Pennyroyal Green: The Legend Of Lyon Redmond Part 24

He likely knew what he was asking was utterly unreasonable, but there was nothing else he could do.

And Lyon, as he'd told her, was a man who got what he wanted.

She was terrified of losing him. But she'd never antic.i.p.ated needing to abandon everyone else she loved without warning, especially since she'd only lately had all of her brothers back. And suddenly she hated him as much as she loved him for forcing her to make this decision, now, in the pouring rain, in the dark.

"What am I afraid of? You're asking me to leave everything and everyone I know behind right now. But how on earth would we survive? What kind of life will we have?"

"I will take care of you, Liv."

He was so certain she almost capitulated.

But fear had momentum.

"How? What way? What on earth do you know how to do? Shall I go out to work? How on earth will we live on nothing at all? I've seen how the Duffys live, Lyon, and it's hardly life at all. If they loved each other ever, it was killed long ago."

"If you think for a moment that will be our fate, you don't know me at all." And now he was coldly angry.

"But I do know you. I do. And you . . . you're your father's creature."

He froze.

"How can you say that?" he said hoa.r.s.ely.

Panic was crescendoing. She hated herself for half believing her hateful words. She hated him for not recognizing how afraid she was now. For not realizing that she was wholly unprepared to abandon her family. If only she'd had time to think.

She wanted to cling to him and comfort him and be comforted. But there was no comfort to be had anymore, from anyone.

"What else do you know how to do?" she said furiously. "You've invested your money with the Mercury Club. If he cuts off all resources, how will we survive? What can you actually do?"

She was aware that she was hurting him but she couldn't help herself. She heard her own shrill, cruel, frightened voice as if it belonged to someone else entirely. She only now fully understood that this was what had given the serrated edge of sweetness to their every moment together: that it was impossible. It had always been impossible.

In the long silence that followed, neither of them noticed the rain. He didn't deny any of it.

"What if loving you is what I do best?"

He managed to measure out the words calmly, laying them before her one at a time. But she could hear the anguished dignity thrumming in each one.

It sounded like a test.

She closed her eyes.

d.a.m.n him.

How she loved him. And entwined with her love was fear that she didn't think she deserved someone who loved as bravely as he did. She was furious with herself and with him for causing each other so much pain.

She opened her eyes. She looked at him, standing in the rain, amid the wreckage of their dreams, and said: "Then I pity you."

He jerked. As surely as if she'd sunk a blade right into his heart.

And then . . . and then she'd never seen anyone so still.

His face was ghost-white even in the lamplight.

She shook his coat from her shoulders and seized the lamp and then she ran back into the house, her feet skidding along the wet ground, as if fleeing the scene of a murder.

It might as well have been her own.

Chapter 14.

One month before the wedding . . .

MADEMOISELLE LILETTE HAD BEEN thrilled to be invited to be Olivia's traveling companion for her trip to Plymouth. Madame Marceau was able to spare her-in another stroke of serendipity, the modiste who had disappeared had reappeared, begging for her job back if only for a few weeks just when Madame Marceau needed her most-and she relented.

And so Olivia and Mademoiselle Lilette set out for Plymouth.

Plymouth was about a day and a half away from London by stage. Mademoiselle turned out to be the perfect traveling companion-resilient, uncomplaining, not a prattler.

The farther away from London they went, the cheerier Olivia got. Interestingly, the farther away from London they went, the quieter and more tense, more watchful and taciturn, the usually loquacious Mademoiselle Lilette became.

"Are you nervous about meeting Mrs. More?" Olivia asked her. "I'm a bit nervous. I've been such an admirer of hers for so long."

"Oui," Mademoiselle Lilette said shortly "I am nervous."

MRS. MORE WAS coming by way of Bristol, and they had arranged to meet her at an inn called the Hungry Gull near the harbor in Plymouth, then travel on with her to the home of their hosts via a much better-sprung and sweeter-smelling conveyance than the stage, according to the message they'd received from her.

It was well after midnight by the time they arrived at the inn. Olivia and Mademoiselle Lilette gratefully stretched their legs and inhaled. The air was cold and briny and pungent with tar. A thrilling smell. The smell of adventure, she'd always thought. Olivia inhaled great draughts of it, as if she could save it for later.

The masts of s.h.i.+ps rose tall and shadowy against the blue-black sky, their sails furled and quiet for now.

