knows how clever you are. And if you are to be a Weatherstoke, then it’s important to him that you’re respected in the community.”
It was important to Ash, too. If he rid them of Mortimer’s grip of terror, and spent the next few years working his way up the foundry ranks, perhaps he could save enough to approach Lorelai’s father with a proposal …
Lorelai turned his arm so his palm faced up, idly tracing the strange lines branching from one of the tattooed dragon wings on his forearm. Often when they went to the fens, he rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow, encouraging her perpetual fondness for tracing his tattoo.
Her touch was a balm he’d never be able to quantify. All he knew was that her fingers were magic, and they quieted everything within him that threatened to become monstrous.
“What a mystery you are,” she murmured, not stopping her physical discovery when the scars interrupted the dragon with webs and welts of damaged flesh. Instead, she ran the pads of her fingertips gently over them in rhythmic, soothing gestures.
The sensation of her fingertips was different where the lye had burned him. Much like being stroked by a ghost, or a memory. Not quite as physically tangible, but just as powerful.