Given that the hour was late, they were surprised to find the innkeeper remarkably alert and waiting for them inside. He was, in fact, all but pacing.

The taproom was empty, but clean and warm, and a lively fire still burned. All other guests of the inn must have gone up to bed.

He was plump and brisk and polite. "You must be Miss Eversea and her companion! Welcome, welcome. Mrs. More has only just arrived as well, and she would have joined you for a bit of a repast here-we do still have a bit of stew in the pot from dinner-but her knees aren't what they once were. She has asked if you would mind terribly going up to her room when you arrived, so that you all can dine together there. 'Tis the third one on the left once you reach the top of the stairs. We'll bring up your trunks to your room for you."

"Thank you so much, sir," Olivia said, and fished about in her reticule for a few pence.

He waved them away. "'Tis me job."

Olivia untied her bonnet and gratefully rubbed at her bare neck. She smoothed her palms against her skirt. Her heart was hammering with antic.i.p.ation. She turned to Mademoiselle Lilette, brows raised.

"Well, shall we?"

"Oui, mais bien sr," Mademoiselle Lilette answered tersely.

Olivia bounded up the stairs, invigorated by the prospect of good intelligent company, Mademoiselle Lilette right on her heels.

The third door on the left was ajar a few inches.

She looked back at Mademoiselle Lilette, who shrugged.

"Mrs. More?" Olivia said tentatively.

There was no reply.

Now she was concerned. Mrs. More was an elderly woman, and she perhaps had nodded off, or worse, expired, or perhaps she'd fallen, and was injured.

"We best look inside," she whispered to Mademoiselle Lilette, who simply nodded.

Olivia gave the door a little push to open it farther.

The small dim room seemed comprised of a leaping fire and heat and not much else. A rocking chair, empty and still, was positioned in front of the fire. A bureau was in the corner, and a narrow bed was against the wall.

Mrs. More was nowhere in sight.

Mademoiselle Lilette hovered in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter.

Olivia took another step into the room.

And then another.

She gave a start. Then froze, clapped her hand over her heart.

The short hair on the back of her neck began to p.r.i.c.kle, uneasily.

For a man was standing in the corner, so motionless she might have mistaken him for furniture. The firelight reflected off the gleaming toes of his boots gave him away.

Those were the toes of a gentleman of significant fortune. She would have wagered everything on it.

She whirled around.

But Mademoiselle Lilette was standing fully in the doorway.

For all the world as if she was blocking it now.

Olivia swiveled around again.

The man remained perfectly still. But something about the shape of him . . . Her scalp tingled. It was a very primal thing, and she felt it at the base of her spine. It did interesting things to her breathing.

She cleared her throat.

"I beg your pardon . . . I'm so sorry to intrude . . . I was told I should wait for Mrs. More in this . . . in this room. Perhaps I've the wrong room . . ."

Her words trailed like vapor when the man slowly straightened to his full height and took a slow step forward.

Into the firelight.

Realization penetrated. Rather like an arrow.

She stopped breathing.

Her lips parted.

And finally a tiny, arid sound emerged. Part raw pain, part shock.

"Liv."

Quiet. Gruff.

His voice.

Nothing.

Nothing could have prepared her to hear her name, in his voice, again.

She couldn't move.

Her mouth parted again. But absorbing the impact of him had required all of her capacities. She couldn't say a word.

Instead she began to tremble.

He stepped toward her swiftly. And it was so very him, that instinct to protect and to shelter her, that her knees nearly buckled.

But he stopped himself and remained about four feet away from her.

As if she was flammable, or might be holding a broadsword.

She remained precisely where she was, too.

And neither of them said a word.

But now he was lit only by leaping firelight. His face was all amber and shadows, the hollows, the angles, hard clean line of his jaw, the rise of cheekbones. The same. The beloved, beautiful face was the same. It hurt, it hurt, and it was glorious to see it.

And yet.

And yet there was an air of both implacability and impatience about him, as palpable as the heat from the fire. He'd always been arrogant, but this was different. This was authority. As if the experiences he'd had since he'd left were layered down like rock strata and he was now immovable.

The set of his shoulders-broader now, a distinct horizontal shelf tapering down into his lean torso-called to mind something feral. A wolf, perhaps.

That sizzle along her nerve endings at the mere sight of him reminded her of how little she'd felt anything at all since he'd gone.